Cyberpunk

by Victoria Blake

  help?”

  “Sure. Follow me. We can shut lots of doors.” When she hesitated, I flapped

  my arms like silver wings. Actually, Montross had done me a favor; when he

  threatened me, some inner clock had begun an adrenaline tick. If this was

  trouble, I wanted more. I felt twisted and dangerous and I did not care what

  happened next. Maybe that was why the owl flitted after me as I walked into

  the next room.

  The sumptuous State Dining Room can seat about 130 for formal dinners. The

  white-and-gold decor dates from the administration of Theodore Roosevelt.

  The owl glided over to the banquet table. I shut the door behind me.

  “Better?” Warhead still pounded on the walls.

  “A little.” She settled on a huge bronze doré centerpiece with a mirrored

  surface. “I’m going soon anyway.”

  “Why?”

  “The band stinks, I don’t know anyone, and I hate these stupid disguises.”

  “I’m Mr. Boy.” I raised my visor and grinned at her. “All right? Now you

  know someone.”

  She tucked her wings into place and fixed me with her owlish stare. “I don’t

  like VEs much.”

  “They take some getting used to.”

  “Why bother?” she said. “I mean, if anything can happen in a simulation,

  nothing matters. And I feel dumb standing in a room all alone jumping up

  and down and flapping my arms. Besides, this joysuit is hot and I’m renting it

  by the hour.”

  299

  JAMES PATRICK KELLY

  “The trick is not to look at yourself,” I said. “Just watch the screens and use your imagination.”

  “Reality is less work. You look like a little kid.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Mr. Boy? What kind of name is that anyway?”

  I wished she would blink. “A made-up name. But then all names are made

  up, aren’t they?”

  “Didn’t I see you at school Wednesday? You were the one who dropped off

  the dinosaur.”

  “My friend Stennie.” I pulled out a chair and sat facing her. “Who you

  probably hate because he’s twanked.”

  “That was him on the ceiling, wasn’t it? Listen, I’m sorry about what I said.

  I’m new here. I’d never met anyone like him before I came to New Canaan.

  I mean, I’d heard of reshaping and all—getting twanked. But where I used to

  live, everybody was pretty much the same.”

  “Where was that, Squirrel Crossing, Nebraska?”

  “Close.” She laughed. “Elkhart; it’s in Indiana.”

  The reckless ticking in my head slowed. Talking to her made it easy to

  forget about Montross. “You want to leave the party?” I said. “We could go

  into discreet.”

  “Just us?” She sounded doubtful. “Right now?”

  “Why not? You said you weren’t staying. We could get rid of these disguises.

  And the music.”

  She was silent for a moment. Maybe people in Elkhart, Indiana, did not

  ask one another into discreet unless they had met in Sunday school or the

  4-H Club.

  “Okay,” she said finally, “but I’ll enable. What’s your DI?”

  I gave her my number.

  “Be back in a minute.”

  I cleared Playroom from my screens. The message Enabling Discreet Mode

  flashed. I decided not to change out of the joysuit; instead I called up my

  wardrobe menu and chose an image of myself wearing black baggies. The

  loose folds and padded shoulders helped hide the scrawny little boy’s body.

  The message changed. DISCREET MODE ENABLED. DO YOU ACCEPT, YES/NO?

  “Sure,” I said.

  300

  MR. BOY

  She was sitting naked in the middle of a room filled with tropical plants.

  Her skin was the color of cinnamon. She had freckles on her shoulders and

  across her breasts. Her hair tumbled down the curve of her spine; the ends

  glowed like embers in a breeze. She clutched her legs close to her and gave

  me a curious smile. Teenage still life. We were alone and secure. No one

  could tap us while we were in discreet. We could say anything we wanted.

  I was too croggled to speak.

  “You are a little kid,” she said.

  I did not tell her that what she was watching was an enhanced image, a

  virtual me. “Uh . . . well, not really.” I was glad Stennie could not see me.

  Mr. Boy at a loss—a first. “Sometimes I’m not sure what I am. I guess you’re

  not going to like me either. I’ve been stunted a couple of times. I’m really

  twenty-five years old.”

  She frowned. “You keep deciding I won’t like people. Why?”

  “Most people are against genetic surgery. Probably because they haven’t got

  the money.”

  “Myself, I wouldn’t do it. Still, just because you did doesn’t mean I hate

  you.” She gestured for me to sit. “But my parents would probably be horrified.

  They’re realists, you know.”

  “No fooling?” I could not help but chuckle. “That explains a lot.” Like

  why she had an attitude about twanking. And why she thought VEs were

  dumb. And why she was naked and did not seem to care. According to

  hard-core realists, first came clothes, then jewelry, fashion, makeup, plastic

  surgery, skin tints, and hey, jack! here we are up to our eyeballs in the

  delusions of 2096. Gene twanking, VE addicts, people downloading

  themselves into computers—better never to have started. They wanted to

  turn back to worn-out twentieth-century modes. “But you’re no realist,” I

  said. “Look at your hair.”

  She shook her head and the ends twinkled. “You like it?”

  “It’s extreme. But realists don’t decorate!”

  “Then maybe I’m not a realist. My parents let me try lots of stuff they

  wouldn’t do themselves, like buying hairworks or linking to VEs. They’re

  afraid I’d leave otherwise.”

  “Would you?”

  She shrugged. “So what’s it like to get stunted? I’ve heard it hurts.”

  301

  JAMES PATRICK KELLY

  I told her how sometimes I felt as if there were broken glass in my joints and

  how my bones ached and—more showing off—about the blood I would find

  on the toilet paper. Then I mentioned something about Mom. She had heard

  of Mom, of course. She asked about my dad, and I explained how Mom paid

  him to stay away but that he kept running out of money. She wanted to know

  if I was working or still going to school, and I made up some stuff about

  courses in history I was taking from Yale. Actually I had faded after my first

  semester. Couple of years ago. I did not have time to link to some boring

  college; I was too busy playing with Comrade and Stennie. But I still had an

  account at Yale.

  “So that’s who I am.” I was amazed at how little I had lied. “Who are you?”

  She told me that her name was Treemonisha but her friends called her

  Tree. It was an old family name; her great-great-grandsomething-or-other

  had been a composer named Scott Joplin. Treemonisha was the name of his opera.

  I had to force myself not to stare at her breasts when she talked. “You like

  opera?” I said.

  “My dad says I’ll grow into it.” She made a face. “I hope not.”

  The Joplins were a franchi
se family; her mom and dad had just been

  transferred to the Green Dream, a plant shop in the Elm Street Mall. To hear

  her talk, you would think she had ordered them from the Good Fairy. They

  had been married for twenty-two years and were still together. She had a

  brother, Fidel, who was twelve. They all lived in the greenhouse next to the

  shop where they grew most of their food and where flowers were always in

  bloom and where everybody loved everyone else. Nice life for a bunch of mall

  drones. So why was she thinking of leaving?

  “You should stop by sometime,” she said.

  “Sometime,” I said. “Sure.”

  For hours after we faded, I kept remembering things about her I had not

  realized I had noticed. The fine hair on her legs. The curve of her eyebrows.

  The way her hands moved when she was excited.

  It was Stennie’s fault: after the Playroom party he started going to school

  almost every day. Not just linking to E-class with his comm, but actually

  302

  MR. BOY

  showing up. We knew he had more than remedial reading on his mind, but

  no matter how much we teased, he would not talk about his mysterious new

  cush. Before he fell in love we used to joyride in his Alpha afternoons. Now

  Comrade and I had the car all to ourselves. Not as much fun.

  We had already dropped Stennie off when I spotted Treemonisha waiting

  for the bus. I waved, she came over. The next thing I knew we had another

  passenger on the road to nowhere. Comrade stared vacantly out the

  window as we pulled onto South Street; he did not seem pleased with the

  company.

  “Have you been out to the reservoir?” I said. “There are some extreme

  houses out there. Or we could drive over to Greenwich and look at yachts.”

  “I haven’t been anywhere yet, so I don’t care,” she said. “By the way, you

  don’t go to college.” She was not accusing me or even asking—merely stating

  a fact.

  “Why do you say that?” I said.

  “Fidel told me.”

  I wondered how her twelve-year-old brother could know anything at all

  about me. Rumors maybe, or just guessing. Since she did not seem mad, I

  decided to tell the truth.

  “He’s right,” I said, “I lied. I have an account at Yale, but I haven’t linked

  for months. Hey, you can’t live without telling a few lies. At least I don’t

  discriminate. I’ll lie to anyone, even myself.”

  “You’re bad.” A smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. “So what do

  you do then?”

  “I drive around a lot.” I waved at the interior of Stennie’s car. “Let’s see . .

  . I go to parties. I buy stuff and use it.”

  “Fidel says you’re rich.”

  “I’m going to have to meet this Fidel. Does money make a difference?”

  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.

  303

  JAMES PATRICK KELLY

  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.

  304

  MR. BOY

  By that time the Alpha was heading up High Ridge Road toward Stamford.

  “I’m hungry,” I said. “Stop at the 7-Eleven 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.

  305

  JAMES PATRICK KELLY

  “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-Eleven. 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

  barrida 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