Cyberpunk

by Victoria Blake

  When I saw Happy Lurdane come out of The Happy Hippo, I waved. A

  desperation move, but then it was easy to be brave with a head full of Carefree.

  “Mr. Boy.” She veered over to us. “Hi!”

  I scooted farther down the bench to make room for her between me and

  the gypsy. I knew she would stay to chat. Happy Lurdane was one of those

  chirpy lightweights who seemed to want lots of friends but did not really try

  to be one. We tolerated her because she did not mind being snubbed and she

  threw great parties.

  “Where have you been?” She settled beside me. “Haven’t seen you in ages.”

  The penlight disappeared, and the gypsy fell back into drowsy character.

  “Around.”

  “Want to see what I just bought?”

  I nodded. My heart was hammering.

  She opened the bag and took out a fist-sized bundle covered with shipping

  plastic. She unwrapped a statue of a blue hippopotamus. “Be careful.” She

  handed it to me.

  “Cute.” The hippo had crude flower designs drawn on its body; it was

  chipped and cracked.

  “Ancient Egyptian. That means it’s even before antique.” She pulled a slip from the bag and read. “Twelfth Dynasty, 19911786 BC Can you believe you can just buy something like that here in the mall? I mean, it must be like a

  thousand years old or something.”

  “Try four thousand.”

  “No wonder it cost so much. He wasn’t going to sell it to me, so I had to

  spend some of next month’s allowance.” She took it from me and rewrapped

  it. “It’s for the smash party tomorrow. You’re coming, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  I ignored that.

  “Hey, where’s Comrade? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you two apart before.”

  I decided to take a chance. “Want to get some doboys?”

  “Sure.” She glanced at me with delighted astonishment. “Are you sure

  you’re all right?”

  314

  MR. BOY

  I took her arm, maneuvering to keep her between me and the gypsy. If

  Happy got needled, it would be no great loss to Western Civilization. She

  babbled on about her party as we stepped onto the westbound slidewalk. I

  turned to look back. The gypsy waved as she hopped the eastbound.

  “Look, Happy,” I said, “I’m sorry, but I changed my mind. Later, okay?”

  “But . . .”

  I did not stop for an argument. I darted off the slidewalk and sprinted

  through the mall to the station. I went straight to a ticket window, shoved

  the cash card under the grill, and asked the agent for a one-way to Grand

  Central. Forty thousand people lived in New Canaan; most of them had

  heard of me because of my mom. Nine million strangers jammed New York

  City; it was a good place to disappear. The agent had my ticket in her hand

  when the reader beeped and spat the card out.

  “No!” I slammed my fist on the counter. “Try it again.” The cash card was

  guaranteed by AmEx to be secure. And it had just worked at the drugstore.

  She glanced at the card, then slid it back under the grill. “No use.” The

  denomination readout flashed alternating messages: Voided and Bank Recall.

  “You’ve got trouble, son.”

  She was right. As I left the station, I felt the Carefree struggle one last time with my dread—and lose. I did not even have the money to call home. I

  wandered around for a while, dazed, and then I was standing in front of the

  flower shop in the Elm Street Mall.

  GREEN DREAM

  CONTEMPORARY AND CONVENTIONAL PLANTS

  I had telelinked with Tree every day since our drive, and every day she had

  asked me over. But I was not ready to meet her family; I suppose I was still

  trying to pretend she was not a stiff. I wavered at the door now, breathing the cool scent of damp soil in clay pots. The gypsy could come after me again; I

  might be putting these people in danger. Using Happy as a shield was one

  thing, but I liked Tree. A lot. I backed away and peered through a window

  fringed with sweat and teeming with bizarre plants with flame-colored

  tongues. Someone wearing khaki moved. I could not tell if it was Tree or not.

  I thought of what she had said about no one having adventures in the mall.

  315

  JAMES PATRICK KELLY

  The front of the showroom was a green cave, darker than I had expected.

  Baskets dripping with bright flowers hung like stalactites; leathery-leaved

  understory plants formed stalagmites. As I threaded my way toward the back,

  I came upon the kid I had seen wearing the Green Dream uniform, a khaki

  nightmare of pleats and flaps and brass buttons and about six too many

  pockets. He was misting leaves with a pump bottle filled with blue liquid. I

  decided he must be the brother.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m looking for Treemonisha.”

  Fidel was shorter than me and darker than his sister. He had a wiry plush of

  beautiful black hair that I was immediately tempted to touch.

  “Are you?” He eyed me as if deciding how hard I would be to beat up, then

  he smiled. He had crooked teeth. “You don’t look like yourself.”

  “No?”

  “What are you, scared? You’re whiter than rice, cashman. Don’t worry, the

  stiffs won’t hurt you.” Laughing, he feinted a punch at my arm; I was not reassured.

  “You’re Fidel.”

  “I’ve seen your DI files,” he said. “I asked around, I know about you. So

  don’t be telling my sister any more lies, understand?” He snapped his fingers

  in my face. “Behave yourself, cashman, and we’ll be fine.” He still had the

  boyish excitability I had lost after the first stunting. “She’s out back, so first you have to get by the old man.”

  The rear of the store was brighter; sunlight streamed through the clear

  krylac roof. There was a counter and behind it a glass-doored refrigerator

  filled with cut flowers. A side entrance opened to the greenhouse. Mrs.

  Schlieman, one of Mom’s lawyers who had an office in the mall, was deciding

  what to buy. She was shopping with her wiseguy secretary, who looked like he

  had just stepped out of a vodka ad.

  “Wait.” Fidel rested a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll tell her you’re here.”

  “But how long will they last?” Mrs. Schlieman sniffed a frilly yellow flower.

  “I should probably get the duraroses.”

  “Whatever you want, Mrs. Schlieman. Duraroses are a good product, I sell

  them by the truckload,” said Mr. Joplin with a chuckle. “But these carnations

  are real flowers, raised here in my greenhouse. So maybe you can’t stick them

  in your dishwasher, but put some where people can touch and smell them and

  I guarantee you’ll get compliments.”

  316

  MR. BOY

  “Why, Peter Cage,” said Mrs. Schlieman. “Is that you? I haven’t seen you

  since the picnic. How’s your mother?” She did not introduce her wiseguy.

  “Extreme,” I said.

  She nodded absently. “That’s nice. All right then, Mr. Joplin, give me a

  dozen of your carnations—and two dozen yellow duraroses.”

  Mrs. Schlieman chatted politely at me while Tree’s father wrapped the

  order. He was a short, rumpled, balding man who smiled too much. He

  s
eemed to like wearing the corporate uniform. Anyone else would have fixed

  the hair and the wrinkles. Not Mr. Joplin; he was a museum-quality

  throwback. As he took Mrs. Schlieman’s cash card from the wiseguy, he

  beamed at me over his glasses. Glasses!

  When Mrs. Schlieman left, so did the smile. “Peter Cage?” he said. “Is that

  your name?”

  “Mr. Boy is my name, sir.”

  “You’re Tree’s new friend.” He nodded. “She’s told us about you. She’s

  doing chores just now. You know, we have to work for a living here.”

  Sure, and I knew what he left unsaid: unlike you, you spoiled little freak. It was always the same with these stiffs. I walked in the door and already they

  hated me. At least he was not pretending, like Mrs. Schlieman. I gave him

  two points for honesty and kept my mouth shut.

  “What is it you want here, Peter?”

  “Nothing, sir.” If he was going to “Peter” me, I was going to “sir” him right

  back. “I just stopped by to say hello. Treemonisha did invite me, sir, but if

  you’d rather I left . . .”

  “No, no. Tree warned us you might come.”

  She and Fidel raced into the room as if they were afraid their father and I

  would already be at each other’s throats. “Oh, hi, Mr. Boy,” she said.

  Her father snorted at the sound of my name.

  “Hi.” I grinned at her. It was the easiest thing I had done that day.

  She was wearing her uniform. When she saw that I had noticed, she

  blushed. “Well, you asked for it.” She tugged self-consciously at the waist of

  her fatigues. “You want to come in?”

  “Just a minute.” Mr. Joplin stepped in front of the door, blocking our escape.

  “You finished E-class?”

  “Yes.”

  317

  JAMES PATRICK KELLY

  “Checked the flats?”

  “I’m almost done.”

  “After that you’d better pick some dinner and get it started. Your mama

  called and said she wouldn’t be home until six-fifteen.”

  “Sure.”

  “And you’ll take orders for me on line two?”

  She leaned against the counter and sighed. “Do I have a choice?”

  He backed away and waved us through. “Sorry, sweetheart. I don’t know

  how we would get along without you.” He caught her brother by the shirt.

  “Not you, Fidel. You’re misting, remember?”

  A short tunnel ran from their mall storefront to the rehabbed furniture

  warehouse built over the Amtrak rails. Green Dream had installed a krylac

  roof and fans and a grolighting system; the Joplins squeezed themselves into

  the leftover spaces not filled with inventory. The air in the greenhouse was

  heavy and warm and it smelled like rain. No walls, no privacy other than that

  provided by the plants.

  “Here’s where I sleep.” Tree sat on her unmade bed. Her space was

  formed by a cinder-block wall painted yellow and a screen of palms.

  “Chinese fan, bamboo, lady, date, kentia,” she said, naming them for me

  like they were her pets. “I grow them myself for spending money.” Her

  schoolcomm was on top of her dresser. Several drawers hung open; pink

  skintights trailed from one. Clothes were scattered like piles of leaves

  across the floor. “I guess I’m kind of a slob,” she said as she stripped off the uniform, wadded it, and then banked it off the dresser into the top drawer.

  I could see her bare back in the mirror plastic taped to the wall. “Take your

  things off if you want.”

  I hesitated.

  “Or not. But it’s kind of muggy to stay dressed. You’ll sweat.”

  I unvelcroed my shirt. I did not at all mind seeing Tree without clothes. But

  I did not undress for anyone except the stiffs at the clinic. I stepped out of my pants. Being naked somehow had gotten connected with being helpless. I

  had this puckery feeling in my dick, like it was going to curl up and die. I

  could imagine the gypsy popping out from behind a palm and laughing at me.

  No, I was not going to think about that. Not here.

  “Comfortable?” said Tree.

  318

  MR. BOY

  “Sure.” My voice was turning to dust in my throat. “Do all Green Dream

  employees run around the back room in the nude?”

  “I doubt it.” She smiled as if the thought tickled her. “We’re not exactly

  your average mall drones. Come help me finish the chores.”

  I was glad to let her lead so that she was not looking at me, although I

  could still watch her. I was fascinated by the sweep of her buttocks, the curve of her spine. She strolled, flat-footed and at ease, through her private jungle.

  At first I scuttled along on the balls of my feet, ready to dart behind a plant if anyone came. But after a while I decided to stop being so skittish. I realized I would probably survive being naked.

  Tree stopped in front of a workbench covered with potted seedlings in

  plastic trays and picked up a hose from the floor.

  “What’s this stuff?” I kept to the opposite side of the bench, using it to

  cover myself.

  “Greens.” She lifted a seedling to check the water level in the tray beneath.

  “What are greens?”

  “It’s too boring.” She squirted some water in and replaced the seedling.

  “Tell me, I’m interested.”

  “In greens? You liar.” She glanced at me and shook her head. “Okay.” She

  pointed as she said the names. “Lettuce, spinach, bok choi, chard, kale,

  rocket—got that? And a few tomatoes over there. Peppers, too. GD is trying

  to break into the food business. They think people will grow more of their

  own if they find out how easy it is.”

  “Is it?”

  “Greens are.” She inspected the next tray. “Just add water.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “It’s because they’ve been photosynthetically enhanced. Bigger leaves

  arranged better, low respiration rates. They teach us this stuff at GD Family

  Camp. It’s what we do instead of vacation.” She squashed something between

  her thumb and forefinger. “They mix all these bacteria that make their own

  fertilizer into the soil—fix nitrogen right out of the air. And then there’s this other stuff that sticks to the roots, rhizobacteria and mycorrhizae.” She

  finished the last tray and coiled the hose. “These flats will produce under

  candlelight in a closet. Bored yet?”

  “How do they taste?”

  319

  JAMES PATRICK KELLY

  “Pretty bland, most of them. Some stink, like kale and rocket. But we have

  to eat them for the good of the corporation.” She stuck her tongue out. “You

  want to stay for dinner?”

  Mrs. Joplin made me call home before she would feed me; she refused to

  understand that my mom did not care. So I linked, asked Mom to send a car

  to the back door at 8:30, and faded. No time to discuss the missing sixteen

  thousand.

  Dinner was from the cookbook Tree had been issued at camp: a bowl of

  cold bean soup, fresh cornbread, and chard and cheese loaf. She let me

  help her make it, even though I had never cooked before. I was amazed at

  how simple cornbread was. Six ingredients: flour, cornmeal, baking powder,

  milk, oil, and ovobinder. Mix and pour into a greased pan. Bake twenty

  minutes at 220°C and serve! There is n
othing magic or even very mysterious

  about homemade cornbread, except for the way its smell held me

  spellbound.

  Supper was the Joplins’ daily meal together. They ate in front of security

  windows near the tunnel to the store; when a customer came, someone ran

  out front. According to contract, they had to stay open twenty-four hours

  a day. Many of the suburban malls had gone to all-night operation; the

  competition from New York City was deadly. Mr. Joplin stood duty most of

  the time, but since they were a franchise family everybody took turns. Even

  Mrs. Joplin, who also worked part-time as a factfinder at the mall’s

  DataStop.

  Tree’s mother was plump and graying, and she had a smile that was almost

  bright enough to distract me from her naked body. She seemed harmless,

  except that she knew how to ask questions. After all, her job was finding

  out stuff for DataStop customers. She had this way of locking onto you as

  you talked; the longer the conversation, the greater her intensity. It was

  hard to lie to her. Normally that kind of aggressiveness in grown-ups made

  me jumpy.

  No doubt she had run a search on me; I wondered just what she had

  turned up. Factfinders had to obey the law, so they only accessed public-

  domain information—unlike Comrade, who would cheerfully operate on

  whatever I set him to. The Joplins’ bank records, for instance. I knew that

  Mrs. Joplin had made about $11,000 last year at the Infomat in the Elkhart

  320

  MR. BOY

  Mall, that the family borrowed $135,000 at 9.78 percent interest to move

  to their new franchise, and that they lost $213 in their first two months in

  New Canaan.

  I kept my research a secret, of course, and they acted innocent too. I let

  them pump me about Mom as we ate. I was used to being asked; after all,

  Mom was famous. Fidel wanted to know how much it had cost her to get

  twanked, how big she was, what she looked like on the inside and what she

  ate, if she got cold in the winter. Stuff like that. The others asked more

  personal questions. Tree wondered if Mom ever got lonely and whether

  she was going to be the Statue of Liberty for the rest of her life. Mrs. Joplin was interested in Mom’s remotes, of all things. Which ones I got along

  with, which ones I could not stand, whether I thought any of them was

  really her. Mr. Joplin asked if she liked being what she was. How was I