“I’ve been coming here for thirty-six birthdays,” said the old man. “I haven’t missed one yet.”
“Well . . . congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
The boy liked Mr Bennett. But then again, he had a cheery, gregarious nature. He liked everyone. An optimist by nature, he took pride in his ceaseless good spirits.
“Oh, and happy birthday,” he added.
“Thanks.” One eye winked. “I know the routine, so I’ll just show myself into the back –”
“Of course, sir. Please do.”
For an old man, he had spryness, practically skipping through the swinging door. With a loud voice he called out, “Yates, I’m here. Thought I’d die in the winter, didn’t you? Thought I wouldn’t make it, am I right?”
Mr Yates, the owner, replied with a growl. Then the door swung shut, and the boy heard nothing but the faint traces of a conversation. Was there anything to do now? He looked at the front room, bright and populated with simple plastic chairs, then he looked outside. A flitter was parked in their lot – the owner’s – and the traffic on the old avenue was sparse. “Prepare to be bored,” Mr Yates had warned him. “This neighborhood is shit, just like the economy.”
A negative man, by nature, and the boy couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. The lack of business probably was in response to his sourness. It was a good thing the boy was hired. He brought optimism and a fresh outlook. He imagined the next weeks and months, bringing in new customers and winning Mr Yates’ approval . . . helping wherever possible, making The “Me” Shop thrive –
– and now he saw a flitter pull into the parking lot. A second customer, and they hadn’t been open ten minutes!
A middle-aged woman emerged, hands clenched and a practised kind of wariness showing in her features. She paused, then entered. “Excuse me?”
“Yes, ma’am. How can I help you?”
She straightened, staring at him for a long moment. “Do I . . . talk to you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well,” she stated, “it’s about hiring your service. I’ve done it before, elsewhere, but it’s been a long time. If I could ask questions –”
“The process is completely safe,” he assured.
“I’m wondering about rates. What will it cost me?”
She was perhaps fifty years old and not well-off. The boy sensed that from her flitter, dingy and one front fender crushed, and from the faded clothes that seemed meant for a smaller woman.
“Do you understand the process?” he inquired.
“I don’t understand the science, of course.”
“I could explain the basics, if you care to hear them.”
She shrugged her shoulders, apparently indifferent.
The boy recounted what he had learned this morning. The mind, he said, was a vast sponge absorbing every sensory input and every sense of self. He told how during the last century, during primitive surgery, it was found that weak stimulation of the cortex caused near-perfect memories to emerge. The brain was like a sponge that let nothing escape, and the technology employed here could extract any portion of any past self. From a week ago, or forty years ago. It was accomplished with a set of glued-on electrodes and sophisticated chips worn on the head. Like a sweatband, he explained. Not at all cumbersome or unattractive.
The woman watched him, her expression distant and subdued.
Something fell in the workshop. Baam.
Floating holo projectors created images of a given self, said the boy. The product’s quality could be enhanced with old photographs or digitals; or, thinking of Mr Bennett, if you were a regular client whose neural maps were on record.
“I want myself as a ten-year-old,” she interrupted.
“That’s a popular age. People like to meet themselves as –”
“How much?”
The boy touched the keyboard. “For the initial work . . . two hundred new dollars. Then fifty dollars for each hour’s use, plus the deposit, refundable and covering the equipment.” He knew the rates by heart, but reading them from the screen seemed to give them added validity. “If not a deposit, then a line of credit. After three hours the rates drop, and overnight is a flat fee. Negotiable, it says.”
The woman seemed disheartened. “Could my ten year-old self hold anything? An ice cream cone, for instant?”
“I’m sorry. Projections have no substance. However, we could make a projection of an ice cream cone –”
“At the World of Self,” she interrupted, “they use robots, not holos. Robots that do anything.”
“I wouldn’t know about other shops, ma’am.”
She blinked and sighed.
She’d already been to World of Self, he realized. Wherever that was. But robots sounded like expensive propositions, complicated and requiring much maintenance. He felt confident, telling her, “You can’t do better than our rates, ma’am.”
She offered no rebuttal.
“You and your child-self can interact,” he assured her. “She’ll appear quite normal. A speaker in the projector will give her an authentic voice, and she’ll perceive her surroundings. And she’ll have the memories you possessed at her age, too.” The process was akin to hypnosis; a past identity was conjured up from the unconscious. “You can ask her questions. She’ll likely ask you some. She’ll even be able to learn – the chips you wear will learn, actually – and that way you can return someday and take her out again, starting where you left off.”
“When I was ten,” she said, “my mother took me to the park and bought me a vanilla ice cream cone.”
He felt unsure of himself, smiling for lack of better.
“A special day.” She made the statement with authority, then added, “I deserve a nice day. That’s what I want.”
“Of course,” he said.
“I know the precise date.”
“That helps.”
The woman said, “I don’t want her to know who I am. You can do that, right? Can you make her think of me as an aunt?”
“Like with hypnosis,” he said, “we can implant suggestions. Anything you wish.”
She stepped close to the counter, asking, “What now?”
“I’ll open an account.”
“Thank you.” She stared at his hands.
“Name?”
“Susan Markle.”
“Age?”
She didn’t answer, lifting her eyes. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen,” he replied.
She nodded in a vague way. “Do you like working here?”
“Very much. Although it’s my first day –”
“Is it?”
“But I’m interested in the business. I’m trying to save money, actually. I want to buy my own shop –”
“Fifty-three,” she interrupted.
“Pardon?”
“That’s my age.”
The owner emerged from the worship and glanced at the Susan Markle, his expression moving from surprise to suspicion. He was an average height, thick-chested with a broad gut. Save for a solitary twist of brown hair leftover from some long-ago chemical assault, he had gone completely bald. His face was ruddy, red eyes and a puffy nose marred with a lacework of exploded veins. A slender, silverish headband rode his skin – “I wear it for demonstration purposes,” he had explained – and his thick abrasive voice seemed to fill the room. “What’s the story?” he asked, never looking at the boy.
The boy explained what the woman wanted, her file number and the amount of time paid for. Ms Markle watched them, eyes leaping back and forth. Sometimes the boy felt her gaze, and it made him uneasy.
Suddenly various Mr Bennetts emerged. The authentic one came first, holding the door for the others. Each man was dressed in the same running garb, bright and cheery. The youngest one was perhaps thirty-five and heavyset. Five projections, total. The real Mr Bennett giggled, saying, “Here we are, ladies and gentlemen! The annual Bennett birthday bash!”
Ms
Markle shook her head, staring at the odd parade.
“Come on back, lady,” said the owner. “We’ve got to get started.”
The boy bristled at his tone. Harshness invited trouble, particularly with a new client, and he did his best to soften the moment. “Ma’am,” he said, waving an arm. “Just follow him, and enjoy yourself.”
She nodded and went through the doorway.
The various Bennetts jumped out of her way. They seemed equally authentic, except the next-to-oldest one became pale when he stood near the windows, sunshine beaming in on him. The real Bennett approached the counter, asking, “Can you guess the tradition?”
“A birthday run?”
“A race. Ten miles.” The old man nodded happily. “Thirty-six years of coming here and racing myself. That fat one? I ran circles around him, and I had such a good time that I made my reservations till the end of the century.”
The owner had returned, needing some tool that he’d left beside the keyboard. “You’re an idiot, Bennett. It’s a furnace out there.”
The old man offered an indifferent grin. “We’ll manage. Won’t we, friends?”
The projections said, “Fine,” and “Great!” and “What heat?” The chubby one’s voice sputtered, his audio not working properly. The boy made a mental note to suggest doing some general maintenance; then Mr Yates growled:
“Just don’t use me when you die!”
Mr Bennett shrugged and glanced at the boy. “Always the grouch. That’s another part of the tradition.”
The owner gave a forced laugh, then vanished into the back.
“Let’s go,” said the second-youngest Bennett. He was the leanest of them, legs strong and the skin overly tanned. The mind remembered the fitness of the body, the tautness of the flesh, plus the general mood. This was a cockier, quicker version of the man. “Ten miles,” he told the boy. “My PR is sixty minutes, two seconds. And I’m breaking it today.”
“I doubt it,” the real Bennett laughed. “But you’re welcome to try.”
The boy wished them luck. It seemed like a lovely idea, racing your one-time selves . . . and the real Mr Bennett opened the outer door for the others. They moved into the parking lot, stretching their calves and hamstrings while talking to each other. It was just like a real race, complete with everyone punching buttons on identical sports watches. Past selves would interface with the current conditions. Weather. Terrain. The lack of water. They lined up on the sidewalk, and the cocky Mr Bennett forced his way to the front. Then after a momentary pause came the collective:
“GO!”
In a tangle of flesh and flesh-colored light, the annual race had begun, streaking up the nearly empty street and out of sight.
“First we’ll buy ice cream –”
“I don’t want to!” The image of a little girl emerged from the back, her face sour and the voice booming. “And who are you? I don’t know you!”
Ms Markle muttered, “I’m your aunt . . . dear.”
“Where’s my mom? I want my mom!”
Mr Yates stood in the doorway, watching without care or even amusement. When the woman glanced at him, he shrugged as if to ask, “What do you want from me?”
“Fix this,” she said, pointing to her little-girl self.
“I want to go home. Now!”
She was halfway pretty, and the image was sharp. She almost looked real, down to blood coursing through her face and the whitish knuckles showing within her fists. She was wearing a feminine dress, lacy and colorful, but the dress only made her seem more bratty. The boy felt uneasy, reminding himself that children could be difficult, projected or real.
“I want my mom!”
The owner grudgingly touched buttons on a portable control panel, freezing the little girl with her mouth open, her teeth and tongue showing. “Okay. She thinks you’re her aunt?”
“That’s what I asked for, isn’t it?”
“A family friend would be easier,” the man warned.
Easier for the mind to accept, the boy understood. Particularly if the subject hadn’t like her aunts –
“Go on. Just make her nice . . . somehow . . .”
The owner paused and looked at her, his expression intense. What was wrong? Taking a deep breath, he said, “I can do anything you want, lady. Except change the past.”
It was an attempt to wound, and it worked.
The poor woman stepped backwards, blinked and straightened and then glanced at the boy, something about her expression again making him uneasy. Then with a calm, reasoned voice, she said, “All right. Just please do the best you can.”
“Who doesn’t?”
The woman said nothing.
“To me,” the boy interjected, “the girl seems sensitive. That’s all.”
Ms Markle turned and asked, “What was that?”
“Sensitive,” he repeated, smiling now. “Artistic people have trouble adjusting through projections. Their old selves find themselves in a strange place, and because they’re more sensitive . . . well, they respond like this. Don’t they, sir?” He was asking the owner to substantiate his fabrication. The man almost smiled, then nodded with careless authority. “Yeah, that’s what it is.”
The woman watched the interplay between them.
Then Mr Yates pressed a final button, saying, “Try this.”
The little girl blinked and looked about for a moment, puzzled but not uneasy. Her eyes settled on Ms Markle, and a less-shrill voice asked, “Where are we, ma’am?”
“On an errand, dear.”
The girl nodded soberly.
“Would you like ice cream? It’s a warm day.”
“What flavor ice cream?”
“Any flavor you want.”
“Maybe,” she allowed.
“Let’s go outside, shall we?” The woman gestured, and the girl walked to the front door, pausing instinctively before trying to open it.
Ms Markle pulled on the handle, saying, “There you go.”
“They don’t have wheels,” the girl observed.
“Flitters don’t, dear.”
“Which one is yours?”
“This one.”
“You’ve got an ugly flitter.”
The woman paused in the doorway, staring at the child and then the bare floor. Then she followed the child outdoors, her face watery and tired, sad in a tough, accustomed-to-sadness fashion. It occurred to the boy that she was more transparent than the girl, ready to evaporate in the sunshine and the heat.
The owner coughed, eyes narrowed and almost looking at him. He seemed ready to say something, then didn’t. He went back into the workshop without a word.
Quite a day! Two customers already, and six projections! Maybe this wasn’t the best neighborhood, but they did seem busy. Ms Markle drove off, and the boy watched the sparse traffic and the buildings across the street – all weathered, some vacant – and to him the world seemed lovely, impossibly and effortlessly beautiful. The beauty came in the quality of the light spilling over him, making him want to sing . . . a song he’d heard just the other day, light and quick and perfect . . .
“Quit it!” the owner shouted through the closed door. “No singing!”
Half a dozen notes into the song, and the boy was already cut off. Somehow he wasn’t surprised . . . and that surprised him. Somehow he knew that the old grouch would stop him. Yet he didn’t let it ruin his mood, humming the tune under his breath and smiling regardless.
The next customers had an established account. In their early forties, they were a married couple. The man did the talking, knowing what he wanted and speaking with an amused precision. The boy tried to act professional throughout. He made a habit of saying, “Yes, sir.” He said, “I understand, sir. Of course.” The wife made no sound, standing beside the windows with her arms crossed.
Mr Yates emerged from the workshop once the order was set.
“It seems busy,” the boy mentioned. “We’ve only been open for an hour –”
/> “A fluke,” he was warned. “It’ll grind to nothing this afternoon.”
The male customer made small talk about the heat, sometimes winking at his wife on the sly.
Mr Yates was trying to appear more friendly. More relaxed. Turning to the boy at one point, he said, “I’ll need help here. Come on back.” Then he held the door for everyone.
The boy walked behind the woman. She was pretty, he was thinking. Not as old-looking as some forty-plus women. She had heavy breasts and clinging clothes, and he found himself watching her rump as she strolled down the hallway.
Her husband noticed, giving him a little knowing wink.
The couple knew the routine. They sat on old padded chairs in the middle of the workshop, banks of equipment beside them. The owner set the silverish bands on their heads, then he brought out two holo projectors, setting them on human-high stands. The projectors were heart-sized. They glittered despite age, humming with unequal tones as numbers were fed to them. The boy had the woman’s parameters. It was exciting and rather nerve-racking – his first chance with this work – yet it seemed to come naturally to him. At home with this job, he only occasionally referred to the troubleshooting guide.
Mr Yates and the boy sat along one wall, triggering light-sensitive buttons; their subjects remained nearly motionless, as if they were sitting in an old-fashioned photographic studio, allowing a slow camera to absorb their images. Their younger selves were produced from memory and coherent light. Two figures became four.
Almost done, Mr Yates said, “Hell, it’s almost lunch,” and pulled open a desk drawer, removing a bottle and pouring liquor into a big coffee cup. “Close enough.”
Drinking seemed inappropriate, yet the boy was professional enough to say and show nothing.
The wife seemed uneasy with her younger self. The projection had formed around the stand, then it detached itself. It was dressed exactly like her, and beneath the clinging clothes was the complete illusion of her body. Breasts and nipples; even the brown-blonde pubic hair. Added details cost more money. The entire package was priced under the Adult guidelines.
The young couple whispered and cuddled, indifferent to the others.
“Which room?” asked the husband, rising to his feet.
“I don’t care.” Mr Yates sipped from the coffee cup.
The Mammoth Book Of Science Fiction Page 15
