Kaleidocide

by Dave Swavely

  “So I thought that maybe I could be with you when you … do it,” she said, clearly uncomfortable with this but needing to produce a web article to help pay for her two kids and one on the way. “But you could tell me your story first, and I can sell all the footage to HoloFare for enough that I could send some to your family.”

  “I don’t have any family,” the little boy said. “That’s part of my story.”

  “Your friends, then? A girlfriend or boyfriend?”

  “I don’t have any of those either.”

  “I’m sorry, I…”

  “You keep the money,” he said. “For your kids.”

  “You’ll do it, then?” she asked excitedly, despite her misgivings. It was worth it for the kids, as he had seemed to imply.

  He said yes, knowing that the only reason was because of those kids, and the fact that she had the same number that he had lost. If it wasn’t for the guilt and disease he carried around with him, he might have thought he could go on with the hope of experiencing again what the woman had.

  “Should I take the pills now and then tell the story on my way out?” he asked. “If I tell the story first and then take them, you’ll have to be here longer. If you want to see it through.”

  “That’s how you’re going to do it?” she asked. “Pills?”

  “Yeah, I’m not very brave. I just want to go to sleep.”

  “Maybe,” she said, then paused as she looked down and bit her lip. “Maybe, as much as I need the money … maybe you shouldn’t do it? Or maybe I can do an article on your story, and how you didn’t do it.”

  “What?” the boy said, the real man behind him immediately feeling irritated that she would meddle like this.

  “Well, you were thinking of me, weren’t you? By agreeing to the interview, and then by worrying about me having to stay too long?”

  “So what?” That exclamation did sound perfectly juvenile, spoken in the five-year-old’s voice.

  “Well, you still have … what do they call it? Empathy. You could do some good, J.J. It would be a shame if you—”

  “Just write your article,” the little boy shouted, “and stay the hell out of my business!” Now the woman was looking down again, and her lip was quivering. She put a hand on her belly, a protective instinct, as he continued. “And I wasn’t worrying about you—that’s deluded.”

  The boy leaned back on the “chair” that was conspicuously absent from the construct, and folded his hands behind his head.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. But then she showed a resilience that only motherhood could have produced in her and added, “But don’t take the pills yet … until after you tell me your story.” In his anger the boy didn’t recognize her ulterior motives, nor how she was effectively mothering him. But perhaps his subconscious did, because he calmed down considerably and followed her cue. Or maybe he felt compelled to tell his story as a justification for why he was about to take his life.

  “Three years ago, everything was fine, more or less,” he said. “I was teaching history and my wife was making good money as a medical lab tech, and we had three children, a girl and two twin boys. On the way home from daycare one night, their car was hit by a truck. Two of them died instantly, and the other two soon after. The report said that they thought my wife had drifted off the road, then jerked the wheel to compensate, hit the lip, and rolled the car into the oncoming traffic. But whatever, it doesn’t matter, they were all gone.”

  “I’m so sorry,” the woman said.

  “Yeah. So I didn’t take it well, as you could imagine. I quit teaching and started traveling, when I couldn’t stand being around home anymore. So my family and career were gone, and I was gone from everything else in my life. I was cut off from all my moorings. The only thing I had was money, at that point, from a big insurance policy we had on my wife, because she was the main breadwinner.” He paused, deciding how much of the story to tell. “One thing led to another, and I ended up with AIMS, so now I can’t even have … a relationship with anyone.”

  “Oh, my,” she said, and studied the boy as if she might see some signs of the dreaded STD, or how he might have contracted it. She added the words, “Aquired Immune Mutation Syndrome,” just in case anyone who would watch the recording didn’t know what it stood for.

  “Now you see why I’m here,” he said.

  “Aren’t there some treatments?” she asked. “I’ve heard—”

  “Experimental ones,” he interrupted. “And only if you have a small fortune.”

  “You said you had money, from the insurance policy.”

  “I spent it all,” he said testily, still irritated at her. “I had a small fortune, but I spent it all.” He let out a sad laugh. “I spent it all getting AIMS.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I had a lot of money and a lot of time,” he said. “So I … tried to fill the holes, I guess. With women. I made it my goal to have as many as I could, as often as I could.” The little boy’s voice had now taken on a tone that was both regretful and nostalgic. “I bought an expensive car and wardrobe, worked out every day, then bought a whole new wardrobe when I got thinner and figured out what was more effective with the ladies. I thought that money and a sad story might work.”

  “Did it?” she asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, with the same mixture of regret and nostalgia. “I started at the obvious places, like bars and vacation spots, where they were looking for some action, or open to it at least. In those places, if I talked to enough of them, or even propositioned one after another, I hardly ever went back to my room alone. Usually a few drinks was enough, but sometimes I had to buy them an expensive dinner, enough to impress them or maybe give them hope that they might end up with a wealthy boyfriend or husband. The hotels were very expensive, too, by the way, since you asked where all the money went.”

  She hadn’t asked, in fact, but was silent and let him continue.

  “After a while I got bored with that, and wanted some new challenges and thrills. I was willing to endure a lot of rejection for the kick of succeeding with someone who wasn’t looking or even wanting it, at least at first.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was on the prowl everywhere, in the normal places of life, like grocery stores, gas stations, business hotels.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I would find a woman who looked good to me and tell her how beautiful she was, or ask her if she wanted some excitement in her life, or if I could take her to lunch or dinner or whatever. Sometimes I would just lead with ‘My family was killed and I’m really hurting,’ and go from there. If they didn’t say no right away, which many did, I then kept trying to work it out with them.”

  “Did they ever ask you to verify your story?” she asked. “I would do that.” Then she regretted what she said, and added, “Not that I would even consider a one-night stand like that.”

  “Well, they weren’t all one-night stands,” he said. “If they were worth it, I’d meet them a few more times before moving on.” The woman shook her head slightly at this, but was trying not to look too disgusted so she wouldn’t endanger the interview. “And yes, they sometimes did want verification, so I would just give them a link to a story about the accident. It had a picture of me on there.”

  “How many women did you … have?”

  “I don’t know. Hundreds. I didn’t count, but I did try to sample every kind, all shapes and sizes and races. The only requirement was that they had to be beautiful … and willing, of course.”

  “I’m sure the money and the sad story helped,” she said. “But that alone wouldn’t do it. You must be attractive.”

  “I guess I am,” the five-year-old boy said as he picked his nose and wiped it on his shirt. “I’ve kept in shape, too, because I didn’t want to go back to my old flabby self.”

  “How did you get AIMS?” she asked.

  “Like I told you, after a while I wanted more of a challenge, so I would try f
or the ones who weren’t looking, or two or more at a time. Those took some time and patience, and by then I was used to getting some almost every day, so I started to fill in the gaps with the bar scene, prostitutes, etcetera. I think I got AIMS from someone that way.”

  “Etcetera?”

  “I bought a state-of-the-art implant,” he said, now speaking without the tinge of nostalgia, and only with regret. “For porn and virtual sex. Using it by myself got old eventually … you want to hook up and share with others in person sometimes, to multiply the thrill, and the kind of people you find aren’t exactly the most savory types. Or safe.”

  “Did you…?” She hesitated, already uncomfortable getting this far from her domestic existence, and now she was heading farther out. “AIMS started with zooies, right? Besties?” She wasn’t sure how to pronounce “zoophiliacs” or “bestialists” so she used the slang terms, but immediately regretted it. She was afraid the boy might be offended if he was one of them.

  “It appeared and spread in the bestie community first,” he answered, and she was relieved to hear him use the word. “But I don’t think they know for sure how it started, and it definitely is not limited to them. I’m not one, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “How long ago did you find out you had the disease?” she asked, wanting to change the subject.

  “About a year ago.”

  “So you stopped then?”

  “Ummm,” he said, then paused, clearly not wanting to discuss this part. “Initially I tried just using the implant. But I was so in the habit by then—it was what I’d been living for, for two years. I couldn’t stop … everywhere I went I would see beautiful women … I couldn’t help myself.”

  “So … you…,” she said, trying to get her mind around this. “Those women wouldn’t have been interested if you told them you had AIMS.” She stated the obvious: “So you didn’t tell them.”

  “I know it sounds terrible,” he said, and she thought, It is terrible. “But you have to understand. I’m a poly. I realized that I was born a poly, and that my trauma and coping methods triggered the genes.”

  “Polyamory,” she said, making sure she had heard the word right. “Did you learn about that from the net, or therapy, or what?”

  “Both. When I kept relapsing and endangering these women, of course I felt bad, so I tried to figure out what was wrong with me. Then I found out that there’s nothing really wrong with me—I’m constitutionally unable to be celibate or have just one partner.”

  “Couldn’t you just have many virtual partners, on the net, so you wouldn’t spread the AIMS?”

  “No, my therapist said I’m a 3P,” he said, and starting rocking back and forth on nothing. “Physical Proximity Polyamorist.”

  “Oh, there’s different kinds?”

  “Yes. So you see why there’s no reason for me to go on living. By nature I’m made to have multiple partners, but I can’t be who I am without hurting others. That’s a living hell, too much for anyone to bear.”

  “There must be a way,” the housewife/journalist said, her mother instincts kicking in again. “If there’s no affordable treatment for AIMS, is there some kind of therapy for polyamory?”

  “At first I took some medication, but it was basically a chemical castration. To the extent it worked, which wasn’t completely, it just made me depressed and unable to get out of bed. And then I realized, this isn’t something I should change about myself. Can you imagine someone trying to not be black or white anymore, or straight or gay? No, I realized that either I need to be who I am, or die if I can’t.”

  “You sound like you could be a preacher,” she said admiringly, “or an activist.”

  “I did end up giving some speeches for PRIDE.”

  “I’ve heard of that. What does it stand for again?”

  “Polyamorist Rights in Discrimination and Equality.”

  “Right,” she said, and the mother in her wouldn’t give up. “Why don’t you give your life to that cause? You could be the Martin Luther King of poly rights.”

  “With AIMS?” he said, getting exasperated again. “Someone will find out, and all the women I’ve been with would sue me.”

  “Oh, right,” she said, realizing this was getting nowhere. Then a thought struck her. “Why did you tell that survey, with the Asian girls, that you were in good physical health?”

  “Because I don’t have any symptoms at this point. I feel fine, and the AIMS can lie dormant for years.”

  “And mental health? You said you didn’t have any problems with that, either.”

  “I don’t,” the boy said, his child’s voice still irritated. “I was born a poly, I can’t help it, and that’s the point of poly rights. Again, would you tell someone that being black is a ‘problem,’ or being white, or gay or straight?”

  “I guess not,” she said, and then finally went too far. “But still, maybe you could … change somehow.”

  “Listen,” he said. “If you’re going to be a journalist, you’d better read up on your science. The experts say that kind of ignorant talk fills people with guilt and shame, and kills their self-esteem. I don’t think I can change what I am. When I took the medication I told you about, I was different. And when I stopped taking it, I went back to the way I was. That’s proof this is the way my brain works. And someone else may want to go on living without being able to be happy, but not me.”

  The boy reached down to scratch his knee, and the pantsuited woman could somehow tell that in real life he was reaching for the pills. The interview was now over, and the Exit was about to begin.

  15

  ONLY YOUR LIFE

  The five-year-old boy in the Web site sat still and didn’t move, since it was a rudimentary net skin not slaved to the man’s body. But the man himself, in the real world, had been lifting a bottle filled with pills and another one filled with water, which he’d placed by his feet.

  Then the Asian angels appeared.

  They gently faded into the middle of the room and formed a triangle, facing out, like last time.

  “Excuse me,” all three said at the same time, “but are you still alive?” The skins often remained in the rooms at Exit for a while after someone committed suicide, until they were cleared out by the site’s monitor constructs. Since this particular skin wasn’t moving at all, it seemed like a prime candidate for that ghostly effect.

  “J.J.?” asked the slightly pregnant journalist, who wore the much better skin that looked and moved like she did. More silent moments passed, and she feared the worst. “Did you take the pills?”

  “No, not yet,” said the young voice finally. “My mouth was just hanging open when I saw them. How do they get into these places without permission?”

  “Jonathan James Cates,” the one closest to the boy said, ignoring his question. “You have been selected to continue toward a possible one million dollars and a new life, in exchange for a brief employment. If you are willing to take the next step and be interviewed, please respond by saying ‘Yes, I am willing to be interviewed,’ or select this link.” It appeared in her right hand. “And remember that our ability to deliver what we promise has been certified by Reality G.” That link appeared in her left hand.

  “Asked to do two interviews in one day,” the boy said. “I’m Mr. Popularity all of a sudden. I should kill myself more often.”

  “Do it, J.J.,” the woman said, not hearing his joke because she was intent on making use of this opportunity to save his life. Her mothering instincts were in full gear after spending even this short amount of time with him.

  “Kill myself?” he asked, genuinely confused.

  “Heavens no,” she said, aghast. “Do the interview!”

  “Why should I?” he asked, though he probably already knew the answer.

  “What have you got to lose?” she answered, echoing what he had said earlier. “And look what you could gain. With that money you could buy treatment, and start over.”

  “Yeah, bu
t what they want me to do for that money could be worse than what I’m running from.”

  “All you have to do is be willing to die, which you already are.” This came from the ad construct, which was apparently programmed to respond in this way to questions like “What do you want me to do?”

  “The rest is not difficult at all,” it continued.

  “What have I got to lose?” the boy said to himself, or the woman, or both.

  “Only your life,” the construct replied, with another programmed response. “The same thing you came here to lose.”

  The boy leaned back and put his hands behind his head, and after a few moments said, “Okay, I’ll do the interview. What have I…” He paused.

  “… got to lose,” the pregnant woman said with a smile, and the construct did not respond this time. In fact, the three Asian models didn’t say anything and there was a long, awkward silence.

  “Oh, sorry,” the boy said with his prepubescent lisp. “What are the code words you said … Open Sesame?”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m having difficulty understanding what you’re saying. Please try again.”

  “What am I supposed to say to agree to the interview? I forget.”

  “Please respond by saying, ‘Yes, I am willing to be interviewed,’ or select this link.”

  “Yes, I am willing to be interviewed.”

  “Thank you,” they all said, and then they disappeared.

  “Not again,” the boy said, and began rocking back and forth on the air. “I’m not waiting around for—”