Dreambox Junkies

by Richard Laymon

  For if there was any hope at all of salvation, it resided with his ex-wife.

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  * * *

  Chapter 19

  Sitting alone by the pool, a sheet of smartpape on her lap, Frances Rayle replayed the securicam recording yet again. She hadn't even known such things were possible till Xabier had suggested it and shown her how to use the technology. The image seeped onto the paper and she watched herself collapse, moan, writhe, be rescued by Xabier, declaim at the heavens and, finally, faint a second time. She might have been auditioning for RADA.

  It was eerie, not remembering.

  The camera had also caught Paulie. With her fingertip, Frances ringed his haunted, strained face to bring him up close. And there was Processia, standing behind him, eyes wide with alarm, her pallid skin and deep-black bangs putting one in mind of a Noh player.

  Displaying images from other cameras, Frances finally found one that revealed Ruth, looking down over the balustrade. Frances knew that her outburst had appeared to be directed at the poor girl, who must have been brought from her room by the commotion. An unfortunate coincidence, obviously—doubly wretched in that it would do little to allay the suspicion, the hostility Ruth so clearly harboured toward her. What a bad start.

  And what a shock Paulie's appearance had been. He looked so wasted. And now, she knew why: he had been using a Dreambox. Not as an escape, he had hastened to explain—without really explaining at all, or even really wanting to, and Frances knew him sufficiently well as to be unable to believe that Paulie would retreat into fantasy at whatever cost to Ruth and little Kali. Yet, when it came to the question of why, precisely, he spent so much of his time dreaming dreams, Paulie was vague, abashed, evasive to the point of incoherence. The word ‘ontotech’ was repeatedly uttered with a strange obsessive dread. His theory that this word, and not, as had been thought, ‘undertake,’ was the last word spoken by those other AS sufferers was, undeniably, an intriguing one. And when Frances had replayed the securicam recording of her own response to his utterance of the word, it was startlingly clear that this ontotech did appear to be of significance to her when under the spell of Angel Syndrome. But for the moment, these things were occluded. The Feeling came and went. There were answers, Frances felt sure. That was why Paulie's presence was so necessary. He was in some strange fashion implicated; this much she could now clearly see. From what she could gather, Paulie was troubled by suspicions that this world was in some sense a false world. The old Frances Rayle would have dismissed such fancies out of hand, even taken them as symptoms of nervous collapse. But now, in time, all would be known. They would just have to be patient.

  And meanwhile, Ruth's world would seem to be succumbing to creeping insanity. But Ruth was strong.

  Stronger than me, Frances thought.

  How curious that Paulie had chosen, or had fallen for, such a radically different type of person. Inelegant. Incongruent, psychotrichologically. A carbon-copy Frances Rayle would have been—better or worse? Do I detect, Frances asked herself sternly, a twinge of jealousy, even after all these years? Why does the angel within me allow this? Here I am, on the cusp of transcendence, slowly severing links with the lowly human realm, yet still not delivered from the pettiest emotional afflictions.

  The smartpape picture had blurred; she felt tears on her face. Wiping them away, she ended the playback. The current securicam image reappeared, then automatically cut to a second live camera, then a third, all swooping through their graceful, vigilant arcs. It was an intrusive device, and Frances resolved, there and then, to have it deactivated, removed.

  But really, what did it matter?

  Soon, nothing would matter.

  The camera swept past the guest rooms, one at a time. Alongside each door was a dainty little curtained window. All of the curtains were imperfectly drawn. Through one of the gaps Frances happened to catch a flicker of movement and, before it had gone, some impulse made her ring the spot. Immediately, the camera halted, backtracked and zoomed in until the sliver of guest room visible between the curtains filled the smartpape.

  Two people, half-undressed, tightly entwined, were making love on the bed. Kneeling, pressed hard together, holding, hugging, kissing with the enormous, fierce passion of the end of the world. And then the two of them, Paulie and Ruth, fell out of sight, away from prying eyes.

  Or had she dreamt it? Frances did not play back the recording to check. Instead, she crumpled the smartpape.

  * * * *

  Babies. Sesha peered into the pram pushed by the woman beside her as they crossed the road. How lovely, she thought. How wonderful, how beautiful they are. And what will my own baby be like? How shall I edit the genestory? Should I push toward pulchritude, athletic prowess, intellect? Or should I go for the standard, general push? Biggest question of all: girl or boy, which will I choose?

  It had descended upon her so suddenly, this simple realization of what she was about, what life was all about.

  She stopped to look in a shop window. Dear little pink and yellow baby dresses, the sweetest all-in-one sleepsuits, newborn-size cardigans, so incredibly tiny.

  She thought, A man would come in handy.

  The idea of purchasing McSperm and going it alone, although it was certainly not something to be completely ruled out, was no more than a last resort. The funny thing was, the sexual act itself felt so utterly necessary, indispensable; she was aching for it all of a sudden, even after what had happened in the verticar over East Anglia, when she and Paul Rayle had been compelled, by some strange force outside of themselves, to—

  Sesha found herself drooling at one gorgeous guy after another. There were so many of them, so many who could father her child.

  And then she remembered what Frances had said, “Xabier would be happy to give you a massage."

  Sesha hurried back to the house, her mobe guiding her through the maze of twisting little streets. It was two in the afternoon; would Xabier be having his siesta? Would she have to wait? It was so hard to wait.

  She ran across the garden court and up the steps. Just as she reached her landing, Paul Rayle and Ruth emerged from their room. Paul Rayle was holding their baby.

  Sesha smiled at the baby. The baby stared back at her, as if not quite knowing what to make of the smile.

  “Hi,” she said to Paul Rayle and Ruth. “Are you going out for a walk? It's gorg out there.” To Ruth, he said, “Do you think I could just ... hold her for a moment? I'm sorry, I've forgotten her name?"

  “Kali.” Ruth regarded her with a mixture of surprise and suspicion.

  Paul Rayle held out the lovely little baby. Sesha took her. It was heavenly, like nothing she had experienced, holding this tiny lovely warm thing in her arms.

  “She's beautiful,” Sesha told the parents. The proud parents. All parents were proud. How could they not be proud?

  In her room, Sesha took a shower. She put her hands to her stomach. How would it feel, the ripe, distended belly? She would put on a really atrocious amount of weight, but that could hardly be avoided. She tried to imagine the kick, the first kick from inside.

  Wrapped in a towel, Sesha sat down on the bed and wondered how long to give Xabier. She had been liberal with the body spray, but still felt sweaty. Would he be put off? Should she take another shower?

  Folic acid, she thought. I must start taking folic acid.

  And then she remembered the Bubu Flumpkin, hidden in her travel bag. She took out the lovely little purple cutie sweet thing and cuddled him.

  She could wait no longer. She asked her mobe to summon Xabier.

  “He's on his way.” Her mobe's voice, the sexy voice of Janko Brauch. Had the mobe been humanoid she would have jumped its alloy bones.

  Kicking her heel against the bed in impatience, Sesha waited for the knock at the door. If Xabier, for some reason, proved a flop, Paul Rayle would just have to stand in for him, just as long as she could get him free of Ruth for long enough...

&n
bsp; Xabier knocked.

  Clutching the towel to her breast with studied carelessness, Sesha invited him in.

  “Senorita Processia?"

  His eyes had flicked over her, up and down. He was interested; the poor chump couldn't help himself. Allowing the towel to slip a little, giving him even more to feast his eyes upon, Sesha asked, “Would it be at all possible for me to have a massage?"

  “Of course. There are some ... things that are needed. One moment, please."

  While Xabier fetched his stuff, Sesha lifted the towel and looked again at her belly. Its flatness filled her with shame. How could she, for so long, have neglected her primary purpose? Work? What was work? Career? It all meant nothing.

  She asked her mobe, “What else should I be taking, as well as folic acid, for a healthy baby? What are the latest recommendations? Is there anything I should stop doing, or eating or drinking or ... Apart from alcohol, I know about alc..."

  “Sesha, listen carefully ... have you taken your maternosuppressor?"

  The mobe's voice was loud and sharp, but still pure sex oozing out of a speaker.

  “No, and not taking the frucking thing's the best frucking thing I've ever done."

  The little brown bottle of one-a-day tablets, evilly concocted to kill her natural desire to conceive, stood there on the bedside table. Sesha reached out and grabbed it; the only place for those terrible things, the world's most ugly invention, was down the toilet. And even that was too good for them. What a selfish stupe she was for ever even thinking of taking—

  Sesha's mobe fired its emergency microdart into her left upper arm.

  By the time Xabier returned, the ultrafast-acting hormone-stabilizer had done its work to the extent that Sesha had put on some clothes and was no longer finding the Bubu Flumpkin quite so killingly cute. She thanked her mobe for saving the day.

  Xabier knocked. “Senorita?"

  “Would it be okay if I left it for another time, Xabier?” Sesha spoke through the closed door. Even though disaster had now been averted, she felt too embarrassed to face him. “Sorry about putting you to all this trouble, but I just..."

  “No trouble."

  “Thank you, Xabier. I really appreciate your patience."

  She heard him go, the poor guy. Well, maybe later. But right at the moment—Sesha hugged herself—the very thought of being touched by anyone was anathema.

  It had happened once before; twice, now, the mobe had rescued her from madness with a microdart. The first time, she had been planning to pay a bedboy not to take any precautions. It was worse than being drunk. Were it to happen again, she might not be so lucky. She had been foolish, instructing the mobe not to keep on reminding her every day as a matter of course; she'd got tired of having it nag at her. Well, from now on, it would be nag city. Either that or she would have to switch to a maternosuppressing dermaplant and put up with the significantly higher risk of nasty side-effects.

  Babies. Nice to hold for a while, so long as there was always someone around to take them back once they started crying, or messed themselves, or puked on you.

  Sesha couldn't believe it, the way she had acted. It was hilarious, really, but somehow she just couldn't laugh. She thought, What a grotesque way to be living your life.

  Then up it came; Sesha staggered to the bathroom to be sick. In expectation of the nausea, the vomiting her mobe had warned her would occur, she had held off from backing up the microdart with her daily maternosuppressor pill, the one she should have taken that morning.

  Again, she thanked the mobe for its prompt action.

  “That's what I'm here for ... And could I just be boring for a moment and point out that this feature option can only be found on the new Hitachi mobe range, Generation Six ... Oh, and Sesh, I've just today received news that in around two to three months you can expect Generation Seven, with even more neat new features, such as SalivAnalysis: after the first kiss choose a discreet moment, press the sensor pad to your lips and find out then and there whether the guy or girl has anything you would NOT like to catch ... need I elaborate? Works with all human bodily fluids, animal module available on request. So what d'you say, Sesh, shall I place an order?"

  Sesha took her tablet. “Oh ... go on, then."

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  * * *

  Chapter 20

  Frances wore small round dark glasses which, Paulie thought, made her look famous. Yet the few people around paid no more attention to his ex-wife than they did to him, or to Ruth. If anyone, it was Kali who was noticed and, invariably, smiled at, dangling there in her sling like a little lost paratrooper as they wandered among the trees of the Parque de Maria Luisa. In fact so fetching must Kali have appeared to all comers that even Sesha Roffey, back at the house, had come over broody, begging to hold the baby, stepping weirdly out of character.

  Frances would have looked more stellar still accompanied by a retinue. But, typically, she had eschewed the close and constant presence of a medical attendant or even a bodyguard; although her man, Felipe, not quite so fine-featured as Xabier, and a little older, was waiting back at the car, and could doubtless be at her side in a matter of seconds. Paulie wondered whether Felipe packed a gun. Armed guards, whole private squads, were said to be all the rage among those with serious money. It still seemed to Paulie completely bizarre, Frances having been elevated to that stratum. At least, he thought, she'd had the wisdom to join the ranks of the Great Invisibles, low-profilers with the clout to keep themselves out of the news.

  To Frances, Ruth said, “I bet you don't miss February in England?"

  Paulie's heart went out to her, doing her part in staving off an awkward silence. They were having a hard time of it, both women, maintaining this conversation of fits and starts.

  “English weather's so ... schizoid.” Frances forked back her hair. “I was born in England but I'm not sure I ever really felt at home there.” She stroked Kali's nose. “Would you like me to take the baby for a while? I expect she's pretty heavy, and you must be getting hot as well as tired?"

  “No, no, I'm all right, thanks. Really."

  “You look a little overheated, that's all."

  Ruth shook her head. “I'm okay."

  Frances grimaced. “Oh dear, I wasn't thinking, was I? I suppose it wouldn't be safe, what with my penchant for collapsing."

  “I'll take her,” Paulie offered.

  Ruth shook her head again, and didn't look at him, fixed her eyes on the ground, and Paulie could tell that she was getting pissed off.

  “Shall we sit down?” Frances suggested.

  They went across to a bench.

  “I think you're both very courageous,” Frances told them. “Having children has become such a ... One finds oneself confronted by a horrifying number of complex decisions, when in the old days..."

  Paulie said, “It's still the old days for most people in the world. Not everyone has the chance to mess about with genes."

  “No,” Frances agreed. “But I could have helped you. I could still help you."

  Paulie saw Ruth stiffen.

  He said, “We're fine as we are."

  “And Kali? You've thought of Kali? What of her future?"

  Ruth stood up sharply, holding onto Kali to steady her. “I didn't want this. I never came here for this.” She said it without looking at either of them, and having spoken, she walked quickly away from them, down the path, into the trees.

  “I'm sorry,” Frances murmured. More loudly, she said, “I'm sorry, Ruth. I didn't mean to offend you."

  Paulie said, “Well she's right, we didn't come here for this."

  He got up and hurried after Ruth. Why, he wondered, did I myself not feel offended? Should I have been? Do I lack sensitivity, self-respect if I am in any way prepared to entertain the notion of Frances's helping us out?

  He caught up with her.

  “Ruth, are you okay?"

  She kept walking.

  “Ruth hold on a minute."


  “She should keep her fucking nose out. I might've known this was what it was really all about. Go back to her, if that's what you want. She's after not just you but Kali as well, isn't she? My God."

  “No, it's not that, it's not that at all."

  “Then why's she saying all that shit about Kali?"

  “Frances isn't perfect, any more than any of us."

  Ruth turned away from him, headed off between the trees, across the sand and scrubby grass.

  “Look Ruth, come back, come on."

  “Fuck off."

  “Ruth!” Frances, panting a little, reached his side. “Ruth I'm sorry."

  Ruth ignored her.

  “Thanks a lot,” said Paulie bitterly.

  With confidence, Frances said, “She'll have to come back."

  “You don't know Ruth.” He began to walk after her, Frances grimly keeping pace.

  “She's very proud.” Frances sidestepped some dog crap. “She's already made up her mind about me, hasn't she?"

  “I was hoping the two of you would be able to get on."

  “When all that we have in common is you?"

  It was farcical. The world was almost certainly subreal, a copy run off from the Actual, and here they were, not real, true people at all but humiliants, wrestling away, nervertheless, with these age-old everyday problems.

  “Are you trying to ruin things for us, or what?” Paulie wondered if he ought to have been angry; what he felt was more like melancholia. “I came here because I was told it might be good for you psychologically, in terms of your health. I couldn't see it, myself, but ... but Ruth insisted I should. So you have Ruth, not me, to thank for my being here in the first place."

  “You love her very much, don't you?"

  “What do you think?"

  “I think I can see what you see in her."

  “Well, can't you put yourself in Ruth's position, then?"

  “You imagine I haven't done that?"

  “Are you capable of doing that?"