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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
Copyright й 2002 by Paul Levinson
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
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.