Scene 8
FENTECH RESEARCH NEW YORK
Read the simple etched brass sign on the intricately-wrought iron gate at the front of the complex. The fine, almost lacy work looked Victorian in style, with a healthy dose of Green mythology in content, and very out of context set in the massive carbonium-reinforced Meteorite wall - hardly strong enough for the function it was apparently performing. Oddly as well, the gate appeared to have no hinges or lock; it melded right into the wall on either side and beyond there was no walkway, only flawlessly-manicured grass. Anyone born in this age, however, would certainly also notice the glimmery portal edges fitted seamlessly into the sides of the gate next to the voice-print-eye matcher. An authorized visitor that stepped into it would be teleported somewhere near their destination inside, an unauthorized visitor got sent directly to jail, without passing go, and owing a rather hefty fine considering the harmlessness of the offense.
Malcom approached the matcher with his carelessly graceful athlete's stride, pulling out his keycard to be read as well, with its recently-received code recorded within. Biometric identity theft was almost childishly simple these days thanks to matter reconstruction technology, so good old fashioned magnetic cards had made a comeback. The new innovation now was temporary, visit-specific keycodes sent out ahead of time and decoded with a unique program on the receiver's apparatus. They were still as prone to security failures as their mode of transport (be it land lines, airwaves, or physical delivery) but each additional step in security made replicating the entire process a little more difficult.
Malcom paused a moment to study the gate and complex beyond. The squat, unremarkable structure was barely visible at a considerable distance, mostly obscured by the plants. But perhaps ¨plants¨ was too strong a word. There wasn't an organism in sight not genetically engineered, chemically enhanced, and flawlessly managed with an ethic that definitely crossed the line into the anal-retentive. Trees and shrubs could only be found in perfectly geometric shapes, not one blade of grass was too tall or too short, and there were no hints of disease or pests - each flawless leaf was alive and intact, and not an insect could be seen buzzing in the air. The scene always fascinated Malcom; alive but so utterly crystalline, sterile, totally lacking the spontaneity and chaos of true life. It was like looking at a bronze figure of a wave breaking, a manifestation of the random beauty of the world frozen in a rigidly sculpted moment. In later reflections, he would realize the ironically clear message this fastidiously-controlled garden conveyed about the management of FenTech and the true vision of its directive forces. At present, however, he was less inclined to such serious evaluation. He turned away from the garden, gravitating back towards his purpose.
Malcom slid his card into the slot, and stuck his face and thumb on the Matcher apparatus, holding his eyes unblinkingly open for a couple seconds in front of the scanners and saying ¨Malcom¨ into the conveniently positioned mic in front of his mouth. The Matcher beeped cheerily in recognition, and ejected his card.
¨Welcome to FenTech, Malcom,¨ said a honey-smooth synthesized voice. ¨Please step through the gate.¨ He pocketed his keycard and obliged without further ado, emerging at the end of a long, spotless hallway. A cute, white-uniformed female janitor gave him an impressed look, no doubt for the smoothness of his entry. Most people still stumbled after the brief, intense vertigo associated with translocation - well, the ones that had learned it as adults (hence the spongy mat he was standing on). Kids caught on faster, and Malcom had so much practice thanks to the Tournament that he could do it in his sleep.
¨Dr. Kilgard?¨ he directed at the disturbingly attractive custodian (weren't people in that line of work supposed to be ugly as a general rule?)
¨In his office, at least he was when I passed. Hey, aren't you that Gladiator that's always on TV?¨
¨Uh, yeah, I suppose. Don't tell me you want an autograph….¨
¨Actually,¨ she jumped in, ¨It's for my brother, you see he has, uh, muscular dysentery and can't get up and he asked me to…¨
Malcom brushed past her, tuning out the rest of her hastily invented lies and trying not to imagine what ´muscular dysentery' would be like. Fecal bacteria in the triceps maybe. No wonder her poor brother was bedridden. He continued down the hallway, ignoring the entreaties that followed him. Fame was only good on the large scale, it seemed. How come it was so great to talk to 10 billion devoted fans, and so irritating to talk to one? Well, at any rate, Doctor Kilgard's office was the next door. He absently waved behind him as he entered.
The man seated behind the raw-machined meteorite desk glanced up from his computer at the disturbance, talking while focused on his screen. ¨Good afternoon, Malcom. I'll just be a minute.¨
Doctor Kilgard ('Dr. Killgood', as the tournament athletes called him) was a pale, wiry man in his 50s with thin blonde hair that was graying dirtily around his temples and icy pale blue eyes that shone a cold light on the world - calculating, emotionless, and exact. He was the man who administered chemical treatments to Malcom and FenTech's few other top stars, and supposedly he also worked pretty high up in the Human Enhancement Program's R&D section. Nobody outside of FenTech, however, really knew what all his functions were. The company liked to keep its operations absolutely secret - it was, after all, contracted by the NEG for the production of military stims and hence dealt with matters of planetary security.
Dr. Kilgard finished his keyboard-tapping and glanced up at Malcom, now finally showing real interest in his visitor. ¨'Scuse the wait. Had to reach a point of resolution there, my train of thought doesn't switch tracks very easily. In for your weekly treatment?¨
Malcom hesitated briefly, disarmed by the doctor's atypical cordiality, but maintained his flawless poker face and responded with a question of his own. ¨Yeah, listen doc, there's that but I got something else on my mind too. There any bad long-term effects to using these stims? I mean, besides the physical stuff you guys already told me about… any problems concentrating or remembering stuff?¨
The doctor looked at him curiously, then frowned and shook his head. ¨Certainly none have been reported, at least not as a result of the professionally dosed Enhancements that we administer here. You haven't been taking anything else on your own, have you?¨
¨C'mon doc, I know better than that. I face those types of guys in the arena. They're useless.¨
¨Well, I'm not sure what to tell you, Malcom. Could you describe the symptoms to me in detail?¨
¨Yeah.¨ He cleared his throat and swallowed, thinking for a few seconds on how to begin. Dr. Kilgard waited patiently. ¨It seems like it might have started a couple months ago, maybe more, and you know, I just figured that out today, when I really thought about it. Stuff that's easy not to notice, you know? Little things I didn't realize I'd forgotten, until I tried to remember them. Then there's some odd stuff my daughter has said that I didn't think too hard about before, you know, she's pretty young….. mentioning conversations I didn't remember we'd had, stuff like that. I figured it was like a mixture of her imagination and those Interactive Stories. But then something really weird happened in my last match, and I got to thinking….¨
¨Ah, the duel in Deck 16, correct?¨ interjected Dr. Kilgard, appearing to show more interest.
¨Uh, yeah, that's the one. You watch it?¨
¨I like to keep tabs on my gladiators,¨ he said with an odd smile. ¨You are, after all, the best stress-test for our products.¨
¨Well, uh, you think I might have 'stressed one of your products too far? That match is about as clear in my memory as a night at Rudy's, doc. And afterwards, Gorn said I made some mistakes…¨
¨Ha!¨ Kilgard cut him off. ¨I saw what he said, and it doesn't require a lot to explain. He was trying to get you off balance; your team faces his in the team deathmatch championship next week, no? Surely you are familiar with psychological warfare?¨
¨Well, yeah,¨ admitted Malcom. ¨Still, it doesn't explain the other stuff…¨
¨Listen, Malcom. This could be any number of things. I want you to go see an M.D. and get checked out. Try to keep the partying at a minimum. And I'm going to make some slight adjustments in your dosage… I think I might know a possible cause there. All right?¨
Malcom sighed. ¨All right. We still on for today's treatment?¨
¨Yes. We have a brand new center set up just for gladiators, so you'll be getting your treatments there instead of with me from now on. The portal at the other end of this hall will take you there.¨
¨Thanks, doc.¨ Malcom turned to leave, but Kilgard's voice stopped him momentarily.
¨Remember, you can always come back here to me if you have any concerns. And, this may be outside my professional jurisdiction, but take care of yourself. Stress and unhealthy behavior can account for a lot. You're married, right?¨
¨Well, yes,¨ said Malcom, puzzled.
¨Again, this may be none of my business, but why don't you take more meals at home instead of going out all the time? Less temptation to party, more family time, and there's nothing like home cooking for nourishing the body… and mind.¨ Malcom thought he detected that odd smile again. Well, whatever. It looked like matters weren't going to be resolved today. ¨I'll think about it,¨ he said as he left.