Love Minus Eighty (26 page)

He opened his eyes and continued toward the micro-T station. He’d try to let it go now. Who wouldn’t develop a crush on Winter after spending time with her? Besides Nathan, of course. It wasn’t helpful to fan those flames, though. Just let it go.

He wondered what Winter would say if he told her he was struggling with romantic feelings for her. She’d asked if he would keep visiting, and when he said he would, she’d said, “Then I’m not afraid.” Was she trying to tell him something?

Rob chuckled to himself. Yes, that she was scared, and it helped to know that someone with a familiar face would be back.

When he got home, he went to his room and played a recording of Winter from Nathan’s files. He watched Winter drink toasted-almond coffee. The sight of her, life-size, only a few feet away, made his stomach feel like he was in free fall.

He ran clips of her all night as he slept.

Veronika stepped aside as bots passed in the hallway, transporting crates that had been delivered via tube to Lycan’s new digs. She was in high spirits. She had helped save a life, even if the life she’d helped save was someone who was not currently alive.

Lycan was pacing around his new apartment, directing bots where to put things. When he saw Veronika, he grinned, rushed over to greet her.

“So, what do you think?” He raised an arm toward the heights of the condo. It was an impressive space—opulent, and very modern. It was vertically oriented to the extreme, the ground floor maybe twenty feet square, but the highest point of the ceiling a dizzying hundred or more feet above. Rooms were perched at varying heights above, some walled off, others open platforms.

“It’s really something,” Veronika said. “I didn’t realize you were in this sort of income bracket.” She tried to banish
thoughts of the lousy three grand Lycan had contributed to help Rob. His self-separating recycling system probably cost more than three thousand.

Lycan tried not to beam, but failed. “It’s just recently that I could afford something like this. The project I’ve been working on at Wooster is gaining traction, and I’m part owner in Wooster.”

“What is the project again?” He’d told her, but Veronika had only half listened (actually, she had probably one-eighth listened). Now she was curious again.

“I’m spoiling the surprise, but okay, that’s where I’m taking you—to see my project.”

Veronika tried to look enthused. They were going to Lycan’s office to see his work. Yay. “Great.”

They took a micro-T that ran right through the Wooster Physionica Building. Moving through the polished lobby, then down a dizzying open-air walk to his lab, Lycan’s step took on the strut of a guy in his element.

“This way.” He led her into a room with a glass wall that looked onto a series of enclosed spaces, where seated people were wearing systems connected to what looked like a network of vines that twisted and stretched haphazardly, clumping into knobby growths where three or more vines connected. Except that the growths weren’t vegetal, but rather slick, silvery-gray.

“What are those viney things? Are they organic?” Veronika asked.

“No,” Lycan said. “It’s an artificial neural network.”

That’s exactly what it looked like, she realized—big, interconnected neurons. Veronika considered the implications for
a moment. “Are you trying to construct an artificial intelligence?”

“No, nothing that ambitious,” he chuckled. “That’s why I like you—you’re smart enough to make that sort of leap. We’re developing a means of directly communicating emotional experiences between people through their systems.”

Veronika looked at Lycan, back at the network. “As in, taking what someone is feeling and letting someone else feel it?”

“The exact chemical signature.” He pointed at a young woman with wild hair whose eyes were closed. “She’s recalling some event that made her feel sad, or scared, or happy, and the actual feelings are interpreted as electronic impulses, transferred to another test participant and converted back into neural impulses.”

Veronika peered at the woman behind the glass, trying to fathom the idea of feeling exactly what she was feeling. Or vice versa.

“This is the future,” Lycan said. “Connecting people to each other
directly
. At this point we can’t improve any further on the speed of information transfer, but there’s lots of room to improve the
quality
of the information we transfer.”

Veronika studied the shiny silver neurons disappearing into the wall. “Do you have to be connected to the neural network for it to work?”

“No, we can do it wirelessly. It’s just simpler this way.”

The actual chemical signature of the emotions. Which meant that a piece of the person would be transferred to someone else. “Perfect empathy.”

Lycan nodded eagerly. “Exactly. You see the implications without me needing to spoon-feed you. I thought you would.”

Lycan seemed the most unlikely person to be working on a project like this. He was not adept at reading other people, and his own emotions seemed rather repressed. Of course, Veronika was a dating coach. Maybe some people were drawn to understand their own greatest weakness.

“Who’s ‘we’?” she asked. “Are you working with a team?”

“No, ‘we’ is me, and my assistant. Emily. She’s a graduate student. Plus some undergraduate volunteers.”

Veronika put her hands on her hips, took another look at the network, seeing it in an entirely different light. “This is entirely your work?”

Lycan looked at the people working behind the glass, his expression that of a proud father looking through the glass at his newborn son. “More or less.”

She shook her head slowly. “Now I understand why they footed the bill to have you revived. You’re fucking brilliant. I mean, one in ten million. Aren’t you?” When Lycan didn’t answer, she looked up at him, asked, “What is your IQ?”

Lycan look both embarrassed and pleased by her attention. “It’s high.”

Veronika thought back to her first meeting with Lycan, watching him climb over the railing of Lemieux Bridge, her spastic attempt to talk him out of it. She’d been watching one of the great modern minds. He could win a Nobel Prize.

“You know, when you said we were going to see your work, I have to admit, I wasn’t thrilled. I figured it would be dull. I was wrong.” She suddenly saw Lycan in an entirely new light as well. His awkwardness wasn’t run-of-the-mill awkwardness, it was the eccentricity of genius.

“Tell me more,” she said. “I want to understand how this works.”

Rob woke from a dream, crying. For a moment he couldn’t remember the dream, only that he’d been holding something, and had felt elated. Then whatever he’d been holding had vanished. He wanted to remember what he’d been holding, wanted to relive that elation.

Then he remembered. He’d been holding Winter. In the dream she’d been alive. They were lying on a couch, their fingers intertwined, and he could smell her hair, feel her chest rising and falling. In the dream Winter had inhaled deeply, relishing it. She said it felt wonderful to breathe, that she would never take another breath for granted as long as she lived.

Rob pressed his face into his pillow, overwhelmed by the emotions coursing through him. He had to see Winter again. Now. Today. He reached for his handheld, checked his account balance.

His guardian angel hadn’t visited. He set the handheld down. If he had to raise the money on his own, it would be months before he could see her again. Unless Red came through.

“I’m not hearing this,” Peytr said, his sailboat, tethered to the dock, bobbing behind him, the sun setting orange on the water.

Veronika struggled to come up with a reply. She studied Peytr, his virtual face perfect, his eyes in deep shadow. Sighing, she stood, pulled her sensory gloves off.

“End session.”

Peytr disappeared, along with the sailboat, the sea, the sunset. She just couldn’t get into it; it felt so fake. So pointless. Maybe she was finally outgrowing interactives. It made her a little wistful to think she might be leaving them behind, the way it had made her wistful when she realized she was too old for Teddy Boynkin when she turned twelve, and packed him up in a box and pushed him through the storage chute.

Lorelei pinged her; Veronika dropped the block she’d placed, and Lorelei materialized on screen.

“Tell me you’re free, like right now?” Lorelei said.

Veronika wanted to tell her there was a protocol for making appointments, that Lorelei was free to pull up her schedule and set up a session, but sparring with Lorelei was too exhausting. “If you’re willing to pay my special no-advance-notice-whatsoever rate, I’m free, like right now.”

Lorelei shook her head briskly. “Whatever. I really need you. I’m taking Nathan to visit my dying-again grandfather. I hate my dying-again grandfather, but it’s compelling stuff. ‘Do not go gently into that good night,’ and all that.”

“Mm-hm. Got it,” Veronika said. “So it’s not a face-to-face per se?” She wanted to ask Lorelei why she wasn’t using her regular coach, but thought she knew: it was dawning on Lorelei that Veronika was better than her regular coach. Or, maybe her coach had suggested it, recognizing that Veronika was good at keeping eyes on Lorelei. Come to think of it, maybe Lorelei invited Nathan along just so she could legitimately ask Veronika to coach her. Things were getting wonderfully complex; Veronika loved it, loved the challenge.

“Not per se, no. Talk to you in half an hour?” Lorelei’s screen was gone before Veronika could reply.

While ordering a pastrami sandwich so she wouldn’t starve during the session, she had an attack of guilt. She closed her eyes, took a deep, sighing breath. “What am I doing?” Lorelei was using her, and she was using Lorelei. Eventually Nathan was going to find out Veronika was coaching Lorelei, and Veronika hoped Nathan might look at her in a different light when he found out. Plus, it was just so addicting to be pulling the strings.

Lorelei pinged her, and Veronika opened a cloaked screen onto Kilo Van Kampen’s deathbed. Not that it was a bed; it was more a tank of goo.

Sunali was sitting beside the tank. Lorelei and Nathan hung back at a respectful distance. Nathan seemed incredibly uncomfortable, his expression a wide-eyed “What the hell am I doing here?” that seemed apropos, given that he was witnessing the intimate death of someone he’d never met. If she wasn’t hiding, Veronika could have explained to Nathan what he was doing there. Lorelei’s audience was blocked from opening screens in the revival center, and taping was prohibited as well, so once outside, Lorelei had to have someone to talk to about whatever drama transpired inside.

He’s died three times in the past month
, Lorelei subvocalized to her, snapping her out of her reverie.
Evidently he’s going for some kind of record.

Sunali glanced back at Lorelei and Nathan. She stood, told Kilo she’d be right back, and joined them by the door.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude,” she said in a low voice, directing her words at Nathan, “but this is a private matter. I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to be here, whoever you are.”

Nathan nodded rapidly, whispered, “I’m sorry, you’re right.” He took a step back, toward the door, his hand still entwined with Lorelei’s.

“Hold on,” Lorelei said, drawing Nathan back. “I asked him to come. We made plans to spend the day together, and then Grandpa started dying again.”

Sunali and Lorelei stared each other down as Nathan squirmed.

Finally, Sunali sighed heavily. “Just stay back here, and don’t talk,” she said to Nathan, then wheeled and returned to Kilo.

Veronika had no idea what help she could possibly be in this situation. Family dynamics were definitely not her thing.
Although she was back to exchanging awkward, carefully worded texts with Jilly a few times a week, her own family was anything but tight. But the dollars were adding up as the timer ran, and she was curious to see what happened, so she kept quiet and watched.

Lorelei squeezed Nathan’s hand, then let it go and went to join her stepmother.

“Hello, Grandpa,” she said in a sugary child voice.

“Go to hell,” Grandpa managed. He was straining to breathe, fluid rattling in his lungs. He looked at Sunali. “What are
you
smiling at?”

Sunali shook her head sadly. “Oh, I don’t know. Just enjoying a warm family moment.”

Kilo’s eyes rolled up until the pupils were almost out of sight. “You were a terrible mother,” he muttered. “Terrible.”

“I was a terrible mother. I agree.” Sunali folded her arms. “Terrible.”

Oh, what the hell. Veronika couldn’t resist.
Jump in
, she sent to Lorelei.
Point out that Sunali is here for him now, that has to count for something.

I’m not saying
that
!
Lorelei shot back.

Fine, just play out the same old patterns. Remind me why I’m here again?

“You know, she’s here now. That should count for something.” Lorelei gave it a harsh, accusatory edge.

Kilo blinked, trying to clear his vision. He stared up at Lorelei as if trying to place her. “She’s a vulture waiting for me to die, so she can spend my money.”

“Oh, is that it? Don’t you remember? You showed me your will,” Sunali said.

For a moment Kilo looked terribly confused, as if he didn’t understand what she meant. Then he nodded.

Ask her why she
is
here, then
, Veronika sent. That would give Sunali a chance to express some kindness.

“Then why
are
you here?” Lorelei asked, making it sound like an accusation.

Sunali studied her. “Honestly, I have no idea.”

Veronika threw her hands in the air. These people were hopeless. It reminded her so much of her own family.
Tell your grandfather you love him
, she sent. What the hell. Let Lorelei try to put an acid tone on that one.

What? No. Fucking. Way.

Veronika let out a frustrated growl.
You want drama? You want to be a star with a million followers? Step out of your comfort zone of petty grievances and snarky comebacks and say something truly surprising. I guarantee you, Nathan will make sure your viewers know what happened as soon as you get outside.