FSF, October-November 2006

by Spilogale, Inc

  * * * *

  We end up at a party thrown by Maria Illoni, one of the symphony's high donors. She made her money on global warming mitigation for New York City, before it went under. Her penthouse is in Shoreline Curve, daringly arcing over the seawalls and the surf, a sort of flip of the finger to the ocean that beat her storm surge calculations. A spidery silver vine over dark water and the bob of the boat communities out in the deeps. New York obviously never got its money back: Illoni's outdoor patio runs across the entire top floor of the Shoreline and platforms additional petals of spun hollowform carbon out into the air.

  From the far side of the Curve, you can see beyond the incandescent cores of the superclusters to the old city sprawl, dark except along where maglines radiate. A strange mangle of wreckage and scavenge and disrepair. In the day, it looks like some kind of dry red fungal collapse, a weave of jungle canopy and old suburban understory, but at night, all that's visible is the skeleton of glowing infrastructure, radial blooms in the darkness, and I breathe deeply, enjoying all the freshness and openness that's missing from those steaming hideouts I raid with the pop squad.

  Alice sparkles in the heat, perfectly slim, well curved—an armful of beautiful girl. The fall air is under thirty-three degrees and pleasant, and I feel infinitely tender toward her. I pull her close. We slip into a forest of century-old bonsai sculptures created by Maria's husband. Alice murmurs that he spends all his time here on the roof, staring at branches, studying their curves, and occasionally, perhaps every few years, wiring a branch and guiding it in a new direction. We kiss in the shadows they provide, and Alice is beautiful and everything is perfect.

  But I'm distracted.

  When I hit the kids with my Grange, the littlest one—the one with that stupid dinosaur—flipped over. A Grange is built for nitheads, not little kids, so the bullet plowed through the kid and he flipped and his dinosaur went flying. It sailed, I mean really sailed, through the air. And now I can't get it out of my mind: that dinosaur flying. And then hitting the wall and bouncing onto the black mirror floor. So fast and so slow. Bang bang bang down the line ... and then the dinosaur in the air.

  Alice pulls away, seeming to sense my inattention. I straighten up. Try to focus on her.

  She says, “I thought you weren't going to make it. When we were tuning, I looked out and your seat was empty."

  I force a grin. “But I did. I made it."

  Barely. I stood around too long with the cleanup guys while the dinosaur lay in a puddle and sopped up the kid's blood. Double extinct. The kid and the dinosaur both. Dead one way, and then dead again. There's a weird symmetry there.

  She cocks her head, studying me. “Was it bad?"

  "What?” The brontosaurus? “The call?” I shrug. “Just a couple crazy ladies. Not armed or anything. It was easy."

  "I can't imagine it. Cutting rejoo like that.” She sighs and reaches out to touch a bonsai, perfectly guided over the decades by the map that only Micheal Illoni can see or understand. “Why give all this up?"

  I don't have an answer. I rewind the crime scene in my mind. I have the same feeling that I did when I stood on spaghetti maggots and went through their fridge. There's something there in the stink and noise and darkness, something hot and obsessive and ripe. But I don't know what it is.

  "The ladies looked old,” I say. “Like week-old balloons, all puffy and droopy."

  Alice makes a face of distaste. “Can you imagine trying to perform Telogo without rejoo? We wouldn't have had the time. Half of us would have been past our prime, and we'd have needed understudies, and then the understudies would have had to find understudies. Fifteen years. And these women throw it all away. How can they throw away something as beautiful as Telogo?"

  "You thinking about Kara?"

  "She would have played Telogo twice as well as I did."

  "I don't believe that."

  "Believe it. She was the best. Before she went kid-crazy.” She sighs. “I miss her."

  "You could still visit her. She's not dead yet."

  "She might as well be. She's already twenty years older than when we knew her.” She shakes her head. “No. I'd rather remember her in her prime, not out at some single-sex work camp growing vegetables and losing the last of her talent. I couldn't stand listening to her play now. It would kill me to hear all of that gone.” She turns abruptly. “That reminds me, my rejoo booster is tomorrow. Can you take me?"

  "Tomorrow?” I hesitate. I'm supposed to be on another shift popping kids. “It's kind of short notice."

  "I know. I meant to ask sooner, but with the concert coming up, I forgot.” She shrugs. “It's not that important. I can go by myself.” She glances at me sidelong. “But it is nicer when you come."

  What the hell. I don't really want to work anyway. “Okay, sure. I'll get Pentle to cover for me.” Let him deal with the dinosaurs.

  "Really?"

  I shrug. “What can I say? I'm a sweet guy."

  She smiles and stands on tiptoe to kiss me. “If we weren't going to live forever, I'd marry you."

  I laugh. “If we weren't going to live forever, I'd get you pregnant."

  We look at each other. Alice laughs unsteadily and takes it as a joke. “Don't be gross."

  Before we can talk any more, Illoni pops out from behind a bonsai and grabs Alice by the arm. “There you are! I've been looking everywhere for you. You can't hide yourself like this. You're the woman of the hour."

  She pulls Alice away with all the confidence that must have made New York believe she could save it. She barely even looks at me as they hustle off. Alice smiles tolerantly and motions for me to follow. Then Maria's calling to everyone and pulling them all together and she climbs up on a fountain's rim and pulls Alice up beside her. She starts talking about art and sacrifice and discipline and beauty.

  I tune it out. There's only so much self-congratulation you can take. It's obvious Alice is one of the best in the world. Talking about it just makes it seem banal. But the donors need to feel like they're part of the moment, so they all want to squeeze Alice and make her theirs, so they talk and talk and talk.

  Maria's saying, “...wouldn't be standing here congratulating ourselves, if it weren't for our lovely Alice. Hua Chiang and Telogo did their work well, but in the final moment it was Alice's execution in the face of Telogo's ambitious piece that has made it resonate so strongly already with the critics. We have her to thank for the piece's flawlessness."

  Everyone starts applauding and Alice blushes prettily, not accustomed to adulation from her peers and competitors. Maria shouts over the cheering, “I've made several calls to Banini, and it is more than apparent that he has no answer to our challenge and so I expect the next eighty years are ours. And Alice's!” The applause is almost deafening.

  Maria waves for attention again and the applause fades into scattered whistles and catcalls which finally taper off enough to allow Maria to con-tinue. “To commemorate the end of Banini's age, and the beginning of a new one, I would like to present Alice with a small token of affection—” and here she leans down and picks up a jute woven gift bag shot with gold as she says, “Of course a woman likes gold and jewels, and strings for her viola, but I thought this was a particularly apt gift for the evening...."

  I'm leaning against the woman next to me, trying to see, as Maria holds the bag dramatically above her head and calls out to the crowd, “For Alice, our slayer of dinosaurs!” and pulls the green brontosaurus out of the bag.

  It's just like the one the kid had.

  Its big eyes look right at me. For a second it seems to blink at me with its big black lashes and then the crowd laughs and applauds as they all get the joke. Banini = dinosaur. Ha ha.

  Alice takes the dinosaur and holds it by the neck and swings it over her head and everybody laughs again but I can't see anything anymore because I'm lying on the ground caught in the jungle swelter of people's legs and I can't breathe.

  * * * *

  "Are you sure
you're okay?"

  "Sure. No problem. I told you. I'm fine."

  It's true, I guess. Sitting next to Alice in the waiting room, I don't feel dizzy or anything, even if I am tired. Last night, she put the dinosaur on the bedside table, right in with her collection of little jeweled music boxes, and the damn thing looked at me all night long. Finally at four a.m. I couldn't stand it anymore and I shoved it under the bed. But in the morning, she found it and put it back, and it's been looking at me ever since.

  Alice squeezes my hand. The rejoo clinic's a small one, private, carefully appointed with holographic windows of sailboats on the Atlantic so it feels open and airy even though its daylight is piped in through mirror collectors. It's not one of the big public monsters out in the clusters that got started after rejoo's patents expired. You pay a little more than you do for the Medicaid generics, but you don't rub shoulders with a bunch of starving gamblers and nitheads and drunks who all still want their rejoo even if they're wasting every day of their endless lives.

  The nurses are quick and efficient. Pretty soon, Alice is on her back hooked up to an IV bladder with me sitting beside her on the bed, and we're watching rejoo push into her.

  It's just a clear liquid. I always thought it should be fizzy and green for growing things. Or maybe not green, but definitely fizzy. It always feels fizzy when it goes in.

  Alice takes a quick breath and reaches out for me, her slender pale fingers brushing my thigh. “Hold my hand."

  The elixir of life pulses into her, filling her, flushing her. She pants shallowly. Her eyes dilate. She isn't watching me anymore. She's somewhere deep inside, reclaiming what was lost over the last eighteen months. No matter how many times I do it, I'm surprised when I watch it come over someone, the way it seems to swallow them and then they come back to the surface more whole and alive than when they started.

  Alice's eyes focus. She smiles. “Oh, God. I can never get used to that."

  She tries to stand up, but I hold her down and beep the nurse. Once we've got her unhooked, I lead her back out to the car. She leans heavily against me, stumbling and touching me. I can almost feel the fizzing and tingling through her skin. She climbs into the car. When I'm inside, she looks over at me and laughs. “I can't believe how good I feel."

  "Nothing like winding back the clock."

  "Take me home. I want to be with you."

  I push the start button on the car and we slide out of our parking space. We hook onto the magline out of Center Spire. Alice watches the city slide by outside the windows. All the shoppers and the businessmen and the martyrs and the ghosts, and then we're out in the open, on the high track over the jungle, speeding north again, for Angel Spire.

  "It's so wonderful to be alive,” she says, “It doesn't make any sense."

  "What doesn't?"

  "Cutting rejoo."

  "If people made sense, we wouldn't have psychologists.” And we wouldn't buy dinosaur toys for kids who were never going to make it anyway. I grit my teeth. None of them make any sense. Stupid moms.

  Alice sighs and runs her hands across her thighs, kneading herself, hiking up her skirt and digging her fingers into her flesh. “But it still doesn't make any sense. It feels so good. You'd have to be crazy to stop rejoo."

  "Of course they're crazy. They kill themselves, they make babies they don't know how to take care of, they live in shitty apartments in the dark, they never go out, they smell bad, they look terrible, they never have anything good again—” I'm starting to shout. I shut my mouth.

  Alice looks over at me. “Are you okay?"

  "I'm fine."

  But I'm not. I'm mad. Mad at the ladies and their stupid toy-buying. Pissed off that these dumb women tease their dumb terminal kids like that; treat them like they aren't going to end up as compost. “Let's not talk about work right now. Let's just go home.” I force a grin. “I've already got the day off. We should take advantage of it."

  Alice is still looking at me. I can see the questions in her eyes. If she weren't on the leading edge of a rejoo high, she'd keep pressing, but she's so wrapped up in the tingling of her rebuilt body that she lets it go. She laughs and runs her fingers up my leg and starts to play with me. I override the magline's safeties with my cop codes and we barrel across the Causeway toward Angel Spire with the sun on the ocean and Alice smiling and laughing and the bright air whirling around us.

  * * * *

  Three a.m. Another call, windows down, howling through the humidity and swelter of Newfoundland. Alice wants me to come home, come back, relax, but I can't. I don't want to. I'm not sure what I want, but it's not brunch with Belgian waffles or screwing on the living room floor or a trip to the movies or ... anything, really.

  I can't do it, anyway. We got home, and I couldn't do it. Nothing felt right. Alice said it didn't matter, that she wanted to practice.

  Now I haven't seen her for more than a day.

  I've been on duty, catching up on calls. I've been going for twenty-four hours straight, powered on coppers'-little-helpers and mainlined caffeine and my hat and trench coat and hands are pinprick-sprayed with the residue of work.

  Along the coastline the sea runs high and hot, splashing in over the breakwaters. Lights ahead, the glow of coalfoundries and gasification works. The call takes me up the glittering face of Palomino Cluster. Nice real estate. Up the masslifts and smashing through a door with Pentle backing me, knowing what we're going to find but never knowing how much these ones will fight.

  Bedlam. A lady, this one a pretty brown girl who might have had a great life if she didn't decide she needed a baby, and a kid lying in the corner in a box screaming and screaming. And the lady's screaming too, screaming at the little kid in its box, like she's gone out of her mind.

  As we come in through the door, she starts screaming at us. The kid keeps screaming. The lady keeps screaming. It's like a bunch of screwdrivers jamming in my ears; it goes on and on. Pentle grabs the lady and tries to hold her but she and the kid just keep screaming away and suddenly I can't breathe. I can barely stand. The kid screams and screams and screams: screwdrivers and glass and icepicks in my head.

  So I shoot the thing. I pull out my Grange and put a bullet in the little sucker. Fragments of box and baby spray the air.

  I don't do that, normally; it's against procedure to waste the kid in front of the mother.

  But there we all are, staring at the body, bloodmist and gunpowder all over and my ears ringing from the shot and for one pristine crystal second, it's quiet.

  Then the woman's screaming at me again and Pentle's screaming too because I screwed up the evidence before he could get a picture, and then the lady's all over me, trying to claw my eyes out. Pentle drags her off and then she's calling me a bastard and a killer and bastard and monkey man and a fucking pig and that I've got dead eyes.

  And that really gets me: I've got dead eyes. This lady's headed into a rejoo collapse and won't last another twenty years and she'll spend all of it in a single-sex work camp. She's young, a lot like Alice, maybe the last of them to cross the line into rejoo, right when she came of age—not an old workhorse like me who was already forty when it went generic—and now she'll be dead in an eye blink. But I'm the one with dead eyes.

  I take my Grange and shove it into her forehead. “You want to die too?"

  "Go ahead! Do it! Do it!” She doesn't stop for a second, just keeps howling and spitting. “Fucking bastard! Bastard fuckingfuckfucking—Do it! Do it!” She's crying.

  Even though I want to see her brains pop out the back of her head, I don't have the heart. She'll die soon enough. Another twenty years and she's done for. The paperwork isn't worth it.

  Pentle cuffs her while she babbles to the baby in the box, just a lump of blood and limp doll parts now. “My baby my poor baby I didn't know I'm sorry my baby my poor baby I'm sorry....” Pentle muscles her out to the car.

  For a while I can hear her in the hall. My baby my poor baby my poor baby.... And then she's gone d
own the lifts and it's a relief just to be standing there with the wet smells of the apartment and the dead body.

  She was using a dresser drawer as her bassinet.

  I run my fingers along the splintered edge, fondle the brass pulls. If nothing else, these ladies are resourceful, making the things we can't buy anymore. If I close my eyes, I can almost remember a whole industry around these little guys. Little outfits. Little chairs. Little beds. Everything made little.

  Little dinosaurs.

  "She couldn't make it shut up."

  I jerk my hands away from the baby box, startled. Pentle has come up behind me. “Huh?"

  "She couldn't make it stop crying. Didn't know what to do with it. Didn't know how to make it calm down. That's how the neighbors heard."

  "Dumb."

  "Yeah. She didn't even have a tag-teamer. How the heck was she going to do grocery shopping?"

  He gets out his camera and tries a couple shots of the baby. There's not a whole lot left. A 12mm Grange is built for junkies, nitheads going crazy, ‘bot assassins. It's overkill for an unarmored thing like this. When the new Granges came out, Grange ran an ad campaign on the sides of our cruisers. “Grange: Unstoppable.” Or something like that. There was this one that said “Point Blank Grange” with a photo of a completely mangled nithead. That one was in all our lockers.

  Pentle tries another angle on the drawer, going for a profile, trying to make the best of a bad situation. “I like how she used a drawer,” he says.

  "Yeah. Resourceful."

  "I saw this one where the lady made a whole little table and chair set for her kid. Handmade it all. I couldn't believe how much energy she put into it.” He makes shapes with his hand. “Little scalloped edges, shapes painted on the top: squares and triangles and things."

  "If you're going to die doing something, I guess you want to do a good job of it."

  "I'd rather be parasailing. Or go to a concert. I heard Alice was great the other night."