by Stanley Bing
“Mrs. Liebowitz will be in charge,” said Liv in a tone that implied it would be unwise for anyone to get on the wrong side of Mrs. Liebowitz. The children seemed to accept this as something not at all out of the ordinary. “Come on, Gene,” said Liv, taking him by the elbow. “Let’s get out of here. And keep your hat on.”
And so they went. Gene didn’t really care where. He felt safe for the first time he could remember. True, that wasn’t saying much, but, still, it was a relief. The sound of the drones had faded. Yes, he would go with Livia wherever it was she wanted to take him.
On the ride back to Liv’s apartment, Gene tried to ask her a number of clarifying questions, but she wasn’t talking much. They certainly had plenty of time—the top speed of the self-driving minibus was fifteen miles per hour—but after a while, Gene gave up and simply sat in silence, content to do his best to appear as inconspicuous as possible with a shiny metal dunce cap on his head. It wasn’t easy. The leather strap holding it in place wasn’t exactly a comfortable fit and was digging into his chin.
For her part, now that they were alone together, Liv seemed a bit reserved. Gene didn’t remember what he might have done to offend her in some previous incarnation. He figured he would eventually find out, although he wasn’t really looking forward to it. Also, he was getting hungry and hoped that whatever prior relationship they had established involved eating something together in relative amity. He certainly didn’t want to fight with anybody.
“We’re here,” said Liv. She took his hand, and they descended from the vehicle.
The apartment building was a white four-story block with four big windows on each floor. Its lack of distinguishing characteristics seemed to be an architectural decision. A uniformed android in the lobby was there to provide security.
“Hello, Henry,” said Liv to the guard. “You remember Gene.” And sure enough, the thing called Henry actually did. It nodded to him.
“Good day, sir,” it said.
“Hello, Henry.” After a moment of thought, Gene realized what he was expected to do, and he inserted his index finger in a little port designed to separate those who were welcome from those who were not. The security gates slid open.
“Have a nice day, Gene,” said Henry.
“Thank you, Henry,” said Gene. They entered the lobby and Henry reassumed his default state.
Up in the elevator they rode in silence. He could feel something in Livia clenching, preparing for some kind of discussion that might or might not go well. At the top floor, they made their way down a white marble corridor, very well lit. And with an application of the chip in her magic index finger into a small, recessed niche in the doorframe, the apartment portal sighed open, and in they went. He immediately recognized the place.
There was a big central room with a large glass table in the middle and sleek, curvaceous couches and armchairs here and there. He sat down on the most massive of the ultrawhite couches, which gave underneath his weight like a living thing. What was it made of? He felt it. Artificial skin, that’s what. Pleasant skin, though. No warts or blemishes. Not sweaty. Just synthetic enough to avoid being completely creepy. And obviously congenial to human touch.
Livia sat down opposite him.
“So, Gene,” she said. “You don’t know who I am again, do ya?”
Gene felt intensely embarrassed. He didn’t know what to say. He felt so lame. It was true. He knew he knew Liv. And he had feelings swirling around inside him that he knew she was creating. Good feelings! But that was all.
The silver cap felt very heavy on his head, and he was aware that he might not look his best for this important conversation.
“We have to start all over from the beginning again, I suppose. Bronny said you have problems with your memory. But seriously? I know you on and off for what, like, six weeks? And every time . . . it’s the first time. I know you affect this vague thing, Gene, but it can get kind of exhausting.”
Well, he thought. His database said that honesty was generally the best policy.
“I know you, Liv,” he said.
“I would hope so.” A bit hurt. Probably for good reason.
“But there’s something wrong with me.”
She looked at him hopefully. Okay, he thought. Press on.
“I woke up, and there was nothing in my head. I was basically forced to go see this Bob guy. As far as I can tell, he needed to see that there was nothing in my head. I guess I passed that test. Then he sent me down to Bel Air, where I had this incredibly weird lunch where I got the idea that I’m part of some scary experiment of some kind.”
“What kind of experiment?” Liv looked dubious.
“One where they want to steal my body and use it to house the personality of the crazy old geezer who’s about a hundred fifty years old.”
“That sounds very unlikely, Gene.”
“I realize that.”
“But there is something odd about the whole deal, isn’t there?” Liv said. “We met through Bronny. And Bronny does work for this guy named Bob . . .” She chewed the tip of her finger for a few moments. Then she stood. “Well,” she said decisively. “Let’s put a pin in it. I’ll make us something to eat.”
In one careless motion, she stripped off the organic outer garment, which parted at her touch and reformulated as she tossed it onto the nearest piece of seating: a living creature reverting to its neutral state after having been disturbed. Underneath this garment was that one-piece body suit. She looked good in it. She glanced at him and smiled.
“Remember anything at all yet?” she inquired.
“I’m starting to.” There seemed to be nothing to say then, so they said nothing. The silence was surprisingly warm and inviting.
“Well, okay,” she said at last. “It is what it is, I guess.”
Then Livia went into the bedroom area, and he followed. There was a very large, very neatly made bed in the center of it. He sat down on it, and she went into a walk-in closet at the far end of the room.
The media wall had kicked on when he entered the room and was now silently projecting at least a dozen programming windows, all in different sizes, on one enormous glowing screen with no discernible surface. It was all virtual depth. Several images were holograms, springing into the room in sensuous three dimensions. At the moment, a very solid floating manatee bobbed around in midair. Other displays were transactional and spat out a succession of coupons, scented postcards—even the occasional snack food from an embedded 3-D printer, which was right then spewing forth some form of liquid protein cheese material. An entertainment node suitable for fast cerebrocortical implantation was burning in the download chamber. He watched the wall for a while longer. It produced no thoughts in him and no feelings.
After a time, Liv emerged in a long T-shirt that went down to her knees. She paused to regard the wall unit with raw disdain. “These things are rotting our civilization from the inside out,” she said. Then she went into the kitchen area. Like an obedient pooch, he followed.
“Dinner?” Livia inquired of the empty space.
“How about a couple of feggs?” said the refrigerator. “And Danish pastries are on special.”
This was both surprising to Gene and not so much. Talking refrigerators, washing machines, light sockets—each appliance was as smart as it needed to be, and capable of expressing its needs and suggestions if set to the right parameters. A couple of fake eggs sounded pretty good, actually. He was famished.
“That sounds fine,” said Liv. “Sit down, Gene.” He sat. The fridge set about communicating with the stove, and before long dinner was in process.
“Do we have any bacorn?” Liv asked the space around the cooking area. She turned to Gene. “Unless you’re a vegetarian,” she said. “For a while there, I think you were.”
He thought about it. A vision of a huge, juicy, delicious protochop floated into his head, and he had to suppress the urge to drool. “No,” he said, “I’m definitely not.”
“Fegg
s and bacorn, comin’ right up!” said the smart refrigerator in a homey and accommodating voice. In a few moments, everything was bubbling and sizzling away completely without any assistance. The entertainment unit in the bedroom emitted a polite Ding!
“Will you fetch it, Gene?” asked Liv, who was wiping the slab in preparation for their feast.
He went to the media wall in the next room, where the interface had produced a menu with several pastry substitutes available for immediate printing. He chose one, pushed a couple of other buttons, and the wall started to chuckle very lightly. In a few seconds, it was done, and Gene returned to the kitchen with a small package of dehydrogenated acetosalicilicate protein substitute, which he laid on the table in front of them.
She sat down on one stool, and he took the other. This was all so lovely, he thought. Here she was, this beautiful woman; his friend, apparently. He knew her, but she remained a being altogether mysterious.
A memory slammed into his head. Livia. She was sleeping facedown on the bed. Her body was all muscle, covered with brightly colored tattoos. Birds, big ones, screeching and stretching across her upper back and around her torso, which was hidden by the sheets crumpled around her. A dragon cavorted across the back of her leg, its smiling face extending upward to the round curve of her upper thigh, its tail wrapping down around her knee. On her lower back, wings spread, an angel. Her magenta hair spread out on the pillow, studded implant glistening in the light from the window.
“I hope you like it,” she said. Then she went into the microkitchenette and laid out two self-cleaning platters on the countertop. He heard her whistling a little tune under her breath. He didn’t recognize it. He joined her in the kitchen space as she loaded the finished feggs and bacorn onto the platters.
“This looks pretty good,” he said, sniffing it. It smelled almost like real food.
“Thanks, Genie,” she said. She regarded the printed material that Gene had brought from the wall unit. It was about an inch across, light taupe in color. She placed it on a plate and, after a visit to the sink in the corner of the space, deposited one droplet of water on it. It immediately reconstituted itself into a large, plump cheese Danish with a coating of icing on top.
“Wow!” said Gene.
“It’s completely fake in every way,” Liv replied. She hopped on a stool and took a bite. “But since nobody I know has ever tasted an actual cheese Danish, it doesn’t really matter, does it.” She tore off a large section of whatever it was and placed the chunk on Gene’s plate. “Here ya go,” she said, chewing. “I feel like I’m eating sofa stuffing,” she added, with some appreciation.
“You look very nice, Liv,” Gene said, his mouth full of fake pastry. It was delicious. The things they could print these days!
Livia had made a breakfast sandwich with various elements of their meal. “Let’s see what’s going on,” she said, munching. From their seats, they could take in the material on the wall unit. “Scan infotainment,” she said.
So while they ate, they grazed through every bit of news that Livia’s personal algorithm had selected as being of interest to her. Much of it seemed to aggravate her. It certainly unsettled him. It said that the Civil War was supposedly winding down. It was always winding down, but it never wound down completely because no matter how many of the other guys you killed there were always more to go around. There was still something blue on both coasts, plus a narrow band that included Chicago, a small island off the eastern coast of what used to be Florida before the rest of it was submerged, and a blob around Austin, Texas. There were also large swaths of green in various sectors of the map, here and there, the significance of which Gene did not understand. The new Real American Republic now reportedly included the entire South, most of Wyoming, Idaho, and everything of the Pacific Northwest but Seattle and Portland. Colorado still stood, but the reporter wondered for how long. The rest of what was formerly the United States was currently up for grabs, with very little power behind the forces that wanted to keep it together.
“Next,” said Liv. The content changed. Look at this, Gene thought. Another leap in bioprinting. They seem to be coming every day. Whole animals could now be created. The body was printed bottom to top, all at once. Took about six days. The spleen was the biggest problem for a while, but they solved that. DNA built right in. Right now there was an adult male making the interview circuit who claimed to be the genetic descendant of Jesus Christ. Claims he was printed from DNA provided by a relic that had been in the collection of some supertrillionaire. “I saw that guy on QVC the other night, selling relics,” said Liv. “He already has, like, a hundred million followers on Snapbook.”
Gene gazed at Livia as Livia gazed at the wall, munching discreetly. It was nuts. A few hours ago, she was the furthest thing from his mind. Now he felt himself buffeted by powerful feelings for this woman. He leaned over to where her small, sleek head was bent over her plate, picking up crumbs with the tip of her finger, and kissed the top of her ear once—nothing sloppy. She gave a little wiggle and kept searching for the residue of the pastry she supposedly hated.
“You know,” she said, “I want to take you to a meeting sometime. Bronny will come, too. You can see Master Tim and hear a little of what he’s got to say. There could be a better world than this, Gene.”
“I’d like to go,” said Gene, without a single idea of what in the world she might be talking about.
Her plate now glisteningly bare, Liv rose and smacked her hands back and forth together both to decrumb them and also to signify the formal end to the meal. “I gotta mark a bunch of papers before bed,” she said, and vaporized into the bedroom. Gene heard the sound of the shower closet going full blast for the maximum sixty seconds. Towels were an object of luxury available only to the very wealthy or nostalgic. She would emerge dry enough from the air blast. After a minute or so, he went into the bathroom to get the chance to see her naked. She was brushing her teeth, looking in the mirror. He observed the way her haunch met at the exact cutest nuance of her waistline. She had a little belly, he saw, which cried out for a gentle squeeze.
“I don’t need to remember anything to know that you’re incredibly beautiful,” he said.
“Come here, Sparky,” she said with the toothbrush sticking out her mouth. He did so, and she gently guided one of his hands around her waist while continuing to brush with the other. It was strange, he thought as he embraced her. He had been so worried about everything just a minute ago.
She felt very small but hard. He could wrap his arms around her and embrace her completely. “You’re so warm,” he told her.
“Let’s see if you remember this,” she replied. Then she spit once into the sink and drew him down onto the cold porcelain of the bathroom floor. His hat fell off, but neither of them cared.
About twenty minutes later, they came to take him away.
8
Better Living Through Chemistry
Gene was thoroughly Tased before they loaded him into the self-driving paddy wagon. Officer O’Brien had been apologetic but had reluctantly zapped his prisoner quite assiduously not once, not twice, but three times. So it’s safe to say that Gene himself had very little fight left in him. He sat on one of the comfy chairs now and waited for Bob, who, he was informed by Edgar, was just wrapping up a prior appointment. Would he like a magazine? No, Gene thought. He could pass on the magazine. Inside, he was nothing but despair. But at least he didn’t have to wear the Cap.
Time passed. A young woman came out of the inner office in a modest black leather sheath bedecked with heavy metal grommets that matched the implant in the carefully shaved area behind her ear. Her hair was brushed up so radically that it came to a point at the top of her head. “Hey,” she said. Then she stood there in front of Gene but not really present except in a purely corporeal sense. She seemed to be peering at things from a very great distance.
“Hi, Gene,” said a congenial voice. It was Bob, who had materialized behind her. Gene was glad to see
him. He had fought it. He had tried. Now he supposed he was just meant to do what Bob wanted. He still had some cards to play, though. Or so he thought.
“Hey, Bob,” he replied.
“Don’t mind Sophie,” Bob said, somewhat shamefacedly. “She’s in a protoplasmic neurostatic state.” Bob looked at his shoes for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to continue. Then he added, “I disconnected her anterior lobe. Temporarily. See if it reboots itself.”
“Since when?”
“Last Thursday,” Bob admitted. “She was happy to do it. Nothing else was getting her anywhere.” They both looked at her for a little while. “Yogis work decades to achieve that state,” said Bob thoughtfully, “and here she is in a waking dream she will never remember after a simple, painless ten-minute procedure. I never cease to be amazed at what we can do with the brain at this point. And we’ve only just begun, you know. These cortical implants have opened a whole new world of possibilities.”
“What’s she thinking about right now?”
“It depends on what you mean by ‘thinking,’ ” Bob said.
They continued to look at Sophie. There was no avoiding it. She was fascinating: a human being in total, empty repose. Quite beautiful. As lacking in self-consciousness as a turtle in the sun.
“Will she come out of it?” Gene whispered.
“You did,” said Bob.
Gene thought that perhaps he hadn’t heard Bob correctly.
“Me?”
“Come on in, Gene,” said Bob. “We have a lot of work to do.”
It wasn’t really an invitation. When they got to the door to the room, Gene was swept by the feeling that he was crossing a portal and that from that time forward, nothing would be the same. Even though he didn’t actually remember much of what had gone before, he already felt nostalgic for it.
