Idolon
Page 32
"Maybe this year."
Marta shrugged. "We'll see. She's still pretty young."
Atossa put a hand on her arm. "It's not just her I'm thinking about."
Pelayo came up next to them. "Here's something I saved for you. Thought you might like to see."
A newzine d-splay opened over her eyefeed. The time stamp on the inset was two hours old.
After a four-year legal battle, Giles Atherton, the CEO of Atherton Resort Hotels, had been convicted of corporate fraud in a case brought against him by Iosepa Biognost Tek. According to Ilse Svatba, a senior vice president of marketing for IBT, "Giles Atherton had contracted with IBT for an original equipment manufacture he intended in advance to sell/distribute illegally via black-market download." The appeals judge in the case ruled that Atherton had violated the terms of the agreement, which had granted IBT exclusive marketing rights to the ware in compensation for up-front research and development costs. Actual and punitive damages had not yet been determined. Atherton was still facing criminal charges stemming from the illegal import of foreign technology.
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Marta said when the story ended, and the d-splay vanished.
"Is that possible?"
Marta sighed. Maybe it was time to finally let go— to open up some of the locked rooms and clean them out once and for all. Maybe without all that baggage from her old life, she could float to the surface of a new one and start over.
"It's time," Nguyet announced. She stood. "Nadice is waiting."
_______
The FEMbot was stored in a shed at the end of an overgrown footpath. The shed had thin sheet-metal walls and a corrugated plastine roof that dripped watery light onto antique beer cans, old fishing poles, mud-choked bicycles, and other paraphernalia Pelayo had dredged from the muck.
"It doesn't seem as far this year," Isobol said. She swatted at a big, iridescent fly, philmed with pterodactyl wings.
"That's what happens, the older you get," Atossa said. "Everything keeps getting closer."
"Especially the past," Nguyet said.
Isobol puckered her brow at this, then wrote it off as one more silly pronouncement from her grandmother.
As they came around the last turn in the path, the fish slipped from the chain and, spreading its dorsal fin into origami wings, darted ahead with a flick of a vellum-pale tail.
"Hey!" Isobol clutched at the empty chain.
"See." Nguyet chortled, pleased one of her predictions had come true. "I told you something extra special was going to happen this visit."
Pelayo looked at Marta. "Has it done that before?"
Marta shook her head. Isobol turned to look up at them. Her eyes brimmed with surprise and fear.
"It's all right," Marta said. Her voice thin and tight in her throat. "They do that when you get to be a certain age."
Isobol peered down the path, through the narrow space in the grass where the fish had disappeared. "What if it doesn't come back?"
"It will," Atossa said. "Sometimes they go away for a while, but they always come back."
The fish was waiting for them in the shed, next to the FEMbot and the old plywood sign it sat against. Pelayo claimed to have scavenged the sign from the Boardwalk, on one of his trips to the coast. Marta suspected he'd found it in the Trenches and hauled it back to the Delta. The faded peeling paint showed a smiling young woman in a blue dress. She had short black curls, black Mary Janes, and a generous red smile.
Isobol squealed. Pointed at the faded ad mask the FEMbot wore. "Her eyes are changing!"
It was true. They were going from blue to brown, turning a darker shade of honey. So was the FEMbot's dull, cloudy 'skin, dead for so many years.
Fabric materialized on the limbs and torso of the doll, a few threads at first. But in no time, it looked as if a dress had been fitted over the dry, splintered wood. Tufts of hair stirred to life under the tepid breeze that sifted through cracks in the foam-insulated sheet metal.
Isobol reached for Marta's hand. "I'm afraid, Mom."
Me, too, Marta thought. "Don't be." She squeezed the little hand clasping hers. "There's nothing to be afraid of. I promise."
"See," Nguyet said. "She's smiling at you. Nothing but good thoughts. Nothing but love for you."
And it did look as if the mask were smiling, nano-mated lips creaking to life.
Isobol's grip tightened in Marta's as an option d-splay, with a selection for Beach Boardwalk, opened over each of their eyefeeds. "Who is she?"
Nadice turned to the small voice. Marta forced her fingers to relax... her breath to slow. Blood hammered in her ears.
Pelayo squatted next to Isobol. "You didn't know? The fish never told you?"
Isobol shook her head. "Is that why you never took me fishing before? Because I already had one?"
"The most important thing about fishing," Pelayo said, "is patience."
Nadice shifted her attention from Isobol to Marta. "She's beautiful," the doll said over her earfeed. "Your baby."
Marta cleared her throat. Our baby, she thought. Easier to think the words than to speak them out loud.
Dry fingers touched the mask. "Does she know about me?"
Marta nodded. "I told her we used to be... friends. That you had to go away for a while, where you could live, and that someday you would come back and visit us."
Isobol pointed at the plywood sign, with its merry-go-round and roller coaster. "Is that where you live?" she asked.
Nadice turned toward Isobol. "Would you like me to take you there? Just for a while?"
Isobol bit her lower lip. She glanced up at Marta, seeking approval. "Can we?"
"If you want." Marta smiled as reassuringly as she could through her uncertainty. "It's up to you."
"It will only be for a while," Nadice said. "Then we'll come back and have some dinner. How does that sound?"
"Okay."
Nadice reached out a hand. Isobol hesitated, then stepped forward. Marta willed her fingers open.
What was it Pelayo had said? There are two kinds of cages. One others try to put you in, and the one you put yourself in.
Hold on too tight, she told herself, and all you'll create is a cage that she wants to escape.
The damselfish swam toward Isobol, wiggled into one hand. "I'll go with you," it said. "Show you the way home."
Seated beside the carnival scene, Isobol looked up to Marta. "Aren't you going to come with us?" she said.
"Not this time," Marta said. "We'll wait for you."
"How come?"
"We have to get dinner ready," Pelayo said.
"Have fun." Marta swallowed a sniff. "I love you." She touched a finger to her lips.
"I love you, too," Nadice and Isobol said.
A moment later two images appeared on the plywood, a young woman and a girl, accompanied by a flying fish, growing smaller as they walked away, one with the scene ghosted on the sign. Next to them, the girl's face went slack and her eyes dimmed as her thoughts drained out of her, into the mural and the simage that lay beyond.
Pelayo put an arm around Marta. "She'll be back," he said.
Marta resisted the hug, unable to relax into it. "I hope so."
"You came back," he said simply, matter-of-factly. And it hit her, the difference between her and Concetta.
The kiss cooled on her fingertip. Marta felt a part of herself evaporate with it into the tear-salty air. Not a release from the world, but a return to it.
SPECIAL THANKS
To Marina, again and always, with much love. Juliet Ulman—whose skillful navigation kept me from straying too far off course—Josh Pasternak, and everyone else at Bantam Spectra. Matt Bialer, for keeping things rolling. Tristan Davenport, Jim Gettins, Sandi Gettins, Bryn Kanar, Alexander Lamb, Christie Maurer, and Ed Weingold, whose honesty kept me honest. Tom Rogers, for unflagging moral support and suggestions. Navi Singh and Ashu Tewari, for technical advice. Lorraine Cahn, for social advice.
ABOUT THE AUT
HOR
Mark Budz is the author of Crache and Clade. The latter won a Norton Award and was a finalist for the Philip K. Dick Memorial Award. He lives with his wife in the Santa Cruz Mountains of northern California.
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