“Turn around. Stop.”
She faced the exit. Symbolic, she thought wryly No permit this time, this is the portal through which you came seeking, this is the portal by which you will leave, denied.
“Take off your overshirt.”
She peeled the loose, thigh-length garment over her head and held it dangling from her fingertips.
“Turn around.”
He drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk. “Do you have trouble with all those new muscles? People look at you?”
“I haven’t noticed.”
“Which?”
“Neither.”
“Are you usually so unobservant?”
“Sir?”
Un-ob-serv-ant,” he pronounced slowly. “So. Usually Are you? An interesting word. To be not observant, a failure to observe. To not pay attention. Not give passive service. Service is central. You do not serve when you fail to notice those around you. Old word, rich meaning, several functions, all of which indicate a lapse.”
“Pardon, but usually I am too occupied serving in other ways to pay attention to the shortfalls in others. May I put my overshirt back on?”
He nodded, adding a desultory flick of his fingers.
“You know,” he said, “they don’t like our kind in Aea. They especially don’t like your variety of our kind.”
Nemily tugged the neckline till the shirt settled correctly, then sat down.
“Sir?”
“Cyberlinks. You know, outside Lunase people call you ramheads.”
Just like they do inside Lunase, Nemily thought, among other things even less polite. Lunase possessed a higher than average population of Cerebro-Augmented-Persons. Lunase produced more than anyone else. The best facilities for installing the implants could be found here and Lunase boasted about that. For the best CAPs, Signatory Space came to Lunase.
“I’m aware of that, sir,” she said.
“Aeans are arrogant, elitist, judgmental. You won’t like it. It would really be best if you simply went back to your cadre and did your service. Why do you want to leave anyway?”
“Personal reasons.”
He pursed his lips again and Nemily waited for the next sermon. She hoped he was not one of the faithful, a true devotee of the Temple. The Temple taught endless lessons about the drawbacks of the personal.
But the interest seemed to drain out of his face. He sat back and folded his hands across his lap.
“You have a sponsor, Dollard. Somebody on Aea wants you.”
“Your permit is approved, Dollard. Understand? You’ve been accepted. Normally this would never happen, but you have a sponsor. I assure you that without that we would not be so cruel as to allow you to go. But the protocols are satisfied and you have no blemish. Approval has been given to step up your adaptation regime. You’ll need it to survive among the mutants.” His mouth twitched toward a smile. “Perhaps you’ll fit in after all.”
Suddenly he moved quickly and efficiently, punching his slate, drawing discs from hoppers, and shuffling together a packet of material. He pushed it across the desk.
“Study. Immigration law, admission protocols, an overview of custom. Away from here you will be a representative of Lunase. We expect you to conduct yourself accordingly The rest of your docs will be forwarded pending medical assessment.”
Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for the packet. She tucked it into her waistband, nodded slightly, and stepped toward the door.
“Dollard.”
“Sir?”
“You’ll miss us.”
“Of course.”
She left before he could say another word, another challenge to try her patience. Nemily knew her patience to be long and resilient, but this one—she paused at the board again to find the cubicle and the name: Pisquol—seemed to enjoy a gift for undoing her restraint. Why do I want to go to Aea? To be away from you. All of you.
She walked into the waiting room and immediately the worried eyes locked onto her. She strode through their invisible lures and nets toward the main access. Near the door, she glanced over to Kanya— or Katya—and saw the woman staring at her, hands white-knuckled around her icon. Nemily raised a thumb, the gesture of success. The woman’s mouth dropped open in an expression of shock and anguish. She ducked out of the room before anyone spoke.
I am leaving all of you, she thought as she joined the flow of people, her hidden permission giving her confidence. She looked at the Lunessa directly and enjoyed their evasive glances. I am leaving...
Nemily had applied for emigration six times. Application was free, as long as you agreed to see a counselor who wanted to know why you wished to leave. Nemily always told them that she intended to trace her family and Lunase lacked the facilities and inclinations to help her do that. They understood the impulse of the orphaned to find their progenitors—it was at the heart of Temple philosophy—and it tended to bypass the usual objections. Still, they urged her to stop thinking about it; that in her case the search more than likely would turn up nothing; assured her that she would find only frustration—all of which she knew to be true and none of which made the least difference. In fact Nemily cared nothing for the Belt family that had sold her to Lunase as an infant, indenturing her to the Combine, and dusting its hands of her. It was only an excuse to find a way out.
A score of lesser reasons drove her decision. She did not like her roommate, Clare, and especially disliked Toler, Clare’s lover. Toler dealt in vacuum—not uncommon in itself; everyone knew someone who trafficked in contraband, but Toler did not even try to hide it, meaning he either did not care or was protected—and gave Clare all sorts of niceties. Scent organs, silk loungers for off-shift wear, alternate wavelength lights, flavor tabs to add to food, access codes for higher-level data-stores, a variety of pharmocopiates of which Clare had become nervously fond, and music, definitely the hardest to leave. It was all vacuum, black market, contraband, and Nemily worried about being discovered and disciplined. Toler was often gone for long stretches of time and Clare was careless sometimes about who she showed off Toler’s gifts to. The entire situation kept Nemily constantly anxious.
She delayed informing Clare about her pending emigration because she told everything to Toler. He already knew Nemily had been applying and that was unsettling enough. But not telling Clare anything was nearly as revealing as telling her everything. Especially after the increased adapt treatments began swelling Nemily’s joints and muscles. In the confines of their shared apartment, it was impossible. Nemily compromised, telling Clare that she was undergoing preparatory treatments in case she got accepted.
“If you weren’t so short,” Clare observed one evening, “you’d be almost Lunessa Standard by now. Is that normal?”
“Mmm.”
“What’d the pathologist say? Maybe you’re having an abnormal reaction. That could cause trouble if you start in earnest. A friend of mine’s brother had trouble with that and developed acromegaly, then he couldn’t go anywhere.”
“Mmm.”
“You ought to check.”
“There’s no problem.”
“I don’t know, you’re looking awfully big for prep stage.”
Nemily looked up from the slate in her lap and watched Clare as she restitched a blouse to conform to the latest cut. Nemily envied Clare’s ability to remake her clothes. Clare had worked in a garment shop once but claimed that dealing with customers pushed her too close to breakdown. Now Clare did what Nemily had gotten away from, working for the Combine in halogens, herding molecules for the alchemists.
Clare’s body conformed to the coming Lunessa norm, tall and thin, over two meters and nearly gaunt. Projections claimed that in two or three more generations, the average height would top three meters. Already new warrens were being planned to accommodate the need for head room. At one point six meters, Nemily was already markedly behind any Lunessa body norm, with no hope of ever catching up. The adapt treatments only made her seem shorter.
&
nbsp; Suddenly Clare stopped working and stared at Nemily. Nemily usually avoided Clare’s gaze when the mood turned serious, but now she met her roomy’s stare evenly She was surprised when Clare, wordlessly, put away her stitching and left the room. A few moments later Clare’s door slammed shut, leaving behind a thick stillness.
She puzzled at Clare’s reaction through her next shift. Coworkers stared at her in the shower. She finished quickly, self-conscious of her body. She had begun wearing looser clothes to hide the changes. It was becoming harder to walk normally, both because of the increased strength and the pain. She stepped carefully, afraid of launching herself into the now-too-near roof of the corridors.
Toler waited in her space, sitting in Nemily’s favorite chair, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, fingers laced over his stomach.
“Nem, sweet,” he said, smiling.
Nemily immediately wanted to turn around and leave, but she forced herself to stay. This was still her space, Toler was the intruder.
“I hear you’re leaving us.”
“Clare say so?”
“Would she be wrong?”
“She didn’t get that from me.”
“That’s not a denial.”
“Stat check, Toler.”
“I need a favor. I assume you’re going to Aea? I want you to deliver something.”
“I don’t do vacuum, Toler. I’ve told you that.”
“Yes, but this is different. You’re going to a strange place, a new world, different costs. You need resources. This will help.”
“Is Clare here?”
“Do you hear, Nem?”
“I do, you don’t. I said I don’t do vacuum.”
Toler stood. “There’s an easy way and a hard way—”
“Should I call civic maintenance?”
“Look, ramhead, don’t play at misunderstanding me. All those wires don’t deceive; you think clearly, you understand. We can do this so you leave clean, make a little extra when you arrive, everybody’s happy. Or we can abort you. I know people, delay is no problem. Too much delay, your adapt treatment goes past its optima, complications arise. I’m not asking, I’m instructing, are we clear?”
“You can’t abort me. I have a sponsor.”
“How do you think that happened? Eh? You’re going because someone on Aea wants something.” He reached out to grab her wrist.
Quickly, she snagged his hand and twisted it, startled at how easily he nearly went down. Toler had always been so strong, and Nemily often suspected he had gone through adapt treatments. But now his mouth stretched wide with pain and Nemily could feel the fragility of the bone and cartilage in her grasp.
“You don’t listen, Toler,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “I don’t do vacuum.” She released him and he stumbled back, cradling his injured wrist. “Is Clare here?”
Toler went to the hygiene. A moment later Nemily heard water running. Her entire body quivered in response to her heightened pulse and she felt bright, delicate and hard at once, tingly the way she did in the minutes before sex began. She flexed her fingers and decided that she would miss this new power.
“Thanks for telling Toler.”
Clare stopped pushing her food around with her chops and frowned at Nemily. “Telling Toler what?”
“About me leaving.”
The quality of Clare’s frown changed, from puzzlement to unwelcome understanding.
“I didn’t,” she said.
“He said—”
“I didn’t.”
“Then how did he know?”
Clare resumed stirring the ceramic sticks in her bowl, staring into the mixture of rice and lentils and spinach as if it held profound secrets.
“Clare?”
“Toler drifts with some peculiar people. Stay away from him.”
“I intend to anyway.”
“So you really got a permit?”
“Yes.”
“Were you going to tell me?”
“Yes. Eventually. Before I left anyway”
“Why not before now? It must’ve been weeks ago, judging by your adapt progress.”
“Pathic says I’m reacting faster than norm.”
“Still—”
“Three weeks ago. And a few days. They say I have a sponsor.”
“You’re really going?”
“Of course.”
Clare’s eyes flickered up briefly, leaving an impression of mistrust and pain. It startled Nemily
“Does it hurt?” Clare asked.
“What? The adapt? Sometimes. I wake up with cramps occasionally.”
“I wondered. I hear you wandering the space at night, sometimes. I thought about doing it for trend, filling out my frame a little, but it’s too expensive just on a whim.”
“The exercise regime isn’t fun.”
Nemily broke off a piece of the hard rye bread and chewed on it, waiting. Clare had not taken a bite of her food since she had sat down at the table. Nemily considered taking her empty bowl to the cleaner, but Clare’s attitude seemed to demand her attention.
“Aea?”
“Hmm?”
“Aea. You’re going to Aea.”
“Yes—”
“You are a thoughtless cleft, you know that?”
“Clare—”
“You weren’t going to tell me. You were just going to not be here and let me run around trying to figure out what happened. It wouldn’t matter to you if I left like that, so why should it matter to me? It never crossed your... mind... that not everybody sees things the way you do and maybe some of us actually get hurt by things that never touch you at all.”
“Clare, I don’t understand why you’re upset. You’ve never been fond of me as a roommate. After I’m gone you can get someone in here that you prefer. Maybe even Toler.”
Clare’s shocked look preceded the bowl of food across the table. Nemily jerked to one side but the bowl caught her shoulder and rice and lentils and spinach sprayed explosively around her, following her slowly down. She heard the bowl crack off the wall then hit floor nearly a second later. The food still rained on her as she twisted around to get to her feet.
Clare stood away from the table with her arms pressed to her sides, fists tightly balled. Her face burned vivid red and tears gathered heavily around her eyes, just beginning to ooze down her cheeks.
“Is that why you’re leaving? Because you think I want Toler in here? Damn it, Nem! Why don’t you ever ask?”
“That’s not—”
“Damn damn damn damn!”
Nemily took a step toward Clare, not really certain what she intended to do. Perhaps hold her, perhaps slap her; she felt capable of either. But Clare backed away quickly and Nemily recognized the expression on her face—fear. Clare was terrified and now she seemed to realize that Nemily knew it. She backed up to the door to the kitchen, came against the jamb and let out a high keening wail.
Nemily understood now. Toler frightened Clare. She could not stay away from him; he fascinated her, held her somehow, but she wanted him kept at a distance, the distance of separate space. Nemily was the excuse, the shield, the reason Toler could not move in with Clare, and Clare depended on her presence to control her own obsessive fascination. It did not make sense, but it defined Clare.
“I’ll clean up later,” she said, turning away from Clare. “I have something to do. Just leave it.”
She went to her bedroom and locked the door.
She kept her augments in a small, cloth-lined case. Since taking the
position on the hydrogen conduit, there had been no need to use any but the one she usually wore. This line did not even have the special inserts the alchemists required. The specialized capacities of the small implants were wasted on something so simple. Besides, her pathologist had cautioned her against switching capacities while the adapt treatments continued.
But she needed to sort things out and to do that she needed to dream. Her implant did not permit normal REM slee
p, so she had to use an augment to facilitate her dreams. She opened the box and selected the one that did, the collator. She reached to the back of her neck and found the hard node in the shallow trough below the base of her skull and pressed her fingers in around it. She felt the delicate click of the augment releasing, the small button extruding from the socket...and the colors she saw dimmed, almost leaching completely out of the walls and the covers on her bed. A distant ringing started as she placed the augment in its spot in the case and took out the new one. She pushed it into place until it clicked. For a few seconds the colors poured back into her surroundings, too rich, too deep. She closed the case and returned it to her bureau, then stretched out on the bed. By then, everything looked flat. That was the external, it was unimportant now. What mattered were the almost physical sensations of connection happening inside.
She closed her eyes and watched images dance.
She came partly awake, aware of being very afraid, but locked in place, unable to move. Dreamstate could do this, she knew, and she tried to convince herself that she was only collating. But the impressions layering over her semi-conscious mind made no sense and her dreams always made sense.
“—don’t, please, leave her alone—”
“Shut up, will you? Damn.”
“See here, she hasn’t used the math augment in months.”
“So?”
“Toler, don’t—”
Heavy footsteps seemed to rattle the flooring and she heard breath sucked sharply, a brief cry, and scuffling. She wanted to wake up, to turn around, to see, to stop. The door closed.
“—basically an algorithm anyway, so it’s the perfect place to hide it.
This is even better than the other ones. We have to cram it in somewhere that maybe won’t be accessed, but this—”
“—hurry up, will you? Maintenance is on its way, the eyes won’t be shut down that long.”
“I thought you said you’d permanently shut them down here?”
“Just hurry.”
“... another minute...”
“You’re sure—?”
“You’ve hidden the vacuum in her things?”
Remains Page 5
