Idolon (20 page)

"I
can't go through with this," Nadice said. She paced in front of her reflection in the window. Below the hotel, under late-afternoon clouds, yellow LED lights on the pier marched out to sea and an advancing fogbank.

"You have to," Marta said.

"Why?"

"What choice do you have?"

Nadice swallowed. Her cheeks flushed, blazing with anger and determination.

Marta's gaze hardened. "What are you going to do?"

Nadice stripped off her yellow dress and, tipping her chin up, knotted the flimsy cloth thin and tight around her neck.

Marta shook her head. "It will never work. They'll stop you. Whatever you do, it will only make things worse."

Nadice stared at Marta, defiant, her breasts rising and falling between the trailing ends of the dress, the pulse on the side of her neck panting against the twisted makeshift noose.

Marta's pulse throbbed in her chest. Sweat trickled between her breasts. After a moment she stepped forward and coaxed open Nadice's clenched fingers, clasping them in her own so she could loosen the knot.

_______

"You really want to die?" Marta asked, watching the shadows of the day lengthen into late afternoon. "What do you think?"

"Everybody wonders what it would be like to kill themselves."

They lay facing each other on the bed closest to the window, whispering softly so they might not be heard. Each time Marta spoke, the centimeters between them stretched to kilometers and the air felt bruised and pulpy.

"The job you quit," Marta said. "Was it really that terrible? There was no way to make it work?"

"The man I was working for threatened me," Nadice said. "He already tried to kill me once."

"I can't go back either," Marta said.

"Why? Does someone want to kill you?" Nadice spoke lightly, joking to ease the tension.

"I made a deal with someone," Marta said. "A promise. If I don't keep it, I'll die, too."

Nadice narrowed her eyes to luminous white slits. "You're serious."

"Dead," Marta said.

_______

Marta lay perfectly still, listening to their breathing. After a time, their inhalations and exhalations synchronized, becoming one breath.

"I overheard one of the girls talking right after the service," Nadice said when the sky had gone black. Bubonic. "One they brought in just this afternoon."

"And?"

"She said it's all over the newzines, how women are getting pregnant for no reason. A lot are getting abortions, before their boyfriends and husbands find out. What's weird is the babies are farther along than they should be, just like Dr. Kwan said, except that some of them are smaller than normal."

"Do they know why?"

"Not yet. The problem is, a lot of women don't know if the babies are legit or not. Some women have even been killed because their boyfriends thought they were cheating. The accelerated development makes it look like conception was at a different time than it really was."

It figured. Fear. Jealousy. Superstition. People came up against something they didn't understand, and they panicked—or used it to justify a prejudice or policy they wanted to impose.

"There's another solution," Nadice said, long after Marta thought she had drifted off.

Marta didn't answer immediately. She wasn't sure she wanted to know. "What's that?"

"Miscarriage."

Marta grimaced. She didn't think she could go through with it—physically injure herself or Nadice.

"The TVs wouldn't want us anymore," Nadice said. "That's the only reason we're here. Take that away and they'll let us go. There won't be any reason to keep us. Kwan told me there are a lot of miscarriages after the first trimester. So if we did it right, it could look like an accident."

"Could you do it?" Marta asked.

Nadice shrugged. "I'm not saying it would be easy. But if we had to, if we didn't have a choice, it's an option. That's all."

"I hope it doesn't come to that."

"Me, too." Nadice moistened her lips. "I just don't know what's inside me? It's creepy, especially il we're farther along than we think and it's going to grow even faster now. You know?"

The corners of Marta's mouth tightened. "I know." She found Nadice's hand on the bed next to her and squeezed it. "I'm scared, too."

The South San Francisco address for the damselfly, and hopefully Lisette, turned out to be a budget r-cology not far from SFO International Airport.

The modular housing stack was a twenty-story steel frame with track-guided forklift arms that raised/lowered portable housing units into slots in the structure. Once in place, the PHUs tapped into public service lines built into the frame. Most of the vacant spaces on the exterior of the building were covered with ad d-splays for fast-food franchises, or architectural facade panels philmed to resemble Renaissance balconies, garden terraces, or Italianesque frescoes.

Kasuo van Dijk parked his sedan at the corner of Seventh and Walnut. He stepped out of the car and mentally conjured a HUD over his eyefeed.

"Location map," he instructed the SFPD datician. "Satellite and street image overlay."

"Resolution?"

"Standard."

An overhead view of the building and several surrounding streets appeared on the heads-up d-splay. A red dot identified the location of the damselfly. A green dot marked his position even though he could see himself moving real-time in the image, dodging an electric robo-lorry as he crossed the street and made his way to the side of the building.

The neighborhood, zoned mainly for travel and airport support services, was bustling. One of the rail lorklifts was lowering a PHU to the ground, leaving a gap-tooth hole where it had been removed. Exposedwires and pipes dangled in the opening. Van Dijk couldn't see out the back end. His view was blocked by another PHU that had been slotted into anabutting hole from the frame's interior courtyard.

Rent in this type of r-cology was cheap. The target demographic was tourists and temporary/contract workers who moved from job to job or city to city, and lived out of a PHU, which was significantly larger and more comfortably equipped than the coffin-sized sleepods found in a typical Japanese racktel.

"Three-d building schematic," van Dijk said. "Display a cutaway of the site and each of the adjoining PHU slots."

The slot was ground-level, outside-wall, and currently unoccupied. Ground-level slots, especially those on the exterior, were usually allotted to short-timers. For security purposes, long-term residents preferred interior, upper-level spaces. The slots immediately above and behind the target slot were filled. So was one of the slots next to it, leaving only one adjoining slot empty. The facade panels along the bottom depicted a colonnade made out
of
white marble. The sealed panels doubled as security doors. They were bomb- and bulletproof. But they could still be hacked.

"Access code?" he said.

"Acquiring," the datician replied.

Van Dijk approached the facade panel. The clank of the descending forklift, combined with the relentless roar of the air and street traffic, made it impossible to hear anything behind the roll-up door. "Is there an on-site manager?"

"Not at present. HUMOP is available.. .but service requires at least a twenty-four-hour advance notice."

"What about surveillance?" For added security, most of the higher-end r-cologies installed broad-spectrum detectors in vacant slots. But for low-rent r-cologies, the added peace of mind wasn't worth the expense.

"Exterior monitoring only," the datician said.

What he'd expected. "Any chance of satellite IR?"

"Insufficient delta-T."

In other words, too much ambient heat to obtain a clear infrared image. There was no way to sneak a quick peek inside to see what he was dealing with.

"Access code acquired," the datician said.

"All right." Van Dijk loosened the HK minifuge in its holster, hoping the rumble of the forklift gears covered any noise he made. "Go ahead and transmit."

______

As the fa
ç
ade panel rolled up, van Dijk dropped into a crouch and went in low, the HK drawn.

Light flooded the steel-frame cavern, rushing onto the bare concrete pad like water across a beach, frothing around dark-rolled clumps of tangled bed ding, scattered shoes, T-shirts, and half-empty take out.

"Police!" Van Dijk shouted.

The bedding stirred, exposing Ghost Dragon-philmed faces, and bare-splayed arms, legs, and feet.

Somebody groaned. A hand lifted to shield slitted eyes. A nose emerged from the crook of an arm.

"Lisette?" van Dijk said. Force of habit swung the HK in the direction of the adjoining space.

One of the Ghost Dragons mumbled something.

Van Dijk turned, leading with the muzzle of the 9mm. "What?"

The person sat up. A sleeping bag fell from the bony shoulders of a kid, the same kid whose simage he'd seen in the stairwell.

"She ain't here," the boy repeated. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles as a few more bundles sat up, sloughing off blankets and sleep.

Van Dijk holstered the minifuge and made his way into the room. It stank of stale fajizza and unwashed bodies. Water dripped from a loose hose into a bucket. A couple of Vurtonic panels flickered on the structural foam walls of the next-door PHUs, d-splaying pale Chinamation in the midafternoon glare.

"So she was here," van Dijk said. "That what I'm hearing?"

"What you want with her?" another kid asked, propping a thick elbow underneath her.

Van Dijk kept his attention focused on the boy from the stairwell. "Where'd she go?" he said.

The girl next to the boy shrugged one ample shoulder.

"We don't know." The boy shook long tangles of hair from his eyes. "She didn't say."

"You gonna arrest us?" the girl said. "Or what?"

The boy stood up in his sleeping bag, letting it fall to the tempergel mat under his feet as he bent down to gather up a T-shirt. "She left last night," he said, pulling on the shirt. It was philmed with a vidIO clip from a Ghost Dragon episode.

"Why'd she leave?" van Dijk asked when the boy's head emerged from the shirt.

"I'm not sure. She was scared."

"Of what?"

The kid sat back down and crossed his legs. "She wouldn't say. Something she saw."

"Back in the apartment?"

"I think so." He picked at a toenail.

"Plus she had something with her," the girl said. "Some kind of ware telling her what to do."

"What'd it look like?"

"A dragonfly," the kid said.

"Yeah." The girl pushed up into a sitting position. "But a fish, too. A fish with wings."

Giles Atherton stepped from cloud-stippled sunlight into a oasis of liquid-cooled calm.

"Welcome back to the Fairmont, sir." The hotel datician snapped into deferential mode as it recognized him. "We are honored to have you."

Doubt assailed him. Perhaps he should have followed Uri's suggestion and used a false DiNA signature. He maintained several, for security purposes, when visiting Third-World resorts. Best if places like Lagos and Rio de Janeiro didn't realize he was in town. There was a certain safety in anonymity that could never be bought with money or power. But in this case, he had decided to act as if he had nothing to hide.

Plausible deniability. If Uri did anything stupid, Atherton wanted to be able to wash his hands of him. Nadice was a disgruntled hotel employee. It would be a simple matter to discredit her. The whole sordid affair could be written off as an unfortunate tryst. Guests invited "friends" up to their rooms all the time. The precise nature of these friends wasn't the hotel's concern.

Atherton paused in the lobby. Sections of the Greek Classical interior were philmed in old integrated-circuit designs. Microchip artwork accented the marble walls and support columns. In places, it appeared as if the solid-state circuitry had been acid-etched into the stone. Transistors and diodes gleamed under overhead LEDs that resembled silicon wafers. He fingered the nanoFX-textured philm on the balustrade that encircled the lounge, smooth black and gold filaments wired to small silver bumps.

Forgotten Braille, or a dead language, like the dull patina of Latin.

Was philm an update of the past, or merely a restatement of it? From time to time the question rose inside him, out of clammy depths, only to settle back again. He was pleased to see that the IBT outlet next to the nail salon had received a new delivery of ad masks and FEMbots. The remote-operated dolls stood naked in the display window, awaiting the new 'skin and philm. He had contracted with Model Behavior to jockey the dolls and masks in Atherton hotels around the world, casually screening the new IBT philm in lounges, bars, and restaurants. If guests saw the new ware in action, they would be more inclined to want it for themselves.

"Shall I prepare your suite?" the datician asked.

"No." Atherton removed his hand from the balustrade. "I'll be having lunch only." He brushed his fingertips together, wiping away the impression left by the capacitors and resistors.

"Your usual table?"

"Yes, but no simage." He planned to check on Lisbeth. It was just past midnight in Paris, the time she normally sat down with the Bible and a cup of herbal tea to help her get to sleep.

"As you wish, sir."

"I would also like to reserve a room for a business client." His mouth felt dry, the words desiccated husks.

"For what dates shall I book the room?"

"This evening. One night only."

"Would you like to put him or her in your private suite?" A hopeful note trickled over his earfeed.

"No. One of the other suites, if possible."

"All those are presently occupied." The datician projected discomfort, sensing a conflict.

"A regular room, then." He didn't want to make a fuss; the less attention he drew, the better. "The nicest available."

"Of course, sir." Relieved. "Who should I key the room to?"

Atherton mentally xferred the DiNA code Uri had given him. It was undoubtedly hacked. Uri wasn't stupid. That caution would afford him one more layer of protection.

"Would you like to see a menu?" the datician asked.

"That won't be necessary. I'll have the same thing I ordered last time."

He couldn't recall exactly what that was. Some kind of sashimi. It didn't matter. He had more important things to think about, but it was imperative to keep up pretenses. Appearance was everything.

"A bottle of Pellegrino, as well," he added. Something carbonated, to help settle his stomach.

"Very well, sir. I'll place your order immediately."

_______

The Pellegrino was waiting for him on the table when he arrived ten minutes later, following a visit to the men's room.

Fresh tap water still cooled on the back of his neck and freshly combed hair. The circuit-board motif on the programmable walls had a pleasant Art Deco ambiance. Gold and black lines intersected to create simple yet tasteful Egyptian designs.

Feeling more relaxed, he opened the bottle and filled his glass. The mineral water tasted clean and therapeutic. His stomach calmed. By the time he finished the glass a waitress arrived with his lunch, artistically arranged on a ceramic dish.

"Is there anything else I can get you?" the waitress asked, grinding her way through the gears of courtesy.

"No," he said. "I don't wish to be disturbed."

The waitress nodded. She was philmed as Queen Nefertiti, one of the half dozen or so approved employee casts. Exquisite skin, finely chiseled cheeks and lips. Beautiful to look at, but unreadable underneath. They all were. Philm hid as much about a person as it revealed.

The waitress backed out, closing the etched-diamond doors that led to the main restaurant. Atherton pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a moment to compose himself before the next order of business.

_______

"About time I heard from you." The rip artist's Hongtasan bobbed between slack lips, wagging at him like a finger. "People are gettin' antsy, knowmsayin?" Languorous jazz played in the background.

"It couldn't be helped," Atherton said. "There were... complications."

"No shit."

"Everything's being taken care of."

"I hope so. I can't afford any more delays. My reputation's at stake. I've made a lot of promises. Business commitments. I don't keep them, I'm not the only one that gets hulled."

The threat coiled in the air like the smoke from the cigarette, thick and insinuating.

"I understand." Atherton smoothed his Vuitton necktie. "Trust me, it will be worth your while."

Lagrante withdrew the cigarette, pinching it between long, delicate fingertips. He sucked on his upper teeth. "So we're good to go?"

"Yes."

"Awright." Lagrante winked, then his simage faded from Atherton's eyefeed.

Atherton took a fresh handkerchief from his breast pocket and patted at the sweat on his upper lip and forehead. There was no turning back now; it was done. He would still have to deal with IBT—Ilse in her lily-white, elbow-length gloves. But that would be more pleasant, familiar territory.

He replaced the handkerchief and checked the time. Lisbeth didn't usually retire for another hour. He wouldn't talk long enough to keep her up. A few minutes at most, to see how she was doing.

_______

His wife looked up from the Bible that lay open in her lap. It was the leather King James version he'd gotten for her 120th birthday. She sat in a high-backed chair, wrapped in her favorite shawl, which she'd philmed with details from Gustav Klimt's
The Kiss.
Acup of hibiscus tea steeped on the table next to her. The tea bag had left a red stain on the yellow, flower-shaped caddy. On the d-splay walls of the room, she was screening a Pastor Lud sermon. Prayers, mentally uploaded by the Right to Light faithful around the world, scrolled down the huge vidIO screens in the sanctuary.

Margaret. Beloved grandmother of seven. Alzheimer's has opened the door to the Devil.
And,
Pray for God to protect us against F8. Found my eleven-year-old son listening. Please help, before it's too late.

Atherton rephilmed the Vurtronic d-splays in the lunchroom with the Pastor Lud simage feed from her room, baptizing himself in the calming waters of the sermon.

"Giles?" Lisbeth said. Out of habit, she removed her horn-rimmed reading spex, switching to direct eyefeed. "Where are you?"

"The Fairmont."

"Doing what?" Her eyes, the soft golden amber of beeswax, radiated fatigue.

"The usual."

"That's what you always say." She sighed and shut the Bible, keeping her place with two bony fingers.

"How are you?" he asked. She seemed haunted.

"I haven't been able to sleep."

"Again?"

"I'm afraid so." She offered a wan shrug. "Any word on Apphia?"

"Not yet."

"It's hopeless, isn't it?" She sighed in resignation. "Don't lie, Giles."

"There's always hope."

"Do you really believe that?" She pulled her shawl tighter. "I'd like to. I'm not sure I do anymore." Her smile was hollow. Even her pink lipstick couldn't lighten the melancholy behind it.

"You're just tired," he said.

"It's more than that." Her fingers knotted where she clutched the shawl. "I see the news and the world doesn't seem to be getting any better."

"It will." Atherton labored to sound upbeat, to smooth the wrinkles of her despair. "Have faith. All our prayers will be answered. The world was good once, it will be good again."