Idolon (14 page)

"Unknown," the datacian said.

"Current location?"

"Unknown."

Van Dijk started to pace. "Log image. Cross-reference. Then compare for like images."

The nanoware had been looking for something. Not him—he had been summarily examined and dismissed.

Lisette.
If the toon was keyed to her, there was a possibility it could lead him to her. Find the damsel, and he might find the girl.

Marta nursed a tamarind-flavored agua fresca from Tacopulco, one of the all-night taco bars. A grizzled philmhead crouched in the breezeway with her. The guy rocked back and forth, knees pulled to his chest while he spat out a profanity-laced diatribe. "Can't starve a fucking hunger artist. Nipple to the bottle. That's what I'm talking about. Bite me, cock-sucker ..."

Hard to tell if the monologue belonged to him or one of the music channels he had loaded into his earbud. An hour earlier, she'd run into him as she was walking downtown from Sister Giselle's homeless shelter on Branciforte. She hadn't had a chance to talk to the nun. So she had ended up in the covered alley behind the Get Reel, the only place she could think to go for the night. In the morning, after she quit her job and things settled down, she would get in touch with the Sister.

What about the person she was supposed to contact? Would they know how to get in touch with her? Where to get in touch with her?

Her chest tightened. Sweat stung her armpits. She pulled her leather jacket tight and hugged herself, taking comfort in the added warmth of the heavy Guatemalan cotton lining.

Have faith...

She repeated the thought like a mantra, filling her head with it in an effort to force aside her doubt and fear.

The philmhead turned out to be a blessing in disguise, annoying enough to distract her from her thoughts. When he'd first showed up, she thought he might hit on her or rob her. He stared at her and the leather jacket, and licked his lips. But it turned out he was as old and tired as the music trickling over his earfeed, Christian white rap, totally out-of-date.

As if that wasn't bad enough, his pseudoself was one hackneyed edit job after another. So many faces had been spliced together, one on top of the other, that his appearance was an unrecognizable blur. Washed-out eyes, shapeless nose and lips, muddy complexion. It was obsessive-compulsive with some people. They couldn't decide who they wanted to be—or they wanted to be everybody—and ended up being no one. That was where Pelayo was headed. She could see it, even if he couldn't. That was why he was a test subject.

Of course, Pelayo would never admit it. He was in denial, and the problem would get worse until he bottomed out.

At 6:40, when the philmhead lapsed into fitful paresis, Marta made her way to the Pacific Avenue mall for a bite to eat.

Serf's Up opened at seven and served a decent tofu scramble that had a half-life of only a couple hours and wouldn't corrode the lining of her stomach— unlike the java juice the place served.

Thick fog had rolled in overnight, watering down the Marie Gabriel foliage philmed on the trees. Waiting in line at the kiosk, breathing in the sharp tang of brine, processed kelp, and deep-frying peanut oil, a wave of nausea engulfed her. She hurriedly stepped out of line and cupped both hands over her mouth, pressing her fingers against her lips to stifle an onrush of bile.

When the bout passed, she stumbled to a nearby bench, sat down, and held her head between her knees. She dry-heaved once, felt sweat break out on her scalp.

What was the matter with her? Was she really that uptight? Her stomach had been upset for days and she'd been feeling more and more bloated.

Marta forced slow, deep breaths. By the time she felt better, an hour had passed. It was almost eight. Time to head back to the Get Reel.

_______

"What's this?" Jhon said. He narrowed sleep-addled eyes at her. "You saying you want to quit?"

"Yes. Effective immediately."

He massaged the back of his hairy neck. His morning espresso hadn't yet kicked in. "Why?"

"Family emergency."

"Christ." He let out a sour breath that sent her stomach cartwheeling. "Okay, then. Watch the counter for a few minutes. I'll be right back."

Before she could protest, he lumbered back to his office. There was no reason to watch the counter. The store didn't open for business until ten. But he didn't appear to be thinking too clearly. She usually came in at nine, to get things set up. By then he was his normal pain-in-the-ass self.

Jhon poked his head around the dividing screen. "I need your help. Can you come back here for a second?"

"Help with what?"

But he'd already disappeared. Typical. It was just like him. She wouldn't get paid until he got as much out of her as he could. If he had his way, she would be lucky to leave before the doors were unlocked.

As she rounded the partition, and made her way through the splice room to Jhon's office, she heard music... and caught a whiff of something rancid.

The philmhead from the breezeway. He sat in a chair at Jhon's desk and smiled at her as she entered. Not in the stoned way he had earlier. His eyes were clear and sharp.

Marta stopped, pulled up short by the expression. "What the hell's going on?" she asked. Something wasn't right.

"I know what you've been doing," Jhon said.

She kept her face carefully blank. No reaction at all.

"Helping illegal immigrants," he said. "Giving them black-market ware so they can avoid domestic security."

She forced her voice to remain low, tightly controlled. If she got all ballistic, it was all over. "That's crazy."

"You've been using the store," Jhon said. "Using me. Putting me and everything I worked for in danger."

The philmhead must be with Immigration, working undercover. That was what he'd been doing last night. Watching the store. Her.

"That girl yesterday," Jhon went on. "She wasn't the first. But I can promise you she's the last."

Marta tilted her chin at the undercover agent watching from the chair. "That what he told you?"

The philmhead chuckled. "I'm not with the government. If that's what you think." The rhythm of his speech was slightly off, as if he was waring a voicefeed.

"But that can be arranged," Jhon said. "If you decide not to cooperate. In fact, I guarantee it."

Cooperate with what? "What are you talking about?"

"You'll be reported to Immigration," Jhon said. "Your family, too. I'm willing to bet you're not the only one giving sanctuary to illegals."

The light in the room appeared to flicker. Marta touched a finger to her forehead. This wasn't happening. Not now, it couldn't be. She should never have come here after last night. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The philmhead stood. "You're not feeling well," he said. "That's to be expected." He walked over to her and caught her by the elbow. "Sit down."

Marta pinched her brow. To be expected. What was he saying? She let herself be guided to the seat.

"Who are you?" she asked, without her earlier hardness.

"We have an arrangement," the philmhead said. "Your boss and I."

"Which is...?"

The philmhead sat on the front edge of Jhon's desk. "He finds people for me. People in need of a spiritual compass. People looking to change the direction of their life."

"It's not just me," Jhon said quickly, defensively. "They got other people recruiting for them."

Them? Recruiting?
The words reverb'd in her head like a struck bell.

"There are others," the philmhead admitted. He spread his hands, palms up. "But that's not the issue here."

Marta turned toward Jhon. "You get paid by this guy?" Her eyes flashed. "To do what?"

Jhon shrugged. "Look. Most of the people who come in here are losers. They're never gonna amount to shit. Even they know it. That's why they get philmed, so they can be someone. I'm not selling 'em something they don't already know. I'm just giving 'em what they want."

"No. You're selling them out. The same way you're selling me out."

"You screwed yourself. Don't blame me."

Marta shook her head in disgust. "You're pathetic."

His face reddened. "How stupid do you think I am, not to figure out what you were doing? You're the fuckup here, not me."

He was baiting her, his pride injured, pissed off about being used and trying to get a rise out of her. She cut a quick glance at the other man, whoever he was. He seemed lost in his own thoughts, oblivious to their bickering.

"How long did you think you could get away with it?" Jhon asked. "That's what I want to know."

Marta pressed her lips tight, unwilling to give him the satisfaction. She turned back to the philmhead. "If you're not with the government, who are you with?"

He blinked once, and the unrecognizable Rorschach blotch of features disintegrated into pointillist noise.

"You're a TV?" she said.

The philmhead smiled. His eyes twinkled with static. "It's not as bad as it looks."

It was hard to focus on him. There was nothing for her gaze to hold on to. It was as if he'd scraped the surface off reality to expose an undercoat of raw pixels. "What do you want?"

"To help you."

Marta bristled. "I don't need your help."

"I'm not so sure."

"Think about it," Jhon said, bending close. His breath tickled her. "Your family. Friends. Loved ones..." He let the implication hang in the air— allowed the unspoken threat to rattle around in her head.

"Fuck you!" She spat at Jhon. He stumbled back, his hands flailing wildly as he tried to avoid the saliva. She turned on the TV. "Is this how you get your converts?"

The TV shook his head. "Your situation is different. You have something of ours. Something that's very important to us."

"How could I have something of yours?"

"The child you're carrying," he said. "That's the reason you haven't been feeling well."

Her hand darted involuntarily to her unsettled stomach. How long since her last period? Three months? Four? She couldn't remember—couldn't think. Sure, she was late. But she'd always been irregular. Too skinny, according to Nguyet's divinations. Too stressed.

"That's not possible." She was just late. No way she was pregnant. "I can't be."

"It is," the TV said. "And you are."

"I don't believe you." It could be anything. Lots of stuff could make her throw up, cause her period to be late.

"Have you been to a doctor?" A pause. "I didn't think so. If you want, I will pay for an examination."

He sounded so sure, so confident. "How...?" Marta stopped, derailed by a sudden thought.

"How do I know? Or how is it possible?"

Marta bit her lower lip, worrying it until she felt a sharp stab of pain. "What do you mean the child is 'yours'?"

"I'm afraid I can't answer that now."

She tasted blood, ran the tip of her tongue across the ragged cut. "I want to know what you've done to me."

"You will. Trust me. Now is not the time."
Have faith.
Was this what it had meant; that she was supposed to become a TV?

"Well?" the TV said.

She nodded, to herself mostly, and caught a flash of Jhon grinning in triumph. She followed his gaze to her hands.

They were trembling uncontrollably in her lap.

An early-morning call from Uri dragged Pelayo out of a heavy sleep. He blinked a few times to clear the gunk from his eye-feed.

"I need you at the lab," the skintech said. His expression betrayed nothing.

"When?" Pelayo sat on the edge of the bed. He ran a hand over his face and scalp, trying to massage himself fully awake as Atossa joined him.

"As soon as possible."

In other words, now. "What's the rush?"

"I'll let you know when you get here," Uri said.

The skintech's image vanished, leaving him staring at the albumin-gray wall across the room.

"Bad news?" Tossa said.

"The lab wants to see me."

"What time is it?" she asked.

Pelayo checked the Hamilton on his left wrist: 6:42.

Atossa groaned as he eased from the bed and wandered into the bathroom to check himself in the mirror.

The blemish had vanished. So maybe it
had
been a glitch on IBT's end and a remote update during the night had fixed it. That could be what Uri wanted to see him about. Or maybe the skintech had found out about his contact with Lagrante.

Panic fluttered in him. His head ached. He leaned on the sink, gripping it tightly as he stared into the faux marble bowl.

What was wrong with him?

After several minutes the pressure subsided. He splashed cool water on his face and willed himself to relax. There was no need to mention the blemish. If Uri asked about it, no problem. It was just a temporary glitch. No big deal. If he asked about Lagrante...

Atossa appeared in the mirror next to him. "You all right?" She wrapped her arms around him froim behind, pressing her breasts against his bare back.

“Yeah."

"You want me to go with you?"

Pelayo shook his head. If there was a problem, he didn't want Uri to think she was involved. "I'll be fine."

Her hand slid down and he felt himself stiffen in her fingers.

"I can't," he said.

"I know." She relinquished her grip. "Just wishful thinking."

"Don't."

"You can't keep doing this forever. Sooner or later you're going to have to give it up."

They'd been through this before. "We'll talk about it later."

"That's what you always say. One of these days, there might not be a later."

Whatever
that
meant. He took a cold shower, then reached for the winder on the side of the Hamilton to rephilm himself. Before he could toggle it, the selection menu appeared. Apparently, the new 'skin had autosynchronized with his extant brain-computer interface. He didn't need to physically press the crown anymore, just thinking about doing it was enough to activate his BCI.

Was the philm becoming a part of him? he wondered. Or was he becoming part of it?

"Call me," Atossa said on his way out the door. "Right away. I want to know how it goes."

_______

"How do you feel?" Uri asked.

Pelayo squinted at the skintech under the scathing lab lights, searching for the fine print. "Great," he said.

"Any problems?"

"No. So far, so good."

Uri clicked his teeth, then bent over a stainless steel tray. When he straightened, he held an old-style syringe.

Pelayo eyed the needle and the cloudy white solution the hypodermic held. In the past, updates to the 'skin had been made electronically.

Uri smiled at his unease. "I need to tweak the wetronics in the 'skin to support an add-on."

"What kind of add-on?"

Uri slipped the protective cap from the needle. "Circuitry to improve synthapse performance. For various reasons, we weren't able to include it in the preliminary build." He held up the syringe, tapped it a couple of times, then squirted a tiny stream of the milk-white fluid. "It's mostly backend, so you won't notice much change."

Uri took his right hand, located a vein on the top, and inserted the needle. There was a brief sting as the needle disturbed a couple of million nanosocket links connecting the 'skin to his nervous system, then nothing. A minute dot of blood welled up when Uri withdrew the needle.

"That wasn't so bad now, was it?" Uri had a way of condescending that got under his skin worse than the needle.

"Didn't feel a thing."

Uri replaced the empty syringe on the tray. "That it?" Pelayo said.

Uri nodded absently, already concentrating on the next bullet item on his to-do list. "You're good to go."

_______

As soon as Pelayo stepped out of the IBT building, his thoughts turned to Lagrante. Should he contact him? Bring him up to speed on the upgrade? See if maybe he'd heard back from his contacts about ripping the 'skin?

No, Pelayo decided. Let Lagrante sweat for a change, worry that he might decide to take his business elsewhere and let another rip artist have a crack at the 'skin.

He scanned the ad masks circulating up and down Pacific Avenue, looking for one that might be Atossa. She hated his job as a test subject. From the beginning, she'd tried to talk him out of it. Too dangerous, she said. She didn't want to see him get hurt, didn't want to lose him. She'd toned it down. But every so often, like this morning, she tried to scare him.

One of these days, there might not be a later.

None of the ad masks approached him. Just as well, he wasn't ready to get into it with her. Not yet. Most of the masks were descending on a smob half a block down on Pacific, drawn like vultures to fresh meat.

Pelayo drifted toward the smart mob, caught in the magnetic attraction of consensual curiosity. The attention of the crowd seemed focused on the sidewalk rather than the storefront window displays. Probably some street musician or novelty act had captured the spontaneous interest of passersby and triggered the mass convergence for a particular cast.

"What's going on?" he asked a Goth-philmed yamp. Instead of a full 'skin job, she was waring an ensemble of paste-on cinFX patches and grafts: charcoal eye shadow, white-complected nanoFX paint, mortician-black hair and fingernails.

"Performance art," came the terminally bored response.

The Edward Gorey Gashlycrumb Tiny next to her smirked, hemorrhaging sarcasm. "How can you tell?"

The Goth shrugged, then pressed her black applique lips more firmly into place. The paste-on lips had started to peel at one corner, exposing a moist, glistening welt of synthapse collagen and flesh. The cinFX patch seemed irritated or infected. She prodded the sore with the tip of an equally inflamed and disdainful tongue.

A gap opened in the smob and Pelayo caught a glimpse of a pudgy guy squirming on the sidewalk. His feet kicked and legs thrashed, wracked by convulsions, as he fought to pull a Chinamation popera mask from his face.

A shabby street musician, dressed in Confederate gray, hacked a wad of phlegm onto the ground in front of Pelayo, barely missing the soft patent leather of his shoes. "I guess some ads just can't take no for an answer."

"Buy or die," a woman joked with forced hilarity.

"No, man. That shit started before the mask. He collapsed and all, then the mask jumped his ass."

"Talk about taking advantage," someone else said.

A snicker rippled through the smob.

"Anybody know what store it's from?"

A distant siren warbled. Then the smart mob surged back in a collective muscular contraction.

"Look out! There it goes!"

"Quick! Grab it!"

Slowly, lazily, the popera mask drifted above the smob, face turned to the sky as it ascended, growing smaller and smaller until it slipped from view.

A call, flagged urgent, bleated frantically over his earfeed. But it wasn't Lagrante or Atossa.

Pelayo frowned. "Nguyet?"

"I need your help," his aunt said. "It's an emergency."