Grey

by Jon Armstrong

  Pointing at Gold Visor, I said, "He killed that woman!"

  "He did not!" He stood and stretched his back. "Besides she's one of those stupid bellybutton whores anyway. That's like so old!" Then he turned to the right, held his chin with a hand, as if trying to look philosophical or letting the camera soak up his profile. "What we're doing—and I'm saying this because you don't seem to be catching on—is we're talking about family. And we are a family. I'm the dad; you're the son. It's a natural thing for us to be at odds at times. It's how it goes with fathers and sons." He glanced at the girl. She nodded weakly. "And as I see it, the funny thing is, we're the same in so many ways. I know you don't see it, but I do."

  "Is she really ok?"

  "You used a fuckin' tranquilizer?" he asked the satin.

  "Sir!" Was he replied.

  "There!" said Father. "Anyway, my dad, Alexander Rivers, built RiverGroup—"

  "I've heard this a trillion times," I interrupted.

  "A trillion and one!" he screamed. "Anyway, Dad was a fuckin' genius. He invented the little box; he programmed it so it kept things secret and secure and just right, and soon, everyone had to have one. And low and behold, RiverGroup becomes so big the controlling families have to let us in. We're part of the system: we vote on the rules and kick ass when necessary. We're lard. Hard lard." Shaking his head sadly, he added, "He was so completely super-super smart! Do you even understand what he did?"

  I nodded, because I wanted him to stop. My head and spine were throbbing. "Where's my advisor?"

  "You don't need her! Be a man for once." Squinting, he paused. Then his eyes shot back and forth. "Right!" he said, snapping his fingers, "anyway, Dad invented a way to completely cloak something. You could send it from A and it arrived at B, but in the middle, it was gone. It was vanished. It literally did not exist. Or you could put whatever you needed in the box and no one but you could get it. No one. Ever. Completely and totally secure because until you looked inside, it didn't exist." He laughed. "I think about how crazy genius that was every single day." He waved to Ken and Xavid and asked, "Right? Dad was a super genius?" Ken gave two thumbs up. Xavid nodded vigorously, then pushed up his huge amber glasses. "So, there's money and power, and more money, and more power and then . . . and then came me!" Holding up his arms as if to the gods above, he screamed, "Then came Hiro Bruce Rivers!"

  His arms flopped to his sides. His head fell onto his chest. "I had to come along and fuck it all up. Even before the freeboot shot you, I had done a pretty good job of ruining the whole damn thing." He shook his head. "I'm the biggest idiot in the world!"

  "No, you're not!" said the girl, with her bottom lip sticking far out.

  "Thanks," said Father, coochie-cooing the girl's chin.

  Ken spoke up. "It's a difficult time. Very difficult time."

  "You've done exceptionally!" added Xavid.

  "You guys are too much," he said, exhaling a deep breath. "I wouldn't be here without you two!" He faced me and continued. "So anyway, Dad croaks. We have him cremated, sprinkle his ashes on a bunch of naked high school girls playing volleyball, and I take over. And since that instant—since that exact instant—everything went butt rocket." As an aside, he added, "All you can argue is how fast." Then he laughed at himself. "So, my fabulous, giant, and genius point is," he said, as if trying to regain his momentum, "I'm sorry. I screwed up. But I can't let the company turn into fuck water. I want you to have something when I die, and merging with Ribo-Kool is the only way."

  He had admitted that he was an idiot before, but it never prevented him from being an idiot again. "Let's go back to mkg."

  "Nooo!" he screeched like a baby. "Don't say those three letters! I hate them. And you know what the new rumor is? They're gonna make a big announcement soon, like they think they have a big booger on their finger and want to show the world!" He turned to his girl, "Right, my little pünta?"

  She giggled obliviously and then pouted. "It's stinky out here."

  "Yeah . . . stinky!" he said inhaling deeply and appreciatively, as if odor were his own invention. A second later, he dropped to his knees. "Look here, son, I'm begging you. The company really needs your help." He smiled a big phony smile. "You'll do it?

  "No."

  "Do you see my knees on the ground? That means I'm begging you. I'm really begging you!" After a beat, his shoulders sank and he sat back on his haunches. "Fine. I grant you, it's not real begging. There is a difference. In real begging, I'm just on my knees . . . you know . . . begging." He scrunched up his mouth as if he thought he was being clever. "Here, if you don't do what I want, I'll throw you over the wall and let those slubbers slice you into hors d'oeuvres."

  My head hurt so much and felt so heavy I could barely keep upright, but I did my best to stare back at him.

  "But technically, with the knees on ground, it is begging. And you can tell people I begged you if you want. Right, guys?"

  "Tell them your father begged you, Master Rivers! Big deal, that!"

  "Extra-extraordinary," said Xavid.

  "Anyway," he said, "we've got an agreement, right? You go on your publicity date with Elle—pretend to like the bitch if you have to—but be nice, and at the product show you say good things, and smile for the cameras. Do that and I'm not going to dump you back into slub hell. That's our full agreement."

  I glanced toward the hole in the Loop wall. I wouldn't last for more than minutes there, but I didn't want to go back. I couldn't betray Nora and our dreams.

  "You hear me?" he screamed.

  I wished a Loop car would run him over—or both of us.

  "You hear what I'm fucking saying?" The veins on his forehead and neck bulged. "Say something! Open your fucking mouth and push some air over your vocal chords."

  "No!"

  Father snapped his fingers. In an instant, Gold Visor picked me up by my ankles and held me over the Loop wall. At first, the rush of blood to my head felt good, but soon the pressure made my eyeballs feel like they were going to burst. Then my stomach felt like it was going to slide down my throat.

  "Which is it?" asked Father. "Are you going on the date, or should I have him drop your ass?"

  Beneath me, I could see the sandy embankment, the rank water, the dirty square where the slubbers had been, and the body of the prostitute, where swarms of black flies now crawled over her face and bloody abdomen.

  Five

  Strolling down the long spiral hallway leading to Mr. Cedar's showroom had always been a cleansing and meditative retreat. Usually, I spent an hour or two meandering down the polished glass path, stopping along the way to push the buttons on the wooden booths and observe motorized fabric strength or abrasion tests, or to study mannequins dressed with his latest designs, treasures from his design past, or selections from his burgeoning historical collection.

  That day, however, I did not walk as the doctors had advised me to let my leg heal. So, I rode atop an annoyingly bright green frog scooter—a single steady-wheel chair and handlebars—that the medical staff had given me. Motoring straight to the sugar maple and hammered palladium doors, I arrived in one minute flat.

  His assistant, Pheff, in a charcoal suit, textured white shirt, and a cream tie, said, "Welcome, Mr. Rivers. He's expecting you." Usually I met with my tailor in his gallery, where currently a dozen black robot mannequins, each impeccably dressed in his latest creations, mimed the actions of daily life—drinking coffee, strolling through indoor parks, and posing for cameras, but this time, Pheff led me to a black door in back. After entering a long code into a lock, he released several bolts and pulled it back slowly.

  I had not been in Mr. Cedar's design studio before and felt honored. The air had the tangy aroma of new fabric and starch. Down the center were a dozen wide, flat worktables piled with bundles of material, projects in various stages, boxes of notions, and all manner of tools. Along the interior wall, I saw sewing machines, de-weavers, and other muscular-looking equipment, some with large knobs, lit dials, and lev
ers. The exterior wall was some sort of a translucent material from floor to ceiling and through it was a view of a hundred buildings. In the hazy morning sun, the closest tower was indigo, the rest of the edifices faded to sapphire in the distance.

  "Michael," he said, as he stood and stepped toward me, "good to see you."

  Mr. Cedar was ten years older, an inch shorter, but sturdier. His hair, which stood up in front, was black, but lately, from different angles and in various lights, I'd seen flecks of grey. He was one of those men whose looks often go unnoticed. He was not stunningly handsome, and still had a faint scar down the middle of his face, but once the eye found the details beyond the basic color, texture, and silhouette, it could appreciate both his graceful features and the complexity of his steel eyes.

  Today he wore what I assumed were his work clothes—an unconstructed charcoal jacket and matching pants, a soft-looking, off-white shirt, and a silvery ascot.

  "Your suit design saved my life," I told him. "Thank you."

  From the center of his chin grew a single black hair three inches long. He twirled it between his index and thumb a few times. "You exaggerate."

  Next, he gave me a tour of the studio, showed me his de-weaving equipment, the design systems, water looms, and demonstrated a new sonic, double-lock sewing machine.

  "Impressive," I said.

  "We're quite modest." He then escorted me toward his screens and sat. "I understand that you have another publicity date."

  "I do," I said, instantly depressed. "At the MonoBeat Tower. She's a Petunia Tune girl." As I mentioned the magazine, I saw him wince. "I don't like it either, but I don't have a choice." All morning I had tried to call Nora, tried to see her on the channels, tried to send messages, but everything was blocked by RiverGroup code. The same notice kept coming up: You are disallowed from this communication, Michael. And your father has been informed. After I had tried several dozen times, Father and the gold visor satin had come. Gold Visor picked me up by one ankle and we got as far as the garage, when I promised I wouldn't try to send Nora a message again. The satin summarily dropped me onto the floor, and I bruised my head.

  Sitting up, I realized that I had slipped into a daydream and not finished my thought to my tailor. With a futile shrug, I added, "All I would like to do is share a single cream-coffee with Nora." I exhaled a shaky breath and tried to gather myself.

  Twisting his beard hair a few more times, Mr. Cedar spun around, picked a brush from a jar, and began working. I watched the sable flip and dash over the glowing surface, and then glanced up at the overhead display where the drawing appeared.

  On a terracotta oval, the figure assumed a pose like the models in Pure H. The left leg was forward, the foot, straight. The head was turned far to the left so that the face was in profile. The left arm rest on the hip, the right hung straight. As he worked, he added a tiny dot of red between the thumb and the index, as if a drop of her blood remained. While the suit was lean and elegant like always, it was boxier and darker. The lapels were higher. The white shirt looked stiff like paper, and the patterned ash tie gave an iridescent glow.

  "There," he said, and touched a button labeled cut and sew.

  "It's superb!" I said, not actually sure that I loved it. The truth was it looked stiff and awkward, but I felt I didn't want to complain until I saw it in three dimensions. "What is the fiber content?"

  "Moon wool and steel." He swiveled on his chair and pointed toward the back of the room. "Here we are."

  Assistant Pheff came with a dark charcoal suit draped over his arm. "Fresh from the Fuji-Merrow cut-and-sew automaton," he said, handing it to Mr. Cedar.

  My tailor checked the seams, the lining, and the buttons. "Excellent. Bring Mr. Rivers' form," he instructed. Pheff did so, and Mr. Cedar dressed it.

  In fabric and in three dimensions, I saw just how different the suit was. While all his previous garments had radiated an uplifting elegance, this one was heavy, anxious, and hard. The fabric had a ghostly metallic sheen and reminded me more of armor than the usual soft, satellite wools. To emphasize that harder feel, the buttons were cut roughly from slate, the collar hugged the neck as if the wearer were cold or frightened, and the shoulders slumped as if carrying a burden. With a sad laugh of recognition, I said, "Now I understand."

  Mr. Cedar nodded as if that was what he had expected to hear. In a low drawer, he rooted through a dozen large brushes, scissors, rulers, tape measures, and spools of thread. "Ah!" he said, as he pulled out what looked like a green glass rod with a small orb at one end.

  Stepping before the suit, he studied it as an artist might gaze at a canvas and then began drawing on the right shoulder with the rod. I flinched, fearing that he was going to color my suit green, but soon saw that the glass rod made no mark. I had no idea what he was doing. Glancing at Pheff, he seemed as baffled as I. So, the two of us waited for him to finish and explain.

  But when he finished, he stepped back, gazed for a moment, and then told Pheff, "Turn off the lights. Close the blinds, and switch off all the screens."

  The three of us were swallowed in darkness. Holding tightly onto the scooter handlebars so I felt like I wasn't drifting in space, I waited for my tailor to speak, or turn on a light, or do something. I heard nothing, but my own breathing.

  Once my eyes adjusted to the tiny hint of light that came around the door, I could see my tailor standing absolutely still before the suit. While I couldn't fathom what this was about, I knew he had a reason and resolved to wait patiently.

  Every few minutes Pheff cleared his throat, shifted his weight, or crossed or uncrossed his arms. Mr. Cedar was perfectly still. His arms hung at his sides. I couldn't see if his eyes were open, but guessed they were closed. He was meditating or making a silent offering of some sort. Maybe he always did this when he finished a suit.

  I closed my eyes and tried to think of nothing, but images of Father screaming and dancing, and the abrasive hues from the color therapy screen, kept invading my consciousness like pollution. The more I tried to push them away, the more elastic they became. Finally, I imagined Nora's gloved hands, the texture of the material, the precise cut of the fabric, and the way it stretched over her knuckles. Gradually, the storm receded.

  My body jerked, as if I was falling asleep, and I opened my eyes. The room was still black, and I feared I had dozed off for a few minutes. But there . . . on the right shoulder of the suit was a ghostly glowing grey circle six inches wide. It was like a large round, clockwise brushstroke, exactly like the logo of the SunEcho coffee shop.

  Mr. Cedar said, "Lights."

  As the studio floods flicked on. I clenched my eyes. Before I had a chance to ask what I'd seen, he told Pheff to turn them off again, and we were plunged back into darkness. The eerie logo was gone.

  "Back on," he said. As the lights returned, he turned toward me. "Bright light bleaches visual purple in the eye."

  "I thought I saw the SunEcho logo for a moment."

  "You did," he said, "but I painted it on with a dye almost out of human perception." He took the jacket from the form and put it on a Chanel-Royce hanger. "You wanted to meet Nora for a cream coffee," he continued. "My idea is that she'll see the logo and go to meet you. But we want the message to be seen only by her, if possible."

  "Right," I agreed. "My communication has been cut off."

  "So," he said, "only those few people with a grey eye will have the ability to see it. Of that group, only those who have a muted décor, such that they would be watching your date in relative dim, will have enough visual purple in their grey eye to perceive it. And from that very small group, only those who are familiar with the logo of the Pure H coffee shop will comprehend."

  As a cold shiver worked its way up my spine, I said, "You mean . . . her."

  Later that afternoon, Joelene and I were traveling across the Pacificum Floating Bridge on our way to the city of Kong. While Joelene worked on her screen, I began to worry that Nora wouldn't see the message. What if the
rods in her grey eye weren't working for some unfathomable reason? Or what if her father came in and switched on a bright light? Or what if she didn't watch the promotion date at all? She could be mad at me. Maybe she would hate me for going out with Elle, even though she had to know that I was being coerced.

  "The itinerary for the date has just been finalized," said Joelene. With a sigh, she added, "I tried my best." Bringing over a screen, she sat beside me.

  I looked over the date itinerary. We were to eat at a restaurant at the top of the MonoBeat Tower. That was good. I made my appearance first and drank one of the sponsor's beverages. That wasn't too bad—Nora and I had had sponsors. Elle then sampled another of the beverages. Then we described how delicious and refreshing they were. That was crass, but tolerable. For the next ten minutes she and I were to flirt. I stopped reading for a moment and felt a kind of dread that I hadn't before. Maybe I was in denial, but I had assumed we would just meet and talk. Reading ahead, I saw that we were to gaze in each other's eyes and pledge to get our parents to work together as an expression of our newfound love. Love?