Afterparty Part 3

I put on a pleasant expression, then clicked to answer. "How you doing, kid?"

"I can't believe it! Lyda!"

Still the enthusiast. Rovil was our first and only hire at Little Sprout, our designated Rat Boy, though we had stopped calling him that when a visitor thought it sounded racist. He was fresh out of school then, but in no time became Mikala's right hand. The chemistry wizard's apprentice.

"You look like you're doing all right for yourself," I said. "VP now?" Landon-Rousse was one of the Big Four pharmaceutical companies, with headquarters in Belgium but offices everywhere.

He looked bashful. "Everybody's a vice president," he said. "You wouldn't believe the bureaucracy here."

We hadn't spoken since the Greenland Summit, ten years before. That meeting hadn't ended well. I told both Edo and Rovil to f.u.c.k off and never talk to me again. Rovil, obedient kid that he was, did as I asked. Even Edo gave up eventually-before disappearing completely.

Every so often over the past few years, usually when I was drunk and feeling maudlin, I'd do a search on my friends from Little Sprout. Gil's status was always the same-still incarcerated. And all the news on Edo Anderssen Vik was either (a) corporate PR-speak from his own company, or (b) speculation on why he'd disappeared from public view. But Rovil seemed to be leading an actual life. I was relieved when he went to grad school, happily surprised when he was hired at Landon-Rousse, then pleased every time his t.i.tle changed to something more important. I wondered if he'd managed to hide his crazy, or if he was so good that the company kept him on despite it. Maybe Ganesh, the Remover of Obstacles, had cleared the way.

The small talk stuttered to a stop. He had to be wondering why I'd called him after ten years of silence, but he was too polite to ask. Did he know about my stints in rehab, the car crashes, the psych wards?

I said, mock-casually, "So, have you heard from the others? Edo, Gil...?"

He blinked. "Gilbert, no, of course not!" Poor Rovil, walking on eggsh.e.l.ls just saying the name in my presence.

"I hear he's allowed to have visitors," I said.

Rovil's eyes widened. "You're not thinking of-?"

"No, no. It's Edo I want."

"Oh," he said. "That may be difficult."

"I tried calling him on an old private number, but it's dead now. Every address I've found online for him is corporate, blocked by either voicemail or receptionists. I've left messages, but he hasn't called me back."

"I know, I know," Rovil said. "A couple times over the years I tried to reach out to him, but he never responds." He grinned. "Like some other people I know."

Wow, little Rovil yanking my chain. "I've had some issues," I said. "But Edo ... what happened to him?"

"He hasn't been seen in years," Rovil said. "I'm not even sure what country he stays in. He's a, what's the word? Not a hermit..."

"A recluse. Growing his fingernails, storing his urine in jars, that kind of thing."

"What have you heard?" Rovil said, shocked. Missing the reference entirely.

"Never mind that," I said. "I have a favor to ask."

Rovil considered this, then with complete earnestness said, "If I can provide it, it's yours."

"Get me Edo's private number."

"I told you, no one knows-"

"He's got to have lawyers, staff, whatever. Get a message through to him. He likes you, Rovil. He'll respond to you. Tell him it's important."

"What is it? What's happened?"

My instinct was to keep him out of it as long as possible. Rovil was the youngest of us at Little Sprout, and not even a partner. He shouldn't have been caught up in what happened at the party. But he had been there, and he'd gone down like all of us. The little Christian boy woke up with a Hindu G.o.d in his head. We were part of a very small club.

I asked, "Is this a company line?"

He processed the meaning of the question. "It's my personal device."

That didn't mean that no one was listening. Landon-Rousse might be monitoring its executives' private communications. Plenty of corporations had been caught doing the same. But if Rovil was comfortable, I decided to risk it.

"I met someone who saw G.o.d," I said.

Rovil tilted his head, not quite getting it.

"Someone is making Numinous." That he got. The word went off like an information grenade, and I watched his face s.h.i.+ft through several emotions before he controlled himself and settled on an expression of Polite Doubt.

"You ... did you have some of One-Ten left over?"

"No. It's new."

"Perhaps it's some other drug. Do you have it with you?"

"Not yet. I'm working on it."

He shook his head. "I don't see how that's possible. Little Sprout shut down before the trial. We all agreed that no one-" His eyes widened. "You think Edo is doing this?"

"I didn't say that. I just want to talk to him."

"But he's a ... spiritual man," Rovil said. "We are all spiritual people now."

"Not all G.o.ds are created equal," I said. "Rovil?"

He wasn't looking at the screen. He was imagining our friend Edo breaking the law, and our trust. I'd blown his mind.

"It's probably nothing," I said. "A coincidence."

His eyes slid back to me. "How can I help?"

"Now that you bring it up," I said. "I need to borrow five thousand dollars."

CHAPTER THREE.

Oh, we were such geniuses. A company of smarty-pants. Mikala the chemistry wizard, Gil the tech brain, Edo the money man, and me-the neuroscientist with the brilliant idea that we could cure the Afghanistan of mental disorders.

The disease of schizophrenia was a quagmire, swallowing the careers of scientists of all stripes. The definition of what it was and wasn't constantly s.h.i.+fted. Its causes were various and overlapping, with research pointing to everything from genetic mutations to socioeconomic status to amphetamine use ... or all at the same time.

Whatever the causes, one effect showed up clearly on the MRIs: The brains of actively schizophrenic patients withered with each pa.s.sing year. Frontal and temporal lobes shrank in volume, and the connections between the lobes became unreliable. The brain literally disintegrated. The illusion of a unified consciousness broke down; now when other parts of the brain spoke, the messages seemed to be coming from outside agents hovering menacingly just out of sight, whispering threats. My mother had fought this civil war for thirty years, and lost.

I'd had the idea for a drug that could trigger new growth in those withering lobes, a little sprout in the dying forest. Mikala was going to make it happen. We were as confident as marines.

But no drug, especially one that crosses the blood-brain barrier, can change just one thing. Unintended secondary effects abound. A drug for hypertension can become a treatment for erectile dysfunction. A hypothermia medicine can find new life in s.e.x parties. And a chemical designed to grow neurons in damaged brains can destroy five lives in a single night.

Edo threw the party at Cite at the Lake Point Tower. A private room big enough for friends and family, surrounded by gla.s.s, Chicago lit up around us like an undersea kingdom. Kensington Inc. was buying us out. We were all going to be rich. True, Edo was already a billionaire, and we'd never approach his heights, but we were all going to be so much more wealthy than we'd ever been before. New Molecular Ent.i.ty 110, the latest NME in a long string of disappointments (a hundred and nine, to be exact), was showing promise, and in the world of bioengineering start-ups, promises were bait, and a big fish had taken the line.

Mikala didn't attend the restaurant, and we were all relieved. She was the only one of the partners who didn't want to sell. Outvoted and angry, she'd told us we weren't just wrong, we were fools. Not just greedy, but evil. She accused me of voting against her out of spite.

The marriage had come apart over the past year. However, until the buyout offer we had never argued, never yelled. We slept in the same bed, ate breakfast across from each other, drove together to the industrial park where Little Sprout's labs were located, and worked in the same room, never more than twenty feet apart. We kept up our routine. Eventually I realized that it was the routine that was keeping us. The marriage had become a set of autonomic responses that let us absent ourselves without having to separate.

I told myself that Mikala exited first. She'd started working later hours, going in to the building without me. She no longer needed me for her work, and maybe, I realized, not at all. She'd always been smarter than I was, but now there was something new in her face, something like pity, as if she understood things I'd never comprehend. What wounded me most was her newfound calm. She was happy. Happier than she'd ever been when we depended on each other. I should have known when she began calling our product Numinous that she'd started using it. She'd found her G.o.d, and we mortals had stopped mattering to her.

The party at Cite stretched on, until the friends and spouses and parents went home and the hotel staff kicked us out of the gla.s.s room. The four of us-Edo, Gil, Rovil, and me-took the elevator down to the condo Edo had borrowed from equally rich friends. Edo, burly and towering over us all, was so drunk he kept skimming the walls of the corridor. Gil, who was a foot shorter than Edo but at least the same weight, seemed only a few drinks behind him. Rovil and I, the sober sherpas, guided them to the room.

It was sometime past 3 a.m. when Rovil said, "Guess who's here?" Mikala had appeared, carrying a bottle of champagne, already opened. She wasn't intoxicated-not with alcohol, anyway. She was wide awake, vibrating with energy.

Edo threw open his arms and cheered. Too drunk to realize how awkward the moment was. Edo and Rovil the only ones happy to see her.

"I came to apologize," Mikala said.

Gil said, "You sure about that?"

"We made something great," Mikala said. "It's right to celebrate that."

But only Mikala truly understood what we'd created. The rest of us knew only that NME 110 had pa.s.sed the preclinical tests. The FDA had approved us to go forward with phase I trials, the "first-in-man" trials. Kensington would now finance the human testing, which could cost millions. Only then, we thought, would we find out if we'd created something that could change the lives of people, or only change the behavior of rats. The NME was a lottery ticket that Kensington was willing to pay for, one drug of thousands that went to phase I every year. Only a handful made it to phase II.

Mikala filled our gla.s.ses with her champagne. I told her no, I wasn't drinking. Her eyes narrowed. Rovil said, "Well I am," and held out his gla.s.s.

Edo roared with laughter. "If the Christian boy from India's drinking, we're all drinking."

I held out my gla.s.s. What could one drink hurt?

I do not remember anything after that moment except fragments. Edo's booming voice. Mikala touching my belly. A light so pure and white that it seemed to bore holes through my eyes to the back of my skull. And a knife.

I remembered staring at the blade. It was a big kitchen knife, and someone was prying my fingers from the handle. I don't remember seeing the face of the person who took it from me. I felt the wood slipping out of my hand, and I did not want to let it go.

I lay in the hospital several days before the doctor told me about the others. Edo was weeping constantly. Gil was raving. Rovil couldn't speak. And Mikala-she was in the morgue.

I wanted to die for my sins, but death was impossible now. I understood that my true self, this consciousness, was not located here, in this body, but woven into the fabric of all things. These lungs could stop breathing, this flesh could fall from my bones, but that had as little to do with me as the erosion of mountain ranges. Which is to say, it had everything to do with me.

I was entangled with all existence, stars and minds and particles all aspects of the same thing. As long as the universe existed, I had no choice but to exist with it. There was no escape, because there was nothing to escape from.

"Don't be afraid," the doctor told me. "I'm here to help you through this." She placed a cool hand on my forehead. "Gloria in excelsis Deo."

I'd sent Bobby out for a couple lattes, and by the time he returned he had lost his mind.

"They took me, Lyda!" He slapped the skin just below his neck, where he usually kept his treasure chest. "Just yanked me."

"Slow down," I said. It was way too early in the morning, the sun pinging through the slats like a ball-peen hammer. "Did they take your wallet, too?"

"What? No."

"Then you couldn't at least come back with some G.o.dd.a.m.ned coffee?"

"Be nice," Dr. Gloria said. "The boy's in despair." My body ached from a night on Bobby's couch.

"Okay, okay," I said. "Who took your ... you?"

"Two guys. Mean guys." His hands fluttered like pigeons. "I think they were terrorists."

"Why would terrorists want your treasure chest?"

"I don't know! They said, 'If you want this back, tell Lyda Rose to talk to somebody named Feeza.' Or maybe Fiza."

"Uh-oh," Dr. G said.

I said, "Bobby, think hard. Was the name Fayza?"

He pointed at me. "That's it."

s.h.i.+t.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"And they mentioned me by name?"

"Yes! Now who is this guy?"

"It's not a guy-it's a woman. And she runs the Millies."

"Oh." Even Bobby had heard of the Millies.

On the way downtown to Millie home territory, Dr. G and I worked it out. Brandy must have pa.s.sed the word on what we were looking for, and that word made its way up the supply chain to the Millies. I shouldn't have been surprised. The Millies ran a huge slice of the Toronto cannabis trade, and there was no reason they wouldn't have branched into smart drugs. Fayza was one of those hyperentrepreneurs that make even hardcore capitalists nervous.

She and the Millies got their start in 2020 with microloans from a nonprofit that decided that charity begins at home. A dozen Afghan women, riding in on the third wave of immigration from the war zone after the Taliban reclaimed the homeland (again), formed a trust group and were given five hundred bucks apiece. They called themselves the Millionaires Club. The women set up a living room nail salon, a vegetable stand featuring bathtub-grown cardamom and saffron, a postal a.s.sistance business, and, in a metamove, a micro-microbank. Ten-buck loans, in a variety of currencies, transferrable to relatives back home.

The bank was Fayza's idea. Utilizing her newly discovered talent for money, she began to convert other women in the neighborhood into business owners and set them up with accounts. She offered seminars on marketing, corporate strategy, and human resources (managing husbands). Then she went back to the women who ran the vegetable stand and the postal service, and explained the word "synergy." Specifically: Hydroponics + s.h.i.+pping + Money laundering = Vast cash opportunity.

By 2025, the Millies controlled most of Ontario. They'd allied themselves with the pot farms out in the boondocks and facilitated s.h.i.+pments to the States, but the core of their business remained their locally grown, artisa.n.a.l, organic weed, each bud glistening with enough THC to flip back your head like a Pez dispenser.

We parked the car on King Street, just inside the Afghan neighborhood. Bobby said, "I can hear them talking. I think they've got me under a blanket."