Cyberpunk

by Victoria Blake

  The Lurdanes had enclosed the paths in clear tubes and commuted in a golf

  cart. Stennie told his Alpha not to wait, since the lot was already full and cars were parked well down the driveway. Five of us squeezed out of the car: me,

  Tree, Comrade, Stennie, and Janet Hoyt. Janet wore a Yankees jersey over

  pinstriped shorts, Tree was a little overdressed in her silver jaunts, I had on baggies padded to make me seem bigger, and Comrade wore his usual window

  coat. Stennie lugged a box with his swag for the party.

  Freddy the Teddy let us in. “Stennie and Mr. Boy!” He reared back on his

  hindquarters and roared. “Glad I’m not going to be the only beastie here. Hi,

  328

  MR. BOY

  Janet. Hi, I’m Freddy,” he said to Tree. His pink tongue lolled. “Come in, this way. Fun starts right here. Some kids are swimming, and there’s sex in the

  guest house. Everybody else is with Happy having lunch in the sculpture

  gallery.”

  The interior of the Glass House was bright and hard. Dark woodblock floor,

  some unfriendly furniture, huge panes of glass framed in black-painted steel.

  The few kids in the kitchen were passing an inhaler around and watching a

  microwave fill up with popcorn.

  “I’m hot.” Janet stuck the inhaler into her face and pressed. “Anybody want

  to swim? Tree?”

  “Okay.” Tree breathed in a polite dose and breathed out a giggle. “You?”

  she asked me.

  “I don’t think so.” I was too nervous: I kept expecting someone to jump out

  and throw a net over me. “I’ll watch.”

  “I’d swim with you,” said Stennie, “but I promised Happy I’d bring her

  these party favors as soon as I arrived.” He nudged the box with his foot.

  “Can you wait a few minutes?”

  “Comrade and I will take them over.” I grabbed the box and headed for the

  door, glad for the excuse to leave Tree behind while I went to find Montross.

  “Meet you at the pool.”

  The golf cart was gone, so we walked through the tube toward the sculpture

  gallery. “You have the picture?” I said.

  Comrade patted the pocket of his window coat.

  The tube was not air-conditioned, and the afternoon sun pounded us

  through the optical plastic. There was no sound inside; even our footsteps

  were swallowed by the AstroTurf. The box got heavier. We passed the

  entrance to the old painting gallery, which looked like a bomb shelter.

  Finally I had to break the silence. “I feel strange, being here,” I said. “Not

  just because of the thing with Montross. I really think I lost myself last time I got stunted. Not sure who I am anymore, but I don’t think I belong with

  these kids.”

  “People change, tovarisch,” said Comrade. “Even you.”

  “Have I changed?”

  He smiled. “Now that you’ve got a cush, your own mother wouldn’t

  recognize you.”

  329

  JAMES PATRICK KELLY

  “You know what your problem is?” I grinned and bumped up against him on

  purpose. “You’re jealous of Tree.”

  “Shouldn’t I be?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I can’t tell if Tree likes who I was or who I might be. She’s changing, too. She’s so hot to break away from her parents, become part of this town. Except that what she’s headed for probably isn’t worth the trip. I feel like I should protect her, but that means guarding her from people like me, except

  I don’t think I’m Mom’s Mr. Boy anymore. Does that make sense?”

  “Sure.” He gazed straight ahead, but all the heads on his window coat were

  scoping me. “Maybe when you’re finished changing, you won’t need me.”

  The thought had occurred to me. For years he had been the only one I

  could talk to, but as we closed on the gallery, I did not know what to say. I

  shook my head. “I just feel strange.”

  And then we arrived. The sculpture gallery was designed for show-offs:

  short flights of steps and a series of stagy balconies descended around the

  white-brick exterior walls to the central exhibition area. The space was

  open so you could chat with your little knot of friends and, at the same

  time, spy on everyone else. About thirty kids were eating pizza and Crispix

  off paper plates. At the bottom of the stairs, as advertised, was a black

  upright piano. Piled beside it was the rest of the swag. A Boston rocker, a

  case of green Coke bottles, a Virgin Mary in half a blue bathtub, a huge

  conch shell, china and crystal and assorted smaller treasures, including a

  four-thousand-year-old ceramic hippo. There were real animals too, in

  cages near the gun rack: a turkey, some stray dogs and cats, turtles, frogs,

  assorted rodents.

  I was threading my way across the first balcony when I was stopped by the

  Japanese reporter, who was wearing microcam eyes.

  “Excuse me, please,” he said, “I am Matsuo Shikibu, and I will be recording

  this event today for Nippon Hoso Kyokai. Public telelink of Japan.” He smiled

  and bowed. When his head came up, the red light between his lenses was on.

  “You are . . . ?”

  “Raskolnikov,” said Comrade, edging between me and the camera.

  “Rodeo Raskolnikov.” He took Shikibu’s hand and pumped it. “And my

  associate here, Mr. Peter Pan.” He turned as if to introduce me, but we had

  long since choreographed this dodge. As I sidestepped past, he kept

  330

  MR. BOY

  shielding me from the reporter with his body. “We’re friends of the bride,”

  Comrade said, “and we’re really excited to be making new friends in your

  country. Banzai, Nippon!”

  I slipped by them and scooted downstairs. Happy was basking by the piano;

  she spotted me as I reached the middle landing.

  “Mr. Boy!” It was not so much a greeting as an announcement. She was wearing

  a body mike, and her voice boomed over the sound system. “You made it.”

  The stream of conversation rippled momentarily, a few heads turned, and

  then the party flowed on. Shikibu rushed to the edge of the upper balcony

  and caught me with a long shot.

  I set the box on the Steinway. “Stennie brought this.”

  She opened it eagerly. “Look, everyone!” She held up a stack of square

  cardboard albums, about thirty centimeters on a side. There were pictures of

  musicians on the front, words on the back. “What are they?” she asked me.

  “Phonograph records,” said the kid next to Happy. “It’s how they used to

  play music before digital.”

  “Erroll Garner, Soliloquy,” she read aloud. “What’s this? D-j-a-n-g-o

  Reinhardt and the American Jazz Giants. Sounds scary.” She giggled as she

  pawed quickly through the other albums. Handy, Ellington, Hawkins, Parker,

  three Armstrongs. One was Piano Rags by Scott Joplin. Stennie’s bent idea of a joke? Maybe the lizard was smarter than he looked. Happy pulled a black

  plastic record out of one sleeve and scratched a fingernail across little ridges.

  “Oh, a nonslip surface.”

  The party had a limited attention span. When she realized she had lost her

  audience, she shut off the mike and put the box with the rest of the swag. “We

  have to start at four, no matter what. There’s so much stuff.” The kid who

  knew about records wormed into our conversation;
Happy put her hand on his

  shoulder. “Mr. Boy, do you know my friend Weldon?” she said. “He’s new.”

  Montross grinned. “We met on Playroom.”

  “Where is Stennie, anyway?” said Happy.

  “Swimming,” I said. Montross appeared to be in his late teens. Bigger

  than me—everyone was bigger than me. He wore green shorts and a window

  shirt of surfers at Waimea. He looked like everybody; there was nothing

  about him to remember. I considered bashing the smirk off his face, but it

  was a bad idea. If he was software, he could not feel anything and I would

  331

  JAMES PATRICK KELLY

  probably break my hand on his temporary chassis. “Got to go. I promised

  Stennie I’d meet him back at the pool. Hey, Weldon, want to tag along?”

  “You come right back,” said Happy. “We’re starting at four. Tell everyone.”

  We avoided the tube and cut across the lawn for privacy. Comrade handed

  Montross the envelope. He slid the photograph out, and I had one last

  glimpse. This time the dead man left me cold. In fact, I was embarrassed.

  Although he kept a straight face, I knew what Montross was thinking about

  me. Maybe he was right. I wished he would put the picture away. He was not

  one of us; he could not understand. I wondered if Tree had come far enough

  yet to appreciate corpse porn.

  “It’s the only copy,” Comrade said.

  “All right.” Finally Montross crammed it into the pocket of his shorts.

  “You tapped our files; you know it’s true.”

  “So?”

  “So enough!” I said. “You have what you wanted.”

  “I’ve already explained.” Montross was being patient. “Getting this back

  doesn’t close the case. I have to take preventive measures.”

  “Meaning you turn Comrade into a carrot.”

  “Meaning I repair him. You’re the one who took him to the chop shop.

  Deregulated wiseguys are dangerous. Maybe not to you, but certainly to

  property and probably to other people. It’s a straightforward procedure. He’ll

  be fully functional afterward.”

  “Plug your procedure, jack. We’re leaving.”

  Both wiseguys stopped. “I thought you agreed,” said Montross.

  “Let’s go, Comrade.” I grabbed his arm, but he shook me off.

  “Where?” he said.

  “Anywhere! Just so I never have to listen to this again.” I pulled again,

  angry at Comrade for stalling. Your wiseguy is supposed to anticipate your

  needs, do whatever you want.

  “But we haven’t even tried to—”

  “Forget it then. I give up.” I pushed him toward Montross. “You want to

  chat, fine, go right ahead. Let him rip the top of your head off while you’re at it, but I’m not sticking around to watch.”

  332

  MR. BOY

  I checked the pool, but Tree, Stennie, and Janet had already gone. I went

  through the Glass House and caught up with them in the tube to the sculpture

  gallery.

  “Can I talk to you?” I put my arm around Tree’s waist, just like I had seen

  grown-ups do. “In private.” I could tell she was annoyed to be separated from

  Janet. “We’ll catch up.” I waved Stennie on. “See you over there.”

  She waited until they were gone. “What?” Her hair, slick from swimming,

  left dark spots where it brushed her silver jaunts.

  “I want to leave. We’ll call my mom’s car.” She did not look happy. “I’ll take

  you anywhere you want to go.”

  “But we just got here. Give it a chance.”

  “I’ve been to too many of these things.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have come.”

  Silence. I wanted to tell her about Montross—everything—but not here.

  Anyone could come along and the tube was so hot. I was desperate to get her

  away, so I lied. “Believe me, you’re not going to like this. I know.” I tugged at her waist. “Sometimes even I think smash parties are too much.”

  “We’ve had this discussion before,” she said. “Obviously you weren’t

  listening. I don’t need you to decide for me whether I’m going to like

  something, Mr. Boy. I have two parents too many; I don’t need another.” She

  stepped away from me. “Hey, I’m sorry if you’re having a bad time. But do you

  really need to spoil it for me?” She turned and strode down the tube toward

  the gallery, her beautiful hair slapping against her back. I watched her go.

  “But I’m in trouble,” I muttered to the empty tube—and then was disgusted

  with myself because I did not have the guts to say it to Tree. I was too scared she would not care. I stood there, sweating. For a moment the stink of doubt

  filled my nostrils. Then I followed her in. I could not abandon her to the

  extremists.

  The gallery was jammed now; maybe a hundred kids swarmed across the

  balconies and down the stairs. Some perched along the edges, their feet

  scuffing the white brick. Happy had turned up the volume.

  “. . . according to Guinness, was set at the University of Oklahoma in

  Norman, Oklahoma, in 2012. Three minutes and fourteen seconds.” The

  crowd rumbled in disbelief. “The challenge states each piece must be small

  enough to pass through a hole thirty centimeters in diameter.”

  333

  JAMES PATRICK KELLY

  I worked my way to an opening beside a rubber tree. Happy posed on the

  keyboard of the piano. Freddy the Teddy and the gorilla brothers, Mike and

  Bubba, lined up beside her. “No mechanical tools are allowed.” She gestured

  at an armory of axes, sledgehammers, spikes, and crowbars laid out on the

  floor. A paper plate spun across the room. I could not see Tree.

  “This piano is over two hundred years old,” Happy continued, “which

  means the white keys are ivory.” She plunked a note. “Dead elephants!”

  Everybody heaved a sympathetic aumrw. “The blacks are ebony, hacked from the rain forest.” Another note, less reaction. “It deserves to die.”

  Applause. Comrade and I spotted each other at almost the same time. He

  and Montross stood toward the rear of the lower balcony. He gestured for me

  to come down; I ignored him.

  “Do you boys have anything to say?” Happy said.

  “Yeah.” Freddy hefted an ax. “Let’s make landfill.”

  I ducked around the rubber tree and heard the crack of splitting wood, the iron groan of a piano frame yielding its last music. The spectators hooted

  approval. As I bumped past kids, searching for Tree, the instrument’s death

  cry made me think of taking a hammer to Montross. If fights broke out, no

  one would care if Comrade and I dragged him outside. I wanted to beat him

  until he shuddered and came unstrung and his works glinted in the thudding

  August light. It would make me feel extreme again. Crunch! Kids shrieked,

  “Go, go, go!” The party was lifting off and taking me with it.

  “You are Mr. Boy Cage.” Abruptly Shikibu’s microcam eyes were in my

  face. “We know your famous mother.” He had to shout to be heard. “I have a

  question.”

  “Go away.”

  “Thirty seconds.” A girl’s voice boomed over the speakers.

  “US and Japan are very different, yes?” He pressed closer. “We honor

  ancestors, our past. You seem to hate so much.” He gestured at the gallery.

>   “Why?”

  “Maybe we’re spoiled.” I barged past him.

  I saw Freddy swing a sledgehammer at the exposed frame. Clang! A chunk of twisted iron clattered across the brick floor, trailing broken strings. Happy scooped the mess up and shoved it through a thirty-centimeter hole drilled

  in an upright sheet of particle board.

  334

  MR. BOY

  The timekeeper called out again. “One minute.” I had come far enough

  around the curve of the stairs to see her.

  “Treemonisha!”

  She glanced up, her face alight with pleasure, and waved. I was frightened

  for her. She was climbing into the same box I needed to break out of. So I

  rushed down the stairs to rescue her—little boy knight in shining armor—

  and ran right into Comrade’s arms.

  “I’ve decided,” he said. “Mnye vcyaw ostoyeblo.”

  “Great.” I had to get to Tree. “Later, okay?” When I tried to go by, he

  picked me up. I started thrashing. It was the first fight of the afternoon and I lost. He carried me over to Montross. The gallery was in an uproar.

  “All set,” said Montross. “I’ll have to borrow him for a while. I’ll drop him

  off tonight at your mom. Then we’re done.”

  “Done?” I kept trying to get free, but Comrade crushed me against him.

  “It’s what you want.” His body was so hard. “And what your mom wants.”

  “Mom? She doesn’t even know.”

  “She knows everything,” Comrade said. “She watches you constantly.

  What else does she have to do all day?” He let me go. “Remember you said I

  was sloppy getting the picture? I wasn’t; it was a clean operation. Only

  someone tipped Datasafe off.”

  “But she promised. Besides, that makes no—”

  “Two minutes,” Tree called.

  “. . . But he threatened me,” I said. “He was going to blow me up. Needle

  me in the mall.”

  “We wouldn’t do that.” Montross spread his hands innocently. “It’s against

  the law.”

  “Yeah? Well, then, drop dead, jack.” I poked a finger at him. “Deal’s off.”

  “No, it’s not,” said Comrade. “It’s too late. This isn’t about the picture

  anymore, Mr. Boy; it’s about you. You weren’t supposed to change, but you

  did. Maybe they botched the last stunting, maybe it’s Treemonisha. Whatever,

  you’ve outgrown me, the way I am now. So I have to change too, or else I’ll