“Should I have worn something more modest? Did it make you uncomfortable?”
“As long as you are in a safe environment, you should wear whatever you want to wear.”
“Even if you’re not around?” inquired the tall beauty, as she played her toes upon the silk pajamas that covered the petite blonde’s thighs. “I can wear a cutaway? Or a threadform?”
“As long as you are in a safe environment.”
“Georgia wouldn’t’ve let me do that.” (Osa’s ex-mate was a possessive (and occasionally violent) singer in a shriekpunk fusion band.) “You wouldn’t be jealous if I wore that dress when you weren’t around?”
“I would not be jealous,” Lisanne replied evenly.
“Not even if other people are looking at me?”
“Looking is an impersonal action. People have the right to look at whomsoever they want.”
“And if they flirt with me? That’s okay too?”
“Flirting is different: Flirting is interactive and may lead toward physical and emotional connections,” stated Lisanne, aware that she sounded like a scientist.
“So that would make you jealous? If I flirted with some other woman?”
“It would.”
It had been three weeks since the women had first shared a bed, and they had not yet discussed the parameters of their relationship.
Osa took Lisanne’s free hand and looked into her blue eyes. “So…we’re exclusive, then? We’re monogamous?” There was some anxiety underneath the tall beauty’s smile.
The petite blonde set her wine bulb upon the table, leaned over and kissed the other woman, tasting her cool jasmine mouth. A strong fist pounded in her ribs as she withdrew, and when she finally spoke it felt as if she were setting the words directly into her lover’s eyes. “Ja,” said Lisanne. “We are monogamous.”
“I’d been wondering….” said Osa.
“As had I.” Warm relief coursed through the muscles in the petite blonde’s back and neck. It was clear to her that she was already falling in love.
“You’re blushing,” said Osa.
“It is the wine,” replied Lisanne, quite unbelievably. She then pointed to the mote aquarium and said, “We need to watch this tonight: It is on a limited reservoir.”
“I hate when they do that.”
Chapter XI
The Homeboyz of Brooklyn Borough
(as Experienced from a Warm Couch)
Lisanne whistled a C-sharp and said, “Darkness.” The dusk sky disappeared from the windows. “Load: The Homeboyz of Brooklyn Borough.’”
The stage of the mote aquarium filled with luminous pixels. Lisanne played her fingertips across Osa’s feet and ankles and over the curves of her calf muscles while the motes—propelled by micromagnetic engines—flew to all eight corners of the set.
“Medium volume and medium brightness,” instructed Lisanne.
“How long is this?” asked Osa, the flashing colors of the test pattern giving her hundreds of faces.
“I believe it is double length.”
“Twenty minutes? It better be good.”
The motes rendered
a panda bear. The animal doused itself with gasoline.
To the right of the soaked animal were the credits:
Burning Panda Presents…
A Period Mote Experience
Conceived, Wrought and Controlled by
the Award-Winning Master:
Jefferson Sheinwald-Jones
The credits dissolved.
The panda flicked a lighter and burst aflame. Three yelling koala bears with red firemen’s helmets on their heads ran at the burning bear with hoses.
Three hundred thousand pixels dispersed and then rendered
an aerial view of Brooklyn borough. A sprawling topography of high-rises, brownstones, streets, cars, ponds and green parks.
“Your set’s really, really nice,” said Osa.
The mote aquarium’s voice-activated pause froze the flying pixels in midair.
“I can see my building,” added the tall beauty, pointing to a brownstone upon the sculpture. “Or at least, the one they built mine on top of.”
“I see it,” said Lisanne, nodding her head. “Resume play.”
The pixels were reactivated.
The cars in the streets scrambled in all directions, bumping and careening, until they successfully spelled out the title, ‘The Homeboyz of Brooklyn Borough.’
A cumulus cloud covered over the city.
Atop the white and gray curtain was the following information:
In the year 1986…
The luminous pixels dispersed and then rendered
a bad area of Brooklyn Borough. Two teenage boys—one black and one Puerto Rican—walked up the street. They each wore gigantic white sneakers, blue parachute pants, white undershirts and thick gold chains. “I am Scraz,” said the black teen. “I am Rodrigo,” said the Puerto Rican teen. Scraz raised his hand in the air, and Rodrigo slapped his palm against it. “We are homebrothers in Brooklyn borough,” declared the teens in unison. “Back before Brooklyn was a city,” added Rodrigo, winking.
“Let’s go have us some corndogs,” suggested Scraz. “Word,” Rodrigo replied, “I love them corndogs.”
“Unspeakable Intentions recommended this to you?” Osa inquired, her voice freezing the pixels.
“He did.”
“As a joke?”
Lisanne admonished Osa’s feet with a gentle swat.
“For some reason, for the first time in my life, I’m in the mood for corndogs.”
Again, toes were chastised.
“Resume play.”
The teens walked down the sodium-lamp-illuminated street. Scraz put a gigantic stereo on his shoulder and yelled, “It’s time to blast the ghetto!” “Word,” agreed Rodrigo.
Chapter XII
Bereft
Steam loaded with nanofilter drones hissed through tiny cracks in the purity tanks that hung from the ceiling of a subterranean room, the walls of which were covered with lichens. Alicia Martinez, in black, sat before a table upon which rested a verispectragram, a truth-descrier that looked like a miniature white metropolis. Behind the apparatus, clad in a one-piece gray uniform akin to the type janitors wore, was a humorless and hairless man of thirty. The room smelled like heated copper, incandescent light bulbs and fungus.
“What is your name?” asked the hairless man.
“You know my name,” Alicia said into the floating, cilia-covered sphere that was tethered by a superconductive thread to the verispectragram.
The inquisitor said, “Some of my questions might seem arbitrary, desultory or redundant, but each one has a specific purpose and must be answered. What is your name?”
“My name’s Alicia Esther Martinez.”
The crystal cylinder that was nestled within the body of the machine turned blue.
“Are you married?”
“I was.” The crystal cylinder turned blue. “That’s why I’m here.” The crystal turned lavender. “What the fuck does that color mean?”
“I ask that you answer only the specific questions that you have been asked,” advised the hairless man.
“What does lavender mean?”
“It means that the analogue larynx within the machine has recognized a partial truth.”
“I hate these machines,” said Alicia, pointing at the verispectragram. The crystal cylinder turned blue, and nearby, spume hissed from the purity tanks.
The hairless man asked, “When was the last time you saw your husband alive?”
“Three weeks ago. The seventh of May.” The crystal cylinder turned blue. Alicia thought
of Sammy at the kitchen table, and she thought of her precious girl Alicia Jr. beside him. She recalled the terror in their eyes and the tears upon their cheeks and the things upon their heads. A pit larger than the universe opened up in her belly.
The inquisitor proffered a handkerchief, but the woman did not accept the cloth.
“Would you like a moment to gather yourself?”
Alicia laughed humorlessly and said, “I’d need a goddamn century to do that.” The crystal cylinder turned lavender. “This thing is irritating.” The crystal turned blue. “Ask your damn questions. I’m ready.” The crystal turned magenta.
“I understand that this will be very painful for you, but please describe the event in detail. I may interrupt you on occasion to inquire after specifics.”
The woman nodded. It felt as if she were standing on the surface of the moon, freezing, cosmic dust shooting through her body, and if she dared to open her mouth, her soul would be drawn out into the vacuum, followed by her guts. The famously intelligent and articulate individual named Alicia Martinez had been abandoned by the English language.
She was bereft.
The hairless man said, “I suggest that you start with the lunch prior to the event—there might be something relevant there…and it is an easier place to begin.”
“Fine.” Alicia inhaled and began, “I had a lunch meeting with Saul Feldman and Werner Kereich. I’ve known these two since law school, and—unlike me—they’d never moved into more profitable, less morally compelling litigation. Our immediate goal was to drag Derrick W.R. Dulande before a jury the moment he was granted autonomy, and have him put to death for a second time. After that, we wanted to establish some sort of legal framework for resurrection—we already had a lot of ideas for the jurisprudence. Toward the end of lunch, I got a call from Sammy—”
Alicia was bereft.
The universe expanded in her stomach.
“Please continue,” prompted the inquisitor.
The woman cleared her throat. “Toward the end of lunch, I got a call from Sammy. He said that Mrs. Dulande had been pronounced dead—it was all over the news. This was only three days after I had been in her mansion. I thanked him for the information and told Saul and Werner about it.
“We ordered martinis.
“We paid for our food and drinks separately—these guys are frugal, and I was newly unemployed—and we left the restaurant.”
Alicia thought for a moment. “I got an intercity cab and shot the tube to Brooklyn. The driver was an Asian guy, maybe Thai or Malaysian or Vietnamese. One of the darker ones that can grow a beard. I don’t remember his name, though it had a lot of y’s and th’s in it. He pulled up in front of my building, and I tipped him.”
“Why did you do that?”
“I was happy with how the meeting with Saul and Werner had gone.” The crystal cylinder of the verispectragram turned magenta. “Fine. I was in a good mood because Mrs. Dulande was dead.” The crystal cylinder shone blue.
“I walked up the stoop,” she continued, “fingered the placard and went inside.”
“Which type of waiver is the placard? Antique Conditions?”
“It’s not a waiver— it’s a Historical Preservation Agreement.”
“Please explain what that is.”
It was clear to Alicia that her inquisitor had not spent much time in Brooklyn City. “The HPA protects the brownstone portion of the building, which was built in the twentieth century. Sometimes, even earlier.”
The hairless man nodded for her to continue.
“I walked up into the lobby, which used to be the roof of the original building. Near the elevator there’s a bird coop where they keep some cockatoos, white ones, and a canister with seeds. I fed the birds.”
“Were there any other people in the lobby?”
Alicia thought for a moment. “No.”
“Is that typical in such a large building?”
“It was fourteen-thirty on a Tuesday—I imagine most people were still at work or in school or doing whatever it is they typically do.”
The hairless man nodded for her to continue.
“For a couple of minutes, I watched the birds crack the hulls of the seeds and pick out the meat with their black tongues. I didn’t have…I had no idea what was happening upstairs.” The crystal cylinder shone blue.
“The elevator came—the one in the middle—and I got in and pushed number seventeen. I called and tried to connect with Sammy, to let him know I was almost home, but he didn’t answer.”
“Would you like a glass of water before you continue?” inquired the hairless man, the timbre of his voice weighted with a low note of sympathy that had previously been absent.
Alicia did not know whether or not his subtle emotional display was genuine.
“Keep your water. Let me get through this.”
The inquisitor motioned for her to continue.
“I arrived on the seventeenth floor and got out.” The crystal cylinder shone magenta. “Why’s it doing that? I live on the seventeenth floor and got out.” The crystal cylinder shone magenta. “Why the hell’s that thing calling me a liar? That’s where I live.”
“Magenta, like lavender, indicates a partial truth,” informed the hairless man. “Can you think of any reason why this statement might contain false tones?”
Alicia ruminated for a few seconds. “I live on floor number seventeen, but it’s actually the sixteenth floor because of some idiotic aversion to having a floor number thirteen.” The crystal cylinder shone blue.
The hairless man said, “The verispectragram can sense sublimated falsities amongst our general, casually considered truths.”
“That’d be impressive if it weren’t so goddamn annoying. This’s hard enough—talking about what happened.”
A gout of steam sprayed from the purity tank, and the lichens on the walls stank sweetly. The inquisitor waited for the woman to continue.
“So I walked down the hall,” resumed Alicia. “I saw a neighbor—this bearded guy who’s always walking around in shorts and sandals like a homeless man who somehow owns an apartment. Probably, he inherited it. He’s carrying a plastic hydroponics kit filled with reefer and basil. He said, ‘Have a good day’ to me, and I said, ‘Take a bath.’
“He went into his place, and I was alone in the hall. I reached my apartment—my family’s apartment—touched my fingertips to the placard, dialed my code and walked through the living wall.
“I went into the den and saw that the m.a. was on—some cartoon that Alicia Jr. likes with a vampire dog. I mean, she liked.”
Alicia’s vision blurred, and in her wet eyes, the hairless man became an impasto stroke of paint. “There was an open shipping box on the floor,” she continued, “but I didn’t pay any attention to it at the time.
“I went into the kitchen and there they were…seated at the table with sandwiches on their plates. I still didn’t know what was happening. Sammy said, ‘Wait!,’ and my daughter said, ‘Mommy!’ and then I saw it—the device attached to the side of her head—a piece of metal shaped like a horseshoe crab with vials of fluid on its back. A line of blood ran from underneath it down her neck. Her eyes were red from crying. There was one on Sammy’s head too.
“I ran for Alicia Jr. to rip the fucking thing off, but Sammy yelled, ‘Stop! It’ll kill her if you try and take it off!’ and I stopped. I’ve never felt so small, so fucking insignificant, so terrified in my entire life. I dropped to my knees and threw up.
“And then my lily rang.
“The caller was identified as the late Mrs. Dulande.
“I didn’t understand what was happening—she was dead. But the lily kept ringing, and I took the call.
“The voice on the line said,
‘Sit down with your family and listen to me.’ It was her voice. It was Mrs. Dulande, unquestionably.
“I sat down, because what else could I do? I looked at my daughter—she was crying again—and at the thing attached to her head, at the vials that stuck out of its back filled with carbonated acid. ‘What do you want?’ I said into the lily, and the voice replied, ‘This is a recording.’
“I sat there. Completely helpless.
“Dulande said, ‘Look at your family, Mrs. Martinez,’ and I looked away from them. ‘Look at them and know that they suffer because of you.’ I just stared at the floor, sick. ‘During the latter years of my long life, years filled with far more agony and medication than joy, the only thing that balanced me was the hope that my son might someday live again and do something righteous, find redemption…or at least be happy. When you and I spoke, you declared war upon that hope. Cruelly. Maliciously. You threatened the one thing that made my existence and my coming death bearable.
“‘Allow me to illustrate true hopelessness.’ I looked up, and the plungers in the vials shot down. I yelled, running at my daughter, and Sammy grabbed the device from her head and yanked it off, blood and acid spraying everywhere. But it was too late. My husband and daughter fell out of their chairs, hit the floor, acid bubbling inside their—”
Corpus Chrome, Inc. Page 10
