“It looked real to me. Grizzly Bear Root Canal gave me nightmares for a year.”
“That’s a great one,” enthused Eagle, obliviously. “Especially when that bear gets his teeth back from those rednecks.”
“Take your shot,” prompted Champ.
“Four in the corner pocket.” Eagle thrust the shaft forward, and the stick glanced off the white sphere. “Nuts,” he said of his miscue.
“You can go again,” offered Champ.
“Bullshit.”
“Really, just set it back and—”
“Those aren’t the rules,” Eagle said as he thrust the stick into Champ’s hands. “Your turn.”
The garbage man indicated a ball and a pocket with the cue, lanced, succeeded, walked to the other side of the table, pointed out the striped nine’s destination and drove it home. Missing his next shot, he handed the stick back to his father.
Eagle knelt and appraised the felt surface, shutting one iris and narrowing the other. He then stood upright, set the wood, drew the butt of the stick and thrust. The cue ball hopped ten irrelevant centimeters and spun in place.
“Nuts.”
Concerned about the dual miscues, Champ asked, “Is this normal?”
“Hell, no—I used to be good. I was the best player on the team except for Potato O’Boyd.”
“But have you been able to make shots since they brought you back? Since you’ve been in the mannequin?”
“Some,” said Eagle. “I’m not as good as I used to be, but I’ve done a lot better than this. I think I’m doing worse ’cause you’re here and I’ve got more things to keep track of than just shooting.”
Unsure what his father meant, Champ eloquently inquired, “Um.…huh?”
“It’s different in here.” Eagle slapped a gelware palm to the red FDNY shirt that covered over his chrome-plated plastic chest.
“What’s it like?”
“Hard to explain, but different.”
“How’s it different?”
The mannequin was completely still for a few moments. Suddenly, he inquired, “You get drunk, right?”
“There have been instances.”
“You know how you have to concentrate more to do things, like really think about things to accomplish them when you’re wrecked? You think, ‘I’ve gotta stand up slow, so people won’t see how wasted I am,’ and you do that. Slow, careful. And when you walk, you think, ‘I need to balance myself so I don’t wobble,’ and you do that, thinking about each step, concentrating. And when you finally get to the bar for another, you think about what you’re gonna order before you say it—you think of the exact words—so that it doesn’t come out all slurred, though it might anyways.”
“So it’s like you’re drunk?” inquired Champ. “In the mannequin?”
“That’s not really what I’m saying. My thoughts’re clear and regular and there’s none of the warmth or tingling or awesomeness that you get when you’re wrecked. It’s that you have to really concentrate to do things—especially moving around—like you do when you’re drunk.”
“Okay. I understand what you’re saying.”
“It’s like you’re a sober guy stuck in some drunk’s body with none of the benefits.”
Champ did not think that life inside of a mannequin sounded particularly great.
“I’m getting used to it, though,” Eagle said, “and it’s a helluva lot better than being a dead guy.”
Chapter IV
The Faces of Serfdom
Lisanne and Osa departed the hot Nexus Y summer and—through a living window—entered the air-conditioned front lobby of the Corpus Chrome, Incorporated Building. Condensation beaded upon the petite blonde’s forehead, and apprehension prickled her insides. Today she would finally be reunited with her resurrected twin sister.
Osa squeezed Lisanne’s hand and kissed her forehead. “It’s going to go good—I mean well. Don’t worry.”
“Danke.”
The Swedish-Indian American had been full of supportive words and gestures, but it was clear that she was very uneasy about how the three-month-long relationship would be affected by the resurrection of Ellenancy Breutschen. Lisanne had been completely honest when—during their last meal in New Orleans—she had said, “I don’t know how this will change our dynamic, or even if it will in any substantial way, but I know that I love you very, very deeply and that you are wonderful.” The tall beauty had appreciated the sentiment, but it was clear that she still had some apprehensions.
Shortly after the couple returned from their trip, Osa was assigned four new interaction sessions, and Lisanne was contacted by three major recording artists who wanted to schedule time in her studio. The women tried to see each other as often as they had during the previous months, but it was impossible; they saw each other less, and Ellenancy’s resurrection loomed larger.
During this strained period, every act—significant or otherwise—was analyzed and assigned meaning.
On one occasion, Lisanne had forgotten to call Osa and the next day awakened to find three anxious messages from the tall beauty in her vault. The petite blonde was unsure whether her atypical oversight was the result of too many hours in the studio with the congagroove band Aorta Squeeze or because of her preoccupation with Ellenancy’s resurrection, but the negligent omission became an incident and a discussion. In their raw relationship, any oversight was portentous and every kindness seemed forced.
Today their purgatory would end.
The women walked in tandem through the Corpus Chrome, Incorporated Building lobby, across a glass-covered pond (in which nine greenish-purple tortoises lazily swam, yawning) and toward the reception desks—three inverted pyramids of gray marble and chrome filigree, behind which sat six good-looking young people who were clothed in sky-blue wool sweaters and matching slacks.
“Everything will work out,” Lisanne said to Osa (and to herself).
The tall beauty squeezed some reassurance into her mate’s hand.
At the nearest inverted pyramid, a brunette receptionist said, “Guten Tag, Miss Breutschen, and welcome back to Corpus Chrome, Incorporated.” The chipper woman flashed teeth, and an Asian man seated beside her smiled, but remained silent.
“Guten Tag,” Lisanne said as she and her mate reached the counter.
The receptionist typed silently upon the two hemispheres that were embedded in the desk and—informed by the micropixels of her contact lenses—said to the tall beauty, “You are Miss Osa Karlsson of Brooklyn City.”
“That’s me.” Osa nodded and adjusted the clinging fabric of her sapphire sundress.
With a bifurcate gaze, the receptionist replied, “Welcome to Corpus Chrome, Incorporated,” and continued typing once she had uttered the final letter ‘d’ of her greeting. “I see here that you have entered the lobby thrice, on dates when Miss Breutschen had appointments with our legal department.”
“I’ve only come here twice,” corrected Osa.
“There were two ingressions on July sixteenth, though the later—five minutes after the first departure—was to use the bathroom.”
“I remember now.”
“Today will to be your first trip to the interior, correct?”
“Seems like you already know the answer to that one.”
“We do,” said the receptionist, flashing her brilliant teeth. “Before you enter the interior lobby, you must be scanned for conventional weapons, swabbed for biological weapons and sent into a nuclear-force detonation chamber in which any nanotech or micro-incendiaries on your person will be isolated and destroyed. Do you have any such devices?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Please fingerprint this agreement,” said the smiling brunette as the Asia
n man slid a sheaf across the inverted-pyramid desk. “It states that you understand and have agreed to subject yourself to our security gauntlet.”
Lisanne said to Osa, “I fingerprinted the same exact sheaf.”
“You get subjected to all this junk every time?”
“It sounds like a lot of procedures, but it only takes about eight minutes.”
The tall beauty looked anxious.
“If you are troubled by the gauntlet,” the petite blonde said, “you may wait for me down here. I know how you feel about your privacy.”
“No, no. I’m going with you.” Osa pressed her thumb, index finger and middle finger to the black glass. “I want to meet her if she’s ready, and I want you to know I’m there either way.”
“Danke.”
The tall beauty nodded, a mixture of apprehension and strength upon her face.
“After you’ve gone through security,” the receptionist said, “you may proceed to Mr. Johnson on floor seventy.”
“Danke,” said Lisanne.
“You are most welcome. I hope that your reunion is a happy one.”
A triangular flap opened in the side of the desk. Out of the glowing hatchway stepped a twelve-centimeter-tall chromium android, its head studded with viewing lenses and speaker-microphone beads. The homunculus raised a tiny flag that read, “Breutschen, L.,” and below it, “Karlsson, O.”
“Follow the serf,” said the receptionist.
* * *
Eight minutes later, the women were led by the homunculus from the detonation chamber to the round interior lobby. There, the little android put the flag into its backpack, waved good-bye to the women, pointed a gun at its left temple, fired and fell on its face. A golden circle rose from its head and began to glow, and from its back sprouted two chromium angel wings, which were embossed with the letters CCI. The serf flapped its divine appendages and rose into the air.
“I want one,” Osa said of the homunculus.
“I shall keep that in mind.”
“Why? They sell them?”
“I read that CCI is currently developing a model for the private sector.”
“I’d like him to clean up after Cyclops,” remarked Osa. “Maybe send him for doughnuts.”
Suddenly, the serf flew into a living wall, disappearing from view.
The women walked toward an elevator, atop which the names “Breutschen” and “Karlsson” flashed in luminous blue letters. Out of the adjacent lift hobbled three old men, a mannequin (clothed in a red FDNY shirt, a fire helmet, polka-dotted ribbons, jeans and sneakers), and a very good-looking man in his forties with long blonde hair, who wore a shirt that read, There are better ways to spend your time than reading this, above an illustration of an obese man drinking a beer while working on a car engine. The handsome fellow’s face and the machine’s gelware mask were identical.
Pointing out Osa, the mannequin said, “I’ll take one of those.”
The old men cackled.
“Dad,” admonished the handsome fellow.
“Shhhhh,” the mannequin said, “I don’t want her to know how old I am.”
The son looked at the tall beauty, shaking his head. “Sorry. He’s been dead a while.”
“What’s your name?” the mannequin asked Osa as he strode toward her. Behind him, the aged trio howled until they were seized by syrupy coughing fits.
“Leave me alone,” said Osa.
A septuagenarian who had a nose that looked like a russet potato said to the mannequin, “Eagle, you might want to hold off—” and coughed. After clearing his throat, he added, “I think the little one right there’s her playmate.”
“I’ve gone down that path before,” said the mannequin. “Champ’s mother liked to—”
“Dad!” protested the handsome son.
“I like dykes—they’re extra tough. And besides, how do they know it’s not a woman in here?” The mannequin then rapped its fist upon its chest like an orangutan.
“We know,” said Osa.
“What would you do with her if you got her?” asked an old fellow who had artificial black hair and a Star of David tattooed in gold upon the side of his neck.
“I’ve got equipment and an instruction manual. Illustrated!”
“Bleh,” said Osa, repulsed.
“My parts are totally adjustable,” added the mannequin.
The doors below the women’s flashing names finally parted, and Lisanne pulled her mate toward the conveyance.
“Looks like the little one is in charge,” opined the tattooed Jew.
The women entered the elevator, where a demure female voice said, “Welcome, Miss Breutschen and Miss Karlsson.”
In the lobby, the fellow with the russet-potato nose was saying to the re-bodied man, “Trust me when I tell you that many women—legions of long-legged ladies—are interested in having illicit relations with a mannequin.”
“But did you see her figure? Her rump? That’s a soulmate.”
The elevator began to close, and a sound like a piccolo flute emerged from the mannequin’s mouth slit.
“What the hell was that?” inquired the tattooed Jew.
The doors shut, shielding the women from subsequent comments. As they sat in gelatin seats, pseudopodia embraced them.
Osa guffawed. “That was a first.”
The elevator sped like a getaway vehicle toward the seventieth floor.
* * *
Together, the women walked through a living wall and into a brown alcove that was furnished with a buoyed leather couch, a recliner chair, a table and a mote aquarium. Mr. Johnson then stepped through the wall, buttoned his beige tweed suit and joined the couple.
Lisanne stared at the orange polarity curtain that hung on the far side of the room, thinking to herself, ‘Ellenancy is alive on the other side of that fabric.’ Her pulse raced, and her hands grew cold and damp. The edges of reality darkened, and suddenly, the room wobbled.
“You need to sit down,” said Osa, her voice stern, as if she were talking to a misbehaved child.
Lisanne nodded her dizzy head.
Mr. Johnson flapped a paddle-like hand at the couch. “Please, please, please. Sit.”
Osa’s strong left arm slid across her mate’s back and guided her to the suspended sofa, where they sat. The room wavered and stretched.
“I am going to see Ellenancy,” said Lisanne, stupid with shock. “I am going to see my sister.”
The tall beauty wiped sweat from her mate’s forehead and kissed her cheek.
Mr. Johnson pulled a bulb from the nutrient water sphere and handed it to his petite guest, who thumbed the iris and drank.
“Would you care for a softener?” asked the shepherd.
“I just need a moment to collect myself.” Lisanne sipped nutrient water and eyed the orange curtain. “How is she doing?”
“Ellenancy’s condition has not changed much since you and I last spoke, but I hope and believe that interactions with you will help reorient her.”
The word “condition” sounded very ominous to Lisanne.
“How concerned are you about her behavior?” asked Osa.
“At this time, we’re not overly concerned. Ellenancy is withdrawn, but she’s scored very well on all of the cognitive tests and is intellectually sound. Our primary concern right now is her reluctance to physically manipulate the mannequin unit. She has yet to accept her new body.”
“Ellenancy was a very tactile person,” said the petite blonde, sipping more water while thinking of a studio session in Stockholm. Ellenancy had played fifteen different instruments by hand while Lisanne processed sounds and built melodies in a computerized mixing vault. “She was a far, far bett
er musician than I, primarily because of her desire to physically command whichever instruments she used.”
Mr. Johnson plucked a piece of lint from a diamond-patterned sock and disposed of it. “Her behavior is not unique, but it’s less common amongst people who died during the resurrection age, already aware of mannequins. Still,” he added, “an intelligent and tactile individual like Ellenancy may take more time to adjust to her new body than would a simpler, less self-aware person.”
Lisanne remarked, “I believe we interacted with an example of the latter in your lobby just now.”
“That dirty old fireman,” clarified Osa.
Mr. Johnson smirked. “That particular individual adjusted very, very quickly.”
Lisanne rose to her feet and announced to the shepherd, to her mate and to herself, “I would like to see her now.”
“Superb,” said Mr. Johnson.
“I know that you need to monitor her behavior,” the petite blonde added, “but I would like privacy for the first twenty minutes.”
“That is perfectly understandable.”
Lisanne straightened the neckline of her green dress, walked toward the polarity curtain and remembered Osa. Halting, she turned around.
Unshed tears glimmered in the tall beauty’s eyes.
The petite blonde hastened to her mate and embraced her. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
The women hugged for ten heartbeats and then released each other.
Corpus Chrome, Inc. Page 18
