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My role at T&S was fairly simple: to respond to content flagged by our users that violated our terms of service. Olfanautics was the global pioneer in scented social media. Our whyff product allowed users to send scents to people around the world. It was originally a stand-alone device that utilized four fundamental scents—woody, pungent, sweet, and decayed—and combined them proportionately in a spray to mimic real scents, but few people could afford to buy it. As the technology grew better, and tinier, Olfanautics became a standard feature of smartphones that could also record video and audio. Many users would whyff frequently at first and then save it for special occasions, like showing off a fresh-baked pie during the holidays, or sharing a vacation by the beach. Some users would turn off the feature when they wanted more privacy but most preferred to have the ability to whyff, if they might need it, than not to have it. Then there were people like me who whyffed incessantly, who became so enthralled by the unlimited palate of experience that we sought out its very source.

My main job was to monitor the whyffs that users considered suspicious or objectionable. I did so through my Trunk, a tube that looked like the oxygen mask of a fighter jet pilot. Between each whyff, the Trunk would inject a neutral scent to cleanse my palate. You see, scent is determined more by your tongue than your nose—think of how hard it is to taste anything when you have a bad cold—and all of us on my team had a significantly higher number of papillae on our tongues than your average user. In another era, we might have been perfumers selling bottles of lavender along the cobblestone of Grasse. Today we were the Olfanauts. We transported our users safely and peacefully to exciting realms of discovery. So went our tagline.

I loved our tagline.

The video-safety team would pull down the usual garbage: sexual content, violence, self-mutilation, and child pornography. But sometimes people would inject a whyff into an otherwise normal video. A video of a birthday cake might stink like feces, or a trickling stream might reek of decomposition. Usually these were hatchet jobs that were crudely added to the video, and our software would automatically flag the whyffs because of their metadata. Occasionally we'd come across a whyff of skilled artistry, when the scent would waft through the Trunk like a sublime wind. Like the girl with the knife.

When I couldn't decide on a case by myself, I could present it to my supervisor, Aubrey, and then she had the option of sending it up to the Deciders—members of the legal and marketing teams back in Denmark. Only Aubrey had ever met them, although we had all been flown to Copenhagen for orientation when we were hired. (That was a legendary trip, hey.)

Rocky was waiting for me at the gym when I arrived. He was a grizzly, colored South African with a bursting Afro and wind-seared skin. He claimed to have broken thirty-two bones, fifteen of which he had shattered on the same fall in the Dolomites back when he was a competitive climber. He wore glasses with thick black plastic rims that he had owned for so long that they had twice gone into, and out of, fashion while they were still on his nose. He'd switched from rock climbing to bouldering after he had gnarled his right leg, and I had seen videos of him skittering under impossible slabs of granite like a dassie.

I began strapping on my harness.

“Wait, wait, bru,” Rocky said. “Let's hit the fingerboard first.”

“Quantiband doesn't say I need to get on the fingerboard until next week. I'm supposed to climb.”

“That thing doesn't know how to climb.”

“It knows how to measure my progress. That's what it's supposed to do.”

Rocky sighed. “All right, big man. Think you know what you're doing? Give this route a try, then.” He hooked me into his carabiner and illuminated a green climbing path for me to follow on the wall.

I gleefully dipped my hands in my powder bag. I love the smell of the powder as I grab the first holds. It smells like freedom, hey, as if I am climbing toward my dreams. Before long I had pulled myself about thirty feet off the ground. Then I got to a problem that I couldn't navigate. There was a nasty slither of a hold that I thought I could crimp, and as I dug my fingers in, my hand stiffened from fatigue and my feet slid out from under me. I tried to dyno my hip onto the hold but it was too late. And I was falling rapidly toward the mats below.

My head snapped forward so hard that my nose bashed into my kneecap.

“Got ya!” Rocky said. He gradually lowered me to the ground.

I clutched at my nose as he unclipped my harness. I could feel numbness spreading along my eye socket.

“You all right there, bru?”

“No, I'm not all right! Why the fuck didn't you catch me earlier, Rocky?”

Rocky recoiled: “Why the fuck did you fall?”

“I couldn't crimp it. The route was too hard.”

“Here, let me look at your nose. Come on, move your hand out of the way.” I let go, and the blood rushed in painfully. “It's all right, bru. You're not bleeding. It was a light knock.”

“Bloody hell.” I was relieved but I could feel my nostrils filling with something. Mucus? Blood? The air was already starting to feel stale. It was as if the smells were slipping past me, as if the room were coated in a skin of mud.

“You weren't prepared for it, bru,” he went on, tapping his temple with his finger. “It was a simple problem. It wasn't your finger strength but your mind that failed you.”

I didn't like Rocky's tone. I paid him to help me fulfill my Passion, not to cause me more problems. I was in line for a promotion soon. “How am I supposed to go to work tomorrow if I can't even smell your stinking breath? You made a mistake, Rocky. Just admit it.”

“That's kak. I'm not the one who fell.”

I began tapping away on my Quantiband. “Says here that I shouldn't have been doing this route for three weeks. This wasn't part of the program. I could report you for this.”

Now I had his attention. “Calm down there, bru. There's no need to report it.”

At Olfanautics, the numbers didn't lie. The Quantiband would have measured the speed of my fall in meters per second as well as my rise in pulse. If I could show, objectively, that someone had put my work at risk then he would be dismissed immediately. The same went for all of us.

“Why shouldn't I report you?”

“Because then you wouldn't get any better at climbing. I wanted to challenge you, bru. You can't control everything when you're out there. That's part of climbing.”

“But it's not part of the program. The program says I get better in three weeks. That's the whole point. If you want to challenge me then put it in the program.”

“Come on, let's forget it, Renton. You're right. My mistake, bru. I put in the wrong route.” He tapped on the wall and illuminated a yellow route, one that I had already successfully completed twice before. “This is what the program wanted, right?”

He grabbed for the carabiner on my harness, but I pushed his hand away. “No, I need to get some ice for my nose.”

“Come on, bru. Your nose is fine. You took a small knock, is all. Let's hook you in. Yellow's still a bastard of a route. You haven't even free-climbed it yet.”

It was so easy to screenshot my Quantiband, and even easier to send it to security. I looked at him blankly as if I didn't understand, buying time. He began pleading with me to hook me in, insistently, pathetically even.

“What are you waiting for, Renton? It was a simple mistake. Let me hook you in!”

“No, it's too late.”

Olfanautics allowed only the perimeter security to carry guns. So the ones who arrived wielded batons, but the effect was still intimidating enough to prevent Rocky from putting up any sort of struggle.

“You think the Orabeskopf Wall gives a shit about that thing on your wrist, bru?” he shouted back. “You think that thing is going to save you when you're on the wall and a vulture starts pecking at your fingers? That's what happened to me! I was like Prometheus, getting my liver pecked out by an eagle, bru. I didn't have one of those kak wristbands. I let it eat my own hand and then I climbed up that wall! The Orabeskopf says fuck-all to your wrist! That wind will tear you off that route and splatter your brains in the sand!”

But I'd heard that story about the vulture many times before, and it didn't scare me anymore. My Quantiband told me that there was a one in ten million chance of it ever happening to me. I had whyffed some terrible things during my time at Olfanautics—ritual dismemberment by a militia in Bukavu with a volcano looming in the background, a woman being raped on a frozen canal in Ottawa, and once, a manhole cover in Nagoya crushing an old nun on the sidewalk after it was ejected by a blast of gas. If Rocky had whyffed these things, too, he might have left with a little more dignity. The world was not a fair place, and I was the one who helped people forget that fact. As soon as he had left, I put in an order for a new fitness instructor.

E
XCEPT FOR THE
death of the nun in Nagoya, which crept into my dreams and made me sad in a way that I don't think I'll ever understand (the ferocious spin of the manhole cover, the febrile skull), I had learned to forget the horrific smells that permeated my Trunk. I had trained for months at Olfanautics to expunge them from my mind, and the regimen had worked for the most part. You have to let things go, you see.

But I hadn't finished my climbing routine, so I felt edgy when I took the shuttle back to the Olfanautics housing complex, and my nose hurt like hell. The pain from my fall had spread from the base of my skull to my shoulders, and seemed to be wrapping itself around my chest.

My apartment had two bedrooms, a small balcony, and one and a half bathrooms. Behind it was a tolerable view of a tennis court surrounded by electrified razor wire. My unit was subsidized so it was still cheaper than living in the city, and I was permitted to invite guests, usually my parents, to stay with me for six days per month.

Aubrey was sipping on a beer at the living room table when I opened the door.

“What happened to your face?”

“Took a fall at the gym.”

“What about those bandages?”

“It's to keep my nostrils open. Doctor said there might be some temporary blockage.” When she didn't say anything, I added: “I should still be able to put in my shift tomorrow.”

“I'm not worried about that anymore.”

Her face was as distraught as when we'd met in the cafeteria. If she'd been wearing her Quantiband, it would have been twisted tight around her wrist like a tourniquet. But she still didn't have it on. Maybe it was that sense of freedom that made her come over to me. Because the next thing I knew, she began opening the buttons of my shirt. I didn't stop her. Aubrey was the most beautiful woman I had ever met. Her natural odor was enough to turn my head, and she layered on essential oils so that she was a fragrant mosaic, a true artiste who could compose entire olfascapes of inspired brilliance. I had never been able to resist her. On our first secret date, she had guessed what cologne I would wear and applied an extract of argane nuts on her skin, so that when we touched we smelled like buttered popcorn. I found other women repulsive by comparison, as if they had showered themselves in crude perfume.

But as she slowly peeled off my shirt, my bashed-in nose seemed to be obscuring everything. “I can't smell you.”

“Then feel me.”

In the Private Review rooms, Aubrey and I would sniff each other more than we licked or kissed, and this took time. When we were really horny, we'd inhale each other's most private scents—our groins, armpits, and anuses—like animals in the throes of estrus. But with my swollen nose I felt clumsy, as if I were watching myself make love from a distance, and my fingertips couldn't make up for the lack of sensation. Aubrey, on the other hand, enjoyed every second of it. She lingered over my bandages and wrapped herself around me. Then she dug her hips into mine until she came. Even with her breasts flopping against my face and her full buttocks in my hands I couldn't stay aroused without my sense of smell, and we both gave up trying.

As we lay on my bed, Aubrey announced: “This isn't working.” She always said depressing things after sex.

“It's my fault. I couldn't get into it.”

“No, Renton. I mean us. I'm your boss. We can't do this anymore.”

I turned to face her, suddenly concerned. “What do you mean?”

“The Deciders know.”

“You told them?”

“No, the Private Review rooms are all monitored. They've known for some time and they confronted me about it.”

I tried to remember everything we might have done or said to each other. She normally made me take off my Quantiband in the Private Review rooms.

“Did they whyff it, too?”

“I don't think so—at least, I wouldn't see the point of that. They tracked our bands to see how often we were meeting. I clearly violated my terms of reference. I'm your boss and it should never have happened. I've got to go see them tomorrow.”

“They're flying you to Copenhagen?”

“Yeah.”

“That's a good sign, right? They wouldn't fly you up there if they wanted to fire you.”

She considered this. “I suppose so.”

“Why did you come here tonight, Aubs?”

“I wanted to do it one last time.”

I rose from the bed to look out the window. Beyond the tennis court were rows upon rows of sagging acacia trees that the Danish architect had planted all around the campus, but the soil was too damp for the trees and their roots were slowly drowning. I had never liked them. Their pollen gave me sneezing fits. If I had my way, I'd have them all cut down. “How can you say it's the last time? How is that fair? Shouldn't I also know when it's the last time? You can't break it off and say it's the last time without telling me!”