by Mark Budz
A damselfly.
As he watched, the long, reed-thin body flashed vibrant blue and the head began to rephilm.
Al-Fayoumi blinked several times under the heat lamps. With each staccato blink, the emergent image became clearer, more distinct, until it resolved into the head of a fish with silver scales and gill slits.
He toggled to a real-time simage over his eyefeed and increased the magnification until the idolon appeared to be as large as his hand.
The damselfish rose into the air, turned, and approached the front of the terrarium to peer at him directly. Half-floating, half-hovering, its gills gulped and its mouth opened and closed.
As if preparing to speak.
25
"It's time," Uri said.
He and Mateus sat in a secure booth in Uri's favorite chat room. The simage construct resembled an old twentieth-century New York City deli complete with wooden tables, scuffed linoleum tile, and dusty fluorescent tubes. Framed black-and-white photographs of classic prizefights and other boxing memorabilia, like sweat-stained shorts and leather gloves, decorated the walls. There was even a heavy bag hanging in one corner next to a cold case. Uri liked the smell of pastrami, and the pugilistic scratch of a transistor radio behind the cash register, reliving Ali-Frazier, Louis-Schmelling, or some other famous bout. "The quantum ware is fully assembled," he went on. "Ready to extract."
Mateus wet his lips. "When?"
"Tonight."
Mateus rubbed his face. The simage was real-time, transmitted by tight-weave nanotrodes embedded in his 'skin, so Uri knew it wasn't some software affectation but a genuine case of nerves.
"Tonight could be difficult," Mateus said. "The exact timing, I mean."
"Why's that?"
Mateus flexed and unflexed his hands. A sure sign of trouble. Something was wrong. Apprehension, serrated with impatience, cut into Uri. He opened a d-splay on the table in front of him and packet-sniffed the neural stream from the 'skin the smuggler was waring. The crunkhead was bleeding perspiration, a torrential downpour of jitters. Sweat beaded on his upper lip.
"She flipped." Mateus scratched the back of his neck, chafing under Uri's immediate presence. "Took off before I could stop her."
"You said she wouldn't run," Uri reminded him. "You guaranteed it. No place to go. Too much to lose."
"I'm on it. I'll get her back. No problem."
"Where is she?"
Mateus cleared his throat. "TVs got her."
Unfuckingbelievable. Uri ran the tip of his tongue carefully along the shark-edged tips of his teeth. "Where are you now?" He couldn't tell from the eye-feed. It wasn't the 'skin house where he'd examined the girl last night. There was a bubble window next to Mateus. Filtered sunlight heated the side of his face.
"A hotel, some TV events center. I've got her tagged and that's her last reported location."
""You still receiving a signal?"
"No." A slight shake of the head. "The feed cut out a couple hours ago."
"So the TVs identified the taggant and disabled it."
Mateus squirmed.
"Which means she might not be there anymore," Uri went on. "They might have transferred her someplace else."
Mateus shook his head. "I don't think so."
"Why not?"
"I've been keeping a close eye on the place. She hasn't come out. No one's come out, except for TVs."
"You're positive?"
No answer.
"Make sure," Uri said. "Find out."
"What you want me to do if she's there? I got some boyz—we can go in an' grab the bitch."
"No." Uri's head throbbed. He pressed cool fingertips into his temples. The last thing he wanted to do was provoke a well-organized, well-defended group of religious fanatics. They had the girl. God only knew what she'd told them. He had to assume the worst. That meant she'd almost certainly warned them about Mateus and his crunkhead thugs. Ergo, the TVs would be on the lookout for them. So a direct frontal assault was out of the question. There had to be a way to get to her... talk to her, threaten her, buy her. Whatever it took to get the quantum ware. That was the main thing. He didn't care how it happened.
"Well?" Mateus said.
"Stay put. Keep an eye on things. Find out if she's still there but don't take any other action. Is that clear? Call me, but don't do anything."
"I gotcha."
"What did you do to her?" Uri asked.
"Say what?"
"To make her leave. You must have done, or said, something." That was the only explanation that made sense. If the girl had really wanted to become a TV, she could have done so at any time while she was working as a maid. People didn't suddenly convert except as a last resort. They'd been backed into a corner financially or emotionally and it was an act of desperation just short of suicide.
"I didn't do shit," Mateus protested.
"Come on. A crunkhead like you, always looking to knock down some dime piece or yamp." Fucker was always bragging about doing it with this or that young tramp.
"Maaan! It wasn't like that. Our relationship was strictly business. No way I'd cut somethin' with that ho."
Uri propped his elbows on the table in front of him and leaned forward. "Tell me."
"I went to get her. At the homeless shelter. Fuckhead at the front desk gave me a hard time. No visitors after 9:00 p.m. Some shit like that."
"So you forced the issue."
Mateus raised his palms. "It wasn't my fault things got out of hand. Goddamned welfare junkies turned it into a riot."
"Why'd you go get her in the first place?"
Mateus shifted uncertainly. "My boyz saw her talking to a TV. I got concerned. Figured I'd better get her ass out of there."
"For being preached to?"
"The TVs been recruiting a lotta pregnant women. Single mothers. I read it on a newzine feed. Free medical care and all."
Uri had forgotten about that. The girl was knocked up. He could use that to find her. He saw that now. It was obvious.
"Find out if she's there," he reiterated. "Rephilm yourself in case they have your description. Then get back to me and be ready to move."
It would work, Uri told himself. He still had part of the quantum circuit he'd injected into Pelayo. The circuit was entangled, including the part that Nadice still had in her. All he had to do was tweak Pelayo, and the tweak would show up in Nadice.
It couldn't get any simpler.
The more he thought about it, the clearer it became.
_______
Giles Atherton sat in his penthouse office, reviewing the retail distribution plans for Iosepa Biognost Tek's upcoming line of designer philm. Ilse Svatba had finally deigned to give him a preview of the fashion downloads that would be available for the custom 'skin he'd contracted for. Dresses, suits, shoes, jewelry, and other designer accessories hung on the Vurtronic d-splays around him.
"If I run across any bootleg copies prior to the official release date," she'd warned him, under the guise of a playful chide, "I'll know whose scent to pass on to our corporate lawyers."
The implication being that he was the only one she'd leaked information to... which he didn't believe for a minute.
"Not to worry," he'd reassured her. "I can keep a secret as well as you, Ilse se. You know that."
That had earned him a bright, plastic laugh.
It was bullshit, of course, part of IBT's unofficial marketing strategy. She wanted the designs to leak into the black-market. Not right away, maybe. But soon. That would generate buzz. Buzz would generate more buzz, which in turn would generate sales.
"I need a firm release date, Ilse. I need to tell my retailers when they can expect to receive delivery."
"Soon, Giles. I promise."
"You know what they say about promises."
She had waved one burgundy-gloved hand. "And you know what they say about believing everything you're told."
This time, it was his turn to force a laugh. Even if she gave him a date, t
here were no guarantees.
He stared at the floor-to-ceiling d-splays, draped with new clothing. Both the 'skin and philm would be sold at the network of exclusive retail outlets located in Atherton resort hotels. As much as he hated smart mobs, that's what he was trying to instantiate—a global smob that would drive sales of the new 'skin through the roof. It would be difficult, but not impossible. Initial market penetration was the key. Hit critical mass, and he would control the masses.
He stood, went over the nearest Vurtronic, and ran his fingertips along the hem of a Mucha-style dress.
He would need endorsements, of course. Philm stars. Musicians. Other high-profile celebrities. Once those were in place, the window of opportunity would be wide-open. He would have to act quickly, though. Timing was everything. Not just for the legal sales but for the bootleg ones. They needed to be carefully coordinated so that initial supply lagged behind demand.
By how much? That was the question. Not enough availability, and interest would wane. Volume would never reach critical mass. Too much availability, too soon, and the novelty would wear off. It was a balancing act. The black-market component was the most problematic. He could control the supply chain for the retail outlets in his hotels. What he couldn't control was the number of rip artists hacking the ware and how many bootleg copies they made. His black-market contact was already pressuring him for the go-ahead to start ripping the 'skin and selling street downloads even though the quantronics weren't up and running yet.
A tiny bell tone sounded over his earfeed, and Uri's secure signature appeared over his eyefeed. Atherton rerouted the message to one of the big Vurtronic d-splays, replacing the Mucha dress with Uri's face.
"We have a problem," the skintech said.
"What is it this time?"
"Mateus. He lost the girl."
With an effort, Atherton kept his face impassive. "Before or after you retrieved the ware?"
"Before. She's with the TVs."
Atheton fought down panic. "I assume you're taking appropriate measures to get her back."
Uri nodded. "But I might need some help."
"I can't be involved. Not directly. You know that."
"You won't be. I need a secure place to hide her. Just for a few hours, until I can extract the ware."
Atherton narrowed his eyes. "Where?" Though he was pretty sure he knew where Uri was headed.
"The Fairmont."
The Fairmont in downtown San Jose was the closest Atherton resort hotel. "I don't like it," Atherton said.
"Dockton is too far," Uri said. "I need someplace closer I can take her. IBT is out of the question. I've got spare equipment in my lab I can use but I need to be able to set it up in a secure location without any questions."
"What about the Seacliff Inn or an Akasaka capsule hotel?"
Uri shook his head. "Too risky. There's no way I can move all the equipment into place without drawing attention."
"There must be some other location."
"Yeah. If I had time to set it up. But I don't. I need it tonight. In a couple hours. You can backdoor me past security as a delivery driver and register the room using one of the disposable DiNA identities you keep lying around."
Atherton took a deep breath... let it out slowly. "All right. I'll take care of it."
"One other thing," Uri said.
Atherton waited for the second shoe to drop.
"Mateus."
"What about him?"
"He's becoming a liability."
Atherton waved a hand. "Do whatever you think is best. You hired him... you fire him."
"I'm just letting you know."
"Fine. I don't need to know any more." Mateus wasn't his problem. "What about your consultant?" he asked.
The question seemed to take Uri by surprise. "Al-Fayoumi?"
"You were going to keep me posted."
"Everything's fine. I'm keeping a close eye on him." Uri hesitated a beat. "As I expected, he ran a background check on Yukawa and Sigilint."
"And?"
Uri fidgeted under Atherton's irritation. "He appears to have accepted the bio and background information I set up."
"How long before he connects the dots and figures who Yukawa really is?"
"He won't. There aren't any dots to connect."
There were always dots, Atherton thought. Mateus wasn't the only one that might have to be erased.
_______
Before approaching TV central, Mateus rephilmed himself as a 1960s Hippie-era dreadhead, complete with tie-dyed T-shirt, Birkenstock sandals, and matted fro extensions he picked up at a warehouse cosmetique. He could have chosen something badass, Bruce Lee or Delta Force D-boy would've been perfect, but decided it would be better not to come at them with too much 'tude. It would only make them uncooperative from the start. Besides, everybody knew those philms were off the shelf—public-domain shit that would cast him as an amateur. Not only would they not give him any intel, they'd totally laugh their asses off at his expense.
Checking himself out in the side mirror of his car, he felt like a pansy. How did a dreadhead talk, anyway?
Fuck it. The sooner he got this over with, the better. You couldn't think too much about shit. You did what you had to do. And you did it meaner and harder than everyone else, and you didn't look back. That was how you got ahead in life. No second thoughts. No regrets. No involvement other than the business at hand. Those were the rules.
It was no different with Nadice. He'd made the mistake of taking a liking to her—of trying to help her out. A moment of weakness, and now he was paying for it. That's how it always was. There was no forgiveness in the world. It didn't cut you any slack. It didn't pay to cut others any slack.
He probably shouldn't have hit her, but he had. He couldn't take that back. All he could do was move forward and keep moving.
Mateus climbed out of his car and made his way down the street to the hotel. On the way he passed a surfhead house fenced off from the street by long boards, dozens of three-meter-high oblongs planted side by side in the ground. The boards reminded him of yellow fiberglass teeth, all cracked enamel and chipped edges.
The TV security guards eyed him suspiciously as he sauntered across the parking lot to the main entrance. Both of them had that static snow job philm that hurt to look at. "What's up, class?"
"What can I do for you?" one of the guards said, his polite voice relayed through little speakers in the thick sound-, bomb-, and bulletproof door.
"I'm here to talk to my sister," Mateus said.
"Your sister?"
"Yeah. Her name's Nadice. She converted last night, and I didn't get a chance to say good-bye."
The guard frowned, and Mateus wondered if the guard knew Nadice didn't have a brother.
"You can't talk to her," the guard said.
"Why not?"
The guard's frown deepened to a scowl. "Because it's against the rules."
"But she's here? Right?"
"I didn't say that."
"Don't you have visiting hours? You know? For loved ones? I'm the only family she's got."
"Not anymore. We're her family now. I'm her big brother," He jerked a thumb in the direction of his sidekick. "And this is her other big brother."
"Come on, bro. I just wanna make sure she's okay."
"Why?" The guard's manner turned overtly hostile. "You the one who smacked her?"
Mateus held up his hands, palms out. "What makes you say that?"
"We see a lot of domestic violence. Boyfriends and husbands trying to apologize and make amends."
"Not me, man. Like I said, I'm her kin." They couldn't prove shit unless maybe they took some soft DNA prints.
"I still can't let you in."
The dude wasn't budging. Clearly a different strategy was called for. "What if I agree to convert?"
The guard shook his head. "Sorry. This center is for women only. You want, I'll send you the address of one of our other conversion centers."
"
Sounds like you got a good thing going here. Lots of female company. Must be nice." Mateus grinned, hoping to appeal to the dude's baser instincts and establish some masculine rapport.
The guard's eyes bulged, belligerent. "It's not like that. You some kind of pervert or something?"
Christ. The asswipe was probably neutered. One of those eunuchs churches kept around for choir practice.
"I think you better leave," the guard said. He rested a hand on the taser at his side and nodded for his buddy.
Mateus spread his hands wider and took a step back as the second goon joined the first. "Awright. I don't want no trouble."
"Then hit the road, Jack. And don't come back."
"No problem, man. I gotcha." He bobbed his head like he was stoned, playing the part. With any luck, they'd write him off as a typical dreadhead and forget about him as soon as he was gone, another hapless spoon-cooked soul.
Besides, he had what he needed. Nadice was in the building.
26
"So what's the big emergency?" Pelayo said. He walked toward Front Street and the San Lorenzo levee. The levee was shaded by a line of tall palms that dappled the concrete barrier. Leafy splashes of light snagged on found-art partially embedded in the wall: a bald rubber tire, a twisted bicycle frame, several rust-pitted shopping carts, the glaucoma-dull headlight of an old car, and the hollow tubes of a wind chime that poked out of the mud-colored 'crete like the bones of some exotic bird that had been carried to the bottom of the river, stripped of all flesh, and slowly silted over.
Over his eyefeed d-splay, Nguyet fretted, picking at her front teeth with a ragged thumbnail. "Have you seen Marta?"
"Not since last night."
"She hasn't contacted you?"
"No," he said. "Why?"
"She's missing."
Pelayo shaded his eyes from the metallic shards of glare the wall seemed to emit as part of some slow, steady decay. "What do you mean, missing?"
"She didn't come home last night."
"That's it?" Typical Nguyet. Everything was a disaster with her. One questionable divination and the world was coming to an end.
"It isn't like her to just go off," Nguyet said.
True. Marta usually stuck close to home, worried about her father.
