Idolon

by Mark Budz

  —You need to reinsert the tubes.

  "Is that going to help Nadice?"

  —They connect the baby to her and to... others. If you stabilize the baby, you will stop the bleeding in her.

  Pelayo leaned over the crib. The fish slipped into the baby's hand. The newborn was a girl. Tiny fingers curled reflexively, holding the fish tight. "What others?"

  —The other birth mothers.

  "Mothers? As in more than one?"

  —I had to be sure the child survived. The best way to ensure survival is through numbers.

  "So you impregnated a bunch of women. Didn't ask for permission, or bother to tell them."

  —If I hadn't, the baby would be dead. One mother has already been killed, along with the fetus. I couldn't take the chance that her death would spread to other mothers.

  "Spread how?"

  —Through quantronics in the electronic 'skin she was waring—similar to the 'skin you are testing—that were passed on to the baby.

  "Wait a minute, let me get this straight. You're saying that the test 'skin she was waring killed her?"

  —A virus, applied to the source circuit, was used to attack her autonomic nervous system. I've taken steps to protect as many of the remaining babies as I can, initiated the spread of an applet that will enable me to backdoor the ware. So far the installation is limited to a handful of Transcendental Vibrationists. But as soon as the applet is copied and distributed, the danger should pass.

  "You infected the TVs?"

  —Through a network of deprogrammers who already have a contact inside of the cult. I posed as a member of the network—fabricated a message that mobilized certain members for an emergency intervention. Arranged for the application to be administered and delivered.

  Marta, he thought. She had been set up. Jhon selling her to the TVs had all been part of the plan, carefully orchestrated.

  The fish seemed to sigh, soft wind rattling through the dusty window in the sheet-metal wall.

  —We're running out of time, the rattle said. Listen.

  "To what?" But he didn't need an answer. Less noise echoed in the hall—fewer cries from the other rooms.

  What choice did he have?

  Pelayo rubbed his face. The air tube, he decided. Start with that. He pinched the oxygen tube with shaky fingers. The baby stirred. Her head shifted to one side and she stopped breathing. Carefully, Pelayo tucked a finger under the baby's head, tilted her face up, and reinserted the tube into the nostril. The feeding tube was next. He slipped it in, threading it between dehydrated lips.

  Still no response. It wasn't working. The baby wasn't responding. He picked up the IV tube that was dripping blood onto the aged tongue and groove. Plink, plink, plink.

  A shadow spread inward from the doorway, darkening the floor. No sound came from the hall. Suddenly, all of the rooms grew quiet, as if they had been silenced by the shadow now lengthening to occlude the crib.

  Hair prickling, Pelayo looked up.

  Uri grinned at him. "I had a feeling I'd find you here," the skintech said.

  63

  "Zhenyu al-Fayoumi?" the security guar said. He stood outside the door, dressed in a clean, smartly pressed uniform with knife-sharp creases and a Texasecure watermark on his forehead.

  The philm looked legitimate. It didn't appear to be a cheap bootleg copy. Perhaps the building manager had finally gotten a guard to watch the premises at night.

  "Is there a problem?" al-Fayoumi asked, distracted by the online conversation behind him between van Dijk and somebody named Buhay from the San Jose police.

  "Uri Titov," van Dijk said in a low voice. "I'd like you to pick him up. Bring him in for questioning."

  The guard in front of al-Fayoumi grinned. "IBT thinks there is."

  Al-Fayoumi frowned. "I don't have anything to do with IBT."

  "Parent company of Sigilint."

  "What's this about?" al-Fayoumi demanded. His voice sounded too high and thin, too close to a whine to be intimidating. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

  "I got a man wants to talk to you."

  "Who?"

  "I'm not at liberty to say."

  Al-Fayoumi held his ground as the guard stepped toward him. "About what?"

  The guard peered over his shoulder, taking in the terrariums and Lisette. The girl retreated down the hallway to the bedroom.

  Al-Fayoumi raised his voice, hoping to attract van Dijk's attention. "Get out of here, now. Before I call the police."

  "I don't think so," the guard said. "From what I can see, you don't want any laws sniffing around."

  He shoved al-Fayoumi back and pushed past him, into the narrow entryway to the apartment.

  Al-Fayoumi stumbled and lost his balance. He landed squarely on his back. The impact knocked the wind out of him. The guard shut and locked the door, then stood over him.

  "Let's do this easy," the man said. "Don't make me get off in your shit. Ya feel me?"

  "That's not going to happen," van Dijk said, appearing out of the gloom. Behind him, at the far end of the hall, Lisette's Ghost Dragon mask glowed demonically.

  The guard turned to him. "This ain't none of your bidness. I was you, I'd get my azz outta here while I could."

  Van Dijk smiled. "You don't know shit about my business." And d-splayed his SFPD badge.

  The guard moistened his lips. "Fine. That's how you wanna play it, no problem." He stepped away from al-Fayoumi, backing toward the door.

  Al-Fayoumi scrambled to his feet.

  The detective motioned for him to stay down and reached for the sidearm holstered under his one arm.

  Sudden movement behind al-Fayoumi snagged his attention. His gaze jerked from the detective to a thick-barreled handgun the security guard had pulled.

  Instead of a single large bore, al-Fayoumi noted dozens of pinprick holes in the dull anodized gleam. The muzzle looked more like the head of a big salt-shaker than anything else.

  Someone screamed. Lisette. The glow of her face lurched toward him from down the hall.

  Al-Fayoumi lunged to stop her. The air around his head shattered, splintering into hundreds of invisible needles.

  64

  "What are you doing here?" Pelayo asked. He straightened, still holding the IV drip in his right hand.

  Uri smiled, the familiar saw-blade simage of his teeth more ragged in the online construct. "Hunting."

  "For what?"

  "Malware. Viral plug-in that's infecting the new 'skin." He took a Kahr PM9 handgun from the pocket of his white lab coat. He aimed the little 9mm at Pelayo. It had a black polymer grip, satin finish, and a stainless-steel slide. Pelayo noted that the safety was off. "Off the shelf antivirus," Uri said, hefting the weapon. "Best I could do on short notice. But I've modified the bullet, so to speak, adapted it with patch ware of my own."

  "Have I been infected?" Pelayo said.

  Uri shrugged. "If the bullet kills you, you're infected. If it doesn't, you're clean. Simple as that."

  In the hotel room the ad mask had moved, was moving, from the bathroom into the main room at what felt like an agonizingly slow pace. Its reflection in the wall mirror grew steadily larger. Atossa must be moving it for the parameds. Trying to get a closer view of Nadice and Lagrante.

  "You wanted the 'skin ripped all along," Pelayo said. He didn't move when Uri's hand twitched at the sound of his voice. "I was just doing what you expected."

  Uri shrugged off the comment as inconsequential. He raised the 9mm a fraction of a centimeter and pulled the trigger.

  Over his earfeed, Pelayo heard the simulated hiss of a bullet pass millimeters from his head. Behind him, the television shattered. He turned. Fracture lines radiated from a neat hole in the center of the glass screen. The static flickered, then cut out.

  Pelayo looked back at Uri. Had a subsystem somewhere actually been targeted by the ware, or was the skintech simply making his point? "So how do the TVs fit into all this?" he said.

  The Kahr lower
ed. The small dark hole in the muzzle centered on Pelayo's forehead. "The TVs are the source of the pluglet." Uri's face soured with irritation. "The way it's being spread."

  "Through pregnant women?"

  "Through the goddamn babies. Once a baby is infected in utero, it gets passed on to another baby."

  "How?" "

  "Quantronics. The babies are growing the same quantum-based processors that are in the test 'skin."

  "The mule you had working for you," Pelayo said. "Nadice." The mask had drifted closer to the bed. He could see Nadice now. She lay on the bedspread, faint as a shadow. Lagrante sat on the floor next to the bed, his back propped against the side. "When she got pregnant, the baby picked up the ware you were growing inside her."

  Uri sniffed. "Probably."

  Neither Lagrante or Nadice had moved; they were in the same exact position he'd left them in. What was taking so long?

  Uri gestured with the Kahr. "Now move away from the crib."

  Pelayo listened for cries from the hallway. There were none. "You're murdering them, aren't you? The babies."

  "Babies." Uri scoffed, as if he found the idea amusing. "These things aren't even human. Never will be, even if they make it to term."

  "What are they, then?"

  Uri's smile curled into a sneer. "Piecework. Some kind of nanoanimated matter that's using the fetuses as a host—a way to reproduce. I'm doing everyone a favor."

  "In other words," Pelayo said, "it's replicating using the test 'skin. Whatever it is, you helped give birth to it."

  The Kahr trembled. "And now I'm going to put an end to it, before things get any further out of hand."

  Pelayo cut a glance at the unconscious nurse. "What about the mothers?" he asked. "What's going to happen to them?"

  "Nothing, if they're clean. Otherwise—"

  "What's going on here?" a voice said. "Uri? What are you doing? Who are these people?"

  Pelayo's focus slid past Uri. A man stood in the hallway, peering tentatively into the room. He'd simaged himself in a black ministerial suit, white shirt, and silver tie. Thin gray hair flowed back from a high forehead, clouds trailing off an unyielding bluff.

  The man looked directly at Pelayo, then consulted a palm d-splay. "You're the test subject," he said. "The two of you are working together on this. Stealing the 'skin, trying to take control of it behind my back."

  "I'm not the one holding the gun," Pelayo said.

  The man frowned at the Kahr and Uri. "You are responsible for the miscarriages?" His gaze flitted, bird-quick, to the crib.

  Uri's shoulders rose a fraction. "I'm doing what needs to be done."

  "Killing people? Unborn babies?"

  Uri backed to one side. The muzzle of the 9mm teetered between the old man and Pelayo.

  "This isn't what we discussed," the man said, ignoring the handgun. "We had an agreement."

  The tiny black spot at the end of the barrel swung toward the man. "Not anymore."

  The man trembled. Not out of fear, but rage. He seemed oblivious to the weapon. His eyes blazed. "This is contemptible. I refuse to be party to this. I cannot condone the slaughter of innocent children."

  Uri reddened. "They aren't children."

  "Enough! This is wrong." The man drew himself up. "As of now, I am officially terminating your association with Atherton enterprises. This cannot, will not, be allowed to continue."

  Next to Pelayo, the baby coughed to life. The hand holding the fish lifted, waving the toy.

  Uri's face hardened. He jerked the Kahr in the direction of the crib.

  "No!" Pelayo reached out and felt something invade him. The trigger against his finger. Part of him squeezing it and another part resisting, trying to keep from squeezing; teetering in a moment of equipoise...

  Pelayo pictured the décor menu for the 'skin, and mentally selected the option for pressed ceiling panel/tin.

  Uri froze, the Kahr extended, as if gripped by a statue. Pelayo couldn't move, his fingers imprisoned in a veneer of embossed, finely textured metal. Somewhere, back in realspace, he hoped that Uri was similarly immobilized.

  Atherton walked up to Uri. "I know where you are." The old man smiled. "I've notified the police and hotel security." He turned toward Pelayo. "It won't be long," he said, and exited the room, vanishing down the hallway.

  Pelayo watched the baby play with the fish. On the ad-mask d-splay, he could see Nadice's face on the mattress staring up at him, her half-open eyes just centimeters away. Then the mask flipped and he saw the embossed ceiling panel she was looking up at, like the engraved lid of a coffin.

  A yellow plastic bee detached from the mobile over the crib and approached him. It entered his mouth, and from there his thoughts... and finally, his dreams.

  65

  "I'm not going to make it," Marta said. She stared up at the ceiling, tracing a hairline crack in the plaster to take her mind off the contractions.

  "Yes, you will," Atossa insisted. She sat on the side of the bed and held Marta's hand with firm fingers. "Help should be here soon."

  A contraction gripped Marta. She squeezed her eyes against the pain, clenched her teeth. Perspiration tickled her neck.

  "Not soon enough," she gasped as the pain relented, only to be replaced by a more forceful, more adamant tightening.

  "Bad?" Atossa said.

  Marta nodded. She spat out a strand of hair caught in the corner of her mouth and concentrated on breathing through the pain—taking rapid sips of air.

  Atossa stood. She checked the washcloths in near-boiling water, then picked up a box of Sponge-Aid and set it next to the sterilized sheets she had spread between Marta's legs. She sprayed antibiotic on Marta's bare thighs, then her own hands.

  "Son of a bitch." Marta gripped the wood sides of the bed frame. A muscle in her calf cramped.

  "Here it comes," Atossa said. "I can see the head! My God! I can't believe how tiny it is!"

  _______

  Marta woke to faint strobing outside the window. The curtain and the walls pulsed red. How long had she been out? A few minutes, no more. Otherwise, she would already be on her way to the hospital.

  "Is it alive?" she asked. Afraid to look. Afraid not to. If she didn't look—if she didn't force the baby to be dead or alive—it would be neither and both. If she looked at the baby, it would have to be one or the other. And Nadice would have to be one or the other.

  "See for yourself," Atossa said.

  Taking a deep breath, Marta rolled her head sideways on the pillow.

  Atossa sat beside her on the chair. She had bundled the infant in purple-flowered aromatherapy leggings, microwave-warmed and UV-sterilized.

  Alive. Under the glossy protective coating of un-philmed 'skin, Marta could see a tiny blue vein throbbing in puckered, red-mottled flesh.

  "We need to get her into a neonatal unit," Atossa said. "I don't know how long the 'skin will keep her alive."

  A flash of green peeked from a fold in the legging. "What's that?" Marta asked. The tiny hand clutched something.

  "It's a toy fish," Atossa said.

  "From where?"

  "She was holding it when she was born." Atossa shook her head. "I know. It's crazy, but—there it is."

  It was from Nadice, Marta thought. Some part of her that the baby was bringing into the world, making her real.

  She couldn't feel Nadice anymore. The Nadice she knew was gone, changed in a way Marta didn't yet understand.

  Might never understand. Nadice didn't feel dead, yet she didn't feel alive either. Marta exhaled, forcing the tightness from her lungs, and waited. The ambulance drew closer, the strobing brighter.

  66

  Uri made it halfway to the door before hotel security showed up to detain him.

  They found him on his hands and knees, crawling across the glazed ceramic floor tile. Walking upright was out of the question. The layer of tin he'd been sheathed in was thin, but stiff. He'd fallen when he stood up from the toilet. Since then, he'd been un
able to raise himself

  any higher than his knees. His balance had never been all that great to begin with.

  Metal fatigue. That had been his hope. Flex enough

  joints enough times and the tin would break and he'd

  be walking around like a knight in plate armor.

  "Where do you think you're going?" one of the guards said. He prodded Uri with the rubber toe of his boot.

  The second guard crouched in front of him. "Word is, you like to hurt women and children."

  With effort, Uri straightened at the waist. Slowly, a few millimeters at a time, he opened his mouth to speak. Perspiration poured off of him, soaking his clothing and hair. His breath came in a series of slow, tortured gasps.

  "No bark," the first guard said.

  "No bite, either." The second guard whistled. "Check out those teeth. The shark man cometh."

  The first guard stood. "What are we supposed to do with him? Wait until the cops show up, or take him into custody?"

  "Custody, I think."

  The first guard grinned, his cheeks round and chubby as a cherub's. "I have an idea."

  "What's that?"

  "Give me a hand." The first guard walked up to Uri and reached down, gripping his right arm.

  Together the guards turned him around until he was facing in the opposite direction. They hauled him over to one of the open toilet stalls. The only thing he could see was the open toilet crouched between the green-and-white-speckled walls of the one-meter-by-two-meter stall.

  "What you got to look forward to the rest of your life," the first guard said, sending him headfirst into the stall.

  67

  Giles Atherton offered Kasuo van Dijk his hand the way he would an olive branch. He smiled like a man who had something to hide. "Detective. Please come in."

  The hotel entrepreneur escorted van Dijk into an office with several floor-to-ceiling Vurtronic d-splays mounted on mahogany paneling. All of the screens were blank, except one. "My wife," Atherton said. "Lisbeth." The woman had simaged herself on a plush high-backed chair upholstered in chez Art Brico silk-screen. She wore a dour gray dress, buttoned tight at the throat, and unflattering black shoes. For the occasion, she had philmed her face in severe Tamara de Lempicka planes and angles that rendered her cold and aloof.