by Haber, Karen
“Thank you. She will be pleased.”
The caller rang off.
“I wonder how they get my number,” Narlydda said.
“No system is completely sealed,” the simulacrum responded.
Narlydda turned toward the screen. A rather prim-faced young woman with pale pink complexion, narrow lips, and gray eyes stared back at her. Anne Verland, faithful computer watchdog. Worth every Eurodollar she’d paid IBM/Bergen.
“That’s true,” she said, “but we do a pretty good job of keeping the riffraff out, don’t we, Anne?”
“Yes, Narlydda.”
“How does it feel, to be a ghost in the machine?”
“I’m sorry, Narlydda. I don’t understand. …”
“No, you’re not programmed to understand.” Narlydda’s golden eyes twinkled. “Never mind, Anne.”
“Do you require further service?”
“Not right now, Anne. Thank you.”
The screen shut down.
Narlydda turned back to the portrait. Her curiosity made her monitor most calls, even if she didn’t want to talk to three quarters of the people calling. But it was time to stop teasing the computer and get back to work.
She’d planned a bronze and crystal figure, with elegant holographed details to capture the fleeting expressions that would play upon the face, the movement of hair, the rise and fall of the chest, breathing. On the light easel, a figure of heroic proportions had taken form, half aquatic creature, half man. Well-muscled across the chest with large shoulders, bulging biceps. Long brown hair caught behind the neck in a ponytail. A clipped brown beard. Graceful finned tail curving up behind him. A beautiful merman. Narlydda stared at the sketch, shaken. It was Skerry, to the life.
“You’re in love,” she muttered. “At your age. Damn fool. It’s the last thing you need right now. Especially when the object of your affections isn’t talking to you.”
The doorbell chimed a high, ethereal triad, notes floating in the air for a moment. The doorscreen showed a young Japanese man with long, sleek hair and dark eyes, wearing a tan leather jacket over a gray silk jumpsuit. A purple jewel glittered in his cheek.
Anne Verland flickered back to life. “Identity?” she asked.
“Yosh Akimura. From Emory Foundation. Narlydda’s expecting me.” His voice was a pleasant tenor.
You’re early, Narlydda thought, and grabbed up her robe, settling it firmly around her. I haven’t had time to put on skin dye, or even a mask. She hesitated. Oh, what the hell.
She hit manual override and unlocked the door. “Come on in.”
Humming gently, the door slid back into the wall, giving the young musician just enough time to enter before it automatically slid back into place, locked.
Yosh nodded in admiration. “Nice system.”
“It should be. Cost at least one sculpture.”
He smiled. Then his smile faltered for a moment as he took her in. “Narlydda?”
“The real thing. Take a good look, young man. Not many people have the opportunity.” And I hope you’re happy, Skerry, wherever you are. She leaned over her desk and picked up a pad. “Please read the top sheet and sign it. It’s legally binding; a contract that you will not reveal to anybody in any way anything you’ve seen here. Just a formality, since Emory Foundation has a legal agreement that applies to each and every employee. Still …”
“You’re into detail,” he said. “Pen?”
She handed one to him. He signed with a flourish. She tore the top sheet off and fed it into the deskscreen.
“There. Well, so much for formalities. Come see my preliminary sketch, Yosh. Since we’re going to be collaborating, I’ll even ask your opinion.”
Yosh chuckled, but the sound died in his throat as he stared at her light easel.
“You like it?”
“That’s not the term I’d use.” He paused. “It’s very potent. Powerful. And beautiful. Sort of reminds me of Michelangelo’s David. But not really.”
“I’ll accept that,” she said, pleased by his comments. Well, so be it. Skerry would become the centerpiece of the Emory Foundation’s Moonstation plaza. A mutant merman on the moon. “Sit down, Yosh. Something to drink?”
“No thanks. I’m ready to get started whenever you are.”
“Eager beaver, huh? Well, I’m not quite ready to discuss materials, but—”
The screen rang.
“You’ve reached the studio of Narlydda,” said faithful Anne Verland. “How may I help you?”
“Melanie Ryton,” the caller replied. “Cable News. I’d like to interview Narlydda for our weekend features.”
The screen showed a young woman of about thirty, blue-eyed, although somehow there seemed to be something vaguely Oriental about the eyes. Her straight, silky dark hair was blunt cut at chin level and just brushed the edge of her yellow, high-necked tunic. Her expression was all business.
“Cute,” Yosh said. “Wish she were calling me.”
“Well, she’d probably rather talk to you than to my answering machine,” Narlydda said. “Not that she has a choice.” The image Melanie Ryton saw on her screen was Anne Verland sitting at her workstation, auburn hair pulled back into a bun. She, too, was all business. “I’d love to know how these media vampires find my number. Maybe I’d better change it again.”
“Narlydda is not available for interviews,” Anne Verland said. “We have a tape available from her museum retrospective last year. …”
“I’m not interested in that.” Melanie Ryton’s tone was brisk, aggressive. Narlydda didn’t care for it at all. “We want to give the Emory Foundation commission full coverage, and Narlydda’s participation is crucial.”
“I’m sorry,” Anne repeated. “Narlydda is not available for interviews.”
Good girl, Narlydda thought. Stonewall ’em.
“Can I reach her at this number later?”
“Narlydda does not answer this phone.”
“This is her corporate number. Is there any other number where I can reach her?”
“Narlydda does not give out her private number.”
“Then how can she be reached?”
“Narlydda does not give out her private number.”
“You’ve already said that. Look, I’ve got to talk to her.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“May I leave a message for her?”
“Narlydda does not return calls.”
Ms. Ryton sighed in exasperation. Narlydda almost felt sorry for her, pesty though she was.
“I’d like to leave a message anyway.”
“As you wish.”
“Please tell Narlydda that I must speak with her. It’s a matter of life or death—because I’m going to get killed by my boss if I don’t get this interview. All right?”
“Your message has been recorded.”
“Thanks. My number is 1213478712354. Ask her to call, day or night.”
The connection was broken.
Yosh whistled. “Tough lady.”
Narlydda chuckled. “Nice going, Anne. She was pretty insistent.”
“Aggressive. Yes. Reporters are often that way.”
Yosh gaped. “Your ‘answering machine’ is a simulacrum, isn’t it? I didn’t think any of those were commercially available yet.”
“I have good contacts in software.” She smiled slyly. “Anne is loyal, obedient, reliable. Almost everything I require in a companion.” Almost.
“What is she programmed for?”
“Phone and door, grounds surveillance. But she can do much more.”
“Such as?”
“Anne,” she said, “what do I look like?”
“You are approximately one and three-quarter meters in height, sixty-five kilograms in weight. You are forty-three years old, born in Oregon, of mutant ancestry, telekinetic skills highly advanced. Appearance: light green complexion, dark green hair with white patch in front, long nose …”
“That’s
my description, give or take a few kilograms,” Narlydda said wryly. “But what do I look like to you?”
Anne Verland paused. Narlydda could almost hear the computer circuitry buzzing, straining over the unexpected question.
“I don’t understand.”
“Never mind.” Narlydda stared at the simulacrum. Should she put a portrait of Anne on the Moon? Immortalize her electronic amanuensis? It was an amusing thought. “Anne, how do you tell when there’s a real emergency on the line?”
“Voice analysis is usually sufficient.”
“What do you do then?”
“Notify the appropriate authorities or resources in the caller’s vicinity.”
Yosh cut in. “While they’re still on the line?”
“Yes, it’s a subsidiary connection, easy to make even while I speak with the caller.”
“And does the subsidiary connection also see Anne Verland on the screen?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Don’t you ever get confused about which Anne is which?”
“All of them are me,” the computer replied serenely. “Narlydda had me programmed with multiple image capacity.”
“Yes,” Narlydda said. “Although half the time I forget what I’ve programmed you with.”
“Would you like a printout …?”
“No thank you.”
The screen shut down.
“She’s very good.” Yosh shrugged off his jacket, reached into the pocket, and pulled out an envelope. “I brought you a personal message from Mrs. Emory.”
He handed her a sleek blue micropackette. Narlydda clipped it into the wallscreen.
The Emory Foundation seal filled the screen. Then it dissolved to the image of Tavia Emory, dressed in golden silk and smiling her predatory smile. Her eyes twinkled with golden light.
“I didn’t know she was mutant,” Narlydda said.
“She’s not.”
“Narlydda,” Tavia said, “Now that you’re part of the Emory family …”
Like hell, Narlydda thought.
“… I wanted to personally invite you to come visit. We’ll be holding a small reception in your honor on the twelfth, to celebrate the Moonstation commission. I’m very excited about this work, and I hope to discuss it with you. I’m sure many of your admirers will be on hand. And perhaps we’ll be able to arrange a little surprise.” She seemed to look away, off camera for a moment. Then she was back, focused like a bird of prey. “Until the twelfth. …” Tavia Emory faded away.
Narlydda reached for a fresh stylus. “Please convey my regrets to Mrs. Emory,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
“Even if I planned to go out, I’d hardly be interested in some silly reception in the desert. Tell her thank you, but I’m just too busy in the studio. Mrs. Emory should know that I never attend these things.”
“You spurn Tavia at your own risk,” Yosh said.
“Tavia? You sound as if you know her quite well.”
“I do.”
They stared at each other for a moment. Then Yosh looked down.
“She usually gets her way,” he said.
Narlydda crossed her arms. “So do I.”
Michael Ryton stared at the federal summons blinking on his deskscreen. He was being “invited” to attend an investigation into the Moonstation disaster on Monday, January 5, at Armstrong Airbase.
A preliminary head hunt, he thought. And they’ve just gotten around to me.
“Legal,” he said. “And transmit screen message.”
The deskscreen bisected the image field, retaining the summons in the lower half. Above it, Bill Sutherland’s ruddy face appeared.
“Trouble, Mike?”
“You see the summons.”
Sutherland nodded. “So your hunch was right. Too bad. Well, let’s see.” He leaned back in his chair, studying the screen. “As far as I can tell, you’re probably in the clear. But your old man is damned lucky he’s in the storehouse.”
“You may be alone in that opinion.”
“Hardly. Best defense these days.”
“You mean he could be held liable for the disaster? How?”
“Well, let’s just say that the record of his lobbying efforts to reduce safety regs for space engineering would make a convenient noose.”
“But he was right! Dammit, Bill, those regulations were ridiculous. A waste of time and taxpayers’ money, more cosmetic than effective. Besides, they didn’t even relate to this project.”
Sutherland shrugged. “With enough safeguards, the dome might not have blown, right? Even if nobody in the business would have manufactured that many fall-back systems. I’m a lawyer, not a space engineer, but I know how Federal investigators think. Where were the safeguards? And after the reporters are finished with you, what’s left won’t be worth much in this industry. When the dust settles, the Koreans will be the only ones building domes. You’d better come up with a rock-solid defense of the manufacturing process and materials.”
“I wasn’t even working on this project.”
“I know. But you’re the boss now. So, retroactively, you’re responsible.”
Michael sat back in his chair, thunderstruck.
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“I think you’d better plan on attending this with me, Bill.”
“Of course.” Sutherland gave him a wry, sympathetic look. “Cheer up, Mike. Things could be worse.”
“How?”
“You could be François Aubenay.”
“Keep reminding me of that.” Michael rubbed his jaw, numb with shock. “Thanks, Bill. I’ll get with you later.”
Half the screen turned black.
“Save and store message. Research.”
The summons disappeared, replaced by a view of the research department over Penny Lansdale’s shoulder. She smiled at Michael, lines raying out from the corner of her golden eyes. But the smile faded as she saw his expression.
“What’s wrong?”
“Bad news, Pen. Drop what you’re doing. I need you to compile a detailed analysis and report on File R9C.”
Penny turned to her auxiliary screen and requested the file. A moment later, she looked up. Her expression was grim. “Our assist with the Aubenay Moonstation contract. I remember it.”
“I thought you were here then,” Michael said. “Good. I need a solid defense, Penny. They’re looking for somebody to hang. We’ve got to convince them that our neck is not the right size for their noose.”
“Is it that bad?”
“Worse.”
Her eyes widened. “I’ll get right on it, Michael.”
“Thanks, Pen.” He cut the connection. What next? Might as well share the good news with Jena.
Dourly, he called her shop. She answered on the first buzz, her image bright in a turquoise tunic. Behind her, the walls of the store sparkled with precious objects.
“Expecting a call?” he asked.
Something about his body language must have broken through her self-absorption.
“Don’t play games, Michael. I was near the screen, that’s all. What’s wrong?”
“Federal summons to the Moonstation investigation,” he said.
“What? Why are they calling you?”
“My old man did some subcontracted work on the dome.”
“He did?” She frowned in irritation. “Are we at risk?”
“Looks that way. I’ll have to go to the West Coast next week. Want to come?” He managed a hearty tone. “You can get in some shopping.”
She fiddled with her hair nervously. “I—I can’t, Michael. I’m expecting a shipment of Gabonese reed glass. I don’t trust anybody else to unpack it. And who would watch the store?”
“Your staff.”
“And Herra?”
“She’s old enough to stay alone. She’s hardly ever home anyway.” For a moment, he stared at her. Blond hair framing her face, golden eyes glinting, she was as beautiful now as when he’
d married her, fifteen years ago. Beautiful, selfish Jena. He admired her from a distance, as if looking at a holopainting.
“I don’t want to argue, Michael, but it’s out of the question. I’d like to be supportive, but I just can’t go.”
Just as he’d expected. He wasn’t even angry, really. “If that’s how you want it. I’ll talk to you later.”
The screen went black.
He’d stopped arguing with her long ago. Stopped looking for a way to bring them closer.
The room felt stifling. He peeled off his green silk jacket. Still sweating, he jumped up, paced to the sleek blue-green wall, then back to his desk. When would Penny finish that analysis? He was halfway across the room again when the phone buzzed.
Lari’s voice came over the speaker: “Mr. Ryton? Your mother, line two.”
Sue Li stared serenely from the screen, face framed by white hair. Her golden eyes were calm.
“Michael, I wanted to touch base with you about the mutant council meeting in Mendocino. Reservations and all that.”
“Sorry, Mom. Skipped my mind.”
“Big contract?”
“No.”
“Something wrong?”
“Yes.” He let out his breath in a high, irritable hiss. “I’ve been subpoenaed to attend an investigation on the Moonstation disaster.”
As always, in times of trouble. Sue Li’s face was as impassive as Buddha.
“Did you build anything for them?” she asked.
“‘Yes.”
“Was the explosion your fault?”
“I don’t know yet. But I don’t think it was anybody’s fault.”
“No, of course not.”
Her calm drove him crazy. “Just hope that nobody digs up the records of Dad’s lobbying efforts.”
Sue Li shook her head. “I told your father not to get involved in that.”
“Well, he doesn’t have to worry about it, does he?” Michael said sharply. “He’s not the one who’ll be testifying.”
Pain flickered across his mother’s face. He felt as if he’d just stabbed her. Stupid, he thought. “Sorry.”
For a moment, she said nothing. When she spoke again, her voice was even, measured.
“Never mind. Is Jena going with you?”
