Oryx and Crake (MaddAddam, #1)(59)
Maybe that’s why the Rev hated Zeb so much: he knew Trudy had saddled him with a cuckoo in the nest, but he couldn’t get back at her directly because of their shared digging activities. He had to either kill her or put up with her, her and her sluttish ways. If only Zeb had thought to purloin some of the Rev’s DNA – a few hairs or toenail clippings – then he could get the tests done and set his mind at rest. Or not. But at least he’d be sure of his parentage, one way or the other.
No doubt about Adam, though: a definite Rev resemblance there. Though refined by the contribution of Fenella, of course. The poor girl was most likely a pious type – scrubbed hands, no nail polish, pulled-back hairdo, white panties devoid of trim – longing to do good and help people. A sitting duckie. His Warpiness had no doubt sold her on the idea that she would be a precious helpmeet to him and that this was a higher calling, though he’d have told her that one must forgo joy and pleasure as such in the service of him and his mission. Zeb guessed he’d have had no patience with the female orgasm. Crappy sex the two of them must have had, in any normal terms.
This was what Zeb thought about while watching daytime TV in his dank Starburst lair, or tossing on his lumpy, stained mattress while listening to the shouting and screaming going on outside his flimsily locked door. Animal spirits, drug-induced hilarity, hatred, fear, craziness. There were gradations to screams. It was the ones that stopped in the middle that you had to worry about.
Finally Adam came through. A meetup address, a time, and some instructions about what to wear. No red, no orange, a plain brown T-shirt if possible. No green: it was a politically charged colour, what with the vendetta against ecofreaks.
The address was a nondescript Happicuppa in New Astoria, not too near the semi-submerged and dangerously unstable buildings of the waterfront. Zeb sat crammed in behind one of the chi-chi little Happicuppa tables, on one of the teensy chairs that reminded him of kindergarten – he hadn’t fitted into those chairs either – nursing his Happicappuccino and fortifying himself with half a Joltbar, and wondering what sort of spitball Adam was about to toss his way. He’d have a job lined up for Zeb – otherwise he wouldn’t be calling for a meet – but what sort of job? Worm picker? Nightwatchman at a puppy mill? What order of contacts might Adam have been cultivating, wherever he had been?
Adam had hinted that he’d use an intermediary as the meetup courier, and Zeb worried about safety: the two of them had always been wary about trusting anyone except each other. True, Adam would be cautious. But he was methodical, and methodology could give you away. The only sure camouflage was unpredictability.
From his cramped chair Zeb eyed the entering customers, hoping to spot the courier. Was it this blond hermaphrodite in the halter top and sequined three-horned headdress? He hoped not. This plump, gum-chewing woman with the cream-coloured shorts and the wedgie and the retro cinch belt? She looked too vacuous, though vacuousness was a nearly foolproof disguise, at least for girls. Was it this mild, geeky-looking boy of the type that would some day machine-gun an auditorium full of his pimply fellow classmates? Nope, not him either.
But suddenly, surprise: there was Adam himself. It startled Zeb to see him materialize in the chair opposite, which had been empty just the moment before. Ectoplasmic, you could say.
Adam looked like a passport photo of himself, one that was already fading to light and shadow. It was as if he’d returned from the dead: he had that glowing-eyeball thing about him. His T-shirt was beige, his baseball cap sloganless. He’d bought himself a Happimocha to make it seem as if this was just two oddfellow buddies taking a break from their nerdwork, or else doing a meeting about some startup doomed to implode like a drowning blimp. Happimocha and Adam didn’t go together: Zeb was curious to see if he’d actually drink any of the stuff – something so impure.
“Don’t raise your voice,” were the first words Adam spoke. Not two seconds back in Zeb’s life and already he was giving orders.
“I was thinking of f*cking yelling,” said Zeb. He waited to be told not to use profanity, but Adam didn’t take the bait. Zeb stared at him: there was something different. His eyes were just as round and blue, but his hair was paler. Could it be turning white? There was a new beard too, also pale. “Nice to see you too,” he added.
Adam smiled: a flicker of a smile. “You’ll be going into HelthWyzer West near San Francisco,” he said. “As a data inputter. I’ve fixed it up. When you leave here, pick up the shopping bag beside your left knee. Everything you’ll need is in there. You’ll have to get the scans and prints inserted in the ID – I’ve put the address for that. And you’ll need to scrap the old ID: delete anything online. But I don’t have to tell you that.”
“Where’ve you been, anyway?” said Zeb.
Adam smiled in that maddening, saintly way he had. Butter wouldn’t melt; it never had melted. “Classified,” he said. “Other lives involved.” That was the kind of thing that made Zeb long to put a toad in his bed.
“Right, slap my wrist. Okay, what’s this HelthWyzer West, and what’m I supposed to be doing in there?”
“It’s a Compound,” said Adam. “Research and innovation. Drugs, the medical kind; enriched vitamin supplements; materials for transgenic splices and gene enhancement, specifically the hormone blends and simulators. It’s a powerful Corp. There are a lot of top brains there.”