Remains

by Mark W. Tiedemann

  When it ended he closed his eyes and tried to hold the memory of the sensations, as if they were objects he might cradle in his hands. He hoped, every time, that the transformations in the music would stay with him. It was the joy and frustration of music that the experience remained vivid only during the performance. The memory served only to draw him back to listen again.

  “Time?”

  “You have fifteen minutes to get there,” Helen said.

  “You’re sure I have to go through with this?”

  “Don’t press your luck.”

  Mace laughed. It felt natural, sincere. Maybe he would stay in a fairly good mood.

  A short path led from his front door, between a pair of dwarf elms, to an aluminum postern gate. Mace’s dom stood just off the curve of a wide pedistry that ran through the enclave, past several other houses, all set back from the walkway on sizeable plots of grass. Lights illuminated windows or glowed through translucent walls, pushing against the onset of nightcycle. Above, the section of one of the light traps visible to Mace still shone faintly, the external mirrors pivoting now to deflect sunlight.

  Since taking retirement, things had gone well. The house he lived in was in a more exclusive area than the slightly more modest dom he had shared with Helen—the few times they had shared it, when she had actually been in Aea, free of assignments. He had never expected to have an upshaft address, at the moneyed end of Aea’s interior. Piers Hawthorne had handled the insurance claims and had done well by him. He had thought little of the man after the incident on Mars until Mace decided to leave PolyCarb. Hawthorne remembered him, though, and took a personal interest in seeing to it Mace received everything he deserved. During the process, they had developed a kind of friendship. Mace had been bemused by Hawthorne’s evident concern, but after the settlement he did not question it. Mace no longer had to worry about money thanks to Hawthorne’s efforts. Hawthorne had even helped get him space on which to build his dom in this district.

  Given more time, Mace would prefer to walk the three kilometers to Hawthorne’s even more exclusive address. He lived spinward and further upshaft, in a more exclusive enclave. Instead, Mace walked briskly spinward to the tube station just outside his own enclave gate.

  He descended the stairs to the shunt platform. He recognized a few of the waiting people and gave a polite nod. He considered descending one more level to the downshaft platform and finding a nightclub or theater, wandering the entertainment districts at the opposite end of Aea. He knew where he would end up and he knew that Helen would find out. Tonight he was more willing to put up with the party than another of Helen’s lectures about bought companionship.

  The public newsfeed, displayed on a large screen mounted above them on the wall, showed the latest about the new rounds of trade talks. Mace scanned them briefly while he waited. Lunase was upset about Aea’s announcement that PolyCarb would begin large-scale manufacture of certain exotic materials previously made only on the moon and in the three orbital factories owned by Lunase. They considered this encroachment and demanded sanctions through the Trans System Congress. More of the same; Lunase had been complaining about orbital “encroachments” on their markets since the Exclusion.

  The spinward shunt arrived and he took a seat toward the back of the car. It moved forward smoothly on its maglev. The ride lasted less than three minutes. Mace was the only one to get off at the PolyCarb CLUB

  STANDARD Stop.

  The enclave occupied lightly forested land, each dom surrounded by one to one and a half hectares. Compressed-earth pedestries wound throughout the thirty-five hectares of private grounds, marked by lights shining warmly along the edges.

  Hawthorne’s dom sprawled lazily a jumble of differently shaped boxes. It was a child’s idea of a house, Mace thought, grown large and ridiculous. Private flitters littered the lawn.

  Mace felt his mood slipping even before he reached the porticoed entrance. He hesitated, his finger centimeters from the may-I-come-in, trying to find a graceful way and a legitimate excuse to walk away now.

  Before he could press the mici, the door opened and Piers Hawthorne grinned at him. “Mace! I’m flattered! Come in, come in.”

  “Good evening, Piers.”

  Piers took Mace’s arm and brought him inside the foyer. The door snapped shut and Piers waved him further into the dom. “This is special,” Piers said.

  The short hallway led into a reception area off which opened three wide doorways and a stair leading up. Piers guided Mace to the right, into a large room filled with people.

  “Everybody!” Piers called out, silencing the babble of conversation. “The surprise has occurred. Mace showed up.”

  The number of people startled Mace. He tried to steel himself in the insufficient half-second before the cascade of well-wishing washed over him in a loud, meaningless froth.

  “Mace—”

  “—good to see you, it’s been—”

  “—very well, you’ve taken care of yourself—”

  “—how are you?”

  “—stranger anymore! I hardly knew it was you—”

  “—damn, you haven’t changed a bit—”

  “—when did you get rid of the beard?”

  Piers placed a hand on his back and guided him forward. Faces rolled past. The crowd parted to reveal a long table bearing a large chocolate cake forested with unlit candles. Even through the dense mélange of colognes he smelled the chocolate. He had always liked the scent better than the taste.

  Piers stepped past him, touched his shoulder lightly in reassurance, and lifted a glass of champagne from the table. He handed it to Mace and took another for himself, raising it above his head. A trail of liquid escaped the rim and snaked between Piers’ index and middle fingers.

  “Happy birthday, Macefield Preston,” he said. He touched a small pin on his shirt and the candles lit simultaneously. “Your friends wish you many, many more.”

  A fresh ripple of birthday wishes coursed around him. Glasses were raised and Mace extended his own, turning in place so everyone could see it. He blinked, momentarily watering his vision. Feeling foolish, he faced Piers and took a drink.

  “Make your wish and do your duty,” Piers said, “I only have a two-minute permit for open flame.”

  Laughter behind him, Mace stepped up to the cake. He inhaled deeply—no wish occurred to him, only a kind of amorphous hope that all would be well—and, with an exaggerated show, blew out the candles. Even those he knew he had missed went out. He straightened, laughing, and for the moment he felt glad to be here. Piers handed him a cake knife. He moved it over the surface of the chocolate expanse, miming profoundly considered precision, and finally chopped downward. First cut made, he handed the knife to someone else and backed away.

  “It was decided,” Piers announced, “in committee, even, not to torture you or ourselves by singing Happy Birthday’ There are professionals present and I don’t want them insulted. But you do have gifts to acknowledge.”

  A separate table stood by the far end of the main one that held all the food. Mace advanced on it with mock gravity. Piles of envelopes rimmed a collection of wrapped parcels in the middle.

  “This is too much,” he said.

  “You could give them back,” someone suggested.

  “It’s not that too much.”

  More laughter. Mace grabbed a handful of envelopes and sorted through them, holding each one up. No names scarred the surface of the variously colored and patterned paper. He stopped counting at twenty-five. He lifted each parcel and made a show of guessing its weight. By custom, nothing indicated from whom each gift had come. By custom, he left them unopened—that was a private ritual, to be done in his dom, alone. All he did now was touch each one, so the person or persons who gave them might see that he accepted it.

  When he finished, a low robot carryall rolled up and he placed all the presents in its car. The machine trundled off and Mace offered a general thank you to the gathering. Peopl
e crowded in and he suffered through more murmured good wishes and touching.

  Music swelled over the room speakers, an insistent pulse beat overlaid by chord clusters that seemed to give birth to each other, and the attention of the partiers began to drift. Mace felt himself begin to relax as people wandered off, the whole fragmenting into small clusters.

  “Are you still doing private security, Mace?”

  “Of course. Business is slow lately, though, so mostly I do bad bonsai.”

  “Then you should fit right in with the Penching Society. I hear they’ve given up on tradition and have started giving awards for freefall displays. Some of those poor things look like stiff octopi.”

  Laughter and faces swirled around him.

  “Have you seen what Jarlin is doing these days, Mace? She’s using conductive sleeves and small currents instead of wire and hard work. Intriguing results, but they lack... something…”

  “I never see you at any of the shows, Mace.”

  “I don’t like to be depressed. It’s bad enough my neighbors are better at it than I am.”

  “That’s not true, Mace, I’ve seen some of your trees. Speaking of shows, Fogart is sponsoring a new one. Supposedly, he’s inviting outside growers—Brasa, Elf or, Trinida.”

  “Is that legal? I thought Structural Authority forbade outside biologicals—”

  “Then there’d be no immigration, dear. What do you think people are if not biologicals?”

  “I just meant—”

  “I think it’s a challenge. He’s suggesting that perhaps local masters have gotten complacent. For all I know, he’s right. I certainly feel complacent.”

  “—even people have to go through decon and be certified. Put a tree through that and you’d kill it.”

  “Put some people through it and you kill them.” White teeth showed in a cruel grin.

  “It’s what I heard anyway”

  “Happy birthday, Mace. Is he seeing anyone these days? I didn’t want to ask just right out like that, but—”

  “Mace, you better get a piece of your cake before it’s all gone.”

  “Thanks, Piers.”

  “No problem. Listen, I’m glad you came.”

  “I... thank you, Piers. It seems—”

  A new hand closed on his arm, light and relentless.

  “Mace, darling, I wanted to tell you how good it is to see you. It’s been so long. Wonderful idea, Piers. How did you draw him out?”

  “I told him you’d be here, Geri. He got all tongue-tied and tumescent but promised to show up.”

  “Nice to see you, Geri.” He turned, breaking her hold.

  “You look well. So, how many is this? Thirty?”

  “Ha! Mace is the old man here. I couldn’t fit all the candles on the cake. Next year I just do decades. Maybe I’ll use votive candles, give it all a more nostalgic flavor.”

  “Cryptic flavor, you mean.”

  “I’ll be forty-seven. Piers, as usual, is too soon with too much.”

  “Sorry, Mace. Couldn’t put it on your birthday, you’d have figured it out.”

  “I hate to tell you, Piers, but he probably did anyway. Mace is very good at finding things out.”

  “That’s true, he found you out, didn’t he?”

  “Go away, Piers, the adults have things to say. Mace, I wanted to call you anyway. Ravtec is thinking of doing a new showing, flat art, acrylic and oil and all that handmade stuff, and we wondered—”

  “You should talk to Cambel. It depends on my schedule, but I personally don’t have any problem doing security.”

  “Security? No no no, I wanted you to sit on the bench, be a judge.”

  “I already have my people doing security, but I doubt it will be necessary, no one gives a damn these days for art.”

  “I’m flattered, Geri—”

  “Happy birthday, Mace. You look good. Hello, Geri.”

  “Could you give us a minute, Van?”

  “Maybe tomorrow. I understand your company is doing the refurbishing on the drainage system on the soy rings?”

  “Van, no business, please. Call tomorrow, when you have that minute. Now, Mace—”

  “Excuse me, I—”

  “Mace, where’ve you been the last two months? I’ve been dying to show you my new Klein and you never return my messages.”

  “Paul, I—”

  “Man’s been busy, Paul, don’t shear him now.”

  “Busy doing what?”

  “For one thing, turning forty-seven. Mace, I saw his Klein, it’s not much, the label’s even gone—”

  “Happy birthday, Mace, I wanted to tell you how good it is to see you. Stel and Jasper and Kunyan and I are thinking of doing a new game. I’d like to invite you to join us.”

  “Game of what?”

  “Bridge.”

  “You only need four for that.”

  “We’re revising the rules. I said a new game.”

  “Excuse me, I’d better get some cake before it’s all—”

  “Mace, congratulations. I talked to Michel a few weeks ago. Very pleased with the job you did for his in-house spec, he says the system hasn’t been breached since.”

  “His system has never been breached. It was purely prophylactic.”

  “I glanced at the code myself. Impressive. Very. I’d like to renew my offer. I think you’re one of the best and I’d like you on my staff—”

  “Is this a birthday present, Mishi?”

  “No, this is extra. Besides, it would be a present for me.”

  “We’ve talked about this before—”

  “I understand independence, Mace, and I respect your wish to remain ... unattached... but truthfully, you’re wasting your talents on small contracts. I—”

  “Do you ever do any work for PolyCarb?”

  “Of course not. They have their own staff, you know that—”

  “Then I have to decline. If you ever get a PolyCarb contract, let me know.”

  “Mace—”

  “Whatever this thief is offering you, Mace, I’ll double it. Standing offer.”

  “Hello, Andre.”

  “Happy birthday. You aren’t looking for steady employment, are you?”

  “No, just steady distraction.”

  “Structural Authority contracted us to do satellite recovery.”

  “That sounds interesting.”

  “I wish I’d have gotten it ten years ago. There’s not much left down there, but we dredge up some intriguing leftovers from time to time.”

  “Did you hear Brasa claims to have found one of the original deep-space research platforms?”

  “I heard; I didn’t believe.”

  “In working order, they say, though the signals have been going god knows where.”

  “I don’t know what Brasa intends to do with it.”

  “Oh, they’ll lease it to us, of course. The neighborly thing to do.”

  “Mace, I want you to come over here and meet someone—evening, Andre... Mishio…”

  “Good evening, Piers—”

  “Come on, you haven’t even got cake yet.”

  “Call me, Mace.”

  “Yes, I—”

  “Over here, Mace, I’d like to introduce you to Delia. Delia, the guest of honor, may I present Macefield Preston—”

  “Thank you for a lovely party”

  “Oh, it’s Piers’ party—”

  “But you’re the excuse; you get the credit.”

  “Let me get you some cake, Mace. Be right back—”

  “Are you enjoying it?”

  “I haven’t caught my breath yet. To be truthful, I’m not much of a party-goer.”

  “Nor I. Piers asked so sincerely, though I couldn’t refuse.”

  “Piers says you do security.”

  “I do some, yes—”

  “What kind?”

  “Personal, institutional. Mostly I design systems prophylaxis, data secures, things like that.”

  “But you do
the real kind as well?”

  “‘Real’ kind?”

  “Body guarding?”

  “Well, not so much anymore. There’s not much demand.”

  “Are you partnered, Mace?”

  “Urn...”

  “I don’t mind, I just think it’s polite to know—”

  “Would you excuse me? I—”

  “But—”

  “Pleasant meeting you, Delia...”

  “Maybe—”

  Mace lost sight of Delia within four strides. He reached the table and placed his hands on it, reassured by its immobility, as if it could anchor him.

  “So, what did you wish for?”

  He closed his eyes briefly, then turned toward the woman who had spoken, ready to give a sarcastic answer. But in the near second it took to turn, he saw her and felt a faint rush of familiarity, the kind he had always heard called déjà vu, spoken as if an exotic name explained it.

  She stood several centimeters shorter than he, with long, dark brown hair. Hazel eyes, though by their intensity they should, he thought, be bright blue. Incongruously pale eyebrows. Thin face, chin almost too long, wide mouth poised to smile, a small nose that seemed almost an afterthought. She looked at him directly and intently. Despite the unlikely combination of features, Mace was attracted.

  “Excuse me?” he said.

  “I asked what did you wish for. When you blew out the candles.”

  She meant it. Mace glanced back at the still-dispersing mob of par-tiers, all of them drifting away in small groups, mouths operating, expressing thoughts that did not seem to originate anywhere or impact anyone. Against that, she surprised him by being sincere.

  He felt giddy for a moment, a bit foolish at his excessive reaction. He laughed. “I thought it was a tradition to keep that secret.”

  “It is. It’s also a tradition for everyone to ask anyway.”

  “Is it?”

  She grinned.

  “Well—”

  “Don’t tell me. It’s bad luck. You can only tell your true love.”

  “Oh. Well, then I suppose the secret will die with me.”

  Her expression changed instantly, humor banished.

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Forgive me, I’m being morbid—”

  “—is it that bad?”