Idolon

by Mark Budz

  It wasn't hard to picture the same thing happening to every other TV. They were all waiting to be assimilated, preparing to become one with one another.

  "You really think Marta's in there?" Atossa said, splicing into the earfeed from the ad mask.

  "I don't know, maybe." But Pelayo found it hard to believe it was where she really wanted to be.

  "So what happens now?" one of the yamps asked.

  "You talk to those guys." A bare hand materialized in the static, pointing. "They'll get someone to let you in."

  The mask's gaze dropped, centering on a glassed-in lobby where two hefty security guards were stationed. The guards were well armed, packing some serious weaponry and 'tude. It was clear they weren't just window dressing.

  "You know," the tall yamp said, gnawing on a black nail, "those dudes seem, like, way scary. Totally roided out. They're giving me the jeebies."

  "Me, too," the other yamp said.

  "It's not like that," the TV countered. "You can trust them. They're here for your protection."

  "Yeah, sure. Like we haven't heard that before. Jesus. You people are the same as everyone else. All show and no tell."

  They flounced down the hill, back toward downtown. After half a block the yamp with the mask peeled it off.

  "Okay," she said, holding up the cache chip where the mask could image it. "We kept our end of the bargain."

  Pelayo freed up the remaining balance on the chip and watched them scurry away.

  "Now what?" Atossa said. She piloted the ad mask away from the street and the sidewalk, close to the wall of a parking garage where it would be less likely to get blown around by wind or passing traffic.

  "The roof," he said. "Can you go up there and take a look around?" There was a cool breeze gusting off the bay, but she might be able to fly the ad mask up high enough to take a look at the roof and see if it was as heavily fortified as the ground-level access.

  "Even if I can," she said, "what good is it going lo do?"

  From this angle, Pelayo thought he could see the rotors of a helicopter just above the roofline and the terraced gardens—accessible from the ground by gated stairs—that formed patios and balustrades along the topmost floors. "There might be a way up," he said.

  35

  Nadice woke to the carnival lights of th Boardwalk. Lipstick smears of red, blue, green, and yellow neon splashed against the window next to the bed.

  She was like that light. Only a smal part of her shone through into the world. The rest of her was a ghost.

  Nadice became aware of quiet-but-alert breathing beside her, and a pleasant radiant heat pressing against her skin.

  Marta. They'd dozed off on the bed when the fog started to roll in, dampening the low-slanting rays of the sun.

  "What are you thinking?" Marta said.

  "I was just wondering what time it was."

  There was no clock in the room; they had been cut loose from time. First the past, now the present.

  Marta shifted slightly. Nadice turned her gaze to the acoustic-tiled ceiling. "Have you been awake all this time?"

  "Yes."

  "You're not tired?"

  "I can't sleep."

  They were beyond sleep. It was as if they had crossed into another country.

  "I've been thinking," Marta said. "Listening."

  "For what?"

  "Anything," Marta said. "Everything. You. My heart. The helicopter."

  Nadice hadn't heard it.

  "I'm glad one of us was able to get some rest," Marta continued. "I have a feeling we're going to need it."

  Nadice rolled onto her side, facing her. "What for?"

  Marta shrugged, shaking the bed. Then she raised an arm to her forehead, resting it there.

  "What do you think's going to happen to us?" Nadice said.

  "It's already happening." Marta's voice grated, abrasive as stone in the pastel gloom.

  "You know what I mean. After the babies." Where would they live? How would they live? Would they be allowed to care for their babies? Or would the babies be taken from them?

  Marta lowered her arm, found Nadice's left hand on the bedspread between them, and guided it up under her blouse to her belly.

  Marta's skin was warm and smooth under Nadice's fingertips. Taut. She felt her own belly tightening and the warmth spreading downward.

  "Feel that?"

  "Yes."

  "Inside of you, I mean." Marta placed her hand over Nadice's fingers, and gently pressed them into her flesh.

  Nadice's breath caught. Deep inside of her, she felt the pressure. Her own hand, she realized. As if it was her body she was probing, pushing against. "What's going on?"

  Marta withdrew her hand. "Our babies are joined. Or it could be that they're the same baby."

  Nadice kept her hand on Marta's abdomen, measuring her pulse and the slow rise and fall that came with each breath. "Joined how?"

  "Who knows. Maybe something we're each carrying inside us, connecting up so that we have one womb. One baby. You and me. Maybe all of us."

  "That's crazy." There had to be a reasonable explanation. Dr. Kwan had installed some kind of biodigital interface. They were caught in a virtual web. Tug on one thread and the vibration traveled to all the others.

  "I don't know what to think anymore," Marta admitted. "What's crazy and what isn't." A note of fatalistic resignation scratched the surface of her earlier determination. "What about you? Where are you at?"

  A tremor passed through Nadice's fingertips. "I'm not going to kill myself, if that's what you mean." It no longer seemed like an option. If what Marta said was true, and they really were one body, one person, what would happen to Marta if she injured herself? Would Marta be harmed, too? Would the baby? What about the other women who were pregnant?

  Nadice shifted her hand, brushing Marta's navel with her fingertips. A muscle in Marta's stomach jumped. Nadice felt the echo of the spasm reverberate within her own abdomen, followed by a tingle that spread to her thighs. A long shudder coursed through her.

  Marta wet parched lips. "I don't know if this is..." The protest floundered on an indrawn gasp.

  "You don't like women?" Nadice said.

  "It's not that. It's just—they might be watching."

  "I'll stop. If you want."

  Marta tensed, rigid with fear and desire. "No." Nadice's hand drifted downward, light as a hummingbird.

  _______

  "Are you all right?" Nadice said later.

  "Fine."

  A puffy, immobilizing silence swelled to fill the space between them. "Then what's the matter?"

  "Nothing."

  "Don't give me that."

  Marta's chest heaved, dissolving a clot of emotion in her chest. "It's been a while. That's all."

  "Me, too." They'd both been wrapped tight. Neither one of them had been able to let go entirely.

  Let go and they might be pulled out to sea. Lost forever.

  _______

  "If it's really just one baby," Nadice ventured, "then how does it get born?" The neon glow from the window glossed their hair and annealed the sweat on their bare skin. Either time had slowed, or their lives had sped up.

  "I guess we'll find out."

  "Should we tell Kwan?"

  Marta shook her head on the pillow. "I'm not telling that bitch anything."

  "Do you think she knows?" Nadice said.

  "Damn right she does."

  Nadice tasted salt on her lips. Their salt. She felt alert but calm, strangely sedate.

  "What about us?" Nadice asked. "If we're becoming one person, what happens to each of us?"

  Marta said nothing.

  "Will I forget who I am?" Nadice went on. "Will I lose my personality... my memories?"

  "I don't see how," Marta said. "We'd have each other's memories, but we'd still have our own. Like now."

  "Not if they get all jumbled." Things were already getting jumbled, just between the two of them.

  "That might not b
e such a bad thing," Marta said.

  True, Nadice thought. Only the strongest memories would remain, the most useful and important ones. The runts would get stomped out. "Survival of the fittest," she said.

  "What do you mean?" Marta asked.

  "Not all of the babies will be born," Nadice said. "Only the strongest will make it to full term. All the others will die."

  She was talking about them, as well, she realized. The mothers. They couldn't all live through this.

  "You don't know that," Marta snapped. "You don't know anything. None of us knows a goddamn thing."

  Nadice gave her a few minutes to simmer down, then placed her mouth to Marta's ear. "There's something else bothering you," she whispered.

  Marta tightened under her breath. "I can't tell you."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I can't tell anyone." The planes of her face shifted in the half-light, hard and angular where they chipped away at the shadows.

  "Something in your past," Nadice said, hoping to draw her out.

  Marta touched a ringer to Nadice's lips. "Not now." Not ever, her breath seemed to say.

  It was funny, Nadice thought. The last thing sex guaranteed was intimacy or trust. She took the tip of Marta's finger between her lips and sucked on it gently for a moment, letting the taste of her infiltrate the words forming on her tongue.

  "When I came to the Get Reel," Nadice said, "I was working as a mule, smuggling black-market ware into the country from Africa."

  "You don't have to tell me this."

  "I want to. I don't care if they hear. It doesn't matter. It's not going to make any difference."

  Marta opened her mouth, thought better of whatever she was about to say. "What kind of ware?"

  "I don't know. It doesn't really matter. What's important is that it's still inside of me."

  "You didn't deliver it?"

  "No. I had this feeling as soon as I did, they were going to get rid of me. That's why I ran."

  "How long do you think you can hide?"

  "As long as I have to."

  Marta narrowed her eyes. "They'll never stop looking for you."

  Nadice swallowed but held Marta's gaze. "I just thought you should know, you're not the only one with baggage."

  Marta touched the wet tip of her finger to Nadice's chin, tracing the rigid curve of her jaw.

  "I'm not asking for help," Nadice said, keeping her voice steady. "I'm not looking for your protection."

  Marta withdrew her finger. "I don't know what I have in me, either. All I know is, like you, I can't leave."

  Can't, Nadice thought. That was different from won't.

  _______

  A knock on the door roused Nadice. Next to her, Marta sat bolt upright, her legs slipping over the side of the bed. She was on her feet, padding silently past the endless flicker of the Boardwalk lights before Nadice had blinked the sleep from her eyes.

  "Time to get up." The muffled voice was followed by a second knock, firmer and more insistent.

  "What do you want?" Marta said, standing next to the door.

  A sliver of light sliced through the paper-thin darkness and cut across taupe carpet. Nadice sat up, straightened by adrenaline, and waited.

  A TV appeared in the rapidly widening gap, suffusing it with static. "You need to get ready."

  It sounded like an older woman, her voice brusque and matriarchal, accustomed to giving orders.

  "For what?" Marta asked. She stood to one side of the light, a rigid silhouette.

  "A trip," the woman said. "You're being moved."

  "We're leaving?" Nadice said. She smoothed the wrinkles from the body of her dress, adjusted the straps.

  "Be ready in a half hour. There won't be any stops or amenities during the trip, so make sure you use the bathroom if you have to."

  Outside their room, Nadice could hear the same conversation taking place, up and down the hallway.

  Marta pulled on her brown leather jacket. "Where are we going?"

  "Just be ready." The TV stepped back, pulling the door shut.

  Above them, from the roof, a guttural whine shuddered through the steel frame of the building.

  Nadice readjusted the straps of her dress, her hands fumbling as the roar vibrated through them.

  36

  "I need some coffee," Thabile LaComb said. "Especially if you expect me to think on such short notice this late in the afternoon."

  "I suppose I'm buying," van Dijk said.

  The noetics professor pushed her chair back from her desk and stood up. "Damn right you're paying. You want an education, it's going to cost." But she smiled as she said it.

  Van Dijk returned the smile. "I've been hearing that a lot lately." He had worked with the noetician a couple of times before. Online. This was the first time they'd met in person.

  She lifted a hand-knitted sweater from the back of her chair. The sweater was the color of daffodils and complemented the purple beads threaded through her hair. "Come on, Detective. Let's go for a walk. It can get kind of stuffy in here—if you know what I mean."

  From her Cognitive Sciences office in Campbell Hall she took him across campus, in the direction of Berkeley and Telegraph Avenue. As far as van Dijk could tell, Thabile LaComb didn't ware 'skin. She wasn't philmed... not even her nails. If she belonged to a cast, it wasn't advertised. She wore a batik blouse, and jeans nanoembroidered with fine titanium thread that shimmered in the patchy afternoon light. Her hair gave off the faint scent of crushed cloves.

  "First of all," she said, as they passed Sather Tower, "before we get into the inner workings of sageware and daticians, I want some context."

  Van Dijk took a moment to compose his response. "I'm looking for someone," he said.

  LaComb arched one brow. "Aren't we all?"

  "A young girl is missing." Van Dijk flashed her a picture of Lisette, taken by the uniformed officers when they first questioned the girl.

  LaComb's expression sobered as she studied the picture over an eyefeed d-splay. "Runaway?"

  " 'Running.' That seems to be the operative word."

  "From what?"

  "Something, or someone, she saw."

  "And wasn't supposed to see, I take it." A chill breeze off the San Francisco Bay ruffled the trees around them, scattering a flock of starlings and loose bits of debris.

  "A young woman was found dead in the apartment just down from the girl's," he said. "I'm afraid that's all I can tell you."

  "Is this young girl in danger?"

  "If she's running, I have to assume it's for a reason."

  LaComb glanced at the side of his face. "You're worried about her."

  "She's on her own. She doesn't have anyone to turn to, or to go back to. Mom's not in the picture."

  "So someone's got to look after her," LaComb said.

  They walked in silence for a few minutes. LaComb spent the time staring down at the pavement, lost in a frown. But the walking was pleasant. Van Dijk was in no hurry to press her or cut the stroll short.

  "Distributed processing," LaComb finally said. They were nearing the intersection of Bancroft and Telegraph, with its bustling crowd of street vendors and buskers. Spicy incense and cooking oil drifted on the air.

  "Meaning... ?"

  "Sageware doesn't reside on any single node. It resides on many nodes in a shared processing environment."

  "So if a node goes down," van Dijk said, "the sageware can still function. It keeps ticking."

  "Correct. It also makes it possible to control user access to a particular datician or specific functionality."

  "Control how?"

  "Through what are called run options. Users are given permission to run specific agents, make certain queries, d-splay certain data."

  "Or not," van Dijk said.

  "Right. Most of the time it depends on what you pay for. The more you pay, the more functionality you get."

  "So who controls the sageware?"

  "Manage, or administer, would be
more accurate. 'Control' implies an absolute top-down mechanism for enforcement that doesn't really exist. In practice, the system is more flexible. All sageware is heuristic."

  "It has the ability to learn," van Dijk said.

  LaComb nodded, softly rattling the beads in her hair. "And adapt. Up to a point, anyway."

  "And then what?"

  "It gets upgraded. Here." LaComb turned into a corner coffee shop that sold bagels and spreads: cream cheese, hummus, baba ganoush. "I'll have a Turkisha. With cocoa nibs."

  Van Dijk ordered her coffee and a latte for himself, then joined her at a cozy, sun-warmed table next to the window. "So, what do daticians do during off-peak hours," he asked, "when demand is low?"

  LaComb rested her forearms on the table in front of her. She'd pulled her hands into the sleeves of her sweater. Only the delicate tips of her fingers peeked out. "There aren't any spare CPU cycles, per se."

  "At all?"

  "The load is fairly constant. If one datician gets overloaded, its processing tasks xfer to another datician. That keeps the system balanced and access times to a minimum."

  "Do daticians ever act independently?"

  "In what way?"

  "When they do something, is it always in response to a request? Or do they ever operate on their own?"

  "Free will, you mean?" LaComb's brow furrowed.

  "I guess."

  LaComb picked at a scratch in the table. "Technically," she said, "the answer to your question is no."

  "But?"

  She looked up and eased her hands from her loose sleeves, clasping both wrists. "Requests and instructions are often open to interpretation. You see that with people all the time. Different people hear and act on things differently. Likewise, not all daticians process requests in exactly the same way. They should, but they don't. Does that mean one or more of those daticians is acting independently? I don't know."

  Their coffees arrived. LaComb wrapped her fingers around the warm cup. She leaned forward to inhale the aroma, then straightened. "Brain-computer interfaces add another level of complexity. BCI interpreters are accurate 99 percent of the time. But there are well-documented cases where someone issues a mental command, or believes they're issuing a certain command, and the BCI carries out a completely different command. Most of the time the neuron pattern that's executed is similar to the one the person wanted, within the BCI's margin for error. But every now and then it's not even close."