“Are you surprised?” said Barb Bovyn as she handed Mercedes and Ricky flutes of champagne.
Everyone raised their glasses to her. “To Mercedes,” called Page. Mercedes wanted to acknowledge the toast but there was a brick caught in her throat so she just clicked flutes with those nearest her.
“I fear,” said Ricky, “that she's been struck dumb.”
Mercedes nudged him with her elbow. “Thank you,” she said and then coughed. “Thank you all for being so wonderful and so crazy.”
Everybody laughed.
“Is there a seat for me?” she said.
As she took her place she began to pick out individual faces. Page and Janeel were conferring at the far end of the table. Coco Akita had made it on time after all. There was a question in her eyes; Mercedes answered it by holding a forefinger to her lips. The Duttons, her next door neighbors, were chatting with Billy and Ambati, who she'd met at Heartprints, her grief support group. She waved to Steve Broulidakis, who had been Rake's doctor. Bromley, who built racing bicycles, said something that made Donna DiMatta, the electrician who had wired her studio, laugh. Both were watching Mercedes closely. Some of these people had been Rake's friends first, but they had stuck by her in the year since he'd died. Now Page and Janeel stared at her too, seeming about to burst with conspiratorial excitement. Then Mercedes noticed the man sitting directly behind them with his back turned to the table.
Page clinked a butter knife against her champagne flute.
“Another surprise for our birthday girl,” she said. “A special guest.”
The man stood, his back still to them. Mercedes rested both hands on the edge of the table but as the he turned, she pushed back until her arms were straight. She gripped the table as if she were afraid her chair might collapse. Her friends started clapping. Then everyone in the restaurant was on their feet.
John Dark bowed to her, a grin on his thin lips.
He was still ridiculously handsome and, as always, flamboyantly dressed. If his celebrity was not enough to bring him to the center of every room's attention, his appearance was. He wore a black velveteen frock coat with silver buttons over a powder blue waistcoat. His trousers were black-pinstriped and his loose white shirt was open at the neck. He seemed not to have aged in the nine years since she'd last seen him, but then he wouldn't. He was in his eighties, but as long as Dow Chemical kept making surgical poly he would continue to stop foolish hearts.
As the applause faded, Janeel spoke up. “He came all the way from Indonesia to see you, Mercedes. What was the name of the town again, John?”
“Surabaya.” Dark's voice always made Mercedes think of a cat purring. “A bit more than a town, Janeel—eight million people live there. The second largest city in Indonesia.”
Mercedes fought to steady herself against the whirlwind of emotions that Dark always stirred in her. =Look, Mr. Nobody,= she thought at her beamer. =Look at all that star power.=
* * * *
The party broke up just before two-thirty. Dr. Broulidakis had patients to see and as soon as he bowed out, the others made their excuses. Ricky had to get back to the library. She had hoped he might ask her to a birthday dinner, maybe even to his place, but he gave her nothing but a bland good-bye kiss. How was the birthday girl going to get home? John Dark had rented a carbot at the airport and said he could give rides, space permitting.
He squeezed Page, Lionel and Klara Dutton, Mercedes, and himself into a Volkswagen Sturm. Mercedes found herself wedged against Dark. Being so close to him brought back memories, not all unpleasant. Nobody said much as the carbot passed down the streets of Melton. Now that the party was over, her friends seemed stricken by their proximity to the famous man. The carbot dropped Page off, and moments later pulled up to Mercedes's house. The Duttons thanked Dark as effusively as if he'd just saved their lives.
She watched her neighbors trudge across Rake's overgrown lawn—except it was her lawn now. She hadn't quite realized that before, but having Dark here made her see her life through his eyes. He'd be wondering what she was doing with a lawn. And a house.
Dark nudged her. “Too spooked to invite an old friend in?”
“Not spooked at all,” she said, “old friend.” What else could she do? If she turned him away, he would probably have the carbot drive to the high school so he could spend the afternoon hitting on sophomores. Besides, Mercedes doubted that he'd come just for her birthday. He wanted something.
“You still have that glow, Mercedes,” said Dark. “Your superpower. Use it for good.”
“Don't start.” She walked him to the front door. “Dai-rinin?” she said. The lock clicked open.
“Who knew that living in the country would agree so well with you? Couldn't keep my eyes off you at lunch.”
Even though she had her back to him, she could feel the heat in his voice. She warned herself not to do anything stupid. This was John Dark. “It's just a look I sprayed on this morning.” She pushed the door open. “It'll wash off.”
He brushed against her arm as he passed into the house. “Not all of it.”
She pointed him at the couch in the living room and then pulled a chair in from the kitchen. She might have been embarrassed had a stranger seen the crust of English muffin from breakfast on the coffee table, but Dark knew from experience that she was no housekeeper.
“Terrible news about Rake,” he said.
“News?” She turned the kitchen chair around and straddled it with the back facing him. “We buried him a year ago.”
“My agent sent flowers, yes?”
“The biggest bouquet in the church.”
He leaned back and unbuttoned his jacket. “Worked with him years ago at Disney—before they sold everything off.” It fell open over the blue waistcoat. “Didn't seem like the church type.”
“He got scared at the end. I think he blindfolded himself with religion so he didn't have to see what was coming.”
“And you moved here to ease his pain.”
“He was in remission when he asked me and I had nothing better to do after Suit of Clay gassed.” She shrugged. “I knew he was sick, but he'd always been sick. His doctors claimed they could manage the cancer. They did, for a while.”
“Terrible, yes.”
“We never slept together,” she said. “Here, I mean.” She had no idea why she'd blurted this out, except that she hadn't appreciated the crack about easing Rake's pain. Dark always thought that he knew more about her than he really did.
He let it pass. “Working on anything?”
“We started a new Mick Raven before the relapse.”
“Scripted is a hard sell these days.” He reached into the pocket of his frock coat. “Even for me.” He showed her a silver hip flask. “Still poisoning yourself with bourbon?”
“What is this, Dark? What do you want?”
“Evan Williams Single Barrel Vintage.” He set it on the coffee table. “Got to build up my courage, yes?”
“For what?” She laughed. “You're such a liar.”
“My superpower.” He laughed too.
She went to the kitchen. “You're doing well,” she called. “At least that's what the feeds say.” Dai-rinin pushed two glasses out of the dishcopier. “Will you be nominated for The Last Lancelot?”
“Probably.” He sounded uncharacteristically glum. “But so what? Been coasting on brains and good looks for years. Can't remember the last time I had a new idea.”
“Tell me about it.” She set the glasses in front of him.
“Not that there's a market for ideas. All those damn worldscapes. People claim that they don't want to be ordered around in their own heads—but people are morons. They need to be told what to do.” He poured a couple of centimeters of bourbon into her glass. “Ran into your mother last month at Antonio's.”
“Really?” She took the glass from him. “Did you sleep with her?”
“That was a mistake, Mercedes. You should have warned me.” He poured himself a
drink. “She said she misses you.”
“You want me to toss you out?” She held her thumb and forefinger just a sliver apart. “You're this close to being on the street, Dark.”
“The glow becomes a fire, yes. Remember how we burned together?” He offered her his glass. “So much history between us.” Reluctantly she clinked hers against it. “Not all of it bad.”
She tasted the whiskey. It was as she remembered Williams, starting sweet but finishing dry with hints of oak and caramel and apples. It had been a while since she'd had expensive bourbon. “Tell me about this Deddy Suryochondro. From Indonesia. Is he even real?”
He tapped the cushion of the couch beside him. She took another drink and scooted around the coffee table.
“A fallback,” he said, “in case you wouldn't see me.”
“How could I not see you?” She sat an arm's length from him. “You showed up at my party. You dazzled all my friends.”
“Deft move, yes?” He gave her a look that would melt chocolate. “Gives you a chance to get used to the idea that I'm back.”
“Back?”
“And now here we are. The two of us, alone in your house. Talking. Not shouting.” He swirled bourbon in his glass. “Not like when you left.”
“I hated you then.”
He nodded. “That made me want you even more. You're hard to give up, Mercedes.”
She started. How could she have been so oblivious? Dark never gave up. “My surprise party,” she said. “That wasn't them. It was you.”
“Your friend Page picked the restaurant. Janeel invited everyone.”
“They came to see you.” She set her empty glass down as if it might explode. “Lunch with John Dark. Something to tell the grandkids.”
“They're nice people. But not like us.”
“I'm not like you.”
“We're drifting, Mercedes. We need to find a new way.”
“What do you want, Dark?”
“Want?” He held up his hand with fingers spread. “Want an Oscar for Lancelot, even though it's crap.” He ticked his thumb. “Want inspiration. Something to make me excited again.” He ticked his forefinger. “Want to work with you again.” Another finger. “Want to undress you.” Another finger, and the pinky. “Then make love.”
She laughed at him. And at herself. She'd known he would say something like this when she'd first seen him at Copper. And yet she'd tried to deny that she knew, because she wasn't sure how she would reply.
“You did say want.” Spots of color bloomed on his cheeks. She'd always liked the way he blushed. “Tell me it's out of the question.”
“You're so good at being you, Dark. How often does that line work?”
He grinned.
“And you know why it works? Because of the Oscars and the money and a body that isn't even yours.”
“It's a nice body.” Dark's voice was husky. “Paid good money for this body.”
She felt a dizziness that had nothing to do with alcohol. “I don't want charity.”
He leaned close and whispered. “And I don't give it.”
* * * *
She took him to Rake's bed because hers was just a twin in the guest room. As they lay entangled afterward, Mercedes examined her feelings. Did she feel guilty? Angry? Confused? No, no, and no. She felt content and warm and alive. She had been cooped up in her head for so long that her body had gone numb.
“You want to collaborate, Dark?”
“That was want number two.” He frowned. “Or was it three?”
“Our first project is finishing the Mick Raven.”
“Scripted is hard to...”
She clamped a hand over his mouth. “Mick Raven. And here in Melton, where all my friends live.”
He nodded.
She let her hand drop and trace the line of his chin. “You worked hard to get me into bed. Devious, but I appreciate the effort. Nobody else was making one.”
“People are morons.”
“How many times have I taken you back, Dark?”
He propped himself up on an elbow. “Are you talking about times when we were together and had a spat, or the times that we were actually separated?”
She sighed. “How long is this time?”
“Forever and ever, amen. Our new way, Mercedes.” She had never seen him embarrassed before. “Going to be eighty-three in January, and...”
Her hand went back over his mouth. “And when a man gets to be your age he starts thinking about settling down with just one good woman.”
He nipped at her palm and she jerked her hand away, laughing. Then she pitched back onto her pillow and covered her face with the sheet.
“What?” said Dark.
“I forgot,” she said, still laughing. “Just like in the old days. I have a beamer, Dark.” She peeked at him from beneath the sheet. “And I forgot to put him in a blind—sorry.” She growled. “You took him for one hell of a ride.”
“I know.”
She pulled the sheet completely off her face and stared.
“Meet Mr. Nobody.” He shrugged. “One way or another, I was going to be with you today.”
Mercedes was shocked, but not that he would masturbeam. The gossip feeds claimed celebrities did it all the time. She had secretly tried it once herself, but it had only given her a headache. No, what surprised her was that he would admit it. “Contact in meatspace, Dark.” She giggled. “I could sue.” Maybe he really had found a new way. “Take you for millions.”
“Go ahead.” He kissed her. “Except if we get married, you'd just be suing yourself.”
“Married?”
“Married, yes.”
She tasted the word and found it to her liking. It sat sweet on the tongue with a resiny, almond warmth and a finish of freshly mown hay. =So how was it for you?= she thought. =Good both ways?=
“Very enjoyable.” He tugged at the sheet and it slipped off her shoulders. “But it should be even better next time.”
Copyright (c) 2008 James Patrick Kelly
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
Novelette: BURGERDROID
by Felicity Shoulders
Felicity Shoulders is an Oregonian who planned to be a paleontologist and ended up writing instead. This wry look at the fast-food industry is her first published fiction.
Burgerdroid
“I don't want to go!” Henry said, pushing his lunchbox out of sight behind the sofa to gain time.
“I don't want to go either. But I am subject to the tyranny of capitalism, and you are subject to the tyranny of me.” I fished out the lunchbox and closed Henry's fingers over the handle.
“It isn't fair,” Henry said. “Other people have weekends on Saturday.”
“Of course it's not fair. That's why it's called ‘tyranny.'”
Henry sat down to cry.
“Oh no, you don't!” I hurried on my own coat and tugged him up by his lunch-free hand. “You are not too big for the fireman's carry.”
“Why can't we stay?” Henry asked as I frog-marched him to the car.
“Because robots are never late to work.”
* * * *
With Henry dropped off at daycare, I zoomed to the industrial park and scurried from my car to the door of “Thomson International Marine Insurance.” I unlocked both locks on the front door and let it bang shut behind me, sending an eerie sound through the metal blinds that blocked the view through every door and window. I passed the empty reception desk and punched my code into the security door that led to my actual workplace.
As the door opened, the first thing visible was Mel's face, glowing with reflected pallor from his screens. “You're cutting it close, Elsa.” He scowled.
“My little boy was sick,” I said.
Mel turned back to his desk. I let the door close and started for the women's lockers, but he said, “Good benefits at the ballet?”
“What was that?” I turned back. He was still looking at his computer.
&nbs
p; “Health insurance, for when your son gets sick. Did the dance company cover much?”
I took off my coat, hoping he couldn't see the anger hot in my cheeks. “No.”
He didn't say anything else, just let me waste more time staring before I turned and sped to my locker.
Penny was already in costume, except for the mask, and using her freedom from Mel's gaze to loll and read a Vogue.
“Need any help?” she offered.
I checked the clock and shook my head. “Plenty of time for an old hand.” I stripped off my business casual disguise and started to put on my shiny trousers.
“Says here,” Penny whispered, “that ‘vibrant metallics’ are in for winter. Too bad we can't wear this shit off the job.”
I smiled, pulling on my gloves. “I don't feel vibrant.”
Penny held up the magazine, displaying a busty model swathed in gold lame. “How can you not be vibrant when she paid thousands for the boobs you get to wear every day for free?”
“Penny!” I slid my metallic hoodie over my head and tucked back errant wisps of hair.
“Oh come on,” she dropped the magazine and poked the metal breasts she was wearing. “How are these practical?”
“They have to accommodate the various breast sizes of their employees.” I sat down to strap on my platform shoes and greaves.
“Sure. They're so concerned with that, yet the waists on these things are how tiny?” Penny held up my breastplate. “You know, I want to make a reverse-mold sculpture of these things. You know, the shape of the space inside this?”
“You can't. Can you? Do Inhibichips do sculpting?”
“If they didn't, I probably would have sculpted a robot boob out of mashed potatoes years ago.”
I grabbed the breastplate, flipped the power switch inside, and started to fit it on. “I wonder how they work that, if it's the same part of the brain. Talking about fake robots, sculpting robot costumes? That can't be the same.”
“Shit, I don't know. The whole thing with Inhibicreeps me out. I never would let someone slice my head open...” she waited for me to give her a look “...unless I really needed prescription coverage.” She sat forward and started on my back fastenings.
Asimov's SF, June 2008 Page 7
