Dreaming Metal

by Melissa Scott

  “Metal dreams,” I said, and sketched the coolie sign that meant both “metal” and “machine.” “Realpeace is already tagging us as Dreampeacers, right? Which we’re not, except for Shadha, except that Celeste probably is AI—is human—and we’ve got to deal with that. So we tell that story. This construct dreamed us, we dreamed her in this time and place, and all this is what we’ve got. Hati’s dead, there’s people threatening us, but this metal”—I gave the sign again for emphasis—“this machine, Celeste, makes music. She plays it, plays at it—right now she plays at being human just the same way I’ve been playing at being a machine, trying to learn her riffs. But what’s real is in the music.” I stopped then, not knowing if I’d been clear at all, if I’d said too much or not nearly enough. The others were very quiet; I could read approval from Tai and Jaantje, discomfort from Timi, but I couldn’t tell what Shanda was thinking at all.

  “Dangerous,” Tai said at last, and made it a compliment.

  “Very,” Shadha said, voice flat. She was suddenly busy with one of the tension bolts, fiddling with the pitch of the pad, her braids falling forward to hide her face.

  “I don’t like it,” Timin said. His voice was soft, small, not his usual anger. “It’s good, it’s really good, I know that, it’s just… I don’t like it.”

  “It’s too good not to do it, Timi,” Tai said, and her voice was equally soft.

  He sighed. “I know. And I’m in. I just—oh, I don’t know.” He let his voice trail off, and Jaantje ran a hand through his hair.

  “I hate politics,” he said, to nobody in particular, and shook himself. “But I think it’s fucking brilliant, Fan. I can see where I want to go with it, too.”

  That left Shadha, and we all looked at her, waiting. She looked up, trying to look surprised, but then her shoulders slumped. “Oh, hell, let’s go with it,” she said, and made a face, trying to recapture her usual aggression. “Damn it, I’ve been Dreampeace since I was twelve, I’m supposed to want this.”

  “Not what you expected,” Timin said.

  Shadha made a short, harsh sound between her teeth. “This isn’t what AI’s supposed to look like.”

  Now you know how the coolies felt, thinking constructs would take their good jobs. I could see the same knowledge in Tai’s face, and said quickly, “It’s not what anybody expected.”

  “Then we’re agreed?” Jaantje asked. “Metal dreams?” He shaped the sign himself, clumsy but clear enough, and no one disagreed.

  I stumbled through the rest of practice, the possible images for the theme clip and all the other new ideas distracting me, but we still managed to get decent work done. It wasn’t a performance night for us, but we broke early anyway, hoping to get out of the way before the rest of the night-show performers started arriving. We hadn’t timed it quite right: the main lift and the passage stairs were already crowded, and we had to go up the west stairs to the upper lobby to avoid the people who were setting up for the lobby show. It was quiet there, the few people, ushers and the light tech and the woman who tended the food machines swapping gossip, their voices muffled by the heavy drapes and the soft carpet that covered the floor and the lower part of the wall. The lobby lights were on, and the complex pattern seemed to glow hot red against the burgundy background. Someone had told me once that all the fabric, the carpets and the drapes and the staffs dress uniforms, had been woven specifically for the Tin Hau, and that the curving patterns were really antique glyphs that spelled out that Empire’s name. On a night like this I could believe it: even here, in the less expensive second balcony, everything was picked out in lights that caught the touches of gilt and polished metal, and the air smelled indefinably of the stage. I peered through the open door into the balcony, almost sorry we weren’t playing tonight even if I wasn’t at my best, and saw the curtain glowing scarlet under the houselights, the sun and stars of Tin Hau’s present glyph splashed in woven gold across that background.

  “Hey, Fanning.” That was Jaantje’s voice, dragging me back to reality. “Come here a minute, will you?”

  I turned, saw him standing with the others at the almost-invisible door that opened on the side stairs to the plaza. Muthana was with them, and for a second I thought we were in trouble over using the shortcut—it was locked during performances, to keep people from jumping the ticket lines. But then I saw the man in Security casuals at his side, and knew it had to be something more serious. At least Security was Cartel, not FPG, but I could feel Tai’s nervousness as I came to join them.

  “What’s up?” I asked, softly, but Muthana heard.

  “Trouble, I’m afraid,” he answered, and I had never heard him sound so grim.

  Security cleared his throat gently. “Realpeace has issued a list of institutions, businesses, and individuals who they claim support machine rights over human rights—over coolie rights, I should say. It’s all over the connections, every halftime newschannel has got it ready for download. Your name is on the list.”

  “What do you mean, my name?” I asked, and immediately felt stupid.

  “The band,” Jaantje said, and nudged me to silence.

  “The list also has your address,” Security said.

  A chill went down my spine at that, and Tai said, “Which address?”

  Security glanced sideways, consulting his implants. “Ironyards—near Wireworks, I believe.”

  “The goddow,” I said. At least all my good gear was at the Tin Hau: Security wouldn’t let anything happen to the Empires.

  “What are you recommending?” Muthana asked, and Security grimaced. He had a pleasant, open face, ordinary except for a thin scar along his jaw.

  “Officially, Security will of course do everything it can to protect everybody. Unofficially—” He paused, and shrugged. “I’m telling you what I told my sister’s husband. If there is any trouble—and we don’t know that there will be, Realpeace has asked its membership to behave with restraint—”

  “Oh, yeh, restraint,” Tai said, and Muthana frowned at her.

  “Go on,” he said, to Security, who gave a wry smile, twisting the scar line.

  “If there is any trouble, we’ll have to allocate our resources to protect the biggest targets, it’s a simple matter of logistics. So if your regular address is on the list, I’d find someplace else to sleep, at least for tonight. If things stay calm, then I’d risk going back.”

  “I see,” Muthana said. “Thank you for being so open.”

  “I’m hoping it’ll save trouble in the long run,” Security answered. “If you’ll excuse me?”

  Muthana waited until he was out of earshot before he spoke again. “I’d take his advice, myself. The Tin Hau is on the list, too—so are all the Empires—but you’re welcome to sleep in the practice rooms, if that helps.”

  “It might,” Jaantje said, and looked at the rest of us. “What do you say?”

  “Lovely people,” Shadha said.

  “That’s not helpful,” Timin began, and she spoke through him.

  “Look, at my house, we’ve been ready for trouble ever since Realpeace started getting big, we’ve got twenty-five or thirty ex–lineworkers ready to help us out if anything happens. I’m not really worried about me. But I think the rest of you should stay here. Like the man said, Security’s going to take care of the biggest targets first.”

  “I think it would be smart,” I said. “Security’s not going to let anything happen to the Empires.”

  Tai nodded in reluctant agreement. “And we appreciate the use of the practice room, ba’ Muthana.”

  Timin took a deep breath. “I don’t think I’m going to stay here. First, Realpeace doesn’t know me, but mostly, I’ve got family, and I’d feel better staying with them. I don’t want to let anybody down.”

  “It’s all right,” Jaantje said.

  “If worst comes to worst, Timi,” I said, “we can all come stay with you.”

  “You’d be welcome,” he answered. He meant it, too, but I wondered how th
e rest of his family would feel.

  Muthana cleared his throat. “All right, now that that’s decided, do you need to retrieve anything from your flat? I may be able to spare a minder as escort, but I don’t know how much good that would do.”

  “All my good gear is here,” Tai said, echoing my thoughts, and Jaantje nodded.

  “Mine, too. Clothes—” He shrugged. “I don’t want to lose them, but I think it’d be smarter to lie low right now.”

  The goddow had decent locks, left over from when it had been a storage cavern for a long-vanished shop. I said, “If they manage to break in—they’d have to be pretty serious to get through both doors. Let’s stay here for tonight, see what it’s like in the morning. I can’t imagine we’d be their top priority.”

  “Don’t underestimate them,” Muthana said. “All right. Log in downstairs, and make yourselves at home.”

  “Thanks,” Jaantje said, but the manager was already striding away.

  “I think we should head out, too,” Shadha said, and Timin nodded.

  “I want to get home before shift-end.”

  We walked with them down to the main lobby, knowing they were being sensible, but not wanting to let them go. There were more minders than usual on duty in the lobby, two to each door rather than the usual single ticket-taker, and through the smoked glass I could see at least a hundred people jostling for position around the newskiosk. Some of them, the ones fighting to get away from the station, clutched folded sheaves of pink paper or their hands were closed tight over a databutton: the list, I realized, and shivered again.

  “I was going to suggest we get some dinner before we hole up,” Jaantje said, “but maybe that’s not such a good idea.”

  “Maybe not,” I said. There was a line of people waiting for tickets, too, maybe fifty or so looking either for cheap seats or better seats than the ones they had. Even as I watched, a man—in ordinary factory clothes, none of Realpeace’s sarang and wrap-jacket, nothing to mark him as one of theirs—swung away from the crowd, unfolding the list as he went, scanning it as though he was looking for something. He found it, and turned back to the crowd, pointing at the Tin Hau’s doors as he shouted something I couldn’t hear. I saw the minders tense, rocking forward on the balls of their feet, but an older man shouted back at him from the ticket line, hands moving in broad, contemptuous sign.

  *Go home and sleep it off, stop annoying respectable people.*

  He was wearing a sarang, too, though I couldn’t tell if he was wearing any of the Realpeace badges. Before the first man could answer, a quartet of armored Security swept in. Two placed themselves beside the bank of doors, while the other two started determinedly toward the man who’d shouted first. He ducked away, disappearing into the crowd, but Security still followed, people giving way for them.

  “Nice to see,” Tai said.

  “Yeh,” I agreed, and wished I felt more confident. It wasn’t that I had anything of huge value back at the goddow, but there were things I liked—things that were mine—and things that I’d hate to lose.

  “We can get something to eat in the lobby,” Jaantje said, briskly, and I shook myself, made myself follow him and Tai toward the nearest vendor. At least we were safe here, I told myself, and maybe Realpeace wouldn’t bother with the goddow after all.

  17

  Celinde Fortune

  The first I heard about the list was when Security knocked on my door to warn me about it. I’d spent the day working on the act, first repairing a stripped gear in the silver karakuri’s arm assembly, and then rehearsing with Celeste. That had gone better than I’d expected, after her session with Fanning—it was almost as if she had gotten over the first flush of excitement, though whether that meant she’d given up on the music or had just managed to integrate it into her regular functioning I couldn’t have said. At any rate, she hadn’t complained about not having time to play, and she’d really seemed to put her mind to the rehearsal, so that we could finally work out the timing cues properly. Even just working in the virtual, I was sweating when we’d finished, and I wished there wasn’t a matinee, so that I could run the same routine on stage with the real karakuri. Still, this was better than nothing—and the illusions were better than they’d been in ages—and I dismissed the virtual karakuri. The room projectors cut out, the illusion of the Empire vanishing, and I was left with the familiar worktable, and the silver arm lying in a web of light. I stared at it for a moment, trying to remember why I hadn’t put it away, and a chime sounded from the ceiling.

  “Get that, Celeste, will you?”

  “Confirmed.”

  More lights flickered at the edge of my vision, Celeste accessing the outside monitors, but I ignored them, reaching instead into memory for my notes on the repair. Everything seemed to have been done—except the last fuse, I remembered, because I was letting the epoxy cure. I smiled, relieved, and went to the center cabinet to retrieve the part I needed.

  “Fortune,” Celeste said. “Security would like to speak to you.”

  “Why?” I paused with my band on the cabinet door, her words registering a moment later than they should have. “Security.”

  “They insist on speaking to you,” Celeste said, her voice still mild.

  “Why?” I said again, but moved away from the cabinet. “All right, patch them through.”

  “We’d like to speak to you in person,” a new voice said, and I sighed, bowing to the inevitable.

  “Haya. I’ll be right out.”

  The hall lights flicked on as I opened the workshop door, and the lock symbol appeared in front of the outside door. There was a second strip of glyphs as well, time and temperature and the planetary day as well as a blue spot that meant the street-cleaning sprinklers would go on sometime after midnight. I brushed them away and worked the latch.

  “What can I do for you?” I said, and heard my own voice falter, seeing the smear of blue paint that covered the outside of my door. It was crudely done, but recognizable, the assembly-line marker that meant a part had been rejected as unsuitable. I frowned, looked up at the security scanner that guards the door, and was not surprised to see more blue paint coating the focus bead. I looked back at the two Cartel Security standing patiently enough on my doorstep. They were vaguely familiar, both from the neighborhood watchpost—two Mister Walkers, a man and a woman identically sand-worn—but I couldn’t remember their real names. “What’s this?”

  They exchanged glances, expressions unreadable, and the woman said, “You haven’t been watching the media, then.”

  “No.” I touched the paint, found the thickest part still slightly tacky under my fingers: if it was the cheap primer paint the lines use, it had been put on no more than two hours ago, and probably less. I had been deep in rehearsal then, eyes and ears filled with the virtual Empire; I wouldn’t have heard a sprayer working in the room with me, much less on my doorstep. “What is it?”

  “Realpeace has made a list,” the man said.

  I glanced sideways, automatically looking for a query glyph, but I was out of range of the house transceivers.

  “Realpeace has issued a list of people—that includes institutions and businesses as well as individuals—who they say would rather see machine rights than human rights,” the woman said.

  “And my name’s on it,” I said.

  “Just so.” The woman nodded, face grave.

  “And what about this?” I jerked my thumb toward the scrawled glyph. Across the street, I could see one of my neighbors—Zibette Laor, I thought, who was a night foreman on the Nicaster Assembly—peering out through the cracks in her shutters. She saw me looking at her, and let them fall again, but I was sure everybody else was watching, too.

  “The glyph is a rejection marker,” the man began, and I shook my head.

  “I know what it is, I want to know what it’s doing on my door.”

  “We’d like to find that out, too,” the woman said, quite calmly. “May we come in?”

  “
Sorry,” I said, and stepped back, beckoning for them to follow me down the hallway. I had left the inner door open, and the lights were centered on the worktable and the severed silver arm. Normally, I enjoy watching people react to my workshop, but for once I wished I’d put things away. I felt the house web close around me, a cool familiar embrace, and waved a hand through the nearest control space to bring up the rest of the lights. “I assume it has something to do with this list that Realpeace has come up with?”

  “We are assuming so.” That was the woman again. “There have been similar incidents at other locations on the list, though not at all of them.”

  “Probably locals,” the man put in.

  That wasn’t a pleasant thought, but it was plausible. I keep a low profile offstage, but I don’t hide what I do from my neighbors. All things considered, it would be a lot easier to believe that one of them secretly supported Realpeace—thought I was a Dreampeacer—than to think that a stranger had pried my address out of the Tin Hau’s databanks.

  “I see you have a substantial amount of security in place,” the woman went on, her voice harder than her polite words. “I’d like to take a look at its records—at the vidi record of the door to start with, if there is one.”

  “Haya,” I said, and reached into the control space again to find the right icons. “Celeste, pull the records from sensor one and put it on the media screen. Bi’—?”

  Security ignored me, but Celeste’s voice whispered in my ear instead. #Koleva. Sergeant Koleva. And he is Sohail Maser. No rank listed.#