David Zeman - The Pinocchio Syndrome

‘From intake? A textbook case,’ the younger man said. ‘The onset of symptoms was within twelve to fifteen hours. Then the first phase of the syndrome lasted pretty much unchanged for about two to three weeks. Then we had the dramatic dip in brain function, leading to coma after another week. The first physical changes didn’t occur until coma was well under way.’

‘I find that fascinating,’ the older man said. ‘How do you account for it?’

‘I can’t,’ replied the younger man. ‘Not even our own research explains the details of it. The precise curve of the paralysis, the changes at the cellular level, and their sequelae – it will take a lot of research to objectify all that.’

‘Well,’ the older man said thoughtfully, ‘that’s the way it goes sometimes. Most of the time, in fact. Psychiatrists never did understand why shock treatment works as it works. Most drugs, too – you get your desired result, you watch for side effects, and sometimes you never know the real mechanism.’

The younger man nodded. ‘In any case, we’re seeing a great consistency in the timing of the onset and progress. Almost like clockwork. Faster in children, somewhat faster in women.’

‘Let’s look at the main map.’

The younger man turned on a video monitor connected to a mainframe computer. A special program had been designed to assay the various tissue groups, always with specific reference to one molecular factor. The present display showed the bone marrow.

‘As you see,’ the doctor said, pointing to the screen, ‘our change is in place.’

‘Excellent,’ the older man observed.

‘The modifications are reflected clearly at the cellular level. You can’t entirely extrapolate from this to the symptoms – our knowledge doesn’t extend that far – but a glance at the numbers makes it obvious. The body is giving itself different instructions. The cells are trying to follow them, but of course the body isn’t made to do that. So you have massive dysfunction, starting at the cognitive level and spreading through all the systems.’

‘I see.’ The older man looked from the screen to the experimental subject in the bed. ‘The skeletal was affected from the start, but not visible until now.’

‘That’s correct. The biopsies we did on this subject made that very clear.’

‘Fascinating,’ the older man said. ‘The mystery of life.’

‘Yes, sir. Life’s attempt to adjust itself to changes.’

‘Kind of makes you wonder whether there is a God after all,’ the older man said. ‘Only a transcendent power could design something so subtle.’

The younger man nodded a bit uncomfortably.

The older man pointed to the sheet. ‘Let’s have a closer look.’

The younger man pulled the sheet up from one side, folding it over the subject’s chest. The left hand was revealed, grossly distended and already considerably distorted. The skin was darkened, and already harder than healthy cartilage.

The older man lifted the arm from the elbow to get a better look. The fingers were still identifiable, though they were losing definition. What had once been the fingernails seemed to have fused with the hardened skin tissue.

‘Amazing,’ the older man said. ‘Like chitin, isn’t it?’

‘To the touch, yes,’ the younger man said. ‘But the cell structure is closer to what we see in human bone or cartilage.’

‘An amazing effect,’ the older man said. ‘Let’s see the foot.’

He bent to look at the left foot, whose distention and distortion exceeded that of the hand. The toes were enlarged, hardened, and beginning to lose definition. The heel and toes were being pulled together by the progressive deformation, fusing gradually into a single hard platform.

‘Pretty clear morphological difference from the hand,’ the older man said.

‘Definitely,’ nodded his companion. ‘Just as you will see a differentiation in any hoofed animal from the rear to the front.’

The older man tapped the sole of the foot with his knuckle. A dry, hollow sound emerged.

‘Fascinating,’ the man observed, ‘how consistent it is, from subject to subject.’

‘Oh, yes. It never varies. It’s the signature of the syndrome,’ the younger man said. ‘Quite amazing.’

The older man smiled. ‘I wonder what they’ll call it,’ he said. ‘When they get around to it.’

The younger man shrugged. ‘That’s not my department.’

‘I hope they pick something with a little poetry in it,’ the older man said with a smile. ‘Something people will remember.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The younger man nodded a bit weakly.

‘By the way,’ the older man said, ‘I heard we had a small accident yesterday.’

‘That’s right.’ His companion nodded. ‘It was a computer glitch. One of the special files leaked out into the network.’

‘What was the young man’s name again?’

‘Lightfoot. Damian Lightfoot.’

‘He wasn’t security, was he?’

‘No, sir. Just a computer tech. Trash management. He reported the file because he wasn’t familiar with the name.’

‘No problem about disposal?’ the older man asked. ‘Family? Colleagues?’

‘Security took care of it already. There won’t be a body. He simply disappeared.’

‘Good.’ The older man was shaking his head. ‘But we can’t allow leaks, no matter how small. I want the system redesigned immediately. An accident like that should have been discovered within the loop. Company population is just as dangerous as general population.’ He gave the younger man a sharp look. ‘Get on it with your people this afternoon.’

‘I’ll do that, sir.’

The older man stood looking at the subject in the bed. His frown faded, eclipsed by his enthusiasm for the project.

‘Something with poetry,’ he repeated. ‘Like the Black Plague …’

The White House

November 28

A meeting was held Monday evening in the Oval Office.

Present were the president and his top aides, along with chief of staff Dick Livermore, who had been the president’s campaign manager in the general election two years ago. Also present were the party chairman and the majority leader.

The president greeted those present with an uncharacteristically grave face.

‘I know you’re all concerned first and foremost about Danny,’ he said. ‘I saw him this afternoon at Walter Reed, and I spoke at some length with Dr Isaacson. There isn’t any good news to report. Danny’s condition hasn’t improved. His vital signs are still okay, but mentally he’s nonfunctional.’

The president had taken off his suit jacket and was resting his muscular forearms on the table. He did not like jackets or long-sleeved shirts; they made him feel constrained. For nearly twenty years his campaign ads had shown him in short-sleeved shirts with his tie loosened. Though some thought it was a PR gimmick intended to make him look hardworking, the fact was he actually dressed that way.

In answer to the polite murmurs of inquiry from those present, the president shook his head.

‘I think we’d better look to the bottom line on this,’ he said. ‘There may be hope for Danny from a medical viewpoint, but even if he gets better, this episode will be too great a negative for us to overcome, given the polls and our other problems.’

The chief PR consultant raised a hand. ‘I’m afraid you’re right,’ he said. ‘The media are already on to the fact that Danny is catatonic. We couldn’t overcome that in a fight against Goss.’

The president nodded. ‘The first order of business, then, is for me to choose someone else as soon as decently possible. With Goss gaining in the polls we can’t let the grass grow under our feet.’