The Year's Best SF 08 # 1990 Read online

When she nodded, her hairworks twinkled. Comrade gave me a knowing glance but I paid no attention. I was trying to figure out how she could make insults sound like compliments when I realized we were flirting. The idea took me by surprise. Flirting.

  “Do you have any music?” Treemonisha said.

  The Alpha asked what groups she liked and so we listened to some mindless dance hits as we took the circle route around the Laurel Reservoir. Treemonisha told me about how she was sick of her parents’ store and rude customers and especially the dumb Green Dream uniform. “Back in Elkhart, Daddy used to make me wear it to school. Can you believe that? He said it was good advertising. When we moved, I told him either the khakis went or I did.”

  She had a yellow and orange dashiki over midnight blue skintights. “I like your clothes,” I said. “You have taste.”

  “Thanks.” She bobbed her head in time to the music. “I can’t afford much because I can’t get an outside job because I have to work for my parents. It makes me mad, sometimes. I mean, franchise life is fine for Mom and Dad; they’re happy being tucked in every night by GD, Inc. But I want more. Thrills, chills—you know, adventure. No one has adventures in the mall.”

  As we drove, I showed her the log castle, the pyramids, the private train that pulled sleeping cars endlessly around a two mile track and the marble bunker where Sullivan, the assassinated president, still lived on in computer memory. Comrade kept busy acting bored.

  “Can we go see your mom?” said Treemonisha. “All the kids at school tell me she’s awesome.”

  Suddenly Comrade was interested in the conversation. I was not sure what the kids at school were talking about. Probably they wished they had seen Mom but I had never asked any of them over—except for Stennie.

  “Not a good idea.” I shook my head. “She’s more flimsy than she looks, you know, and she gets real nervous if strangers just drop by. Or even friends.”

  “I just want to look. I won’t get out of the car.”

  “Well,” said Comrade, “if she doesn’t get out of the car, who could she hurt?”

  I scowled at him. He knew how paranoid Mom was. She was not going to like Treemonisha anyway, but certainly not if I brought her home without warning. “Let me work on her, okay?” I said to Treemonisha. “One of these days. I promise.”

  She pouted for about five seconds and then laughed at my expression. When I saw Comrade’s smirk, I got angry. He was just sitting there watching us. Looking to cause trouble. Later there would be wisecracks. I had had about enough of him and his attitude.

  By that time the Alpha was heading up High Ridge Road toward Stamford. “I’m hungry,” I said. “Stop at the 7-11 up ahead.” I pulled a cash card out and flipped it at him. “Go buy us some doboys.”

  I waited until he disappeared into the store and then ordered Stennie’s car to drive on.

  “Hey!” Treemonisha twisted in her seat and looked back at the store. “What are you doing?”

  “Ditching him.”

  “Why? Won’t he be mad?”

  “He’s got my card; he’ll call a cab.”

  “But that’s mean.”

  “So?”

  Treemonisha thought about it. “He doesn’t say much, does he?” She did not seem to know what to make of me—which I suppose was what I wanted. “At first I thought he was kind of like your teddy bear. Have you seen those big ones that keep little kids out of trouble?”

  “He’s just a wiseguy.”

  “Have you had him long?”

  “Maybe too long.”

  I could not think of anything to say after that so we sat quietly listening to the music. Even though he was gone, Comrade was still aggravating me.

  “Were you really hungry?” Treemonisha said finally. “Because I was. Think there’s something in the fridge?”

  I waited for the Alpha to tell us but it said nothing. I slid across the seat and opened the refrigerator door. Inside was a sheet of paper. “Dear Mr. Boy,” it said. “If this was a bomb you and Comrade would be dead and the problem would be solved. Let’s talk soon. Weldon Montross.”

  “What’s that?”

  I felt the warm flush that I always got from good corpse porn and for a moment I could not speak. “Practical joke,” I said, crumpling the paper. “Too bad he doesn’t have a sense of humor.”

  * * *

  Push-ups. Ten, eleven.

  “Uh-oh. Look at this,” said Comrade.

  “I’m busy!” Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen … sixteen … seven.… Dizzy, I slumped and rested my cheek against the warm floor. I could feel Mom’s pulse beneath the tough skin. It was no good. I would never get muscles this way. There was only one fix for my skinny arms and bony shoulders. Grow up, Mr. Boy.

  “Ya yebou! You really should scope this,” said Comrade. “Very spooky.”

  I pulled myself onto the bed to see why he was bothering me; he had been pretty tame since I had stranded him at the 7-11. Most of the windows showed the usual: army ants next to old war movies next to feeding time from the Bronx Zoo’s reptile house. But Firenet, which provided twenty-four hour coverage of killer fires from around the world, had been replaced with a picture of a morgue. There were three naked bodies, shrouds pulled back for identification: a fat gray-haired CEO with a purple hole over his left eye, Comrade, and me.

  “You look kind of dead,” said Comrade.

  My tongue felt thick. “Where’s it coming from?”

  “Viruses all over the system,” he said. “Probably Montross.”

  “You know about him?” The image on the window changed back to a barridas fire in Lima.

  “He’s been in touch.” Comrade shrugged. “Made his offer.”

  Crying women watched as the straw walls of their huts peeled into flame and floated away.

  “Oh.” I did not know what to say. I wanted to reassure him, but this was serious. Montross was invading my life and I had no idea how to fight back. “Well, don’t talk to him anymore.”

  “Okay.” Comrade grinned. “He’s dull as a spoon anyway.”

  “I bet he’s a simulation. What else would a company like Datasafe use? You can’t trust real people.” I was still thinking about what I would look like dead. “Whatever, he’s kind of scary.” I shivered, worried and aroused at the same time. “He’s slick enough to operate on Playroom. And now he’s hijacking windows right here in my own mom.” I should probably have told Comrade then about the note in the fridge, but we were still not talking about that day.

  “He tapped into Playroom?” Comrade fitted input clips to the spikes on his neck, linked and played back the house files. “Zayebees. He was already here then. He piggybacked on with you.” Comrade slapped his leg. “I can’t understand how he beat my security so easily.”

  The roombrain flicked the message indicator. “Stennie’s calling,” it said.

  “Pick up,” I said.

  “Hi, it’s that time again.” Stennie was alone in his car. “I’m on my way over to give you jacks a thrill.” He pushed his triangular snout up to the camera and licked at the lens. “Doing anything?”

  “Not really. Sitting around.”

  “I’ll fix that. Five minutes.” He faded.

  Comrade was staring at nothing.

  “Look Comrade, you did your best,” I said. “I’m not mad at you.”

  “Too plugging easy.” He shook his head as if I had missed the point.

  “What I don’t understand is why Montross is so cranky anyway. It’s just a picture of meat.”

  “Maybe he’s not really dead.”

  “Sure he is,” I said. “You can’t fake a verification grid.”

  “No, but you can fake a corpse.”

  “You know something?”

  “If I did I wouldn’t tell you,” said Comrade. “You have enough problems already. Like how do we explain this to your mom?”

  “We don’t. Not yet. Let’s wait him out. Sooner or later he’s got to realize that we’re not going to use his
picture for anything. I mean if he’s that nervous, I’ll even give it back. I don’t care anymore. You hear that Montross, you dumbscut? We’re harmless. Get out of our lives!”

  “It’s more than the picture now,” said Comrade. “It’s me. I found the way in.” He was careful to keep his expression blank.

  I did not know what to say to him. No way Montross would be satisfied erasing only the memory of the operation. He would probably reconnect Comrade’s regulators to bring him back under control. Turn him to pudding. He would be just another wiseguy, like anyone else could own. I was surprised that Comrade did not ask me to promise not to hand him over. Maybe he just assumed I would stand by him.

  We did not hear Stennie coming until he sprang into the room.

  “Have fun or die!” He was clutching a plastic gun in his spindly hand which he aimed at my head.

  “Stennie, no.”

  He fired as I rolled across the bed. The jellybee buzzed by me and squished against one of the windows. It was a purple and immediately I smelled the tang of artificial grape flavor. The splatter on the wrinkled wall pulsed and split in two, emitting a second burst of grapeness. The two halves oozed in opposite directions, shivered and divided again.

  “Fun extremist!” He shot Comrade with a cherry as he dove for the closet. “Dance!”

  I bounced up and down on the bed, timing my move. He fired a green at me that missed. Comrade, meanwhile, gathered himself up as zits of red jellybee squirmed across his window coat. He barreled out of the closet into Stennie, knocking him sideways. I sprang on top of them and wrestled the gun away. Stennie was paralyzed with laughter. I had to giggle too, in part because now I could put off talking to Comrade about Montross.

  By the time we untangled ourselves, the jellybees had faded. “Set for twelve generations before they all die out,” Stennie said as he settled himself on the bed. “So what’s this my car tells me, you’ve been giving free rides? Is this the cush with the name?”

  “None of your business. You never tell me about your cush.”

  “Okay. Her name is Janet Hoyt.”

  “Is it?” He caught me off guard again. Twice in one day, a record. “Comrade, let’s see this prize.”

  Comrade linked to the roombrain and ran a search. “Got her.” He called Janet Hoyt’s DI file to screen and her face ballooned across an entire window.

  She was a tanned blue-eyed blonde with the kind of off-the-shelf looks that med students slapped onto rabbits in genoplasty courses. Nothing on her face said she was different from any other ornamental moron fresh from the OR—not a dimple or a mole, not even a freckle. “You’re ditching me for her?” It took all the imagination of a potato chip to be as pretty as Janet Hoyt. “Stennie, she’s generic.”

  “Now wait a minute,” said Stennie. “If we’re going to play critic, let’s scope your cush, too.”

  Without asking, Comrade put Tree’s DI photo next to Janet’s. I realized he was still mad at me because of her; he was only pretending not to care. “She’s not my cush,” I said, but no one was listening.

  Stennie leered at her for a moment. “She’s a stiff, isn’t she?” he said. “She has that hungry look.”

  Seeing him standing there in front of the two huge faces on the wall, I felt like I was peeping on a stranger—that I was a stranger, too. I could not imagine how the two of us had come to this: Stennie and Mr. Boy with cushes. We were growing up. A frightening thought. Maybe next Stennie would get himself untwanked and really look like he had on Playroom. Then where would I be?

  “Janet wants me to plug her,” Stennie said.

  “Right, and I’m the queen of Brooklyn.”

  “I’m old enough, you know.” He thumped his tail against the floor.

  “You’re a dinosaur!”

  “Hey, just because I got twanked doesn’t mean my dick fell off.”

  “So do it then.”

  “I’m going to. I will, okay? But … this is no good.” Stennie waved impatiently at Comrade. “I can’t think with them watching me.” He nodded at the windows. “Turn them off already.”

  “N’ye pizdi!” Comrade wiped the two faces from the windows, cleared all the screens in the room to blood red, yanked the input clips from his neck spikes and left them dangling from the roombrain’s terminal. His expression empty, he walked from the room without asking permission or saying anything at all.

  “What’s his problem?” Stennie said.

  “Who knows?” Comrade had left the door open; I shut it. “Maybe he doesn’t like girls.”

  “Look, I want to ask a favor.” I could tell Stennie was nervous; his head kept swaying. “This is kind of embarrassing but … okay, do you think maybe your mom would maybe let me practice on her lovers? I don’t want Janet to know I’ve never done it before and there’s some stuff I’ve got to figure out.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Ask her.”

  But I did know. She would be amused.

  * * *

  People claimed my mom did not have a sense of humor. Lovey was huge, an ocean of a woman. Her umbilical was as big around as my thigh. When she walked waves of flesh heaved and rolled. She had beautiful skin, flawless and moist. It did not take much to make her sweat. Peeling a banana would do it. Lovey was as oral as a baby; she would put anything into her mouth. And when she did not have a mouthful, she would babble on about whatever came into Mom’s head. Dear hardly ever talked, although he could moan and growl and laugh. He touched Lovey whenever he could and shot her long smouldering looks. He was not furry, exactly, but he was covered with fine silver hair. Dear was a little guy, about my size. Although he had one of Upjohn’s finest penises, elastic and overloaded with neurons, he was one of the least convincing males I had ever met. I doubt Mom herself believed in him all that much.

  Big chatty woman, squirrelly tongue-tied little man. It was funny in a bent sort of way to watch the two of them go at each other. Kind of like a tug churning against a supertanker. They did not get the chance that often. It was dangerous; Dear had to worry about getting crushed and poor Lovey’s heart had stopped two or three times. Besides, I think Mom liked building up the pressure. Sometimes, as the days without sex stretched, you could almost feel lust sparkling off them like static electricity.

  That was how they were when I brought Stennie up. Their suite took up the entire floor at the hips, Mom’s widest part. Lovey was lolling in a tub of warm oil. She liked it flowery and laced with pheromones. Dear was prowling around her with a desperate expression, like he might jam his plug into a wall socket if he did not get taken care of soon. Stennie’s timing was perfect.

  “Look who’s come to visit, Dear,” said Lovey. “Peter and Stennie. How nice of you boys to stop by.” She let Dear mop her forehead with a towel. “What can we do for you?”

  The skin under Stennie’s jaw quivered. He glanced at me, then at Dear and then at the thick red lips that served as the bathroom door. Never even looked at her. He was losing his nerve.

  “Oh my, isn’t this exciting, Dear? There’s something going on.” She sank into the bath until her chin touched the water. “It’s a secret, isn’t it, Peter? Share it with Lovey.”

  “No secret,” I said, “he wants to ask a favor.” And then I told her.

  She giggled and sat up. “I love it.” Honey-colored oil ran from her hair and slopped between her breasts. “Were you thinking of both of us, Stennie? Or just me?”

  “Well, I…” Stennie’s tail switched. “Maybe we just ought to forget it.”

  “No, no.” She waved a hand at him. “Come here, Stennie. Come close, my pretty little monster.”

  He hesitated, then approached the tub. She reached for his right leg and touched him just above the heelknob. “You know, I’ve always wondered what scales would feel like.” Her hand climbed; the oil made his yellow hide glisten. His eyes were the size of eggs.

  The bedroom was all mattress. Beneath the transparent skin was a screen implant, so that Mom could project imag
es not only on the walls but on the surface of the bed itself. Under the window was a layer of heavily vascular flesh, which could be stiffened with blood or drained until it was as soft as raw steak. A window dome arched over everything and could show slo-mo or thermographic fx across its span. The air was warm and wet and smelled like a chemical engineer’s idea of a rose garden.

  I settled by the lips. Dear ghosted along the edges of the room, dragging his umbilical like a chain, never coming quite near enough to touch anyone. I heard him humming as he passed me, a low moaning singsong, as if to block out what was happening. Stennie and Lovey were too busy with each other to care. As Lovey knelt in front of Stennie, Dear gave a mocking laugh. I did not understand how he could be jealous. He was with her, part of it. Lovey and Dear were Mom’s remotes, two nodes of her nervous system. Yet his pain was as obvious as her pleasure. At last he squatted and rocked back and forth on his heels. I glanced up at the fx dome; yellow scales slid across oily rolls of flushed skin.

  I yawned. I had always found sex kind of dull. Besides, this was all on the record. I could have Comrade replay it for me any time. Lovey stopped breathing—then came four or five shuddering gasps in a row. I wondered where Comrade had gone. I felt sorry for him. Stennie said something to her about rolling over. “Okay?” Feathery skin sounds. A grunt. The soft wet slap of flesh against flesh. I thought of my mother’s brain, up there in the head where no one ever went. I had no idea how much attention she was paying. Was she quivering with Lovey and at the same time calculating insolation rates on her chloroplasts? Investing in soy futures on the Chicago Board of Trade? Fending off Weldon Montross’s latest attack? Plug Montross. I needed to think about something fun. My collection. I started piling bodies up in my mind. The hangings and the open casket funerals and the stacks of dead at the camps and all those muddy soldiers. I shivered as I remembered the empty rigid faces. I liked it when their teeth showed. “Oh, oh, oh!” My greatest hits dated from the late twentieth century. The dead were everywhere back then, in vids and the news and even on T-shirts. They were not shy. That was what made Comrade’s photo worth having; it was hard to find modern stuff that dirty. Dear brushed by me, his erection bobbing in front of him. It was as big around as my wrist. As he passed I could see Stennie’s leg scratch across the mattress skin, which glowed with blood blue light. Lovey giggled beneath him and her umbilical twitched and suddenly I found myself wondering whether Tree was a virgin.