by Naomi Foyle
But nothing could faze Da Mi. “I can understand you feel that way right now,” she murmured, “but though you can’t see it, I love you like a daughter, Sydney. I always have. And truly—” She paused, something suspiciously like a choke in her voice. “I’m very sorry about Damien.”
Pebbles’s bland, foundation-caked face seemed to tremble for a moment. Was that a tear at the corner of her eye? Un-fucking-believable.
“First you blow his brains out right beside me, and now you’re sorry?”
The ProxyBod heaved a long, almost convincing sigh. “Maybe he was just trying to help you. If I made a mistake, please, let me make it up to you. We can use the Chair to help you through the grieving process. We can find his family and help them too—did you know he had a twin sister who died? We must try to find a way to let his mother know how brave he was defending you.”
You remind me of someone who needed me once. Damien’s words came back to Sydney like the faintest of echoes. She held her breath, straining to hear more, but there was only silence in the car.
“He had a sister?” She hated how tiny her voice sounded.
“Jessica. She was blonde, like you.” The ProxyBod reached over and placed its hand on Sydney’s; she pulled away, but Da Mi continued in her kindest tone, as though nothing had happened, “Jessica disappeared on holiday when they were both eight years old. Her body was found a month later, dumped in a ditch. Damien stopped singing in the choir after that. His father died, later on, and his mother has remarried; they’re estranged. I expect he told you. But perhaps it would ease her grief to know that he had avenged the loss of Jessica by saving your life. Think about it, Sydney”—she spoke quickly, excitedly, now—“we could say that Johnny and an accomplice, a Korean in a mask, had kidnapped you both, but when you got to the building site, Damien fought off the accomplice and attacked Johnny, letting you escape. You didn’t see what happened next, but it looked like the accomplice killed both Damien and—for some reason—Johnny. My friends in the police would help us. You’d get some national publicity—it would all be very good for your career, and for VirtuWorld later on. We could create a shrine for Damien in the Park, make his ProxyBods your honor guard. He’s a hero, Sydney: let’s make sure that his spirit lives on.”
Damien was dead. Da Mi had killed him. By mistake, she said. And now she was telling a story to make it all better. Nothing made sense anymore. “He didn’t want to be part of the park,” Sydney objected, weakly.
“No, I know,” Da Mi said gently, “it’s just an idea. I only want to show you that I’m sorry. If you can forgive me, Sydney, I’ll do whatever you think is best.”
Pebbles’ mouth was pinched and anxious-looking. For a moment, Sydney desperately wanted it to be true: Da Mi had been aiming at Johnny, and Damien had jumped up in the way. And now she was offering Sydney the chance to do something for him, at least to help his mother. She opened her mouth to speak, and then shut it again. Damien was dead, right beside her. “I know you promised him you’d think about leaving Seoul,” Da Mi said quietly, “but I don’t think he would have wanted you to . . .”
Sydney ripped her Gotcha off her wrist and flung it at Pebbles. “You only know that because you were listening to us, Da Mi! You’re evil: you spied on me and tricked me, and I never want to see you again in my life—”
The ProxyBod flinched as the Gotcha hit her in the face, but the expression of concern was molded onto her features now. She reached for the flask on the passenger seat. “Sydney, you’re still in shock. Here, have some honey drink—”
“Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off!” Sydney lunged between the seats and knocked the flask out of Pebbles’ hands. It clunked off the dashboard and dropped into the passenger seat well. Head cocked, the ProxyBod watched it roll beneath the seat, then turned back to regard Sydney with those wide, mournful eyes. Sydney took a deep breath. “Unlock the door and let me out of here, Da Mi.”
There was a long silence. Then, as if it were a surface that someone had wiped clean, Pebbles’ face smoothed to blankness. “I should eliminate you, Sydney,” she said, her voice as neutral as her features.
It was like someone had turned the air-con on full blast, or opened the window in a blizzard. Sydney’s skin turned icy-cold, and suddenly she was so frightened she could barely breathe, let alone speak.
“But I can’t,” Da Mi continued. “You’re unique, and I care too much about you to terminate that special spark.”
There it was again: that glycerine tear, drooling down the ProxyBod’s cheek, as if they were sharing a fucking “moment.” Heat blazed through Sydney’s body again. She wanted to punch Da Mi, throttle her, scratch her plastic jelly eyes out—but she clamped her hands to the edge of the seat and forced herself to stay calm. Calm, like she used to be in the Chair—strapped into the Chair, like Da Mi was now, at home.
“It’s time to let me go, Da Mi,” she said. There was a crack in her voice, as if she herself were about to cry. And maybe she was.
Like a speck of dust in a shaft of light, the whole world was suspended for a second between them.
Then Da Mi snapped back into the driver’s seat. “Okay, Sydney, if that’s what you want. I’m going to open the door—but I’m warning you, three things. First, don’t hang around here. I ordered back-up when I saw that Johnny was out of control and the squad will be here any minute. Second, don’t go back home, or to Jin Sok’s. Take the money from Damien’s jacket, go to a yogwan to clean up, then get out of the country as soon as you can. Third, don’t ever go to the police—or the media—here, or abroad. ConGlam has contacts everywhere, and I won’t be able to protect you if you surface with some crazy story about your time in Korea. If you talk to Jin Sok, you can tell him Johnny threatened you. But don’t call him, or anyone, from your MoPho. In fact, that’s warning number four: ditch your MoPho, and use a payphone for any calls you have to make.”
Wouldn’t this woman ever stop ordering her around? “I’ll see Jin Sok if I want to!” Sydney retorted. “And how the fuck am I supposed to leave the country if I can’t go home? I need my passport, Da Mi.”
“I’ve got it here in my office. I’ll have it sent up to the airport information desk with a credit card. If you go to Tokyo, don’t stay long. Apply for visas to India, China, the Philippines, Thailand—make as many bookings as you can, but go somewhere high on a mountain or deep inland—just not Winnipeg; ConGlam might look for you there. And honestly, Sydney, don’t go running to Jin Sok’s studio—that’s the second place ConGlam will look.”
“Stop telling me what to do!” Sydney thumped her fist against the front seat. “Fucking open the door!”
“There’s a tap by the security box. Wash your hands and face,” Da Mi instructed “The gate is unlocked; you can catch a taxi on the road.” The car locks thunked open. “I’m telling you, don’t go back home.”
She didn’t know she was going to do it until she did. Sydney reached across Johnny’s corpse and opened the door. The interior light switched on and fresh air poured into the car. Crawling over Johnny, shielding his lap with her body, she dropped her hand to his gun and dug it out of his fingers. In one swift motion, she twisted round, thrust the warm lump of metal into the ProxyBod’s face and pulled the trigger.
The recoil flung her backward, thwacking the breath out of her lungs. The car filled with the smell of burning hair and electronics, and in the front seat, the ProxyBod slumped against the steering wheel. There was no blood, just singed skin flaps, torn open to reveal a glinting cluster of wiring, computer circuit boards and, right between the eyes, a stubby gun barrel.
Her ears were ringing. The weapon in her hand was smeared with her own juices, and heavy as a magnet. If she didn’t move now, it would glue her to the car forever. This fucking car. This prison. This torture chamber.
She had to stay calm. She wanted to hurl the gun through the windshield, send glass shattering everywhere, but instead, she used Johnny’s shirt to wipe the thing as clean as she c
ould. Then she inserted it back between Johnny’s fingers and let his arm fall back in his lap.
Her eyes blurring with tears, she groped in Damien’s jacket for the cash, then she reached behind his body and fumbled for the handle. The door opened, and Damien spilled halfway out of the car.
Choking back a sob, Sydney clambered over him, stumbling into the cold, scraping her knees on the ground.
Right there, in front of her, next to a large mound of earth, were three freshly dug graves.
Goose-pimples sprang up like rivets on her flesh. The wind whistled through the wires crisscrossing the lot—a long, low note. Somewhere behind her, the river was lapping at the shore. She took one harsh, cold breath, then vomited wildly. Her guts scoured, her throat on fire, she spat until her mouth was empty. She wanted so badly to collapse, but she forced herself to get up, until, with a jerk, she was pulled backward. Something was grabbing her legs, tugging her back to the car.
She turned. Damien’s blood-soaked scarf was caught around her ankles. She tore at it frantically, trying to free herself, dragging his body fully out of the car until it hit the ground with a thump. She finally managed to pull it off, and stood up. Damien was lying at her feet, his head resting against his outstretched arm, his wounds hidden. His good eye was closed, his thin lips curved up slightly at the corner and the fingertips of his other hand gently grazed the earth. He could be listening intensely to music: one of those obscure, tuneless tracks only he could understand.
She grabbed him under the armpits. His jacket was repulsive with blood, and bits of his brain were dribbling onto her coat, making her gag again, but she dragged him clear of the car and past the grave. Her back screamed, her arms ached, her cunt burned and wept, but she kept pulling until darkness enveloped them both.
She left him curled up on a soft bank of sand, his rucksack shielding his back from the wind, his scarf folded into a pillow for his mutilated head. She left him with a dry, chapped kiss on his cold cheek. A heart of sunken footsteps encircled his body, a path that trailed off until it was lost in the frostbitten dirt. As she ran for the gate, big fluffy snowflakes began falling from the sky.
43 / Fruition
Their bellies gently swelling, the women rested in the dappled shade of the spring chestnut leaves. Mee Hee put down her history book and fanned herself. Beside her, So Ra and Chin Mee lounged on a rug playing Flower Cards, slapping the plastic cards down smartly. On the next rug, Younger Sister was doing yoga stretches, while Older Sister and her cronies were sipping iced tubu milk and giggling about the new guards, handsome young men who were busy building a stone wall around the village.
“What must they think of us?”
“Unwed mothers—such sinners!”
“Perhaps they’ll like us better when we’re slim again . . .”
Mee Hee smiled at their prattle and returned to her book. This chapter was about the first Queen of Korea, Queen Son Dok, who had unified the Three Kingdoms and then reigned long and peacefully until the end of her days. She had been renowned for her incisive prophecies, like the one she had uttered in her first year on the throne.
The Emperor of China had sent the new ruler a gift to celebrate her ascent to power: a painted scroll of peony blossoms and a box of flower seeds.
But the young Queen was not impressed. “These flowers have no scent—is he trying to mock me because I am childless?”
The courtiers scrambled to soothe her temper. “Your Majesty, these are only seeds. How can you tell they have no perfume? Surely this gift is intended only to beautify your gardens.”
“Plant them,” she ordered, “and in the springtime you will see.”
And indeed, come the spring, when the blossoms hung large and many-petaled on their stems, it was perceived by all that the Queen had been correct.
“But how did you know the peonies would have no aroma, your Majesty?” the courtiers asked in amazement.
“It was obvious from the scroll,” she replied. “There were no birds or insects near the flowers, so clearly they do not have the power to attract.”
Mee Hee looked up from the book, giddy with insight. Just as the peonies of Queen Son Dok had no scent to attract bees, so Dr. Kim’s Peonies had been conceived without the usual fumbling rituals that bring human babies into this world. The two Peonies growing inside her were like angels, gifts from a higher power, a spirit that moved like the wind between people and places and down through the ages, bringing majesty and meaning to the humblest places of the earth.
Mee Hee shut the book and gazed down at her hands. There, on the third finger of her left hand, a small diamond ring sparkled, the ring Tae Sun had given her when her pregnancy was confirmed. They could not be legally married unless they heard word of her husband’s death, but within the land of VirtuWorld, their promises to each other were everlasting.
She didn’t like to draw attention to her good fortune. The other women wanted husbands too. Beside her So Ra was whispering to Chin Mee about Dr. Dong Sun, and around them all the trees and flowers in the garden, like all the little homes and courtyards of their village, hummed with happiness and hope. The coming days would bring only more joy. After the births, the weddings would begin. But before that, tonight, Dr. Kim was visiting, to make a special announcement.
“Mee Hee, why are you giggling?” So Ra asked, poking her legs with a finger growing fatter by the day.
“I’m happy, that’s all.” Mee Hee laid down her book. “Let me join in the game.” There was no harm in a white lie, just for this afternoon. She wouldn’t spoil Dr. Kim’s surprise. And anyway, she had to pretend to be shocked tonight. She didn’t want her sisters to think she was gloating about the fact that she and Tae Sun were going to be crowned King and Queen of the Peonies on the opening day of VirtuWorld.
Mee Hee could still hardly believe it, but Dr. Kim had visited last month, two weeks after she and Tae Sun had announced their engagement. She had asked to see them privately, and there in Mee Hee’s house, before the living room shrine which she had decorated specially with roses and peonies, Dr. Kim had told them that her wedding gift would be a marvelous coronation, a festival that would make the ceremonies on the DVDs look like children’s games.
“But—But I thought the King and Queen would be the Peonies’ parents at the Park?” Mee Hee had stammered.
“Surely their parents are those who raise them and care for them?” Dr. Kim had answered.
“But they won’t look like us. No one will believe that we’re their parents.”
“What matters, Mee Hee,” Dr. Kim had explained gently, “is what the Peonies think. And the Peonies won’t care about the color of anyone’s skin. To them, all of humanity will be one large family. That is their message, and the world must hear it, loud and clear. You and Dr. Tae Sun are the first man and woman in the village to pledge your devotion to each other. You are both modest, and well-loved by the others. It would give me such pleasure if you would consent to becoming the First Couple of VirtuWorld.”
Mee Hee stroked her belly as Chin Mee began to shuffle the cards. Tae Sun emerged from the Meeting Hall and waved at Mee Hee, and she blushed. It was nice to be examined by him every week—and to spend time kissing and touching, now that they were engaged. She couldn’t look at him now without a warm tingle swirling over her skin.
“Here she goes again,” Older Sister roared, “red as a beetroot, waiting to be dug!”
“Stop teasing her!” So Ra gave Older Sister a playful slap. “You’re jealous, that’s all.”
“Jealous? Her doctor would snap underneath me! No, I’ve got my eye on one of these sturdy fellows here.” She waved at a guard, who waved back, showing off his muscles. His friend stuck two fingers up behind his head, and everyone laughed.
Mee Hee picked up her cards, glad no one was looking at her anymore. Tae Sun disappeared down the path to the houses to check on the installation of more solar panels. Later, he would tell Mee Hee all about Dr. Kim’s plans for the village.
She already knew that there were guards on the roads, protecting the gardens and houses, and that builders were going to put up a huge greenhouse soon, a place to grow hothouse flowers. They would have beehives too, so there would a constant supply of the delicious honey Dr. Kim had let her try after she had agreed to be Queen.
Some of the women were getting up now, walking arm in arm to lunch in the Meeting Hall. On The Shortest Day it had been turned into their hospital, and the babies had all been planted there. In March, when the Doctors said the Peonies were all safely rooted, Dr. Kim had told them about the Falling Star.
On the very day their motherhood had begun, the Falling Star had brought a terrible winter to the world, and millions of people had died. In London, New York, Washington, the streets had turned into rushing rivers, drowning old and young alike, while all around the rim of the Atlantic Ocean, whole towns and villages had been swept out to sea. Once the waters had receded, the dead had been mourned and the looters arrested. But millions more had been left homeless, and were now huddled in refugee camps, waiting for whole cities to be rebuilt.
But South Korea had been spared; their own small world, nestled between the densely forested mountains, was safe. The babies would come in the autumn, with the rich, orange persimmons and the clear vaulted skies.
THE END
Acknowledgments
I am deeply grateful to all those who nourished this book during its long gestation. From Canada, Alan Fern and Pat Vogt got me out to Seoul. In South Korea, Bhak J-Zzoo and Moon Kyung Sun opened many secret doors to the Hermit Kingdom, welcomed me into their hearts, and are ever-present in mine; Pascal Gerrard, Simon Kemp, Una Kim, Kaori Komura, David Lee, Julie Lee, Catherine Lupton, Chaeok Oh Asher, Glen Perice and Heather Scott also all stand at the source, along with J. Scott Burgeson, who published an early chapter in his cult ’zine Bug; Toby Benstead, Josh Schwartzentruber, Geoffrey Viljama and Michael David Yantzi of the legendary Mama Gold; the cyborg sculptures of artist Lee Bul, and the neon tracers of everyone who ever drank and danced all night at Azitoo and Sang Su Do. I also especially thank Scott, Julie and Chaeok for their kindness in correcting the often idiosyncratic Romanization of Korean terms in the first edition of the book; my many errors stemmed from “playing it by ear” in Seoul in the years before Revised Romanisation was published, and all howlers, of course, remain my own. In the UK, Susi Aichbauer, Elizabeth Ashworth, John Luke Chapman, Robert Dickinson, Hugh Dunkerley, Sarah Hymas, Simon Jenner, Kai Merriott, Aidan Norton, John O’Donoghue and Lorna Thorpe made invaluable comments on the novel-in-progress, as did David Swann, who heroically edited the whole manuscript one summer; Bethan Roberts, who so kindly helped me find Zeno Agency; and John Atkinson and James Burt, who freely shared with me their respective scientific and IT expertise (but cannot be held responsible for any warped results). I would also like to thank my Goldsmiths College MA tutors Stephen Knight, Susan Elderkin and Maura Dooley for their critical feedback; Thomas Dolby and his management company OpticNoise, who so generously gave permission to quote from “Europa and the Pirate Twins”; my agent John Berlyne, who looks out for me at home and abroad; and my then-agent John Richard Parker, who delivered me safely to the spectacular Jo Fletcher and her dedicated staff.
