Sally came up. “Did you need anything?"
"Is there any coffee left in the building?” Andrea pressed a shaking hand to her forehead. She'd give half her fortune for a strong cappuccino with black chocolate shaved over it right now.
Sally shook her head. “Sorry."
"Go to Pierre's Café on the corner and get me a cup of black coffee. Make that two cups. No, you'd better get a thermos full, all right?"
"Of course.” Sally hesitated a minute, as if she wanted to ask something. Instead, she gave Andrea a sympathetic smile and left.
Andrea sighed and leaned back into her soft, leather chair. Sally was perfect. With her unassuming manner and efficient ways, she was exactly the right receptionist for the business.
She peered through the window down at the reception room below. To the people waiting, it looked like a huge mosaic representing a churning sea, but it was a clever window, letting Andrea spy on those below. Not that she could hear what they were saying. The window was more for security reasons than for spying. She always let everyone know about it, so there were never more than a couple curious glances upwards. Right now, she saw the police officers speaking to Digby and the coroner talking earnestly to the Net Rep. Sally appeared and everyone followed her with their eyes until she'd disappeared into the hallway.
Andrea's nails tap, tap, tapped against the marble desktop. It was only after Sally had been working for her a month that she'd realized whom she reminded her of: Betty Boop. She had huge, saucer-shaped eyes, so soft they looked like brown velvet, and a sleek cap of glossy curls. Her mouth was always a bit pursed—not with a pout, but more of a pensive expression. She was very curvy and only about five feet tall. But her fingernails were a disaster, chewed to the quick, polish chipping. You could be sure that if Sally did her nails she'd shut her hand in a drawer a moment later.
Andrea gazed at her own impeccable nails. What difference did it make? Sally had a fiancé, and she had no one. Andrea's boyfriends were like flashes of lightning in a stormy sky: bright, dazzling ... and fleeting.
Sally and Mitch were engaged, and Sally wore a small diamond band on her left ring finger. A tiny stab of jealousy surprised Andrea. She'd never wanted to get married. Why think of engagements and wedding rings now?
Sally entered, carrying the coffee thermos and a mug on an enameled tray. She set it down on the desk and asked if she needed anything else. When Andrea shook her head, Sally left with a little wave of her hand, the halogen light above the doorway making her diamond ring flash.
Andrea would give her eye-teeth for an engagement ring. Just her eye-teeth, however, not her soul, her company, her wardrobe, or even her King Charles spaniel. The dog had been her mother's, bequeathed to her on her mother's deathbed.
A diamond would look good on my hand, Andrea thought. But men were such fools. All of them were fools. It was no use trying to imagine one not being a total idiot, locked in some futile power struggle with the world. Power struggles with Andrea usually ended up with Andrea the winner and single once more.
Beneath Andrea's desk, in a small, wicker doggy-bed from France, Cocotte, the spaniel, twitched restlessly as she dreamed, her silken ears trailing over the sides of the bed and onto the floor.
* * * *
At that moment, Sally raised her eyes toward the magnificent mosaic on the wall. The mosaic was beautiful, but that was not why she stared at it. She was trying to imagine what Andrea was doing at that moment. What was it like to be one of the wealthiest, most powerful women in the country? Then the telephone rang, interrupting her reverie. She answered mechanically, her eyes still on the brightly colored chips of glass, which formed blue waves breaking over a rocky shore.
"Virtual Tours. Yes, I'll put you through right away.” She buzzed Andrea's private phone, wondering why Andrea had her boyfriends call her through reception when she had a private line.
There was much to wonder about in Andrea's life. Her mother had been philanthropic, giving away all her immense fortune and leaving none for her daughter. Andrea had founded Virtual Tours, and now it was the third biggest company on the World Stock Market. The Virtual Tours building took up an entire city block in New York City, and the number of tourists willing to pay between ten and twenty thousand dollars for a Virtual Tour doubled nearly every month. There were hardly enough reclining seats for all the tourists now. Three hundred had grown to five hundred, then a thousand, and now there was talk of opening another center in Texas.
One could never call Andrea Girt beautiful; beauty was too soft a word for Andrea's rangy looks. She was tall, nearly six feet five, and her face was all cheekbones and sharp angles. Her eyes were a deep, smoky gray. Her thick brows arched like black wings across a wide brow. Her hair was a true auburn, so deep it had purple highlights. Her photos appeared in gossip columns as she dated polo players, playboys, helium tycoons, racecar drivers, the son of her lawyer, and lately, a senator from the Net Government. The Net senator was on the phone now, and from the tone of his voice, he hadn't called to ask her out on a date. It was probably about Arthur's death, and Sally wished she could listen in on the conversation. It would be so easy—just push the little button on the console, and she could hear the voices in her headset. Then she would find out exactly what was going on.
The three police officers were easy to explain, and so was the coroner, but why was the representative for the Net Government here so soon? Usually you had to call them weeks in advance, beg them to come, bribe them, practically, and you were lucky if they showed up three hours late. This woman had come right on the heels of the coroner and, most fascinating of all, was sitting in the reception like any other common mortal. Net Reps never sat in waiting rooms. Ever. This was an unusual circumstance, and Sally was dying to know about it. She gnawed her fingernails until she realized what she was doing. With an exclamation of annoyance, she slammed her hands on the desk. The coroner and the three police officers jumped. The Net Rep didn't even blink her pale eyes.
"Excuse me.” She busied herself on her computer with the list of tourists. As she worked, she muttered angrily to herself, “Stop biting your nails, sit up straight, don't put your elbows on the table, and stop swearing."
There was a sharp buzz from the clock on her desk, and she slapped her keyboard into a drawer, closing it with a bang that made the police officers flinch again.
"Sorry.” Sally gave an apologetic smile to the police officers, stood, and shoved her chair under her desk. It was lunchtime.
* * * *
It was low tide. The sun and the moon were on opposite sides of the earth, and the resulting pull flattened the great bodies of water at the equator. Waves were tiny kitten licks on the soft, white sand, lapping at the beach. Standing knee-deep in water the color of pure aquamarine gems, Mitch held his silver whistle loosely in one hand, tossing it to the end of its string then catching it. He did it automatically. His thoughts were far away, far from the pristine beach where two of his charges snorkeled over the reef, a hundred feet from shore.
Behind him, two other women lay on lounge chairs gossiping lazily, frosty glasses of strawberry daiquiris in their hands. Occasionally, they would break off and look at Mitch from beneath lowered eyelashes while they pretended to drink. He knew that in their minds they were peeling off his swimming trunks and running their hands over his body. Mitch pretended not to notice. He was immune to the lusty glances women threw his way. They'd been chasing him since he was a teenager, looking at him with cool, calculating eyes and darting the tips of their tongues to their lips. At first he'd been embarrassed, then shocked, then annoyed and finally resigned. It still irritated him, but he'd learned to hide his annoyance behind a wide, beguiling smile. His eyes, very pale blue, could become icy cold, but he could keep his smile warm and inviting.
He thought of Sally, and a smile—one that reached his eyes—tugged the corners of his generous mouth. She excited him as no other woman could ever hope to, and she did it with just a long, languorous loo
k from her velvet eyes. She would gaze at him a certain way, and no matter where he was or what mood he was in, he'd blush and get hard. He'd think of the first time he'd seen her naked, the first time his hands touched her soft skin, and the first time they'd made love, and his head would get light and seem to float off his shoulders.
He was crazy about Sally, and even if he lived to be a hundred years old, he'd still get a hard-on just thinking about her walking naked across his room, her breasts bouncing with each step, hips swaying, her delicate curls beckoning him from the point of her saucy triangle. Even after five years, he still desired her with a fierceness that stunned him sometimes. Not here, however, not in this world. He glanced down at his swimsuit and shook his head wryly. In the virtual world, he was practically numb from the waist to the knees. Everyone was. It was a quirk of the program to keep the Net from becoming a den of virtual iniquity. If people had been able to have virtual sex, absenteeism at work would probably have brought the economy to a crashing halt, Mitch thought with a grin.
"Mitch!” one of his charges called. He turned, a ready smile on his face. “Why don't you come sit down with us?"
"Of course!” Mitch glanced once more at the women snorkeling and then walked across the sand to the cool shade offered by the coconut palm trees. He pulled up a lounge chair and sat by the ladies. “How is everything?” he asked.
"Almost perfect,” the blonde woman said.
Mitch raised his eyebrows. “What's the matter, Flora?"
She ran her tongue along her lips. “What I'd really like to do is engage in some virtual sports."
"We have water-skiing, hang-gliding and scuba diving, if you'd..."
"No, silly.” Flora interrupted him by putting her hand on his arm. She batted her eyelashes playfully. “Not sport sports ... something more romantic. You know what I mean."
Mitch did. Every tour was the same. He had his speech down by heart. “Well, ladies, I know this is going to come as a disappointment, but the Net decided to retain the sexual stimulation restrictions in our Virtual Tour. The Net Government is a nervous beast with far-reaching arms and eyes everywhere."
"We know that.” The other woman spoke up for the first time. “I work for the Washington Post. I can tell you everything about the Net. Its wealth is based on the quality of its communication services, the scientific discoveries it made available to the public, and from the games it invented. People pay to experience all the things they always wanted to try but are too chicken to do in real life: parachuting, scuba diving, rafting the rapids or even just going on an incredible ride on a roller coaster on another planet. The president, Wilbur Megalot, is the richest man on earth."
"Right,” Mitch agreed. “So, with all those millions, Wilbur did studies and found that sex was still too dangerous to have on the Net, even on a complete sensory experience like Virtual Tours."
"So, what you're saying is that if we try to have sex in this program, we'll get arrested?” Flora asked.
"No, nothing so dramatic. It's just useless to try. You can try to excite yourself all you want—it won't work. Go ahead, think of something sexy."
Flora closed her eyes. At first, she smiled, but then her eyebrows drew together as her look of concentration deepened. She opened her eyes. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” She looked at the other woman. “You try it, Dana."
"I already have. My husband and I went on the Virtual Tour last winter. I thought it would be a romantic second honeymoon. What we got was parachuting and scuba diving.” She grinned. “It was a disappointment, but we got over it. I discovered the joys of jumping out of airplanes."
Mitch patted Flora's arm. “You'll still have fun, I promise."
"It was worth a shot.” She shrugged. “Tell me something else, then. What about those mutants I've heard about? Come on, Dana, fess up. You must know about them, working in Washington. What's the story behind the mutants?"
Dana made a face. “Believe me, I've checked. I'm a journalist, and my dream would be to get that scoop. Just imagine: proof that mutants exist. But if they do, no one is talking. I've tried snooping in CIA files, I've contacted friends in the FBI, I've even hired hackers to check the Net. Nothing. Nada."
Flora rubbed her arms. “Look at me, I've got goose bumps. Just thinking about mutants makes me nervous. Especially here in a virtual world. I keep thinking one is going to ... oh!"
"What?” Dana dropped her strawberry daiquiri on the sand.
"Sorry, it's nothing.” Flora gave a nervous giggle. “All that talk about mutants, and I got scared when Penny and Michelle stood up in the water with their snorkeling gear on."
Mitch raised his arm and flagged down a passing waiter figment. “What would you ladies like for lunch? We can have a table set up here or go to the dining room."
"Let's eat here.” Dana waved at the two other women. “We'll let our two mutant friends dry off first."
"Oh, very funny.” Flora looked a bit pale. “I tell you, I have nightmares about those things. I even hesitated about coming on this trip."
"Don't worry,” Dana said to her. “They don't exist. I promise."
Mitch was silent, his feet digging into the cool sand. Mutants. Myth or reality? He wished he knew for sure.
Chapter Three
I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journeywork of the stars,
And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren...
~Walt Whitman, Song of Myself
* * * *
M-6—Mahler.
I am dreaming. I am flying. Clouds open and close around me, giving me glimpses of indigo water a thousand meters beneath. If I want, I can make the clouds soft as cotton balls so that I can feel them. There, it is done. Clouds upon which I can walk. They hold my weight because I weigh no more than a feather does.
I have lustrous skin the color of mother-of-pearl. It shimmers and shines with blue, green and gold highlights. I am wearing nothing. Sexless, there is no part of my body that says man or woman. No hair, no breasts, no genitalia: I see no use for all that. In my perfect world, I am androgynous. Weightless, I have the power of flight, but having no wings, I am at the mercy of each breeze, each whisper of wind.
That matters not. I am the wind. In my world, I go where I please, I see what I please, and I feel whatever it pleases me to feel.
My world is uninhabited. I am alone with a mirror ocean in a silence filled only by the sound of waves crashing on rocks and the wind whistling through tall eucalyptus trees. My world is a palette of blue and gray hues, and the dry-grass whispers. Even the eucalyptus trees have silvery leaves. I made dark gray beaches upon which the sea throws itself in a white, lacy froth. The clouds scud across the sky, borne by the same wind that carries me. Perhaps I spread my arms, I don't know. I feel clean, free, unfettered. The air is redolent of seawater and the fresh, spicy scent of eucalyptus.
That is my world, and I return whenever I can. Bit by bit I built it, hiding it from everyone else. You must be made of my world to attain it. I can slip into it, and no one can find me. Only I can go there. Only I can find it.
It makes Dr. Djusky quite mad. When too much time goes by without a sign from my body back in the Center, he invariably throws an electrical current through the gas clouds in my chamber. I perceive them as lightning flashes in my perfect world, and when the storm rises, I know it's time to head back.
There's no use angering Dr. Djusky. He can dream up the most aggravating punishments. Once, when I was very small, he nearly blew my circuits. You didn't get it, did you? That is a joke. We all say, “He nearly blew our circuits.” Mutant humor takes getting used to, I suppose.
All of us are ‘M's: M-1 through M-19. We are all M.O.C.P.'s, short for Mutant Organic Computer Programmer. I am M-6, the eldest male child. My sisters, brothers and I are called mutants by most people, although some refer to us as freaks.
I have thought sad thoughts. Now, like Peter Pan, I can no longer fly, and I must return hom
e. Goodbye, Never-Never Land. Lightning bolts sizzle and flash around me. He must be quite angry this time.
* * * *
Professor Toutbon strode through the dimly lit hallway on his way to see the mutants. His face was pale, and a faint sheen of sweat showed on his bald pate. He wore a white lab coat over a gray suit. The coat flapped around his long, thin legs as he walked. He was losing papers, one by one, from a huge sheaf he held under one arm, and that didn't help his mood at all.
The papers fluttered to the floor as if he were leaving himself a trail to find his way out of the labyrinth of corridors. He'd been walking down these same hallways for twenty years now. Twenty years of silence and secrecy. Twenty years of responsibility for nineteen entities, whose existence was denied by everyone. Twenty years, and now this! The Net had sent one of their Net Reps to see him. Him! Professor Toutbon had to answer questions posed by a Neanderthal in a business suit!
That was insulting enough, but no, the anthropoid had listened to the entire story and said, “What you're saying is, these mutants have escaped your control?"
"I didn't say that!” protested Toutbon.
"You told me that sometimes you didn't know what program the mutants entered. That they could penetrate any program on the Net, and that you couldn't be sure exactly where they were. They could be anywhere, even in top secret files for all we know.” There was no inflection to his speech. He might have been saying, “Cotton is one of the staple exports of Egypt,” and not accusing Professor Toutbon of letting his mutants run amok in the Net.
"We have never been able to develop a method to trace them,” Toutbon admitted, “but they tell us exactly where they went. We file everything. What is wrong with that?"
"Because they could lie,” the Net Rep said tranquilly.
"Lie?” Toutbon sputtered. “They can't lie! They are simply organic programs for computers. You give an order and they execute. You ask for a report, they print it out. Every move they make is easily verified the same way you check a computer's records. What more could you ask for?"
Virtual Murder Page 3
