Remains

by Mark W. Tiedemann

  “No, I don’t think so. Not frighten—disturb, unsettle—but it didn’t seem real enough to actually scare me.”

  “Have you been able to get it out of your head?”

  “I’m—” She balked, about to say that she was a CAP and nothing ever left her head. But she had given the event at Reese’s almost no thought. The images offered a dramatic effect, certainly, but did she care?

  She saw Piers watching her then, his eyes narrowed, waiting. She laughed self-consciously

  “Good question,” she said. “I suppose not.”

  “Did they remind you of anything?”

  “Remind me? Of what?”

  He shrugged elaborately and seemed about to reply when their lunch arrived.

  “Apparently,” he continued, “Earth is in a bit of a fix. We’ve known for some time that a plague was running loose downwell, but this was the first verification of it.”

  “It sounds like things are falling apart. Literally.”

  “Yes... so you were out to dinner with Mace?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mace is an interesting man,” Piers said then. He frowned at his plate.

  “The broccoli looks small, doesn’t it? I wonder if it was a bad season...”

  He stabbed a forkful of vegetables and ate. “Good, though. I said, ‘Mace is an interesting man.’“

  “You did. He is, yes.”

  “Have you been to his dom?”

  “I... Mr. Hawthorne, I don’t mean to be rude—”

  “He has, I’m told, the most amazing collection of music. I offered to buy it from him last year, but he said no. I even named a price but he didn’t even pause. It must be something.”

  “It’s impressive... I’m sorry, Mr. Hawthorne, but I’m not comfortable discussing Mace when he’s not here.”

  “Really? Well, I suppose it would seem to be none of my business. But you were at my party, which was for Mace. Now ask yourself, why would I throw a party for someone in whom I have no interest? And why would it be a very expensive party if that interest weren’t fairly significant? Since you met him there, I only thought that our concerns for him might intersect. You see, after three years as a recluse, it’s a surprise and a relief to see Mace doing something other than mourning his wife. My concerns for his well-being are genuine—”

  “Did you know her?”

  “Know who?”

  “Mace’s wife. Helen.”

  “No, I didn’t. But I know Mace. We met at the time she died.”

  “How did she die?”

  Piers frowned.

  “I’m sorry Mr. Hawthorne, now I’m prying—”

  “No, it’s all right. It was an accident on Mars. Eighty-nine people died; she was one of them. I was the on-site adjuster afterward. That’s

  where I met Mace. He’d been running security on the site. He—well, he didn’t cope very well. When he came back here, he became more and more reclusive. Obsessed, really. I think it was significant that he came to his own birthday party.”

  Nemily watched Hawthorne. He was rambling, as if he had something he wanted to say but could not bring it out. “I’m glad he did,” she said.

  “So... you are seeing him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Still?”

  “For the foreseeable future.”

  Piers smiled. “Good. If there’s anything you need—advice, information—”

  “Mr. Hawthorne—”

  “Piers, please. I know you work in my department; I’m your superior in the company, and maybe you find this all a bit awkward, but my concern is primarily for my friend.”

  “I appreciate that. I’ll think about it, Mr.—Piers—all right?”

  “Stat check.” He ate in silence for a time. Then: “How long have you known Reese? Since you’ve been here, did you say?”

  “Since shortly after I came through InFlux. Too long, I sometimes think.”

  He laughed. “I know what you mean.” He sat back from his half-finished plate. “I’m not as hungry as I thought. I suppose I should go put in an appearance.” He gazed reluctantly in the direction of the new cafe. “It’s been pleasant talking with you, Ms. Dollard. I hope we can do it again.” He gestured for the waiter. “This is on me.”

  “Oh, I—”

  “I insist. Perhaps sometime we can all go out, then Mace can buy me lunch. Or dinner. See you around, Ms. Dollard.”

  She watched him sign the bill and hurry out. She watched him head down the Mall toward the new cafe. She nibbled at her sandwich for a time, then left. She stood in the center of the Mall, undecided, and let herself drift toward Spengler’s.

  The crowd formed a dense tangle of faces, arms, and glasses, bright against the shadows and colors of clothes and furniture. The features moved, mouths opening and closing, connections made and broken, words gathered in a froth of ritual prattle and spilled over the boundary.

  If she could see them she could pluck them from the air around her, one by one, bursting at her touch and leaving her no wiser than when she first reached for them. She raised a foot, moved it forward, preparing to slip through into the jumble at the first sign of a sensible opening—

  —and found herself walking away, back toward her office, turned aside by the disordered barrier. On the way, she came to a decision. She wondered briefly if she should let Mace know first, but he might misunderstand and interfere.

  Melissa’s office was still empty. Nemily left her a message, taking four days of personal time. She transferred the data from the disc to her collator, then erased the disc and tucked it into the stack of blanks in Melissa’s office. She went down to her locker and cleaned out her belongings, stripping it bare as if she would not be back, filling a second bag.

  She smiled at the security people as she left.

  She walked up the steps to the third floor of her dom. She shifted the two bags to her left hand and reached for the lock. The door was already unlocked.

  She thought back frantically to the night she had left with Mace. She had worn her synthesist. Had she forgotten to lock up? It seemed unlikely; she had never forgotten that.

  Her scalp tingled as she entered her own apartment. Still holding the bags, she went from room to room. She found no one. She stood finally in her bedroom, studying the surfaces for sign that someone had gone through her things. She could not tell.

  Quickly, she stuffed the bags in a closet, then pulled out a change of clothes. Grabbing her ID and a credit chit, slipping her augment case in a hip pouch, she left the apartment, making sure to lock the door. Her nerves danced as she descended the stairs to the pedistry and made for the nearest shunt station.

  She kept well back in the shadows of the alcove across from Reese’s club and waited for Mace and Koeln to emerge. When they did, both relief and fear jolted her. For a few moments she knew Mace would see her. He stood outside the closed club, talking to Koeln as if the two had known each other for years, and all she could think of was that any instant she would do something that would attract their attention. She held herself as rigidly as possible, till it seemed that her skin vibrated.

  Koeln walked away, leaving Mace where he leaned back against the wall. He frowned, forehead deeply furrowed. Abruptly, he went back to the entrance to 5555 and banged on it. Coif let him back in. Ten minutes later, he came out once more, and headed in the direction Koeln had gone earlier.

  After a time the trembling subsided and she gathered herself to cross the circuit to 5555. Each step recovered confidence till by the time she pressed the mici the shaking was nearly gone.

  “What a day” Reese said as she entered his office. He sighed dramatically and laughed. “What else could happen? I’m almost afraid to anticipate.”

  “I’m doing fine, Reese, thank you for asking,” Nemily said.

  “Your friend just left.”

  “I saw” Nemily ignored the urge to ask why Mace had been here; she guessed that it concerned Koeln’s visit, and, consequently, Glim Toler. But she d
id not want Reese to know how deep her interest in Mace ran. She glanced at Coif standing by the exit.

  “Is this private?” Reese asked.

  “I’d prefer it that way”

  Reese nodded and looked at Coif, who turned smartly and left. Reese gestured toward the couch across from his desk and made a sweeping, magnanimous gesture. “So, then, what can I do for you? Dare I hope that we can do some business?”

  “Probably I want to trade for it.”

  “Trade. I gather then that it’s not the sort of thing that is readily available to you.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you think I can get it for you?”

  “Definitely”

  “Why do you want it?”

  “I have personal reasons, but I think this would be in your best interest as well. So it’s not much of a trade since you’ll benefit.”

  Reese’s eyes twitched slightly in surprise. “I wouldn’t have expected such convolutions from you.” He drew a deep breath. “I’m also wondering if this is related to the visit just paid me by Mr. Preston and Mr. Koeln.”

  “I’d rather not say anything about that.”

  “What do you need?”

  “There’s a man on Aea... he was here the other night. I want him off Aea.”

  “Why not speak to SA? Deportation is more their line—”

  “Because I’m sure he can’t be deported. If he’s here, he’s protected. At least from SA.”

  “But not from me.”

  “I doubt anyone can be protected from you.”

  “I’m not that dangerous. Who is he and what concern would he be to me?”

  “He deals vacuum. Not the light stuff. He could be a direct competitor in time. Also, I think he’s here to do damage to Aea itself. I don’t know how. But he could certainly do damage to me. I want him gone.”

  “Dead?”

  “I—how you do it is up to you. I suppose that depends on what you want me to do whether or not it’s worth that much to you.”

  “Sensible answer. Who is he?”

  “His name is Glim Toler. He’s Lunessa, so I’m sure you can find him easily.”

  Reese was silent for a long time. He sighed then.

  “And you’ll do my favor in return for this?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t want to know what the favor is?”

  “Do you think I should know?”

  “I have an acquaintance with special tastes—”

  “Ghosting?”

  He spread his hands and nodded.

  Nemily swallowed through a tightened throat. “Since your acquaintance evidently can’t get it from Everest, I have to assume what’s wanted is slightly illegal.”

  Reese frowned thoughtfully. “No, I don’t think so... it’s more a matter of confidentiality. Everest is too public. It occurred to me that someone who doesn’t ghost at all anymore and wouldn’t be likely to ever ghost again would be a perfect solution. I really don’t want to do anything to attract SAs attention if I can help it.”

  “You never used to worry about that.”

  “Oh, no, I always worried about it, but I never used to have much choice.”

  “You do now?”

  “Most of what I do these days is legitimate, if not entirely respectable. One of the virtues of a frontier economy. Necessity always dictates legality. I’m close enough to complete legitimacy to start to worry about it. But there are loose ends. Always.”

  “I’ll never ask you for anything else.”

  “Oh, no! Don’t make promises both of us may find impossible to keep. I would miss you, Nemily if you never came around anymore. Just keep in mind the nature of transactions... ?”

  “When?”

  “Tonight.”

  “That’s rather short notice.”

  “How quickly did you want this... Glim Toler... taken care of?”

  Nemily felt herself nod, resigned. She could not truthfully claim to be surprised. “How long do you think this will take? What does your acquaintance expect?”

  “As I said, mainly anonymity. You’ll be going in as a blank, coming out clean. A few hours at most, I think.”

  An occluded overlay. Nemily suppressed a shudder. She had done a few of those, and hated them. Often they resulted in days of partial memories and odd emotional reactions. The unmodified thought nothing remained behind after the session, but it did not work that way What she had explained to Mace was mostly true—deep overlays were shunned by professional ghosts because of the eventual overload, but even mild ones left a residue, and occluded overlays were never light. The occlusions certainly dissipated over time, but in the short term they were simply “hidden” in her brain. There were ways around the blocks, she knew. If she were told exactly what she had ghosted she could find the hidden files and access them, but that never happened. Going in blank and coming out clean meant no one talked about it; it never happened, so no one talked about it.

  “I really don’t like that, Reese.”

  “You have my assurances nothing will go wrong.”

  “Your assurances don’t help. If I can’t remember, I can’t believe you.”

  “It’s terrible not to be trusted.”

  “I know. It’s the whole thinking behind sending someone in blank.”

  “A point. Still...”

  “How soon do you think you can take care of my problem?”

  “I can’t say. I’ll see what I can have for you when you come back tonight, say in four hours?”

  Nemily stood. Curiously, all the trembles were gone. “How shall I dress?”

  “Nothing was specified. You have good taste, I trust your judgment.”

  “Four hours.”

  Nemily left, thinking of the variety of uses to which trust could be put, all of them implying the same thing but few of them overlapping or consequent upon clear intent or thorough understanding.

  She took a shunt to a shopping district in segment three, where she drifted from shop to shop. She was on her own time, she should use it rather than use it up. Not until she wandered into a boutique did she understand her own actions. She intended to stay away from her regular spaces until her transaction with Reese was complete. She wanted to view her stolen data, but she wanted to be calmer and more private before she opened the file. After tonight. After her favor for Reese.

  She bought an outfit for tonight, a dark green singlepiece that formed itself like skin to her hips and thighs and billowed around her shoulders. Purchase in hand, she found a small coffee shop to idle away the next hour or so before returning to the Heavy.

  Her heart picked up speed at odd intervals, as if trying to run away when she was distracted. The effect seemed disconnected from any particular thought, as if her autonomic system were dealing with a separate issue than her consciousness. Sometimes she believed that her unaugmented psyche still functioned apart from her net. If she believed in such things, she might claim to have two souls, one isolated in the un-accessed parts of her damaged brain.

  She finished her coffee, picked up her package, and began making her way back to Reese’s club. People stopped in small groups and pointed upwell. Against the roseate of the northern cap the bunting and banners and stages for the regatta clustered. Even from here some of the ships were clearly visible, sleek-hulled and broad-winged.

  “Have you bet? Have you bet on a ship? It’s getting late and the odds are driving up the prices!”

  The hawker called from beneath the bright red eaves of a small kiosk.

  Nemily came closer. People leaned on the narrow counter, studying the sheets displayed on slates that listed the contestants, their histories and standings, the pilots, and the odds.

  “Who’s the favorite?” someone asked. With a start Nemily realized it was her voice.

  “You mean this hour?” one of the other bettors said and the small crowd laughed.

  “Kazyphon” the hawker said. “Twenty-to-one at the moment, up from thirty-five-to-one at midcycle.”
>
  Nemily looked down the rows of numbers. “I’ve never bet on a regatta before.”

  “Then you’re not really an Aean,” another customer said.

  “It’s sacrilege not to bet a regatta,” said still another.

  Nemily wondered resentfully if the speaker even knew what “sacrilege” really meant, but did not respond. The statement stung, especially after the previous remark. She could think of several thousand people in segment four and segment five, probably many more in the outer rings, who had never bet on a regatta simply because they lacked the funds. For that reason alone she thought it would be worthwhile never to bet.

  But she felt people watching her now and the perverse homunculus of egoless need to belong took her chit from her pocket and selected a craft and specified an amount. She barely heard the cheers of those around her as she walked away with her ticket, certification of her true status as an Aean.

  People jammed together around the doors of 5555 when Nemily returned. The roar of music seemed to seep out of the walls. She squeezed her way through the press until one of the bouncers saw her and in a few seconds Coif tapped her on the shoulder and beckoned her to follow. Epithets and protests followed her through the portal, but no one tried to slip in with her. Coif led her up to Reese’s office.

  Reese was absent.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” Coif said.

  The monitor, audio off, showed the floor below filled with dancers swept by silent light. Nemily dropped her bag on the couch and began undressing.

  “Will it be here?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you—”

  “I don’t know who, I don’t know where. I thought you didn’t do this anymore.”

  “Reese is doing me a favor.”

  “Hell of a favor.”

  “It could be.”

  Nemily spread the green outfit on the couch and began pulling on the undergarments. The motions calmed her, as if she were exchanging one set of concerns for another through a simple change of clothes.

  “Do you mind a question?” Coif asked.