"I know what you're doing."
"That and forty new dollars will get you a cup of Starbucks,” said the King, smiling.
"I have video."
The King laughed. “That's impossible. Your eyeset was off the entire time you were there."
"It's not on my eyeset."
"Oh?” Eyebrows raised.
I smiled. “Thank my mother. For the retinal cam."
Eyes widened. For the first time, fear. The King whipped around to my mom. “Is this true?"
My mom clenched her fists. “Yes. Yes, he has one."
The King stood very, very still for a few moments. Then he turned to me. His face was carefully neutral, like a bomb in the moments before explosion.
"I don't believe you."
But his eyes didn't show it.
"I don't give two shits what you believe,” I told Padilla. “If you want the video, you'll have a million yuan put into my account, unstipulated."
The King's nostrils flared. “And for this, I get?"
"To have your surgeon of choice cut the cam out of my head."
A nod. A thin smile. “You could make much more, going into business with us."
"I don't want the restrictions."
"I see. You understand the money will have restrictions from the Chinese government."
"As long as there are no additional ones."
"No!” my mom wailed. “Come in with us! A million yuan is nothing!"
I shook my head.
The King nodded. “It is done. Now, come to my house."
I checked my account. The bankbot looked very happy. One million yuan, no restrictions. I could get in the car, drive to the airport, and fly away to Patagonia.
I realized Nana had come out of the building. She stood about six feet away from me, her arms crossed.
"You did a deal?” Nana said.
"Yeah."
"With the government?"
"With the King."
Nana's face twisted into rage. “You're going back? To your mom?"
I shrugged.
Nana threw her hands up. “Dr Esparza was right. You always go back to your source."
"Nana—"
"Nothing. Say nothing!” she yelled, and stamped away.
I wanted to run after her. I really did.
But first, I had to make one more call.
* * * *
I expected a call from the spooks after making the deal with the King, but my eyeset was silent all the way to Padilla's. I imagined scary too-perfect dudes peeking at me from behind bushes, cruising next to me behind tinted glass, just waiting for the word: take him, now. But we got to the place without any thriller-movie shenanigans.
The King of Brentwood's house was as grand and tasteless as I expected, a Gehry-esque pile of bronze-painted metal ribbons and raw cement, as big as a hotel. I expected bagboys to run for the car as I pulled up out front.
From the long, curving drive behind me came the sound of tires squealing. Of course. The spooks hadn't done anything, because they figured on bagging us all in one shot. All very neat and tidy. Almost no chance of a lawsuit.
It didn't matter. The deal was done.
My mom came out from behind the big tinted-glass doors that fronted the house, followed closely by Fernando Padilla. Her head jerked towards the sound of the tires squealing, now much closer.
Then she turned back to me, eyes open in shock.
I grinned.
"You're not him!” she snapped.
"Hi, Mom,” I said. My WeRU proxy repeated it a moment later.
She stamped over to my proxy. “You're not my son!” Her eyes were wide, bloodshot, enraged. The King rushed up behind her, his gaze snapping from my proxy to the cars. My proxy glanced that way, too, showing sleek little candy-colored Yarises rounding the last corner.
"Look back at Mom,” I said.
He did, just as Mom slapped him, sending his eyeset spinning. My point of view spun away with it, careening wildly before coming to rest on the ground. It pointed at the spooks, who were just emerging from the cars.
For just a moment, I felt sorry for the other me. But he'd known what he was getting into, and the contract was clear. A million yuan bought a lot of WeRU service. We'd sent out half a dozen proxies—one to go to the airport, one to head back to my house, one to go to my mom's, one to run south in the Lexus, and one to head down to the Commerce Casino with a bunch of the King's yuan. But I only watched the POV of the one going to the King's. He had to be realistic enough to fool the feds. They had to think he was the real deal. Since Antonio couldn't surgically alter and train a proxy in the tiny amount of time I gave him, we'd had to settle for a dye job, a face prosthetic, and a lot of whispering in his ear.
The spooks rushed by the POV of the fallen eyeset. I saw dirt embedded in the big converse logo on the bottom of their shoes. So California.
I laughed. Time to finish it.
I cleared my eyeset and went back to my current POV.
* * * *
Above me, the giant aerostat screen of the East Valley Theater rose like a sheet of flame. Almost sixty acres of aerostat fog, pierced by RGB lasers. It floated above the biocrete-sealed ruins of the old junkyards and dumps, where new nightclubs were popping up every other day. Really the best fate for Pacoima and Sun Valley, when you got right down to it. They got shiny new places to go, and the rest of the valley got free entertainment.
The marketing wank claimed it was the Biggest Screen in the World. And indeed, it was visible throughout most of the San Fernando Valley, and you could sometimes watch it in real time on Google Earth. I remembered nights on top of an abandoned midrise office building in Van Nuys, laying out under the cool stars with the warm concrete baking my back, my retinal cam full of images of my first love. Ironic to think that without her, I might never have seen the inside of the factory. And she had just been into me for the AI.
"You're crazy, you know,” Nana said. She stood three feet to one side of me, as if I was slightly radioactive.
"I know."
"You don't know what's going to happen,” she said.
"Do you have any better ideas?"
"No,” Nana said. But her lips curled in a faint smile. It had taken a lot of quick talking after my phone call with the King to get her to come at all. I didn't know what state our relationship was in, or if we even had one anymore, or even if, after we got all through this, she could be The One. And that was okay.
The sun had dipped below the foothills to the west, and even though the sky was still bright, the screen shimmered in laser brilliance. The perfect time for the user-generated content wars. Anyone could come to the big open-air dancefloor underneath the screen, anyone could upload, anyone could take the chance at fame or ridicule. And, of course, being the commercial venture it was, they'd play the stuff from people with the highest AI first.
Like me.
I stood at the edge of the dancefloor, watching the bodies gyrating to a new-just-today mashup that was peaking on the word-of-mouth charts. Some heads snapped to look at me as my POV snapped back to the real me. Some frowned in confusion. In my eyeset overlay, my AI fluctuated wildly, then spiked even higher, as people who'd been following the drama at the King's realized they'd been fooled. More heads turned from the dancefloor to look at me.
"I'm uploading,” I said.
My POV appeared on screen. I looked up at it, and pointed so the people on the dancefloor would look at it too. The video was fuzzy and ugly as old podcast shown on a theater screen, but it was enough. I saw the inside of the factory again, the vats, the slow crawl of the chain-drive system. I heard the murmurs of people on the factory floor.
I felt something warm on my shoulder. Nana's hand. She smiled at me, looking a little sad and uncertain. I wanted to say, It's all right, it'll be all right, but I didn't know if it would be. As Grigory said, what would happen when the secret was out?
People looked from the screen to me and back to the screen again. My AI
spiked wildly as the online audience tried to figure out what was happening. Of course, nobody knew what they were seeing. Not yet, anyway. Not until enough people had dissected the video, enhanced the audio, and come to the same conclusion as Grigory had that afternoon. Even if the spooks could snip the feed from the East Valley Theater, the screen was so hugely public that there were literally tens of thousands of visual feeds. They couldn't stop all of them. They couldn't rout the entire net. The secret would be out, for better or worse.
My eyeset shivered. It was Antonio. He looked happy as a new-minted yuan millionaire. And confused. He clearly had no idea what the hell was happening. “All that drama for this?” he said.
"Yep."
He shook his head. “I don't get it."
"Not yet,” I said, watching the video end.
"You are one crazy fucktard,” Antonio said, and signed off.
And then it started. In my eyeset, talkingheads started yammering over the end of my little video. Some of them mentioned nanofacturing and grey goo and magic dust.
"It's done,” I told Nana.
My optacle shivered. The preview text showed: Anders Patel, Impinging Talent Specialist, NBC Media Group.
"I have a call,” I told Nana.
"Government?"
"No, NBC."
Nana looked confused. I shared my POV with her and took the call. Anders avatar was slim and well-groomed, looking twentiesish. “Mr Palmetto, you may be the Man Who Said No, but you're the object of much attention tonight,” he said.
"It seems that way."
"Have you considered putting that attention to good use?"
"How so?"
"We'd like to offer you a contract for a linearized account of today's adventure."
"How much?"
"One point seven five million golden dollars."
I looked at Nana. She looked back at me, eyes wide. It wasn't a huge amount of money. But the remains of the networks weren't that big. And it might just be the most money anyone had ever gotten for rejecting monetized propagation.
Anders went on: “We think you're on the front end of a trend. You're exposing the limitations of the pay-for-prop models. And with your mother—"
"No."
"What?"
"No. I said no."
"But—"
I cut the connection. Nana's expression blank and smooth, unreadable as a bowling ball.
I held out a hand. She looked at it for a moment. Another. Then she reached out and took it. I had no idea what I'd do in the future. I had no idea if I even had a future, once the nanostuff sunk in.
"You're crazy,” she said.
"Maybe I am."
And that was all right. In that moment, everything was just fine.
Copyright © 2009 Jason Stoddard
[Back to Table of Contents]
READERS’ POLL—Vote for your favourite (and not so favourite) stories of 2008
* * * *
Once again we're asking you to let us know what you enjoyed (and what you didn't) during 2008. You may vote for and against any number of stories or artworks published in issues 214 to 219 inclusive (see list below). As always, we're as keen to hear your opinions of the magazine as we are to get your votes, so don't be shy in letting us know what you think—and we may publish the most interesting comments.
* To vote by post: Martin McGrath, 48 Spooners Drive,
Park Street, St Albans, Herts AL2 2HL
* To vote by email: [email protected]
* To vote online: ttapress.com/forum (Interzone topic)
* * * *
The results will be published in Interzone issue 222, so please make sure your votes are in before 31 March
Africa (217)
Karen Fishler
illustrated by Paul Drummond
Africa (217)
cover art by Paul Drummond
Butterfly, Falling at Dawn(219)
Aliette De Bodard
illustrated by Paul Drummond
Comus of Central Park (217)
M.K. Hobson
illustrated by Darren Winter
Concession Girl (217)
Suzanne Palmer
illustrated by Darren Winter
Corner of the Circle (218)
Tim Lees
illustrated by Warwick Fraser-Coombe
The Country of the Young (219)
Gord Sellar
illustrated by Daniel Bristow-Bailey
Crystal Nights (215)
Greg Egan
illustrated by Warwick Fraser-Coombe
Dragonfly Summer (215)
Patrick Samphire
illustrated by Warwick Fraser-Coombe
The Endling (215)
Jamie Barras
illustrated by Darren Winter
The Endling (215)
cover art by Darren Winter
Endra—From Memory (216)
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
illustrated by Chris Nurse
Everything That Matters (219)
Jeff Spock
illustrated by Kenn Brown
The Faces of My Friends (214)
Jennifer Harwood-Smith
Far Horizon (214)
Jason Stoddard
illustrated by Paul Drummond
Far Horizon (214)
cover art by Paul Drummond
The Fifth Zhi (219)
Mercurio D. Rivera
illustrated by Paul Drummond
Greenland (218)
Chris Beckett
illustrated by Warwick Fraser-Coombe
Greenland (218)
cover art by Warwick Fraser-Coombe
His Master's Voice (218)
Hannu Rajaniemi
illustrated by Paul Drummond
Holding Pattern (215)
Joy Marchand
illustrated by Warwick Fraser-Coombe
The Hour is Getting Late (216)
Billie Aul
illustrated by Chris Nurse
How To Make Paper Airplanes (216)
Lavie Tidhar
illustrated by Chris Nurse
IF (218)
Daniel Akselrod & Lenny Royter
The Imitation Game (215)
Rudy Rucker
Into the Night (216)
Anil Menon
illustrated by Chris Nurse
The Invisibles (216)
Élisabeth Vonarburg
illustrated by Chris Nurse
Little Lost Robot (217)
Paul McAuley
illustrated by Paul Drummond
Mundane-SF Special Issue (216)
cover art by Chris Nurse
Poppyfields (218)
Chris Beckett
illustrated by Vincent Chong
Pseudo Tokyo (214)
Jennifer Linnaea
illustrated by Darren Winter
Rat Island (218)
Chris Beckett
illustrated by Daniel Bristow-Bailey
Remote Control (216)
R.R. Angell
illustrated by Chris Nurse
The Scent of Their Arrival (214)
Mercurio D. Rivera
illustrated by Paul Drummond
The Shenu (219)
Alexander Marsh Freed
The Ships Like Clouds, Risen by Their Rain (217)
Jason Sanford
illustrated by Vincent Chong
Street Hero (215)
Will McIntosh
illustrated by Chris Nurse
Talk is Cheap (216)
Geoff Ryman
illustrated by Chris Nurse
The Trace of Him (214)
Christopher Priest
Traveller (219)
cover art by Kenn Brown
The Two-Headed Girl (217)
Paul G. Tremblay
When Thorns are the Tips of Trees (219)
Jason Sanford
illustrated by Vincent Chong
[Back to Table of Contents]
S
INNER, BAKER, FABULIST, PRIEST; RED MASK, BLACK MASK, GENTLEMAN, BEAST—Eugie Foster
* * * *
* * * *
Illustrated by Geoffrey Grisso
* * * *
Eugie Foster calls home a mildly haunted, fey-infested house in metro Atlanta that she shares with her husband Matthew, and her pet skunk Hobkin. Her publication credits number over a hundred and include stories in Realms of Fantasy, Cricket, Cicada, Orson Scott Card's InterGalactic Medicine Show, Jim Baen's Universe, The Third Alternative, and anthologies Best New Fantasy (Prime Books), Heroes in Training (DAW Books) and Best New Romantic Fantasy 2 (Juno Books). Her first short story collection, Returning My Sister's Face and Other Far Eastern Tales of Whimsy and Malice, will be published in 2009 from Norilana Books. Visit her online at eugiefoster.com. Eugie is the editor of TTA Press's The Fix Online (thefix-online.com), which publishes reviews of short fiction from the full spectrum of magazines, webzines, anthologies and collections, plus interviews and a range of complementary features.
* * * *
Each morning is a decision. Should I put on the brown mask or the blue? Should I be a tradesman or an assassin today?
Whatever the queen demands, of course, I am. But so often she ignores me, and I am left to figure out for myself who to be.
Dozens upon dozens of faces to choose from.
* * * *
1. Marigold is for murder.
The yellow mask draws me, the one made from the pelt of a mute animal with neither fangs nor claws—better for the workers to collect its skin. It can only glare at its keepers through the wires of its cage, and when the knives cut and the harvesters rip away its skin, no one is troubled by its screams.
I tie the tawny ribbons under my chin. The mask is so light, almost weightless. But when I inhale, a charnel stench redolent of outhouses, opened intestines, and dried blood floods my nose.
* * * *
My wife's mask is so pretty, pink flower lips and magenta eyelashes that flutter like feathers when she talks. But her body is pasty and soft, the flesh of her thighs mottled with black veins and puckered fat.
Still, I want her.
"Darling, I'm sorry,” I say. “They didn't have the kind you wanted. I bought what they had. There's Citrus Nectar, Iolite Bronze, and Creamy Illusion."
"Might as well bring me pus in a jar,” she snaps. “Did you look on all the shelves?"
"N-no. But the shop girl said they were out."
"The slut was probably hoarding it for herself. You know they all skim the stuff. Open the pots and scoop out a spoonful here, a dollop there. They use it themselves or stick it in tawdry urns to sell at those independent markets."
Interzone Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine #220 Page 5
