Distraction - Bruce Sterling [168]
“It’s good of you to call, Oscar,” Lorena told him. “You never call us enough.”
“That’s sweet of you. How have things been? Tell me really.”
“Oh, it’s a day at a time. A day at a time, that’s all. The doctors tell me there’s a lot of progress.”
“Really?”
“Oh, it’s amazing what millions of dollars can do in the American health-care system. Up at the high end of the market, they can do all kinds of strange neural things now. He’s cheerful.”
“Really.”
“He’s very cheerful. He’s stable. He’s lucid, even, most of the time.”
“Lorena, did I ever tell you how incredibly sorry I am about all this?”
She smiled. “Good old Oscar. I’m used to it now, you know? I’m dealing with it. I wouldn’t have thought that was possible—maybe it isn’t possible—but it’s doable. You know what really bothers me, though? It isn’t all the sympathy notes, or the media coverage, or the fan clubs, or any of that.… It’s those evil fools who somehow believe that mental illness is a glamorous, romantic thing. They think that going mad is some kind of spiritual adventure. It isn’t. Not a bit of it. It’s horrible. It’s banal. I’m dealing with someone who has become banal. My darling husband, who was the least banal man I ever met. He was so multifaceted and wonderful and full of imagination; he was just so energetic and clever and charming. Now he’s like a big child. He’s like a not very bright child who can be deceived and managed, but not reasoned with.”
“You’re very brave. I admire you very much for saying that.”
Lorena began weeping. She massaged her eyes with her beautifully kept fingertips. “Now I’m crying but … Well, you don’t mind that, do you? You’re one of the people who really knew what we were like, back then.”
“I don’t mind.”
Lorena looked up after a while, her brittle face composed and bright. “Well, you haven’t told me how you are doing.”
“Me, Lorena? Couldn’t be better! Getting amazing things accomplished over here. Unbelievable developments, all completely fascinating.”
“You’ve lost a lot of weight,” she said. “You look tired.”
“I’ve had a little trouble with my new allergies. I’m fine as long as I stay around air filters.”
“How is your new job with the President? It must be exciting to be in the NSC when there’s almost a war on.”
Oscar opened his mouth. It was true; he was on the National Security Council, and there was a war in the works, and despite his tangential status and his deep disinterest in foreign affairs, he knew a great deal about the coming war. He knew that the President planned to send out a flotilla of clapped-out battleships across the Atlantic, without any air cover. He knew that the President was utterly determined to provoke his token war, whether the Congress could be talked into declaring one or not. He knew that in a world of precisely targeted cheap missiles and infinite numbers of disposable drone aircraft, the rust-bucket American fleet was a fleet of sitting ducks.
He also knew that he would lose his job and perhaps even face espionage charges if he revealed this to a Senator’s wife on an NSC satphone. Oscar closed his mouth.
“I’m just a science adviser,” he said at last. “The Senator must know a great deal more about this than I do.”
“Would you like to talk to him?”
“That would be great.”
Lorena left. Oscar opened his nomad laptop, examined the screen for a moment, shut it again.
The Senator arrived on-camera. He was wearing pajamas and a blue velvet lounge robe. His face looked plump, polished, and strangely shapeless, as if