The Year's Best SF 08 # 1990 Read online

  Comrade snickered. Stennie pulled out the picture, glanced at it and hissed. “You’re scaring me, Mr. Boy.”

  His schoolcomm beeped as it posted his score on the quiz and he sailed the envelope back across the car at me. “Not Venezuela, Viet Nam. Hey, Truman dropped the plugging bomb. Reagan was the one who spent all the money. What’s wrong with you dumbscuts? Now I owe school another fifteen minutes.”

  “Hey, if you don’t make it look good, they’ll know you had help.” Comrade laughed.

  “What’s with this dance anyway? You don’t dance.” I picked Comrade’s present up and tucked it into my shirt pocket. “You find yourself a cush or something, lizard boy?”

  “Maybe.” Stennie could not blush but sometimes when he was embarrassed the loose skin under his jaw quivered. Even though he had been reshaped into a dinosaur, he was still growing up. “Maybe I am getting a little. What’s it to you?”

  “If you’re getting it,” I said, “it’s got to be microscopic.” This was a bad sign. I was losing him to his dick, just like all the other pals. No way I wanted to start over with someone new. I had been alive for twenty-five years now. I was running out of things to say to thirteen-year-olds.

  As the Alpha pulled up to the school, I scoped the crowd waiting for the doors to open for third shift. Although there were a handful of stunted kids, a pair of gorilla brothers who were football stars and Freddy the Teddy, a bear who had furry hands instead of real paws, the majority of students at New Canaan High looked more or less normal. Most working stiffs thought that people who had their genes twanked were freaks.

  “Come get me at 5:15,” Stennie told the Alpha. “In the meantime, take these guys wherever they want to go.” He opened the door. “You rest up, Mr. Boy, okay?”

  “What?” I was not paying attention. “Sure.” I had just seen the most beautiful girl in the world.

  She leaned against one of the concrete columns of the portico, chatting with a couple other kids. Her hair was long and nut-colored and the ends twinkled. She was wearing a loose black robe over mirror skintights. Her schoolcomm dangled from a strap around her wrist. She appeared to be seventeen, maybe eighteen. But of course, appearances could be deceiving.

  Girls had never interested me much, but I could not help but admire this one. “Wait, Stennie! Who’s that?” She saw me point at her. “With the hair?”

  “She’s new—has one of those names you can’t pronounce.” He showed me his teeth as he got out. “Hey Mr. Boy, you’re stunted. You haven’t got what she wants.”

  He kicked the door shut, lowered his head and crossed in front of the car. When he walked he looked like he was trying to squash a bug with each step. His snaky tail curled high behind him for balance, his twiggy little arms dangled. When the new girl saw him, she pointed and smiled. Or maybe she was pointing at me.

  “Where to?” said the car.

  “I don’t know.” I sank low into my seat and pulled out Comrade’s present again. “Home, I guess.”

  * * *

  I was not the only one in my family with twanked genes. My mom was a three-quarters scale replica of the Statue of Liberty. Originally she wanted to be full-sized, but then she would have been the tallest thing in New Canaan, Connecticut. The town turned her down when she applied for a zoning variance. Her lawyers and their lawyers sued and countersued for almost two years. Mom’s claim was that since she was born human, her freedom of form was protected by the Thirtieth Amendment. However, the form she wanted was a curtain of reshaped cells which would hang on a forty-two meter high ferroplastic skeleton. Her structure, said the planning board, was clearly subject to building codes and zoning laws. Eventually they reached an out-of-court settlement, which was why Mom was only as tall as an eleven story building.

  She complied with the town’s request for a setback of five hundred meters from Route 123. As Stennie’s Alpha drove us down the long driveway, Comrade broadcast the recognition code which told the robot sentries that we were okay. One thing Mom and the town agreed on from the start: no tourists. Sure, she loved publicity, but she was also very fragile. In some places her skin was only a centimeter thick. Chunks of ice falling from her crown could punch holes in her.

  The end of our driveway cut straight across the lawn to Mom’s granite-paved foundation pad. To the west of the plaza, directly behind her, was a utility building faced in ashlar that housed her support systems. Mom had been bioengineered to be pretty much self-sufficient. She was green not only to match the real Statue of Liberty but also because she was photosynthetic. All she needed was a yearly truckload of fertilizer, water from the well, and a hundred and fifty kilowatts of electricity a day. Except for emergency surgery, the only time she required maintenance was in the fall, when her outer cells tended to flake off and had to be swept up and carted away.

  Stennie’s Alpha dropped us off by the doorbone in the right heel and then drove off to do whatever cars do when nobody is using them. Mom’s greeter was waiting in the reception area inside the foot.

  “Peter.” She tried to hug me but I dodged out of her grasp. “How are you, Peter?”

  “Tired.” Even though Mom knew I did not like to be called that, I kissed the air near her cheek. Peter Cage was her name for me; I had given it up years ago.

  “You poor boy. Here, let me see you.” She held me at arm’s length and brushed her fingers against my cheek. “You don’t look a day over twelve. Oh, they do such good work—don’t you think?” She squeezed my shoulder. “Are you happy with it?”

  I think my mom meant well, but she never did understand me. Especially when she talked to me with her greeter remote. I wormed out of her grip and fell back onto one of the couches. “What’s to eat?”

  “Doboys, noodles, fries—whatever you want.” She beamed at me and then bent over impulsively and gave me a kiss that I did not want. I never paid much attention to the greeter; she was lighter than air. She was always smiling and asking five questions in a row without waiting for an answer and flitting around the room. It wore me out just watching her. Naturally everything I said or did was cute, even if I was trying to be obnoxious. It was no fun being cute. Today Mom had her greeter wearing a dark blue dress and a very dumb white apron. The greeter’s umbilical was too short to stretch up to the kitchen. So why was she wearing an apron? “I’m really, really glad you’re home,” she said.

  “I’ll take some cinnamon doboys.” I kicked off my shoes and rubbed my bare feet through the dense black hair on the floor. “And a beer.”

  All of Mom’s remotes had different personalities. I liked Nanny all right; she was simple but at least she listened. The lovers were a challenge because they were usually too busy looking into mirrors to notice me. Cook was as pretentious as a four star menu; the housekeeper had all the charm of a vacuum cleaner. I had always wondered what it would be like to talk directly to Mom’s main brain up in the head, because then she would not be filtered through a remote. She would be herself.

  “Cook is making you some nice broth to go with your doboys,” said the greeter. “Nanny says you shouldn’t be eating dessert all the time.”

  “Hey, did I ask for broth?”

  At first Comrade had hung back while the greeter was fussing over me. Then he slid along the wrinkled pink walls of the reception room toward the plug where the greeter’s umbilical was attached. When she started in about the broth I saw him lean against the plug. Carelessly, you know? At the same time he stepped on the greeter’s umbilical, crimping the furry black cord. She gasped and the smile flattened horribly on her face as if her lips were two ropes someone had suddenly yanked taut. Her head jerked toward the umbilical plug.

  “E-Excuse me.” She was twitching.

  “What?” Comrade glanced down at his foot as if it belonged to a stranger. “Oh, sorry.” He pushed away from the wall and strolled across the room toward us. Although he seemed apologetic, about half the heads on his window coat were laughing.

  The greeter flexed her
cheek muscles. “You’d better watch out for your toy, Peter,” she said. “It’s going to get you in trouble someday.”

  Mom did not like Comrade much, even though she had given him to me when I was first stunted. She got mad when I snuck him down to Manhattan a couple of years ago to have a chop job done on his behavioral regulators. For a while after the operation, he used to ask me before he broke the law. Now he was on his own. He got caught once and she warned me he was out of control. But she still threw money at the people until they went away.

  “Trouble?” I said. “Sounds like fun.” I thought we were too rich for trouble. I was the trust baby of a trust baby; we had vintage money and lots of it. I stood and Comrade picked up my shoes for me. “And he’s not a toy; he’s my best friend.” I put my arms around his shoulder. “Tell Cook I’ll eat in my rooms.”

  * * *

  I was tired after the long climb up the circular stairs to Mom’s chest. When the roombrain sensed I had come in, it turned on all the electronic windows and blinked my message indicator. One reason I still lived in my mom was that she kept out of my rooms. She had promised me total security and I believed her. Actually I doubted that she cared enough to pry, although she could easily have tapped my windows. I was safe from her remotes up here, even the housekeeper. Comrade did everything for me.

  I sent him for supper, perched on the edge of the bed, and cleared the nearest window of army ants foraging for meat through some Angolan jungle. The first message in the queue was from a gray-haired stiff wearing a navy blue corporate uniform. “Hello, Mr. Cage. My name is Weldon Montross and I’m with Datasafe. I’d like to arrange a meeting with you at your convenience. Call my DI number, 408-966-3286. I hope to hear from you soon.”

  “What the hell is Datasafe?”

  The roombrain ran a search. “Datasafe offers services in encryption and information security. It was incorporated in the state of Delaware in 2013. Estimated billings last year were 340 million dollars. Headquarters are in San Jose, California, with branch offices in White Plains, New York and Chevy Chase, Maryland. Foreign offices.…”

  “Are they trying to sell me something or what?”

  The room did not offer an answer. “Delete,” I said. “Next?”

  Weldon Montross was back again, looking exactly as he had before. I wondered if he were using a virtual image. “Hello, Mr. Cage. I’ve just discovered that you’ve been admitted to the Thayer Clinic for rejuvenation therapy. Believe me when I say that I very much regret having to bother you during your convalescence and I would not do so if this were not a matter of importance. Would you please contact Department of Identification number 408-966-3286 as soon as you’re able?”

  “You’re a pro, Weldon, I’ll say that for you.” Prying client information out of the Thayer Clinic was not easy, but then the guy was no doubt some kind of op. He was way too polite to be a salesman. What did Datasafe want with me? “Any more messages from him?”

  “No,” said the roombrain.

  “Well, delete this one too and if he calls back tell him I’m too busy unless he wants to tell me what he’s after.” I stretched out on my bed. “Next?” The gel mattress shivered as it took my weight.

  Happy Lurdane was having a smash party on the twentieth but Happy was a boring cush and there was a bill from the pet store for the iguanas that I paid and a warning from the SPCA that I deleted and a special offer for preferred customers from my favorite fireworks company that I saved to look at later and my dad was about to ask for another loan when I paused him and deleted and last of all there was a message from Stennie, time stamped ten minutes ago.

  “Hey Mr. Boy, if you’re feeling better I’ve lined up a VR party for tonight.” He did not quite fit into the school’s telelink booth; all I could see was his toothy face and the long yellow curve of his neck. “Bunch of us have reserved some time on Playroom. Come in disguise. That new kid said she’d link, so scope her yourself if you’re so hot. I found out her name but it’s kind of unpronounceable. Tree-something Joplin. Anyway it’s at seven, meet on channel 17, password is warhead. Hey, did you send my car back yet? Later.” He faded.

  “Sounds like fun.” Comrade kicked the doorbone open and backed through, balancing a tray loaded with soup and fresh doboys and a mug of cold beer. “Are we going?” He set it onto the nightstand next to my bed.

  “Maybe.” I yawned. It felt good to be in my own bed. “Flush the damn soup, would you?” I reached over for a doboy and felt something crinkle in my jacket pocket. I pulled out the picture of the dead CEO. About the only thing I did not like about it was that the eyes were shut. You feel dirtier when the corpse stares back. “This is one sweet hunk of meat, Comrade.” I propped the picture beside the tray. “How did you get it, anyway? Must have taken some operating.”

  “Three days worth. Encryption wasn’t all that tough but there was lots of it.” Comrade admired the picture with me as he picked up the bowl of soup. “I ended up buying about ten hours from IBM to crack the file. Kind of pricey but since you were getting stunted, I had nothing else to do.”

  “You see the messages from that security op?” I bit into a doboy. “Maybe you were a little sloppy.” The hot cinnamon scent tickled my nose.

  “Ya v’rot ego ebal!” He laughed. “So some stiff is cranky? Plug him if he can’t take a joke.”

  I said nothing. Comrade could be a pain sometimes. Of course I loved the picture, but he really should have been more careful. He had made a mess and left it for me to clean up. Just what I needed. I knew I would only get mad if I thought about it, so I changed the subject. “Well, do you think she’s cute?”

  “What’s-her-face Joplin?” Comrade turned abruptly toward the bathroom. “Sure, for a perdunya,” he said over his shoulder. “Why not?” Talking about girls made him snippy. I think he was afraid of them.

  I brought my army ants back onto the window; they were swarming over a lump with brown fur. Thinking about him hanging on my elbow when I met this Tree-something Joplin made me feel weird. I listened as he poured the soup down the toilet. I was not myself at all. Getting stunted changes you; no one can predict how. I chugged the beer and rolled over to take a nap. It was the first time I had ever thought of leaving Comrade behind.

  * * *

  “VR party, Mr. Boy.” Comrade nudged me awake. “Are we going or not?”

  “Huh?” My gut still ached from the rejuvenation and I woke up mean enough to chew glass. “What do you mean we?”

  “Nothing.” Comrade had that blank look he always put on so I would not know what he was thinking. Still I could tell he was disappointed. “Are you going then?” he said.

  I stretched—ouch! “Yeah, sure, get my joysuit.” My bones felt brittle as candy. “And stop acting sorry for yourself.” This nasty mood had momentum; it swept me past any regrets. “No way I’m going to lie here all night watching you pretend you have feelings to hurt.”

  “Tak tochno.” He saluted and went straight to the closet. I got out of bed and hobbled to the bathroom.

  “This is a costume party, remember,” Comrade called. “What are you wearing?”

  “Whatever.” Even his efficiency irked me; sometimes he did too much. “You decide.” I needed to get away from him for a while.

  Playroom was a new virtual reality service on our local net. If you wanted to throw an electronic party at Versailles or Monticello or San Simeon, all you had to do was link—if you could get a reservation.

  I came back to the bedroom and Comrade stepped up behind me, holding the joysuit. I shrugged into it, velcroed the front seam and eyed myself in the nearest window. He had synthesized some kid-sized armor in the German Gothic style. My favorite. It was made of polished silver, with great fluting and scalloping. He had even programmed a little glow into the image so that on the window I looked like a walking night light. There was an armet helmet with a red ostrich plume; the visor was tipped up so I could see my face. I raised my arm and the joysuit translated the movement to the
window so that my armored image waved back.

  “Try a few steps,” he said.

  Although I could move easily in the lightweight joysuit, the motion interpreter made walking in the video armor seem realistically awkward. Comrade had scored the sound effects, too. Metal hinges rasped, chain mail rattled softly, and there was a satisfying clunk whenever my foot hit the floor.

  “Great.” I clenched my fist in approval. I was awake now and in control of my temper. I wanted to make up but Comrade was not taking the hint. I could never quite figure out whether he was just acting like a machine or whether he really did not care how I treated him.

  “They’re starting.” All the windows in the room lit up with Playroom’s welcome screen. “You want privacy, so I’m leaving. No one will bother you.”

  “Hey Comrade, you don’t have to go…”

  But he had already left the room. Playroom prompted me to identify myself. “Mr. Boy,” I said, “Department of Identification number 203-966-2445. I’m looking for channel 17; the password is warhead.”

  A brass band started playing “Hail to the Chief” as the title screen lit the windows:

  The White House

  1600 Pennsylvania Avenue

  Washington, DC, USA

  copyright 2096, Playroom Presentations

  REPRODUCTION OR REUSE STRICTLY PROHIBITED

  and then I was looking at a wraparound view of a VR ballroom. A caption bar opened at the top of the windows and a message scrolled across. This is the famous East Room, the largest room in the main house. It is used for press conferences, public receptions and entertainments. I lowered my visor and entered the simulation.

  The East Room was decorated in bone white and gold; three chandeliers hung like cut glass mushrooms above the huge parquet floor. A band played skitter at one end of the room but no one was dancing yet. The band was Warhead, according to their drum set. I had never heard of them. Someone’s disguise? I turned and the joysuit changed the view on the windows. Just ahead Satan was chatting with a forklift and a rhinoceros. Beyond some blue cartoons were teasing Johnny America. There was not much furniture in the room, a couple of benches, an ugly piano, and some life-sized paintings of George and Martha. George looked like he had just been peeled off a cash card. I stared at him too long and the closed caption bar informed me that the painting had been painted by Gilbert Stuart and was the only White House object dating from the mansion’s first occupancy in 1800.