“You have to go somewhere. And, believe me, this B&B is cheap.”
Mellanie bowed her head. “One night. That’s all. Just one.”
“Sure. Let’s go and pack a bag.”
She peered at the door. “They said I couldn’t take anything that was mine. They said Morty paid for it all, so it belonged to the bank now. That’s why I… Well, you know.”
“Sure. I’ll sort it out.” He guided Mellanie out into the living room. “The young lady is packing a bag of clothes and leaving,” he told the suits.
“We cannot allow any bank property—”
“I’ve just told you what’s happening,” Hoshe said. “You want to make an issue of it? You want to call me a liar?”
They looked at each other. “No, Officer.”
“Thank you.”
Hoshe had to laugh when they went into the master bedroom. Not at the cliché playboy decor of circular bed and black sheets, complete with mirror portal behind the pillows. It was the poor GPbot, lying on the floor with a sharp dint in its bodywork where someone had kicked it; two of its electromuscle limbs were severed clean at the base, and the remaining three knotted together around its legs. It took a lot of strength to do that to electromuscle.
Mellanie took a modest shoulder bag from one of the walk-in closets.
“I can’t really let you take any jewelry,” Hoshe said. “And I suppose some of the dresses cost a lot.” He was looking past her shoulder at the rack that had every slot taken by some garment; it was moving slowly, rotating the rest of the selection from a hidden storage space behind the closet. There must have been hundreds of clothes there altogether. When he checked, the other closet had as many suits and jackets, and nearly the same number of shoes and boots.
“Don’t worry,” Mellanie said. “One thing I did learn was that expensive doesn’t equal practical.” She was folding a pair of jeans into the bag. The pile on the bed was mostly T-shirts.
“I was thinking,” he said. “It’s kind of a last resort as far as earning money goes, but your life has been interesting to say the least, although it’s for all the wrong reasons. There are media companies who would pay for that story.”
“I know. There’s hundreds of them stored in my e-butler’s hold file. I stopped accessing them, then my cybersphere account was closed.”
“Why is your account closed?”
“I told you. I don’t have any money. I wasn’t joking.” She held up a trim, dark handheld array, giving him a questioning look.
“Sure.” He’d never heard of an account being closed before, everyone had access to the cybersphere.
The array was put in the bag’s side pocket. She sat on the side of the bed, and started lacing up some sports shoes.
“I’ll have the account reactivated,” he said. “Just data and messages for a month. Not an entertainment feed. It’ll only cost me a couple of dollars.”
Mellanie gave him a curious look. “Do you want to sleep with me, Hoshe?”
“No! Er, I mean, no, that’s not… I don’t… That’s not what this is about.”
“People always want to sleep with me. I know that. I’m beautiful and first-life young. And I adore sex. Morty was a very experienced teacher; he encouraged me to experiment. What I can do with my body isn’t shameful, Hoshe. Pleasure is never a sin. And I wouldn’t mind you enjoying me.”
Hoshe just knew his face was turning hot red. Having her talk about it so clinically was like enduring his father’s one attempt to explain the birds and bees. “I’m married. Thank you.” Which was about as lame as you could get.
“I don’t understand. If it’s not to have sex with me, why are you doing this?”
“He killed two people, ruined two lives,” Hoshe said quietly. “I don’t want him to claim a third victim. Not now.”
She picked up a brush from the dressing table and began working it through her hair. “Morty didn’t kill anybody. You and Paula Myo were wrong about that.”
“I don’t think so.”
“The criminal gang could have gone through her memories and found out what was hers, that or tortured it out of her. It wasn’t Morty.”
There were no signs of torture in the pathologist’s report, she was in the bath, and her memorycell was ruined.But all he said was: “We’ll just have to agree to disagree on that.”
“You’re far too nice to be a police officer, do you know that?”
Hoshe waited until she’d cleaned herself up, then took her to the B&B. He paid for a week in advance, and drove off, managing to avoid her attempt to kiss him good-bye. He wasn’t sure he was strong enough to resist actual physical contact.
Five days later, a taxi dropped Mellanie outside a big warehouselike building in Darklake’s Thurnby district, a shabby and badly run-down old industrial precinct. Every plot was protected by high fencing, although half of the factories and retail depots were abandoned. Rubbish had blown up along the wire-mesh fences, forming little dunes of paper and plastic; standing high above them were realtor signs proclaiming various sites available for redevelopment. The single track railway that ran alongside the main road had tall weeds growing from the shingle between the sleepers and its rails were rusting over.
Mellanie glanced around nervously. Not that there was anywhere for muggers to hide. A purple plaque on the door in front of her read: Wayside Productions. She took a breath and walked through.
True to his word, Hoshe Finn had got her cybersphere account activated again. The number of noncommercial messages in her e-butler’s hold file was over seventy thousand. She’d wiped them all and changed her personal interface code. Then she called Rishon, a reporter she’d known from her time with Morton. He’d been very pleased to hear from her, and immediately arranged a meeting. Her story was enormously valuable, he assured her, and people would access the drama from all over the Commonwealth. That was when she hit him with her real big idea, that she should play herself. To her surprise, he’d been delighted by the suggestion, claiming it would bring in even more money.
She sat with him for two days, pouring her heart out, telling him everything about those golden days, from the moment they met at a sponsorship gala dinner, what it had been like, the wonder and thrill of the love affair, her parents’ hostility, the parties, the luxurious hedonistic life, the members of Oaktier’s high society with whom she mingled freely, then the terrible trial with its tragic wrong verdict. Rishon recorded it all, and transformed it into a spectacular script for an eight-part drama that would play for days. He’d sold it within twenty-four hours.
There was a tiny reception area on the other side of Wayside Productions’s front door, composite panel walls and roofing boxing in a couple of ancient couches with flaking chrome tube arms and legs. A girl was sitting on one of them, her jaw working hard on gum as she studied a paperscreen. She had a very short leather skirt, and a white blouse with a low cut front showing off a huge cleavage. Her makeup was dreadful: mascara like panda circles and lips that were glossy lavender. Too-stiff white-blond hair that was mostly bad extensions curled down below her shoulders like overstretched springs. She looked up and smiled broadly at Mellanie. “Oh, hi there, you’re Mellanie; I recognize you from the court case.” Her voice was high and squeaky. Somehow, Mellanie couldn’t imagine it being anything else.
“That’s me.”
“I’m Tiger Pansy. Jaycee told me to look out for you. He said to bring you right on over to the set.” She got up from the couch, standing a couple of centimeters taller than Mellanie. Fifteen-centimeter silver glitter heels made that possible.
“Tiger Pansy?” Mellanie worked hard at keeping herself from spluttering.
“Yeah, honey, you like that? I just started using it. My agent wanted Slippy Trixie, but I nixed that.”
“Tiger Pansy is fine. Sure.”
“Why thanks. You’re gorgeous, you know that? Real young; all sweet and everything. They’re going to love you out there in access land.”
“Er, t
hanks.” Mellanie hurried after Tiger Pansy.
It was an old warehouse. Wayside Productions had simply partitioned it off into squares to keep the sets separate. Corridors ran between them, with high composite panel walls and no ceiling. High overhead, the building’s metal rafters supported an aging solar collector roof that rattled faintly at every light gust of wind. People were moving along the corridors. She had to flatten herself against a wall as a couple of stagehands came past carrying big hologram portals. They gave Mellanie lingering looks, smiling suggestively. She ignored them as she followed Tiger Pansy. Her body itched just about everywhere from her new OCtattoos. They’d taken three days to etch on they were so extensive, and it was hell trying not to scratch them, but if she did she knew her skin would be red and blotchy all over. That would never do for an actress, especially not at the start of recording that involved sensorium output. Today she knew the other actors would be skeptical about her ability; she was going to have to work hard to impress everyone.
They went past one set door where a whole troupe of actresses were filing in, dressed in schoolgirl uniforms. Even with cellular reprofiling some of them still looked well into their thirties. Mellanie gave them a long look. Surely they weren’t…
“Here we are,” Tiger Pansy said with a hint of pride. “They spent a lot of money on this set. You’re a real big deal around here.” She pointed to the polyphoto notice beside the door. Its glowing letters spelt out: Murderous Seduction. “Cute name, huh?”
“Right.”
Tiger Pansy opened the door and went through. The set was Morton’s penthouse. Almost. It had been split in two, with the living room on one side. Its actual floor space was mainly the conversation area, with settees similar to the real ones. The fireplace was in the right place behind it, but incorporating some very strange animal sculptures made out of fiberglass and sprayed to resemble stone. The walls surrounding the conversation area were simple holograms, showing the rest of the penthouse. A holocamera ring, three meters in diameter, had been lowered from the rafters until it hung a meter above the settees. Three technicians were standing around an open panel in its side, muttering among themselves while a bot like an arm-size centipede slowly wormed its way through the exposed electronics.
The remaining half of the set was given over to the bedroom. That at least was full-scale, though again the walls were just holograms, and the black sheets were cotton rather than silk. Two men were sitting on the mattress. One of them was Morton. Mellanie gasped in surprise. Then she noticed a few inconsistencies, and realized it was cellular reprofiling. A good operation, though, she acknowledged, the resemblance would fool most people. The man beside the mock-Morton was Jaycee, chief executive of Wayside Productions. He was dressed all in black, which looked good on most people. On Jaycee, Mellanie thought it made him look a lot more worn down than his actual fifty-one years, like some embarrassingly oddball bachelor uncle. His head was shaved, though a ghostly shimmer of gray stubble betrayed a monk’s halo. She tried not to stare as he came over, but what kind of executive, especially in a media company, couldn’t pull off baldness with any style.
“Mellanie, lovely to finally meet you in the flesh.” He squeezed her hand rather too firmly as he spent a long time looking her up and down. “And fucking great flesh it is, too. You look delectable.” His plastic friendship smile tightened slightly. “I thought you’d be younger.”
“Oh?” Mellanie was starting to get very bad vibes about Wayside Productions.
“Not a criticism, sweetheart. I’ve got a shithot cosmetics man, we can work you back a few years. See what he did to Joseph, here.”
The man with Morton’s face grinned aggressively. “Hi, babe, looking forward to gigging with you.” He put one hand on his groin, and squeezed happily. Mellanie could see his erection through the trouser fabric. “Don’t worry, you won’t be disappointed, not with this equipment.”
“You’re such an asshole, Joseph,” Tiger Pansy sneered. “Mellanie, don’t let him give you anal, honey, no matter what Jaycee says is in the script. He’s gotten himself an enlargement that’s so big it’s fucking stupid. You’ll hurt into the middle of next week.”
“Hey!” Joseph gave Tiger Pansy the finger. “You couldn’t even fit this between your sagging titties they’ve spread so wide you ancient fucking slut.”
“Fuck you.”
“What the hell is this?” Mellanie demanded. “We’re shooting my story, the things that happened to me and Morton, not some porno.”
“Of course we are, sweetheart,” Jaycee said. “You two,” he growled at Joseph and Tiger Pansy, “fuck off. I want to talk to Mellanie.”
“What are you trying to do?” Mellanie asked when the others had shuffled off the bedroom set.
“Okay, I apologize for Joseph, he’s an asshole. But he’s one of my best dols.”
“A doll?”
“D. O. L. Dick on legs. Even with all today’s drugs, some guys have a shitload of trouble keeping it up for the recording. It’s a psychological thing, or some crap like that. But Joseph, he can perform every fucking time, man. He’s fucking incredible. And don’t you fucking listen to that screwed-up old whore, Tiger. Joseph knows what he’s doing with girls. You’ll have a lot of fun riding that monster dick of his.”
“No I won’t. This has all been some giant mix-up. I’m not here to make a porno. Good-bye.” She turned around, ready to walk out.
“Wait, just fucking wait, okay,” Jaycee stepped in front of her, arms held up. “This is not a fucking porno. We’re shooting a real fucking true life drama here, man.”
She gave the set a derisive glance. Even the fireplace statues made sense now. “Yeah, right.”
“Fucking listen will you. I read the story Rishon came up with. You were some fucking swimmer when that Morton got inside your pants, and that fucked your chances on the team. It’s a fucking classic; you’re young and he’s rich. Only it turns out he killed a bunch of people as well; he betrayed you, sweetheart. Accessors love shit like that. We’ve even put in a chase scene around the apartment when you find out what he’s done. He comes at you with a knife. It’s fucking exciting.”
“That is bullshit,” she snapped. “None of this is what I told Rishon. Morton never killed anyone. You’re not interested in telling our story.”
“Of course I am, sweetheart. Man, I want the whole fucking story, too. Look, we’ll just be shooting the sex scenes first, get them fuckers out of the way. Then we can concentrate on all the other stuff, we’ll do it big style on location, where it actually happened. Okay?”
“What utter crap!”
“You don’t like Joseph? Fine. No fucking problem. I’ll get reprofiled to look like your boyfriend, and pump you myself.”
“Oh, Jesus wept!” She went for the door.
Jaycee’s hand came down on her shoulder and spun her around. His face was flushed and angry, hot blotches showing where too much cheap cellular reprofiling had been done to him down the decades. “Stop being such a fucking bitch-kitty princess. You signed that fucking contract, and you fucking knew what was in it. You’re even wetwired specially for this gig, for fuck’s sake. If you’ve started shitting it because this is your first time, then boo fucking hoo. I can slip you a dose of coolant that can take care of that for you, no fucking problem. You’ll be chill for the whole gig. But don’t fucking come marching in here and fucking tell me this isn’t what you wanted.”
“It’s not what I was told was going to happen. I had those OCtattoos because all actresses know we have to do that. Making love is an integral part of life. So love scenes contribute to the drama’s narrative structure. But they’re only a part of it. You just want to do that and nothing else.”
“Actress? Fuck me. If that’s what you want to fucking call yourself, then go right ahead. But I paid for those OCtattoos because you’re a fantasy fuck, princess hardass. You’re the real fucking deal; you’re the kind of trim that those sad little fucks out there in access land
can only ever envy all the rich bastards for having. Your kind doesn’t ever fucking put out for a guy unless he’s got a hundred mil in his bank. Now I get to give them what you really taste like. And they’re going to love us for it.”
“No. I’m not doing it.”
“Did you see any multiple fucking choice boxes to check off when you came in here, you stupid bitch? I fucking paid for you and I’m gonna fucking collect. Our contract says you spread your legs when I tell you to and let us record every fucking feeling in your tight-ass body when my dol goes to work inside you. And stop giving me all this shit about it, else I’ll see to it that you wind up in the suspension chamber next to your killer boyfriend. We’ve got a legal contract.”
Jaycee was staring triumphantly right into her eyes, eager to catch the first signs of submission.
Mellanie was fast. Years of that relentless, tedious training with the squad had given her the kind of strength and reflexes that modern athletes normally had to have wetwired and retrosequenced into their bodies. Her knee came up, with powerful leg muscles trying to lift it all the way to Jaycee’s chin. His scrotum was the first thing to get in the way.
She watched his mouth drop open soundlessly. His eyes widened, flooding with tears. He slid to one side, making a quiet, agonized choking sound, and crumpled to the floor.
“I’m going to call my agent now,” she told him dispassionately. “But when you’re out of the hospital, we really must do lunch.”
The taxi dropped Mellanie off by the lakeside in the Glyfada district. She sat on a long wooden bench just above the water, watching the sailing yachts making their way out of the marina in Shilling Harbor to catch the first of the morning winds. The bars and restaurants behind her were just starting to open for the day, with delivery trucks parked outside several of them, cargobots unloading fresh food. They weren’t actually serving yet. It was too early for that. Her brand-new media career had lasted all of forty-five minutes.
The shakes began as she finally allowed herself to think about Jaycee, and what she’d done actually hit home. An incredulous half laugh burst from her lips, more relief than anything else. No one at Wayside Productions had tried to stop her as she left. They all just stared at her as she walked past the sets, as if she were some mad serial killer—except for Tiger Pansy who’d winked.
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