Matt Richtel - The Cloud

I look at the man with the crooked smile and a knife.

“Lawyer? Is the knife his copy of the Constitution?”

“It’s gratuitous and he’ll put it away. But it’s understandable that Steven wanted it for defensive purposes, Mr. Idle. You’ve shown yourself to be impulsive and dangerous. The way he remembers it, you attacked him in a dark alley, and, at least according to my sources in the police department, are being sought in connection with a fire at a juvenile detention center.”

“Don’t forget how I started global warming and shot JFK.”

“Your zealous efforts to steal our intellectual property and expose our marketing plan have crossed the line well beyond even the most generous description of free press and investigation journalism. Look, Mr. Idle, I don’t understand why you’ve come undone, I just know that it’s a complete and tragic unraveling.”

I wince. He’s right. I’m suffering an acute case of post-traumatic stress disorder. I lost my son and his mother and my vision for the future. I’ve been chasing ghosts. My hold on reality is thin enough that I’m wondering if he’s making sense. Did I invent a conspiracy and pursue it because I’ve, as he said, come undone? But I feel the object that Faith snuck into my hand. It’s a tangible reminder that I face a real threat or, at least, a mysterious and dangerous situation.

“You’ve developed technology that makes kids dumber,” I mumble. “The Juggler. If I expose that, which one of us will the jury convict?”

“He crazy.” It’s the man with the crooked smile.

“You blew up the learning annex.”

Gils steps forward, asserting himself. Until this moment, I’ve been too bewildered, too fatalistic, to bother examining him. Now I notice the nondescript visage of an accounting type, his don’t-notice-me short haircut and outdated windbreaker, frugality and conservatism incarnate, the money guy behind Leviathan’s empire. He hates whatever he’s gotten himself caught up in.

“I don’t want to listen to any more of this nonsense, Mr. Idle. The Juggler, which, by the way, is an embargoed trade name, helps kids navigate the modern world. They can become masters of the cloud. It’s cutting-edge, bleeding-edge , technology. And more than that, it’s fun. We’re going to introduce it first, on our terms, into an overseas market, then see where we go from there. By the way, this is all off the record. And, besides, you’ve got much bigger problems right now.”

“Like which publication I’m going to sell the brain images to-the ones that show the degraded frontal-lobe capacity of test subjects in a juvenile jail. That is a serious problem. Just think of the competition for the. .” I feel Faith’s hand on my arm, squeezing. I’m pressing my luck.

“First of all, the way we read the images, they are inconclusive,” Gils says. “The real-time MRI technology has its limitations and the neuro-chemical blood testing remains primitive. We’d hoped they’d offer proof of the neurological value of our work so that we could responsibly market the benefits. But we will choose our words more carefully in our advertising. We absolutely will not go further in our claims than the research allows, and on that point, Mr. Idle, you may someday get permission to quote me.”

I’m having a lot of trouble following and as much trouble caring. This has been the neurological rhythm the last few minutes; the recognition of my loss of Isaac and Polly anchors me in a pit-complete capitulation to the world and its forces-and then I poke my head up and out, prompted by some primitive impulse.

“The explosion at the annex,” I say.

“Nearly killed my support staff. After all we’ve given to that place. The diesel pump was faulty,” Gils says. “We’ve already expressed our grave concern with the annex. Can you imagine what a lawsuit would do to their already faltering finances? We’re all just so glad no one was hurt.”

“Uh-huh, and Faith kidnapped herself.”

“This is absurd.” Gils is now just dismissive.

“They didn’t,” Faith says. “I went of my own accord.”

I look up at her, bewildered. “Outside the jail? After the explosion? I don’t believe that.”

I look at Gils. “You’re in cahoots with Chinese investors. You test software here, manufacture the Juggler abroad and sell it in the East-China, Japan-then bring it to the U.S.”

“And? That’s some kind of conspiracy?” The executive-turned-investor bends on his haunches. “You really smacked your head. Am I right?”

I don’t respond.

“Faith told us about the subway. You suffered a major concussion. You’re totally out of touch. It’s robbed you of your common sense and your ability to discern truth from imagination. You’re making connections and seeing things that aren’t there.”

“I’m bringing Leviathan down.”

I see Gils’ body tense at the mention of the name of the man he once partnered with to build one of Silicon Valley’s most iconic companies.

“He has nothing to do with this. If you print that, you can’t imagine the pain you’ll suffer.”

“From a lawsuit.”

“Why are you doing this?” Gils is truly exasperated. “Nathaniel, this is the future. We’re giving the next generation great tools, facilitating an extraordinary new world. We’re doing in Silicon Valley what we’ve always done.”

“Getting rich.”

He shrugs, as if to say, And your point is. .? He stands. He turns to the man with the crooked smile and the knife, now tucked in his back pocket.

“Make sure he gets someplace warm.”

“Count on it.”

Gils brushes his hands against his pants and starts walking down the mountain.

We wait a minute in silence.

“Which one do you think is his?” asks the henchman.

Arms crossed, he’s looking through the trees at the St. Francis Woods mansions. This is where Gils must live. So we met here because it was convenient for the executive, and not because it was a secret execution spot?

“I’m freezing,” Faith says.

“Then go.”

“We can go?” she asks.

“It’s a free country.” He half laughs. He likes saying this.

He turns and starts walking south, making crunching noises as his boots hit the concrete at the cross’s base. Presumably, he parked at some other access point. He pauses and turns back.

“I’m sorry I hit you so hard. I thought you were trying to steal from the company.”

It feels coached. He disappears into the wind.

“Let’s go,” Faith says.

I try to swallow and nearly choke from dryness.

“Nathaniel. It’s cold.”

A pigeon swoops from the treetops and pecks at some unseen snack at the base of the cross. It sails off again, its off-white feathers blur with the sky behind it and I wonder if the concussion is beginning to reassert itself. Then I realize why I’m so blurred. It’s not my brain but my eyes. They are filled with tears, blazing hot grief. A drip, a stream, cascade. Sobs.

I see Isaac, pale, bundled, not bundled, actually, shrouded. His weakened mother could not sustain him in utero . I’m in a trance when they show his lifeless body to me and wonder if I’d like to say goodbye. I look down at him and then at the nurse, clenching her teeth, holding it together, much more than I’m able to do.

Time passes, drizzle comes in and out, Faith finally speaks again. She says she needs to check on her nephew, Timothy. I stand and I find myself straining to look at her. It’s not that I don’t trust her, though I don’t. I don’t want to make full contact with her because it will mean acknowledging that I’m part of this world still, that what I’m experiencing now-the loss-is real.