“I read in Gamer Programming that the Star Smash arcade game does something like that, but you have to play it for like, half an hour before the effect kicks in. This is a lot faster. Do people know about it?”
Z-Boy ignored the question. “My boss wants to know how you would fix this so people would look at the demo screen longer, and not go right to the game. Which doesn’t have the same effect.”
Freddi adopted her fake Russian accent for the first time. “Who is fearless leader, Z-Boy? You be good fellow and tell Comrade X, da?”
Z-Boy’s brow wrinkled. “Huh?”
Freddi sighed. “Who’s your boss, handsome?”
“Dr. Z.” Brady had anticipated the question—he knew Freddi of old—and this was another directive. Brady had plans for Felix Babineau, but as yet they were vague. He was still feeling his way. Flying on instruments.
“Dr. Z and his sidekick Z-Boy,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “On the path to world domination. My, my. Does that make me Z-Girl?”
This wasn’t part of his directives, so he stayed silent.
“Never mind, I get it,” she said, chuffing out smoke. “Your boss wants an eye-trap. The way to do it is to turn the demo screen itself into a game. Gotta be simple, though. Can’t get bogged down in a lot of complex programming.” She held up the Zappit, now turned off. “This thing is pretty brainless.”
“What kind of game?”
“Don’t ask me, bro. That’s the creative side. Never was my forte. Tell your boss to figure it out. Anyway, once this thing is powered up and getting a good WiFi signal, you need to install a root kit. Want me to write this down?”
“No.” Brady had allocated a bit of Al Brooks’s rapidly diminishing memory storage space for this very task. Besides, when the job needed to be done, Freddi would be the one doing it.
“Once the kit’s in, source code can be downloaded from another computer.” She adopted the Russian accent again. “From secret Base Zero under polar ice-kep.”
“Should I tell him that part?”
“No. Just tell him root kit plus source code. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
“Brady Hartsfield wants you to come visit him again.”
Freddi’s eyebrows shot up almost to her crewcut. “He talks to you?”
“Yes. It’s hard to understand him at first, but after awhile you can.”
Freddi looked around her living room—dim, cluttered, smelling of last night’s take-out Chinese—as if it interested her. She was finding this conversation increasingly creepy.
“I don’t know, man. I did my good deed, and I was never even a Girl Scout.”
“He’ll pay you,” Z-Boy said. “Not very much, but . . .”
“How much?”
“Fifty dollars a visit?”
“Why?”
Z-Boy didn’t know, but in 2013, there was still a fair amount of Al Brooks behind his forehead, and that was the part that understood. “I think . . . because you were a part of his life. You know, when you and him used to go out to fix people’s computers. In the old days.”
? ? ?
Brady didn’t hate Dr. Babineau with the same intensity that he hated K. William Hodges, but that didn’t mean Dr. B. wasn’t on his shit list. Babineau had used him as a guinea pig, which was bad. He had lost interest in Brady when his experimental drug didn’t seem to be working, which was worse. Worst of all, the shots had resumed once Brady had regained consciousness, and who knew what they were doing? They could kill him, but as a man who had assiduously courted his own death, that wasn’t what kept him awake nights. What did was the possibility that the shots might interfere with his new abilities. Babineau pooh-poohed Brady’s supposed mind-over--matter powers in public, but he actually believed they might exist, even though Brady had been careful never to exhibit his talent to the doctor, despite Babineau’s repeated urgings. He believed any psychokinetic abilities were also a result of what he called Cerebellin.
The CAT scans and MRIs had also resumed. “You’re the Eighth Wonder of the World,” Babineau told him after one of these—in the fall of 2013, this was. He was walking beside Brady as an orderly wheeled him back to Room 217. Babineau was wearing what Brady thought of as his gloaty face. “The current protocols have done more than halt the destruction of your brain cells; they have stimulated the growth of new ones. More robust ones. Do you have any idea how remarkable that is?”
You bet, asshole, Brady thought. So keep those scans to yourself. If the DA’s office found out, I’d be in trouble.
Babineau was patting Brady’s shoulder in a proprietary way Brady hated. Like he was patting his pet dog. “The human brain is made up of approximately one hundred billion nerve cells. Those in the Broca’s Area of yours were gravely injured, but they have recovered. In fact, they are creating neurons unlike any I’ve ever seen. One of these days you’re going to be famous not as a person who took lives, but as one responsible for saving them.”
If so, Brady thought, it’s a day you won’t be around to see.
Count on it, dickweed.