His arm is touched.
The pressure of his girlfriend's fingers brings him back to the present, to here. She stares off into the distance now. His sense is that her glasses are set at maximum magnification, her focus absolute. She has touched his arm by memory, blind to everything but what her glasses feed her.
He asks, “Who?”
She says nothing.
“Which face?” he says.
For a moment, she acts deaf. Then she blinks and forces herself to sit back, doing nothing but smiling. Genuinely gorgeous and slender to the brink of wiry, she has dark brown hair curled with gene treatments and tiny, doll-like features that never require makeup. Her link-pins peek through the curls. Smart-tattoos ride the backs of both hands, randomly playing slices of favorite entertainments. By any measure, the young woman is gifted. But she also enjoys an infectious certainty born from her abilities. The first time they met, he hated her. She dredged up obscure facts about him and then teased him savagely. Of course her life was full of reasons to label her as trouble and move on. Yet here they sit, enjoying their second summer vacation as a couple, as a team. And suddenly the other half of the team leans forward, pushing that wide uninhibited mouth into his ear, not quite whispering when she says, “At the far end of the patio. That man sitting alone with his mashed potatoes.”
There is no choice but to be obvious. He leans back, twisting around to gain a clear look at the target.
“See him?” she asks.
“With the blond hair?”
“Yes.”
The shaggy hair is long and thick, brushing against the subject's shoulders. The face is both handsome and distinctive. Several seconds are spent staring at the potato man, waiting for enlightenment. But nothing comes. More queries are made, using coyotes that cost a little more for their noses, and then she leans close again, asking, “Well?”
“Give me time,” he begs.
She counts. Knowing it irritates him, she counts aloud, though softly, and when she says, “Sixty,” her fingernails dig into his bare forearm.
“I don't recognize him,” he says.
“Well, I don't either,” she confesses.
They sit still for another half minute. And then they laugh, each saying to the other, “So who the hell is he?”
* * * *
Masks and holo-disguises are obvious explanations. But portal-glasses should be able to tease apart any trace of subterfuge—a seam, a sparkle, or the wrong kind of reflection riding the honest sunlight. That's why the obvious explanations prove unworthy. No disguise, or even a combination of disguises, would convince their studied stares. So they discuss what else is possible, and the best answer from that unlikely heap is that this is a genuine face, only new. Autodocs and a lot of money might have created a fresh appearance, unscarred and unique. Yet even that possibility has drawbacks. A burn victim or a gender-switcher might be tempted. But once the patient reenters the public realm, he will be noticed. Security cameras will want a name. Passersby will throw his image to the coyotes, asking the obvious questions. Without an overt act on this man's part, the world will make him into a recognizable entity, and they should see that now—a history built from images and lunch purchases and the other dreary, unique detritus that no citizen can ever willfully avoid.
“Unless he has powerful friends,” she mentions, her voice shivering as she points to that improbability.
He quickly identifies the trouble with that scenario. “If it's government work—if Potato-man is an operative or a hiding crime boss—they wouldn't make him into nobody. They'd give Potato-man a good fake life, and we wouldn't think about him twice.”
People are hard-wired to spot strangers. That has always been true, and the last fifty years have only improved what is a most essential human talent.
“Unless of course somebody screwed up,” she remarks. “Maybe his fake bio just got dumped, or his enemies deleted it, and we just happen to be the first two souls to notice.”
Nothing about that is strictly impossible, but the explanation demands a sequence of incredible events. There must be a better answer. They fall silent, each trying to identify every remaining option. And that's when Tina emerges from the restaurant, their minimal lunch in hand.
“Ask your jail bait about him,” the girlfriend suggests.
He doesn't like her tone. “What do you mean, darling?”
Those lovely, all-seeing eyes try to bore holes in his skull.
“You're being silly,” he announces as the waitress arrives.
Tina isn't expecting a substantial tip. But she knows the importance of charm, if only to fool the neurologist and other wealthy customers who come here day after day. That's probably why she uses an overly friendly voice, asking them brightly, “Is there anything at all that I can do for you?”
Looking at his girlfriend, he says, “No. And thank you.”
The waitress turns away gladly.
“Wait,” the girlfriend says.
Tina turns back slowly.
“The man at the end of the patio. What is his name?”
That question strikes the youngster as being odd, even remarkable. She takes a few moments to parse the sense out of those unexpected words, and then finally, almost grudgingly, she turns and looks in just about the proper line.
“Which man?” Tina asks.
“At the last table,” the girlfriend replies, as if it can't be more obvious.
Tina tugs at her portal-glasses for a moment. Then without looking back at her customers, she says, “Nobody. Nobody is there.”
* * * *
The man has suddenly, inexplicably vanished.
Tina wants to vanish too, but the best she can manage is to march over to the neurologist, enduring the lustful stares of the bored son.
“Where did he go?” both ask.
A map of the restaurant is found, studied. A small back staircase leaves the patio, leading to several viable escape routes. But their mystery man isn't trying to vanish. He simply went down to the lake by the most direct route, walking with purpose but never hurrying, the water on his right and the stone seawall on his left, and the two of them staring at him from above.
If Potato-man notices, no sign is given. He turns onto the middle dock and walks past boats that belong to others. Details continue to emerge from their careful study: The stranger is 184 centimeters tall, has muscular arms and a left-handed droop to his shoulder, and his jeans look honestly worn, and the plain orange shirt shows the telltale dark splotches of sweat that a quick chemical analysis shows to be genuine. A cleverly rendered android seems less and less likely, although neither of them is willing to relinquish the possibility. The hiking boots are dusty and battered on top, and because she has nothing better to do, the girlfriend compares those boots against the inventory in hundreds of catalogs, finding the proper model on a sporting goods site that hasn't been active for twenty years.
She explains, and he listens.
Then as the object of their fascination nears the end of the dock, she asks, “What do you think he'll do now?”
“Swim,” he says.
He means this as a joke, but just saying the word gives the possibility muscle. No other boat is in view, and he continues walking with a pace that belies any intention of waiting for a ride from some vessel that is coming to collect him. Where the dock ends, he will pitch forward and leap into the water, and fitting his role as a creature of ultimate mystery, he will morph into something other than a man, fins and a long jeweled tail breaking from the cold water, crimson gills flashing before he dives toward his underwater paradise.
They have stopped breathing, almost stopped thinking, anticipating the imminent spectacle.
Then the man steps off the dock, and as he drops, his boots pull apart and his body settles on the footrests of a little waterski that was always there, always waiting, tucked neatly out of view.
They laugh, relieved and disappointed in equal measure.
A small engine kic
ks to life, and the craft pulls away from the dock with the mystery man standing tall, hands on the handlebars and the throttle opening up with a rough, elderly sound that draws glances from a few patrons sitting nearby.
It is gratifying, knowing that others notice the stranger, too.
The girlfriend makes a low, vaguely angry sound, and then she suddenly stands.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving,” she announces.
Their meal isn't half-eaten.
“I want to follow him,” she says.
He does too. But he attacks her plan through its practicality. “How can we? We don't have a boat!”
“No?” she says, laughing at what to her has always been his persistent and frustrating cowardice. “I count thirty-four boats waiting for us. Which one do you want to take?”
* * * *
Everybody is a thief. Everybody looks at each new face with the intention of stealing away secrets, learning what is interesting and funny and what is supposed to be private. Humans have always been that way; only their reach has changed. Some people are better than others at the ancient game, and the girlfriend takes deserved pride in being one of the best, not just with her innate skills but also her fearlessness, never hesitating to acquire and master the latest techniques of exploration.
Yet she really isn't much of a thief, she might argue. With a practiced, somewhat weary passion, she has pointed out that in the course of a busy day she might trip across a thousand secrets, a few of which would have enormous value to the cruel and rapacious. But she is neither. One careless owner neglects to upgrade his buzz-brain barriers and his e-ramparts, and through no fault of her own she can find herself in possession of keys to the fool's savings. But has she ever launched into a feeding frenzy? Never. And she refuses to act like some of her friends, stealing tiny, almost invisible sums from a multitude. That too has always been against her rules and an insult to her pride. “The worst thieves are the little ones, the gnats who steal pennies, making themselves rich but tiny. And that isn't me, I promise you.”
When they first met, she was a middle-of-the-stream thief—somebody with the capacity to find a few misplaced dollars, as needed, and occasionally borrow property that only seemed to belong to others. But that was more than two years ago. After several fights and one painful ultimatum, she has managed to carry herself with remarkable restraint. He can count eleven lapses in twenty-eight months, although there are probably a few other misdemeanors hiding out of view. But isn't danger part of her charm? He doesn't approve of her slippery, self-serving ethics, but he loves the rest of her, and he has never seen any reason not to remain faithful to this beautiful, half-wild creature.
Adoring her is his calling and daily challenge.
She is fun, yes, and funny and bold and smart. The love of his life can tell a wonderful story, and even when she repeats herself, he is interested. Often enthralled. But by the same token, she constantly frustrates him with her self-absorbed nature. When he speaks about his past life—his schools and silly loves, vanished friends and such—he often catches her staring through him. In their relationship, he has always felt like the significantly less fascinating character. If she doesn't like his story, she acts like a bored five-year-old. And if he repeats any anecdote, no matter how entertaining, she doesn't waste time warning him, “You've already told me that.”
She's a great and dangerous thief who by choice has never lived up to her potential. But as they walk on the dock, he realizes that every promise for moderation is now being shoved aside.
“You can't do this,” he says.
She says nothing.
“No,” he begs. “Let's forget this, please.” Then in the next moment, in despair, he mutters her name.
“Kora.”
Even that shattered taboo has no effect. She remains silent and watchful, and they walk past big cabin cruisers and houseboats, hydrofoils and rocket-driven submersibles. Thankfully none of these vessels are easy to borrow. Or perhaps the scale of theft scares even her.
A long way out on the center dock, he finally hesitates, turning back and noticing faces casually studying their progress.
“We're noticed,” he warns.
She smiles, shrugs.
He says, “Kora,” once again, with a tight, worried voice. Then he starts to walk again, falling in behind her, claiming, “I'm not going with you.”
“Yes you will.”
“No,” he maintains.
“Turn back,” she suggests. “Go finish our lunch.”
He wants to. But she's bound to find herself in terrible trouble, and what he loves this much can't be abandoned now.
She stops, announcing with authority, “Here. This one.”
The boat is small but fancy—a fisherman's toy built for stability as well as speed, with a squared bow and twin jets intended to whisk passengers and their fancy lures to and from the best water.
He starts to glance over his shoulder and then thinks better of it. “People are watching us,” he repeats.
Then he hears voices, soft at first but quickly growing in volume, in intensity—a mishmash of words and exclamations coupled with the sound of dozens of chairs being dragged across the pink face of the patio.
He asks, “What—?”
She names an actor—a man of astonishing good looks and boundless talent, a godly creature that would be famous in any century. Then she smiles back at him, calmly explaining, “He just took the table that our man left.”
Stupidly, he says, “Yes?” and believes her.
She laughs at him.
“It's a trick?” he asks.
She winks.
“You fooled everybody?”
She jumps into the fishing boat, feet straddling the assorted tackle.
“How did you manage it?” he asks.
Not even looking back, she declares, “It was easy,” even though it can't be. Then she tells him, “Hurry, darling. They won't be confused for long.”
The boat believes that that they own it and always have. He unties both ropes and jumps in after the girlfriend, and moments later, running smoothly and quietly, they streak unnoticed out across water that is deep and clean and deliciously, wondrously cold.
* * * *
The waterski's trail remains visible: A million agitations coupled with tiny contaminants and the telltale residue of heat. It helps that their quarry doesn't seem to be in any particular hurry. Potato-man keeps his throttle only halfway open, and it isn't long before they pull him back into view. At that point they match his speed, satisfied to keep watch. Who he might be is again the central question. They massage the possibilities separately, following their talents and expectations. In the meantime, islands are passed. Brightly colored vacation homes sit in forests of tailored trees, matching boathouses down by the water and pets like malamutes and emus and dwarf mammoths playing together on the shady lawns. But the man on the waterski continues on a line that will eventually take him into open water, and that course begs another question worth chasing: Where is he going?
In the end, a list of possible identities is drawn up. The boyfriend has five names, the girlfriend seven. But their rationale is identical. There are modern myths about souls like this: Exceptionally wealthy and powerful and farsighted souls who should be known to everyone, but at the same time have kept themselves removed from public view. According to self-styled experts, these Special Ones can eat mashed potatoes in the midst of their peers, yet they have an astonishing, nearly supernatural capacity not to exist. Armies of AIs are responsible for their anonymity, guarding an elaborate, many-layered privacy with tools that even clever young people can only imagine. But the myth claims even more: That this handful of shy souls maintains its privacy not for privacy's sake, but for the power that it affords. Invisible to the world, the Special Ones enjoy freedoms that presidents and corporate masters can't possibly know. Their decrees go unheard, which is why nobody notices the effects. And their long thoughtful silence
s won't panic Washington or Wall Street. Unlike every other notable citizen, they have the freedom to do nothing if nothing is best, and no one takes note, and their irresistible powers won't fade like muscles never used.
“It has to be one of them,” she declares.
He isn't quite as certain, mentioning as much.
She takes offense. Bristling, she claims, “There's no other explanation, darling. No other suspects. It's one of the seven, and I think it's my first candidate. I don't know why, but I do.”
“But he's dead,” the boyfriend pointed out.
“Reportedly dead for eight years, and a century old if he isn't. But you know what they're doing today with stem cells and artificial colons. Why couldn't our friend be a twentieth century billionaire?”
First of all, Potato-man isn't their friend. But he doesn't say that or anything else that will provide easy ammunition.
Then she straightens up, leaning forward into the boat-made wind. “What island is that?” she asks.
His glasses reach the horizon, finding a dark smudge that quickly becomes land and woods and a thin warm haze.
“Look at the maps,” she presses. “Do you see it anywhere?”
According to every available source, including digitals from a multitude of orbiting vistas, what waits before them is nothing but cold water and fat, delicious lake trout.
“This is scary,” she declares, laughing nervously.
This is scary and wrong, and again, he wants to retreat. But she opens the throttle, lifting their pace until they are quickly closing on the waterski. Yet their quarry doesn't seem to notice, bearing straight toward a coastline that shouldn't exist. There are no buildings on the island, or a dock. And suddenly there isn't any stranger to be seen, either.
Asimov's SF, April-May 2009 Page 11
