by Mark Budz
In response, the philm d-splay for the test 'skin opened. Several new items were available on the options menu. In addition to the familiar grayed-out choices for his ware, there were selections for evening gown [red/black], gloves [short/long], scarf [silk/lame], eye shadow, rouge, lipstick [tea rose/carnation pink], and hair [long/short, straight/curled, platinum/strawberry/ brunette].
A supplementary d-splay provided decor choices for the room. Wall material and pattern, floor-tile design, carpet texture and color, tin ceiling panels in lieu of copper, and window embossing/etching. The options for marble walls, silk drapes, pink granite vanity/bathtub, and cotton bedsheets were selected. The entire room was programmable.
Hooked by the finger, his head lolled to one side. A face leaned in to inspect him, grinning a wide expanse of domino-square teeth.
The crunkhead he'd bumped into. Mateus.
He held a knife in his free hand. It was a small Damascus Folder, with a polished titanium frame and a scrimshawed handle.
"We're all alone now, gurl. Time to cut sumthin' up."
Behind Mateus, hanging on a brass hook next to the vanity, a caryatid mask stared past them toward the bathroom door, its line of sight too high. On the mask's d-splay he couldn't see himself looking up at it, only see a daguerreotype reflection of Mateus in the mirror outside the door.
Mateus closed and pocketed the folding knife.
Then he slipped both hands under Nadice's arms and hauled Pelayo out of the tub.
The evening gown fell from his chest, exposing one breast. Mateus had loosened the straps; they dangled at his side, languid and desultory. Surgical gel trickled down his thighs, semen-thick, and dripped on the floor tiles. With a grunt, Mateus hoisted him up and carried Nadice from the bathroom.
Head cradled in the muscular hollow below one shoulder, Pelayo watched the ad mask's unblinking gaze follow Nadice out of the bathroom. Watched her on the d-splay, being carried into the main room.
Mateus dumped Nadice on the bed. Arms akimbo, Pelayo stared up at a pressed-copper ceiling panel, etched and embossed to resemble an antiquated twentieth-century microchip. His muscles trembled, prelude to some uncontrollable palsy that he would be helpless to prevent.
Mateus fished the folding knife out of his jeans pocket, thumbed open the skinny blade, then slit the front of the gown open to the crotch.
Threads tore inside Pelayo, sliced 'skin severing synthapse connections. But the pain was real. It belonged to him as well as her.
"Ain't that it!" Mateus licked his tattoo-bruised lips, then tossed the knife on the sheets and began to unfasten his black leather belt and lower his pants.
Pelayo reached for the knife, feeling the bare, hard concrete of the sidewalk under his fingers instead of silk bedding. He moved his hand past the specter of a spent Hongtasan on the coffee-stained sheets, wrinkled, gritty with mica and the punge aroma of French lavender.
"What the fuck!" The bed shifted. Mateus bent forward, hobbled by his partially loosened pants, to smack Pelayo's hand aside. "I had about enuff a you shit, gurl."
Mateus gripped the gown. Bunching the nano threads tightly, he yanked the dress from her body and flung it aside.
Pelayo screamed as the 'skin separated from the subcutaneous tissue.
He landed in a crumpled heap on the floor at th end of the bed, a pile of discarded, disembodie nanofiber.
Pain boiled up, searing and blood-wet.
He began to thrash.
58
"You hungry?" Atossa asked. "There's yogurt in the fridge. Maybe some cheese. Juice, if you're thirsty."
"Thanks." Marta pinched out a smile. "But I don't think 1 can keep anything down right now."
Atossa nodded. "Sorry the place is such a mess."
A Vurtonic d-splay hung on the wall across from the futon. The Vurtronic was an old portable fold-up, the corners dog-eared, the creases worn thin in places. Marta had seen hundreds like it for sale at flea markets on the Flats and scavenger shops deep in the Trenches. Clothes hung on hangers from a steel curtain rod that had been mounted to the low ceiling. A bureau with half-open drawers was piled high with socks, panties, T-shirts, jeans, and rumpled sweaters. Shoes, a half dozen or so pairs, occupied three antique milk crates that had been stacked on their sides so the open tops faced out.
"Maybe you could help me to the bathroom?"
"Sure."
Her pee was tinted red, a bad sign. She couldn't tell if the bleeding had stopped. It might only have slowed.
"If the parameds don't show up soon," Atossa said from the doorway, "I'm taking you to the hospital."
"Thanks." Marta flushed. She just sat there, too weak to move. The baby was still alive.
"You should stay down," Atossa said. "Rest."
Marta nodded. Atossa helped her back to the futon. Heaviness flooded her limbs. She folded both hands on her abdomen, closed her eyes, and breathed in the sweet aroma of freesia from a joss stick on the bamboo end table next to the bed.
How long since she'd slept? She couldn't remember. Couldn't resist the warm caress dragging her beneath the surface.
59
Pelayo blinked. Opened disembodied eyes.
A wave of dislocation hit him, cutting him off from all physical sensation. Then the world congealed, solidified around him, and his perspective steadied.
From where he lay, a crumpled pile of 'skin on the floor at the end of the bed, he could see Nadice, naked on the bed. Mateus straddled her, and Pelayo felt the crunkhead force-her legs apart as he wrestled her into position.
They were still connected. Even though the top layer of her 'skin had been ripped from the underlying substrate of synthapse grafts wired to her flesh, it was still receiving and sending information.
On the ad mask d-splay he could see himself reflected in the mirror, a red evening gown spread like blood across the floor.
—Get up, the fish told him.
Pelayo could feel it swimming around inside his head, relaying sensory input. He seemed to be accessing the world through the fish's sensorium. His ghost sight was a composite image assembled from visible-spectrum nanocams and simage arrays wired into the room's programmable matter.
—Now, the fish exhorted.
— Can't, Pelayo thought. The palsied tremors paralyzed his muscles, robbing them of volition. His limbs twitched but remained flaccid.
—Rephilm yourself.
He thought about the gold Hamilton watch on his wrist. The jagged-toothed crown with its precise, effortless...
Click.
The selection menu for Nadice's and his 'skin appeared, the option for red evening gown highlighted. Pelayo tapped a mental finger on the suit option labeled WINDSOR D.B. The gown evaporated, rephilmed as a worsted double-breasted suit. The jacket was torn at the lapels, the pants ripped along both inseams.
Heat lightning crackled inside of him. His back arched. The flash spread outward, burning along the filaments of her nerves, photon bright.
At the same time a bright flash, titanium-hard, sliced across his vision and through the menu.
The Damascus folding knife, cold and bright.
—Move! the fish urged. Now!
Pelayo's right hand shifted. Wraithlike, fuzzy. It existed more in his mind than in reality.
But on the bed, Nadice's hand moved to one side. Pelayo raised his left knee, and kicked out. Nadice's foot caught Mateus in the groin. Groping blindly, Pelayo clawed for Mateus's eyes.
The blade descended.
60
Uri swore to himself in a deserted men's room off the main lobby. None of the private philm options he'd coded for his copy of the 'skin would come up on the selection menu. They refused to d-splay.
He stared at his pallid reflection in the mirror and the useless menu etched on the glass.
The 'skin had been cracked—tweaked maybe, with new ware or code. No other explanation.
Uri slammed clenched fists onto the vanity. His luggage, and all of the med-assay equipmen
t from IBT, lay in a pile on the floor. He couldn't leave now—not without Nadice—and couldn't stay now that the room had been broken down and cleaned. Bottom line, he couldn't do shit until he had a safe place to take Nadice and time to examine her, figure out what had happened.
Dockton. The only available option.
He placed an urgent call to Mateus, got no response. Ditto the other crunkhead, Tiago, who was working disposal.
Al-Fayoumi, he thought. Asshole had to be involved. He was the only person with enough information and technical expertise to work a crack.
Uri retreated to a toilet stall with his bags, locked the door. Before he could place the call to Rafa, a message light flashed over his eyefeed.
Atherton. Great, just what he needed. By now, the man probably knew that he'd ripped his own copy of the 'skin. He'd want to "discuss the matter."
Christ. What a mess.
Fuck it. Uri ignored the message and contacted Rafa, who appeared in a simage d-splay, still philmed in full Texasecure regalia.
"What's going on?" Uri said. "Anything?"
"Dude brought some kid home a little while ago: Since then, the place has been quiet."
"Get in there," Uri said. "Now."
"What you want me to do?"
"Whatever it takes to get him to talk. When he's ready, holler at me. I want to question him in person."
"I gotcha!" Rafa grinned.
As soon as the crunkhead dropped off-line, Uri logged into his virtual chat room. From there, he started querying all of the 'skinheads and cinephiles that parleyed in the deli. If al-Fayoumi had ripped the 'skin, was now cutting philm, someone would know. Bootleggers would have sniffed him out, drawn to new source code like sharks to fresh blood.
61
Marta gritted her teeth. She was bleeding again.
"I'm going to call for a cab," Atossa said. Marta nodded, afraid that if she opened her mouth to speak, the blood would gush out unhindered.
Shut everything in, she told herself. Don't let anything out.
"Breathe," Atossa said. She put on a pair of scratched spex, then sat on the bed beside Marta and pulled the sheets from her stomach, baring her thighs.
Marta shook her head on the pillow. "I need to see what's going on," Atossa said. "I need to be able to send an image to the triage nurse."
Marta forced slow, steady breaths through her nose. She leaned her head back and dug stiff fingers into the soft mattress.
"That's it," Atossa said. "Hang on. Just a little longer."
It wasn't going to happen. She couldn't stop the blood from overflowing. The pressure was too great. The bubble that had been building inside her burst and the liquid spilled out, like a tipped bowl.
Atossa swore. "I think your water just broke." She stood up.
"Nadice—" Marta coughed, sucked saliva from dry cheeks. "She needs medical attention, too."
"I just heard from Lagrante. He's already called for help, got people on the way."
Instead of relief, dread flickered in Marta. Like the glow from a newly lighted candle it reached into every corner of her mind, exposing old fears and cobweb-thick doubts.
"Take it easy," Atossa said, "everything's going to be okay." She moved away from the bed and picked up a tube of liquid gloves.
Marta's gaze trailed after her. "What're you doing?" Her mouth was parched, the words gummy.
Atossa squeezed white cream from the tube and smeared it onto her hands. A few seconds later, the cream solidified into sterile, antibacterial latex. "Just in case," she said.
62
The blade pierced Nadice's left cheek, sliding between her teeth and coming out the opposite side. Pelayo bit down, trapping the blade and the dull taste of steel in his mouth.
Blood thrummed in his ears, urgent, pounding.
Mateus swore and yanked the knife free, raising it. Pelayo rolled, bucking against the tangle of arms and legs pinning Nadice to the bed. The thudding ended, and a bright rectangle of light leaned into the room. The knife flashed, and then darkened, doused by shadow. "Police!"
Through the eyefeed from the mask, Pelayo watched Lagrante sprint past the mirror, the saffron jacket of his zoot suit billowing out behind him.
Above Pelayo, Mateus twisted away from Nadice, slid off the back of the bed, and snatched up the evening gown in one smooth motion, turning toward Lagrante.
The rip artist raised his right palm, face out, as if to slow the crunkhead. "You're under arrest."
Mateus nodded. "I gotcha."
He flung the evening gown at Lagrante and charged. The dress unfurled, wrapped over around Lagrante's upraised hand and draped around his head. Lagrante ducked, momentarily blinded, but Mateus's bull rush caught him full in the stomach. Lagrante fell back, hat sailing, and went down. A scimitar gash opened on the right side of his face, curving from ear to jaw.
The two men rolled onto the floor. The knife carved a slim, tight arc under the LEDs. This time the blade impaled Lagrante just below the shoulder blades, where it stuck, pinning the yellow jacket in place.
A crimson circle appeared around Mateus's neck; not blood but the evening gown, knotted tight. Mateus let go of the knife to claw at the ribbon with both hands. The crunkhead's fingers pried frantically at the nanomechanical fibers. But Lagrante cinched the noose tighter.
Pelayo stared down at Mateus, at the cyanosis-blue complexion and the fat tip of the tongue barely protruding from between swollen lips.
—He's dead, the fish said. Nadice is dying. So is the baby.
Lagrante lay on his side, sweating, breathing heavily. Blood smeared his face and stained the back of the zoot suit.
Blood stained the sheets around Nadice, too. Too much blood to have come from just the stab wound to her face.
"Lagrante?" Pelayo said.
The rip artist stirred.
"You okay?"
"Think so." The rip artist coughed. "Nadice is in bad shape," Pelayo said. "She needs help."
Lagrante pushed himself up, propping a shoulder against the bed. "Parameds are already on the way." His voice wobbled. He reached for the sodden sheets, tried to pull himself to his knees, and sank back down.
—Nadice doesn't have much time, the fish said. You need to come with me, now.
"Where?"
Inside of him the fish rose up from virtual depths, swimming for the surface of his 'skin. As it ascended it rephilmed itself in the integrated-circuit design on the wall next to the bed.
—This way.
Pelayo mentally d-splayed the menu for his 'skin, with the updated list of choices for room decor. He thought-selected the wallpaper/microchip option, and part of him merged with the wall.
He entered into it, became one with it, and in the process was able to step through it...
_______
... into an online room, simage-cast over his eye-feed.
Pelayo looked around the holographic d-splay. "What is this place?
A crib occupied one corner of the room. A carousel of brightly colored plastic animals spun lazily over the crib. A bundle of IV drip tubes dangled from a chrome stand, watched by a nurse in a chair. The tubes were capillary-thin, more like fiberoptic wires that dripped light instead of fluid. Mounted high in one corner, a television on a swivel arm stared down at the nurse. The screen was a blizzard of static.
Through a virtual door to the room he could see a hall with other doors leading to other rooms. Other nurseries. Cries echoed down the hallway, fussy, hungry, tired, and colicky.
The simage construct appeared to be a hodgepodge compilation of images spliced together to form a single room. Each wall was different: rusty foam-backed sheet metal; powder-blue cinder block philmed with unicorn and faery cinFX; gray stucco tagged with Basquiat-style graffiti; and the microchip wallpaper he'd philmed himself in to instantiate here. Overhead a ceiling of tinted glass buzzed with honeybee appliques. Varnished tongue and groove made up the floor.
"Tesseract," he said, thinking of Dali's Crucifixion,
which he had seen in church once, the cross an unfolded hypercube. "Six rooms in one." All joined by programmable matter.
—Hyperstantial, the fish said. It detached from the mobile and drifted above the crib, green plastic weaving between the tubes.
Somewhere in the world, each simulated wall connected to an actual wall like the hotel room.
—If you had the access code to philm yourself as one of the five other walls, you would be able to cast a simage of yourself from here to there.
The same way he'd come from the Fairmont; the same way he'd presumably get back. "That how you get around? Wall to wall?"
—Don't think of them as different walls, the fish said. They are all the same wall oscillating at different frequencies.
Like a person screening different philms. Underneath, they didn't change. They were still the same person, no matter how much they wanted to be someone else, anyone but who they were.
The nurse was asleep. Or unconscious. Pelayo walked over to her. A tiny puckered baby lay in the crib. A preemie, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, but perfectly formed. Oxygen tubes snaked out of its nostrils, and a feeding tube trailed from its mouth. Several of the tubes had pulled loose. Air hissed from one tube. Food paste dribbled from another. Fluid from the bags hanging on the rack stained the mattress, dripped onto the nurse, and puddled on the floorboards.
Pelayo stepped up to the nurse and touched her on the arm. "Hello?" He prodded her gently.
—She can't hear you, the fish said.
'"Why not? Wat's wrong with her?"
—Her 'skin has been damaged. She is no longer fully connected to the child and is unable to provide life support.
"Who is she?"
—The mother of the child.
The fish settled into the crib, behind smooth-varnished dowels. Pelayo watched it come to rest a few centimeters above a bunched flannel coverlet.
"I don't understand," he said. "Why'd you bring me here? What am I supposed to do?"
