Paul Levinson - The Consciousness Plague

THE CONSCIOUSNESS PLAGUE

PAUL LEVINSON

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are

used fictitiously.

THE CONSCIOUSNESS PLAGUE

This book is printed on acid-free paper. Edited by David G. Hartwell

A Tor Book Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

175 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10010 www.tor.com

Tor is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Levinson, Paul. The consciousness plague / Paul Levinson.—1st ed. p. cm.

"A Tom Doherty Associates book." ISBN 0-765-30098-2 (acid-free paper) 1. Police—Fiction. 2.

Memory disorders—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3562.E92165C662002 813'.54—dc21

2001054059

First Edition: March 2002

Printed in the United States of America

0987654321

TO NEW YORK CITY, NOW AND FOREVER

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to my editor, David G. Hartwell, for his deft editing; my agent, Christopher Lotts of the Ralph

Vicinanza Agency, for his savvy selling; Dr. Stanley Schmidt, editor of Analog, where Phil D'Amato (this

novel's protagonist) first appeared in a series of novelettes in the 1990s; my wife, Tina, and our children,

Simon and Molly, for their wonderful first readings of this manuscript; and the many readers of The Silk

Code, my first Phil D'Amato novel, who said they wanted more....

ONE

"Phil! Good to see you!"

Jack Dugan, one of the brass I usually worked with—recently promoted to the commissioner's righthand

man down at One Police Plaza—extended his hand. He pulled it back, to contain a wracking cough.

"You look terrible, Jack. What are you taking for that?"

"Nothing." He coughed again, then extended his hand again.

I took it and made a mental note to wash my hands as soon as I left the meeting.

"I guess I should get some antibiotics for this," Jack continued. "But I hate to use the stuff—they say so

much of it is around that bacteria are building up resistance."

I sat down in the available chair across from his desk. It was cherrywood—big, battered around the

edges, unevenly lacquered. Its rosy shine mirrored Jack's rheumy eyes. "Never knew you were so tuned

in to public health," I said to him.

He gave me a pained smile. "Antibiotics give me the runs. I'd rather have the cough." He cleared his

throat like a bulldozer.

"Yeah, well, antibiotics are like dumb cops, aren't they," I said. "They come on the scene and club

everyone over the head—the good-guy germs in your system that help you digest your food, as well as

the bad guys that make you sick."

He laughed, then coughed. His eyes teared. Finally he took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "Let me

tell you why I asked you down here."

I nodded encouragement.

"You know, you and I have had some differences over the years about your penchant for bizarre

cases—"

Yeah, tell me about it, I thought. He'd removed me from cases at least half a dozen times.

"—and, even though I've been a sceptic, I was talking to the commissioner the other day, and he thinks

that there's no such thing as being over-prepared these days. He'd like you to head up a special

strange-cases readiness task force—you know, just to be there, with some possible plans in the waiting,

if something really wacky crops up." He bulldozed his throat again, then went into a coughing spasm. He

pulled a bottle of Poland Spring water out of his desk and guzzled half of it down. "So, what do you

think?" he finally managed to say.

JENNA SIPPED A glass of plum wine and smiled at me that evening. "I know, you hate committees,"

she said.

I leaned back on the sofa in our living room. "I've always accomplished more as a lone wolf," I replied.

"I've seen loads of these task forces come and go. Usually all they do is mark time and eat up energy."

"But you told Dugan you'd think about it," Jenna said.

"Yeah. I suppose it could be good to finally have some people working under me. And some

resources.... That would be an improvement on having to always go the Department on bended knee."

"You think there's some threat we don't know about that makes them want to do this right now?" Jenna

asked. She patted her denim jeans.

I scowled. "They wouldn't recognize something bizarre if it smiled in their faces—they'd say it was a

hoax, and do their best to bury the evidence."

Jenna coughed. "Well, this damned cold or pseudo-flu or whatever it is certainly seems to be getting out

of hand. My sister told me everyone in San Francisco is out sick with it."

"Let's hope she didn't give it to you over the phone." I reached over and refilled her glass.

I CALLED DUGAN two days later to accept the offer.

"He's home sick with that bug," his secretary, Sheila, told me. "Both he and the commissioner," she

added. "Got them both. Looks like the Department will be run by the secretaries for the next few days!"

She chuckled.

"No different than usual," I responded in kind.

Now she laughed out loud. "Shhh, Dr. D'Amato. Don't you give away our secret, now!"

"It's safe with me, don't worry."

I WAS DOWN in Chinatown a few days later on a boring case. But it wasn't a total loss—I loved the

crush of people and textures and fruit stands. I used the opportunity to replenish my supply of green tea

and persimmons.

"Anything more?" the woman at the stand inquired, in a lilting voice. She was hardly more than a girl, with

a very sweet face.

I shook my head no, and gave her a twenty.

She gave me two paper bags, my change, and started coughing her head off.

That reminded me to put in another call to Dugan.

"Good timing," Sheila's voice crackled through my cell phone, "He came back, fit as a fiddle, just this

morning."

The sun was close to setting on this crisp March afternoon, and I was finished with my business in

Chinatown, so I decided to hail a cab and go over to Dugan's office. It could be useful for me to see the

expression on his face when I accepted his offer— see if there was any true pleasure there.

The traffic was worse than usual. I counted two water mains broken, and three potholes the size of

basketballs.

Sheila was gone when I finally arrived. But Jack was still in his office.

"So, I see you're feeling better," I said, and took Jack's extended hand.

"I feel like a million bucks now," Jack said. "How you'd know ... Oh, I guess Sheila told you I was sick?"

"Right—"

"I tell ya, this was a nasty one. I tried to fight it on my own as best I could—I hate taking antibiotics and

those new flu medications—but it got to the point where I was up all night coughing. The commissioner

was pretty sick, too—he picked it up from me, I picked it up from him, who knows?—but his doctor

told him about some new antibiotic or something, ninety-five percent guaranteed not to upset the

stomach. That stuff gives me the runs, you know—"

"Yeah—"

"So anyway." Dugan gestured to the available chair. "Have a seat, Phil. What brings you to this exalted

office?"

"Well, I've decided to accept your offer," I replied.

"My offer?" Dugan looked puzzled.

"Yeah, you know, what you told me last week, about the task force."

Dugan looked at me as if I were putting him on, or confusing him with someone else. "I haven't the

vaguest idea what you're talking about."

I HAD LUNCH the following week with a friend who was up from the Centers for Disease Control in

Atlanta. "The thing is, I think Dugan was completely sincere about not remembering our conversation," I

said, as I sipped the last of my tea.

I had told Andy Weinberg what had happened in Dugan's office. Andy was in New York for a

conference about the flu or whatever it was that was making everybody cough. Jenna had it full-throttle

now. I was beginning to feel a tickle in my own throat—but, who knows, maybe that was just the power

of suggestion.

"You sure?" Andy responded. "You've been telling me for years how the Department supports you one

day, acts like they have no faith in you the next—you sure this isn't just more of the same? Hell, I've been

telling you for years that a forensic detective with your verve would be much happier down in Atlanta,

haven't I?"

"Yeah, but I like New York, even this cold weather in March."

Andy shook his head in resignation. "Well, at least you seem to be holding your own against this new

bug. Better than I can say—had me sick as a dog last month."

"Any chance it could cause some kind of memory loss?"

"Nah, not very likely," Andy answered. "It's some kind of flu—definitely nothing worse. We haven't quite

figured out the exact strain. It's popping up all across the country—which means it's almost certainly a

natural occurrence, not a biowarfare hit, thank God. But it can open the gate to bronchitis and

pneumonia, like any flu—that's what we're concerned about. Of course, antibiotics can take care of the

lung and bronchial infections—if they're bacterial, and the drugs are taken in time. But no, I've never

heard of any flu-induced amnesia."

"Strange things, those flu bugs," I mused. "Killed millions in 1917, with no antibiotics for the

complications. These days when you get it, you just feel like you're going to die. And not everybody gets

it. Some people get it every year, some get it every two or three or four years, and some hardly ever at

all. With no rhyme or reason to the pattern."

"Tell me about it," Andy said. "Even the worst epidemics knock out ten to twenty percent of the

population at most. Very destructive to business and social life, obviously—and potentially deadly to old

people, anyone with a compromised immune system—but still, how come the other eighty percent get a

free pass? And meanwhile, the new meds are apparently effective in stopping or diminishing the flu for

eighty to ninety percent of the cases treated. Damn it, I was in that noneffective percentage—I took the

inhalant less than a day after I first felt the fever, right in the prescribed time range, and I was still out of

commission for a good ten days."

"It didn't do much for Jenna, either," I said. "She took the pill, made her sick to her stomach, but here it is

almost a week later and she's still laid up and coughing." I looked at my watch. "I better get home now

and feed her a little chicken soup." I signaled our waiter for the check.

Andy looked at me with a twinkle in his eye. "Jenna? Who's she?"

I looked at him.

"Funny," I said. "But something strange did happen to Dugan's memory. I could see in his face that it was

more than just run-of-the-mill forgetfulness."

JENNA WAS FEELING better by the end of the week. At first her cough had gotten worse. Her doc

finally prescribed an antibiotic as a precaution, and, lo and behold, not only did she not contract

bronchitis or pneumonia, but her cough had mostly subsided now, too. But if the cough was caused by

the flu, and the flu by a virus, then the antibiotic shouldn't have had any effect—antibiotics snuffed

bacteria, not viruses. Well, those kinds of things seemed to happen all the time. Maybe it was just

coincidence—maybe the cough would have gone away anyway, regardless of the antibiotic. Or maybe it

would have gone if all she had taken was a sugar pill....

"You up for something a little more adventurous for dinner tonight?" I asked. I didn't have the heart to

offer her another round of boiled chicken, even though my technique came straight from my late

grandmother, the best cook in history.

Jenna's eyes lit up and she patted her stomach. "Absolutely! This Omnin was as good as advertised." She

pointed to the sheet that had contained her antibiotic pills. One a day for five days; under five percent of

patients report any stomach disorders, the indications form advised.

"Should we try that place in Riverdale?" she asked.

"Buena Vista?"

She nodded.

"You sure you can handle Italian?"

She nodded again.

The food at Buena Vista's was delicious. I had a mouthwatering concoction of clams, calamari, shrimp,

and mussels over linguine, and Jenna had a marvelous penne alla vodka. Our dry wine hit the spot, too.

We walked slowly back to our car after dinner, and drove back to Manhattan with the windows rolled

down. Spring had finally arrived in New York City, with evening temperatures in the low sixties.

"Let's take advantage of this heat wave and walk by the river," Jenna said.

We parked near West Ninety-sixth Street, and walked down to the Hudson. Hyacinths were already in

bloom, purple and white in the moonlight, and their perfume was intoxicating. I kissed Jenna, with the

waves of the river lapping against the shore as accompaniment. I couldn't recall the last time I'd kissed

her like this in public.

"Let's go home," she whispered in my ear.

We were back in our bedroom in our brownstone on East Eighty-fifth Street in fifteen minutes. Jenna

began unbuttoning my shirt, and I her blouse.

"You sure you're up for this?" I asked. She responded by unbuttoning more....

AFTERWARD, SHE LAY in my arms, eyes closed but not sleeping.

I kissed her gently, then said, "Let's get married—have some kids." We'd been living together for three

years. It was time.

She opened her eyes, flecks of green on violet. "You sure you're up for this?" she asked, and smiled.

JENNA WAS SOUND asleep the next morning. I slipped out of bed, showered, dressed, and ate

breakfast as quietly as I could. I poked my head back in the bedroom and considered waking her, but

she looked so peaceful asleep.

I caught the clanking subway down to work. I realized that my throat had progressed from a tickle to an

ache, but otherwise I felt great. I popped in a zinc lozenge, and hoped for the best.

Marriage is no small thing. Neither of us had been married before. I'd come close a few times but ... no

one had ever been like Jenna.

I had trouble concentrating at work. Looking at dead bodies, in pictures or the flesh, was never my

favorite part of the job. But today they seemed especially out of synch with my mood. You're a forensic

detective, some little voice inside my head chided. Who cares about your mood? Live with it.

I turned back to the pictures. Blonde, mid-twenties, strangled, stripped naked, found dead near

Riverside Drive two days ago. Jeez, just a couple of blocks from where Jenna and I had been last night.

Ed Monti, the new medical examiner, wanted me down in his office for a noontime meeting about this

today.

I put on my coat and headed out. I tried Jenna on the cell phone. She had no reason to go across town

to the Hudson today, as far as I knew, but I believed in being careful. No answer on the phone. Hmm ...

She was probably still sleeping. She'd likely have called to say hello before going out today.

The blonde was stretched out on the table in Ed's examining room. "You know, there's some tribe in

Africa, I forget which, which has the same basic word for sleep and death," he said. "And they distinguish

between the two by saying just 'sleep' for 'sleep,' and 'really really asleep' for 'death.' " Ed liked to wax

philosophical. "But when you look at someone like this"—her name was Jillian Murphy—"there's really

no similarity at all, is there?"

I'd had the same thought many times myself. I thought of Jenna sound asleep in bed this morning....

Ed gave me the details of the Murphy case over lunch in his office. I left to tape a panel on Crime in the

New Millennium over at Fox News on Sixth Avenue.

I finally got through to Jenna around four P.M.

"Hey," I said, grinning from ear to ear. "So how are you doing today?"

"I think I'm feeling better," she said. "But I'm maxed out on chicken soup. Should we take a chance and

eat out tonight? I'd love some Italian—I feel like I've been cooped up inside for weeks."

"Well, sure...."

I STARED AT my cell phone for a long time after we got off.

I knew Jenna wasn't kidding. Could she really have forgotten what had happened last night? I found it

hard to believe.

I thought about taking her again to Buena Vista, to see if that might jog her memory. But on the chance

that, who knows, maybe something she'd eaten there had triggered some kind of allergic amnesic

reaction, I took her instead to Cafe Sambuca's on Seventy-second Street.

We lingered over veal scaloppine and salad. "I think I remember waking up yesterday, but I'm not

completely sure it was yesterday," Jenna said, taking another shot at the issue we'd been discussing all

evening. "I remember coughing like a lunatic, but I'd been doing that all week."

"Your cough was much better yesterday," I said, "almost gone. No way I'd say you were constantly

coughing then."

"So you're saying, what?" Jenna's voice was hoarse. "I've lost a day out of my life—the very day that you

said let's get married?"

"Could be a little more than a day," I replied. "The last thing we've established you remembering is the

initial report on the eleven o'clock news about the Riverside Drive strangling, the day before yesterday. I

was in the shower then, I didn't hear it, and it wasn't my case yet, so we wouldn't have talked about it

afterward. You sure you remember that report—"

"Positive," Jenna said.

"So that's our current baseline for your last memory before the blackout," I said.

She shook her head slowly, still not completely accepting that a day's worth of memories—hers of

yesterday—had apparently vanished. She finally managed a weak smile. "So how did I respond to your

proposal?"

I smiled back.

"You still want to marry someone who shares this infuriating characteristic with Jack Dugan?" she asked.

"Well, I'm glad that you at least remember that."

JOKE ABOUT IT all you want—losing a day's recollection is no laughing matter. Something similar

presumably had happened to Dugan.

"Scattered reports are beginning to come in," Andy told me on the phone from Atlanta the next morning,

"but it's hard to track at this point. People are home sick, sleeping off a flu— they might not even realize

they forgot a couple of hours when they were awake."

"Unless something important to that person happened in that time," I said.

"That's right," Andy said.

"Which has happened to me, now, twice," I said.

Andy sighed. "I hear you. But we can't rush this. Look, let's say there's nothing really going on here—"

"I think there is."

"Okay, let's say I agree with you," Andy said. "But what if we're wrong—what if there really is no

memory loss—and we ask a randomly selected sample of physicians around the country to ask patients

they've treated if they've suffered a memory loss? You know how that works—we're bound to get a few

patients saying yes, just because of the halo effect."

"A percentage of subjects are always inclined to say whatever they perceive their questioner as wanting

them to answer, if the questioner is considered an authority. Yes, I know that."

"So that's one problem," Andy said.

"Well, your survey should focus on patients who've been treated for this damn cough, anyway." I cleared

my throat. It didn't help. "I bet you'll find that a lot more of them report memory gaps than whatever

statistic usually results from the halo effect."

"That's what we're going to do," Andy said. "But until we're also able to get responses from a control

group—if we can find a part of the country that was less wracked by the cough—we're not going to

know much. That's another problem."

I frowned. Then cleared my throat again.

"We'll get to the bottom of this," Andy said. "But it's going to take a while. In the meantime, let me know

about any other clear-cut cases of memory loss that you—"

My other phone line rang. I asked Andy to hold on.

It was Ed Monti. "Sorry to spring this on you last minute," he said. "But I was wondering if you had time

to come down to the ADA's office right now for a meeting. It's about the Riverside case."

I WORK FOR the police department, not the medical examiner, so technically Ed Monti couldn't direct

me to do anything. But I'd found over the years that it behooved me to be on the ME's good side.

I was in Elaine Rubin's small office in thirty minutes. She was assistant DA for the Riverside murder case.

Ed was there, as were Claudia Gonzales—the foot cop who had been first on the crime scene—and Ron

Greave, her partner. No one was smiling.

"Thanks for rushing down here, Phil," Elaine said. She was in her mid-thirties, short-cropped black hair,

business suit, and a severe, angular face that Jack Dugan once described as a tomahawk. No nonsense,

all business.

"Sure," I said, and tried to break the tension with a friendly air. I took the one empty chair.

"We're interviewing everyone who's had anything to do with the Riverside case, Phil. Could you tell us

everything you know about it?" Elaine asked.

"Well, it's not really any more than I knew when I was called in on it—"

"That's okay. Please tell us what you know anyway. If it's okay with you, we'll record this," Elaine said.

I caught Claudia's eye for a second. She avoided my gaze. Greave was staring ahead, impassively. I

looked at Ed. He nodded encouragement.

I shrugged. "No problem." I told her what I knew about Jillian Murphy, the victim. She was a Columbia

University graduate student, going for her Ph.D. in English literature. She had been found naked,

strangled to death, in the thread of park on Riverside Drive and 103rd Street, by a couple walking their

dogs early in the morning. No sign of rape or foul play. There were rumors, so far unconfirmed, that she

had had an intense relationship with a woman, also a graduate student at Columbia, about a year ago.

The sexuality implied in her being stripped naked, combined with the lack of rape, and her rumored

relationship, had led some people in the Department to speculate that maybe this was a murder arising

out of a lesbian lovers' quarrel. "I'm sorry I haven't been able to do more on this," I concluded, "but I've

been getting increasingly concerned about something else that—"

"That's okay." Elaine waved off my explanation. "No need to apologize. What you just told us is

extremely helpful."

"There's been some inconsistency in the police reports about this case," Ed offered. "And we're just

trying to get all accounts down on tape, so Elaine can build her case—so she can have a case—when an

arrest is made—"

"I'm not being inconsistent," Claudia spoke up, agitated, aggravated. "I just don't remember!"

She suddenly had my complete attention.

"Officer Gonzales has no recollection now of first seeing the body," Elaine explained. "The couple who

discovered the body went shouting for help, running with their dogs from Riverside Drive to Broadway.

Gonzales was on her way to work, heard the commotion, and went with the couple to investigate. She

arrived on the scene alone, without her partner. Her initial report gives very specific details on the state

and position of the body—these could be crucial in our case—"

"I'm a good cop!" Claudia insisted.

Elaine looked at her.

"How the hell could I just forget a whole morning like that? I don't get it," Claudia said.

Her partner Greave reached from his seat and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "With the stress of

this job, it's not surprising," he said.

I opened my mouth to give a better explanation, but succumbed to a spasm of hacking coughs.

TWO

I dragged myself two evenings later to a lecture at Fordham University's Lincoln Center campus, a few

blocks west of bustling Columbus Circle and Central Park. I was tired, coughing, on the edge of a fever.

But the weather was kind, and this was a lecture I didn't want to miss.

Professor Robert McNair was a cognitive anthropologist. He studied the importance of thinking in the

evolution of our species. His lecture tonight was on the significance of memory in human culture.

I looked around the audience—about a hundred students and maybe a dozen faculty. I saw no sign of

Claudia. Perhaps she had forgotten that she had told me about this lecture, just this afternoon? Not likely.

Claudia, Jenna, Dugan, and the handful of others I had learned had lost a piece of their memories had no

trouble remembering from then on, once they had recovered. Still...

McNair took the stage. He was an impressive-looking man, in his late forties or early fifties, of mixed

African-American and European ancestry. Appropriately, he spoke without notes. He had no paper to

read. "I used to go through the pretense of carrying a batch of blank sheets up the podium," McNair

began, "so the audience would feel I had prepared for the lecture. I hope you'll feel I prepared for this

lecture even though it comes to you entirely from my mouth and my brain."

The audience chuckled. I sat in an aisle seat—always a good bet if you had a cough that might require a

rapid exit. To my left was a priest, who looked to be in his early thirties. I didn't take this as a portent that

I might die of the cough. Fordham was the leading Jesuit university in the United States.

"Memory makes the difference between humans and other organisms," McNair said. His voice was

smooth and deep, like oatmeal. "As far as we know, we can look further into our past than any other

species—and therefore further into our future. Most of our lives take place not in the immediate present,

but the immediate past and the immediate future—we define ourselves based on where we've been and

where we expect to be going...."

I felt a cough coming on, and struggled to suppress it. I mostly won—it came out as a stifled thunderclap

in my throat. I reached for my bottle of water, and guzzled.

"...If memory makes us human, recorded memory makes us civilized," McNair continued. "The burning

of the ancient library at Alexandria—which reputedly had a copy of every book ever written at that

time—was a greater blow to human civilization than the sacking of Rome. Fortunately, later regimes in

the Church and in Islam did what they could to preserve some of the ancient information...."

Some in the audience were taking notes. I wondered what it would feel like to lose your memory of an

evening like this, then come upon notes you had taken of this lecture. What would it feel like to read, in

your own hand, notes you had no recollection of writing? Surely if people were suffering bouts of

memory loss around the country, at least a few might have been taking notes in the affected time period?

Then again, some of the people in this audience were taking notes on their laptops. Coming upon a file

you had no recollection of writing would likely not be quite as disconcerting—it could be explained as

some kind of glitch in a download, with an incorrect date-stamp, or whatever....

"...Poetry was likely initially invented as a memory-aid," McNair was saying. "Rhymes are Velcro of the

mind. According to McLuhan, poetry became appreciated as an art form only after writing made oral

memory unnecessary—the Iliad and the Odyssey shift in their roles from textbook histories to epic

entertainment. Not everyone was happy about this in the ancient world. In the Phaedrus, Socrates

worries that the written word will cause everyone's memory to atrophy. Fortunately—or

unfortunately—for him, his pupil Plato troubled to write this wrong prediction down...."

This guy was good.

Ah, there she was! I finally caught sight of Claudia in a quarter-profile of red-brown hair, in a row near

the front and off to the side. She was seated next to a woman with a light green scarf. That would be

Amy Berman, Claudia's friend and a graduate student here. She had told Claudia about McNair....

THE THREE OF us waited for him after the lecture—Amy had taken a course with McNair at UCLA

last year. "Shall we repair to O'Neal's for suitable libation?" McNair asked after the introductions were

complete. I like the use of "repair" in that way.

"Yeah," I said, and we all repaired.

Alas, my cough seemed beyond repair this night, but I did my best to keep it in check with alternate sips

of wine and water.

"So, Amy tells me you recently had a memory loss," McNair said to Claudia.

She nodded, and gave him the details. I offered my bit.

"Yes, I can see how that sort of thing could be distressing, especially to a police officer," he said,

sympathetically. "But I never heard of a cough or a flu causing any sort of amnesia. It probably was

psychological—I don't mean to make light of it, I'm sure it was real to you—but that would be my guess,

speaking as anthropologist and not a physician, of course,"

Paul Levinson - The Consciousness Plague

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