Futureland: Nine Stories of an Imminent World

“What is the cause of this disease, Doctor?”

There was a pause then. Maybe the audio line had gone down and the doctor was simply waiting to hear. But Harold believed that Jeffers was considering his answer. He was wondering what to say.

“We believe that there is an environmental cause to the illness, Letter. As we speak federal agencies are trying to discover some link between the victims — where they worked, what they ate, where they went swimming. It’s something like that.”

“So you don’t believe that this could have anything to do with the potential act of terrorism in the Northwest.”

“I can’t see any connection whatsoever,” Jeffers said. “The immunization centers are for children only, and none of the victims down here have been immunized in over a year.”

“That’s a relief,” Letter said with a big smile.

Jeffers didn’t seem relieved. His image faded.

“On the lighter side...” Phillips began.

“Vid off,” Harold said.

He sat back in his new Propper Chair, a thin sheet of transparent and flexible Synthsteel held aloft by pulsating magnetic waves emanating from a disc anchored to the floor. Like floating on air, the holo-ads claimed. And it was true, but the feeling was only physical. There was nothing light or buoyant about Harold’s life. And this was strange, because he was in love. Yasmine Mü was the center of his life. It was true that he only saw her at the Blanklands Eros-Haus; that he had to pay for her attentions. But she never charged him the full rate and once a week she’d allow him to spend the whole night in her cubicle.

Harold’s heart and body were Yasmine’s to command. But there was a downside to love. The IT curve, the Propper Chair, and all the other little perks of the working life had lost their sheen. He felt small and vulnerable.

Lately Harold had been thinking about his parents, Clarence and Renata Bottoms. By the age of forty they had both faded into White Noise. He hadn’t heard from either one in years. He supposed that they were migrants living in what was known as the undertow, the currents of illegal labor under the cycles of unemployment. These migrants moved from city to city, living in Common Ground.

They were gone.

Harold had been recalling the last conversation he’d had with his father. They’d met at a China Tea stand on One forty-first and Lenox. Harold paid for the drinks.

“Thanks, son,” the elder Bottoms said. He was five eight but seemed shorter because he stooped a little. “Your mama and I had to give up the apartment. I think she goin’ down to Florida. I’ma make it out to St. Louis. Maybe your brother got a hoe in the garden for me.”