Crache (8 page)

He’s more concerned with the frets. The action is higher than he’s used to. He’s not sure he can get the fingers of his left hand to cooperate. He attempts a song, letting the fingers of his right hand whisper over the strings. His left hand staggers through the chords, stumbling from one note to the next.

It sounds like shit. Worse than shit.

Not that anyone is going to be listening. He guesses that his role in the ceremony is mostly
ambiente,
atmosphere. He’s here to add to the overall effect, to make the woman feel good. Palliative, like a circus clown. Still, he doesn’t want to screw up. He onlines Num Nut.

“I need some painkiller,” he tells the IA. “For my hand.”

He hates to dip into his current allotment. There’s no telling when he’ll need it later on, after he starts working in the vats.

“How much?” the IA says.

“Two hundred milligrams.” He can always take the second half of the dose if the first doesn’t do the job.

“You should take it easy,” Num Nut counsels.

“Just download it.”

He waits for the drug dispenser jacked into his spine to start pumping out the analgesic, then concentrates on getting his left hand to obey. It’s stubborn, as stiff as an old hinge. The area of his brain responsible for the control of his creaky fingers squeals in protest. Rust flakes off his joints and sweat beads on his forehead.

He tries a second tune, then another. It’s no use. His fine motor control is shot and his hand refuses to cooperate.

Me cagué!
He curses under his breath. It’s been too long since he played. He’s out of practice, even without the burden of his hand.

He’s fucked. He looks up from the instrument to tell them he can’t go on, that he’s too handicapped, but it’s too late. The ceremony has started.

Doña Celia smoothes the sheets over the woman’s bony shoulders, rib cage, and sunken chest. She grips the egg in one hand and runs it up and down the woman, passing it over her to draw out some of the sickness. The woman quivers at the touch. Muscles spasm in her arms and legs. Tendons stand out on her neck.

A soft keening starts up. It begins as a feeble wail that gradually swells in volume to fill the room. L. Mariachi looks at Lejandra, then realizes the sound is coming from the guitar.

He looks down. His fingers are possessed, moving on their own to coax forth notes and rhythms. Some of what he’s playing is shit he thought he’d forgotten. Somehow his fingers remember. His muscle memory is intact. The trick is to not think about it, to just go with the flow.

A harsh squawk distracts him. He looks up. The parrot prances less than a meter in front of him, wings outstretched for balance.

“A penny for your thoughts,” it croons, head tilted to one side.

“Bite me,” he says.

The parrot is quick to accept his invitation. It half hops, half flies straight at him. He ducks to the side, but the bird lands on his right shoulder.

“Hold still,” the bird says. “This won’t hurt a bit.” It hobbles from his shoulder to the back of his shirt collar and begins to pluck at the hair on his neck.

The
bruja
stops rubbing the egg over the woman. She unscrews the egg over the water glass. Thick milky fluid pours from the shell halves, swirls and coagulates as tiny bubbles form on the surface of the water.

“Evil air sickness,” the witch states, studying the pattern in the glass. “Brought on by soul loss.” She stirs the mixture with one finger. “Another soul, one that has gone crazy, is trying to take over her body and change it.”

“Into what?” someone whispers.

The
bruja
removes her finger. “A servant of Bloody Mary.”

10

BLOODY MARY

X
ophia ghosts the blank wallscreen. To Fola it feels as if the interior of the shuttle, with the sick gerontocrat, is an extension of her hospicell.

“How bad is the”—Fola hesitates to use the word “epidemic”—“outbreak?” she says.

Pheidoh appears on the screen. The IA has added a pair of wire-frame glasses to complement its basset hound eyes and hangdog cheeks. Fola’s not sure where the IA comes up with the image for its default persona, or what that says about the software. Defunct netzines maybe, mothballed on a chip somewhere in the datasphere. Its identity seems to be assembled from a variety of obscure historical sources, none of which she has the background or knowledge to recognize. She assumes the way that it’s chosen to represent itself is highly personal and symbolic. Emblematic of core values and root psychological tendencies. Like most IAs it seems determined to collect as many insignificant factoids as it can. Useless trivia the world tossed out years ago. Perhaps the IA, lacking any cultural identity and history of its own, is looking for one it can adopt. A raison d’être no different than hers. So far it hasn’t offered to enlighten her, and out of respect for its privacy she hasn’t asked.

“According to the most recent epidemiological forecast,” the IA says, “the disease is in the early stages of development.”

“So it’s just beginning to spread. Things are going to get worse. More people are going to get sick.”

“If the projections are accurate.”

There’s no reason to think they won’t be. Even if the computer models err on the high side, the damage has been done. Xophia is already infected.

“Could a viral ad mutate on its own?” she says. “I thought there were supposed to be built-in safeties to keep that from happening.”

The datahound frowns behind the wire-rim glasses. “There’s no evidence that a mass media-based virus is responsible.”

“Then how do you explain the images that are showing up on people? What else could be infecting them?”

Fola bites her lip against the ingrained urge to do something—anything. As a Jesuette, she never felt helpless. Never doubted her ability to contribute to the greater good. It was a given. People needed her. She was essential to the spiritual and physical well-being of the world. She saw it every time she donned her Popeware and shook her pherion-doped pompoms to spread goodwill. People smiled, kids laughed, and babies gurgled in delight. She could see the positive effect she was having on people’s lives.

Part of the desire to contribute is hardwired into her. That was one of the reasons she decided to help the ICLU. It was more than repayment for the help they’d given her. She feels some of that same gratification with the warm-blooded plants and her tuplet. Help out the community and, in the long run, she’ll be helping herself.

Right now she feels useless. She should be helping Ephraim prepare for the refugees. They’ve already found space for them to hide in a number of seldom used storage/supply rooms. But the cubicles need to be outfitted with sleepsacs, fresh water, and food, as well as toiletries, extra clothes, and basic medical supplies.

“You’re worried about Xophia,” Pheidoh says.

Fola nods. “Have you been able to get in touch with Ephraim?” She needs to talk to him. Warn him about what’s happening on the shuttle.

“Not yet,” Pheidoh says. “According to his IA, he’s not online.”

“Any reason?”

“No.”

Fola raises an arm to her forehead, doesn’t bother to correct for the slight change in center of gravity and magnetic equipoise that tilts her into a slow roll. Her eyes ache—a vague, remembered throb. . . .

Sitting at the kitchen table, a cold squeeze pouch of lemonade held in both hands. A bent straw poked out the hole in the top. It was midafternoon, the day already sweltering. She had rushed home from school after a fight with Tatjana Soffel, hot tears and shame burning her face.

“There, there,” her mother cooed. “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. You’ll see. She’s just jealous because you’re so pretty. That’s all.”

She pressed the damp, cool foil to closed eyes and listened to her mother water the violinette flowers she kept in clay pots on the outside balcony. The ap was quiet, peaceful. Her father was at his rug shop. From where Fola sat at the pressed lichenboard table, she could hear the industrious murmur of scrubbugs cleaning the ap. She liked it when the tiny ’sects showed up, twice a week, to eat the dust that had gathered. Raul, one of the boys in her class, claimed the dust was really dead human skin and that one of these days when there was no more dust in the ap, the scrubbugs would eat her. Fola didn’t believe it. If the ’sects were dangerous, her mother would never allow them in the house. Besides, the sound they made was a harmless, contented humming. Like when a person prayed.

Of course, everything hadn’t been fine.

“Would you like to listen to some music?” Pheidoh asks. Anxious to help, the IA always goes out of its way to fix what’s wrong. To a fault. It doesn’t know when to quit. Tries too hard to please her.

She sniffs, blinks, and stares out at the atrium. Despite the soothing contours of the bananopy leaves and tapestree patterns, her eyes continue to throb. Before she can say no to the music, it trickles into her cochlear imps.

“That’s the same song you played before.” She reaches out and grabs a handhold on the honeycomb grid and comes to a stop.

“No. It’s the same musician. L. Mariachi. What you’re listening to now is being played for a traditional healing ceremony called a
limpia
. I thought it might help you feel better.”

The weird thing is, it does. The notes, pure as water, wash over her and dilute the pain behind her retinas. Her bad attitude clears, salved by the haunting tune. The playing is a bit ragged in places, strained. But she feels cleansed, inside and out.

It spooks her how the information agent is usually right about what she needs. It shouldn’t. The datahound has access to all of her biomed readouts, the balance of neurotransmitters in her brain that regulate her emotions, and the synapse-firing patterns for every thought she’s had in the last three years. Given that, it makes sense that the IA knows her better than she knows herself. Still, it can be a bit unnerving.

“Who’s the ceremony for?” she asks.

“A sick woman. Lejandra Cantú. She’s a migrant pharm worker at a Noogenics biovat facility.”

The ceremony could be for almost anything. The migrants she provided relief aid to as a Jesuette were the victims of everything from malnutrition to toxic waste poisoning and depression. Depending on the culture, a healer or shaman could be brought in to cure any of these ailments.

“What’s wrong with her?”

The IA massages the loose skin of one cheek. “Soul loss.”

Fola can’t tell if the IA is serious, if it actually thinks the ailment is a valid medical condition. For a lot of people, it seems to be. Fola ran into soul loss all the time at refugee camps and clinics. A lot of people in the world still believe that physical diseases are caused by spiritual distress and that in order to heal the body they have to cure the spiritual problem first.

“What caused the soul loss?” she asks.

“Quanticles.”

Fola’s brow crimps. “Quantum particles?”

“Or dots,” the IA says. “Artificial atoms.”

Fola shakes her head. This is the first she’s heard of anybody being contaminated with programmable matter. Based on what she knows, it doesn’t seem possible. Artificial atoms are made out of electrons and can be programmed to mimic the properties of regular atoms. But they aren’t really like regular atoms. They aren’t free-floating. They have to be on a chip with a special substrate and insulating layers. “Who infected her?”

“Bloody Mary.”

A phantom chill undercuts the music. Fola chafes both arms. “That’s crazy,” she says.

Pheidoh nods.

La Llorona, the Crying Woman. The insane mother of Jesus, who weeps blood and enslaves children, turning them into gang bangers, addicts, and evil spirits in the war against the angels.

One of the problems with having an IA that’s a terraphile is that Fola doesn’t know the context of the data it mines. Worse, she doesn’t know how the IA interprets the information it unearths. She trusts it to know the difference between true and false, but the line between right and wrong isn’t always as clear. There are gray areas, indeterminacies, and she wonders if that’s where she is right now, in some blurred nether region between myth and reality. Fola has no clue what the IA hopes to find in the bottomless morass of data that it continuously, almost compulsively, sifts. Or what it intends to do with the information.

Fola’s head aches. She touches her temple, where a vein pulses against the tip of one finger. “Bloody Mary isn’t real.”

“She is to those who believe in her. Sometimes that’s all that matters.”

Is the IA talking about itself or someone else? A living, breathing person? Or another IA? She starts to shake her head . . . stops when the nausea kicks in. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I need your help.”

“With what?”

The datahound cocks its head, as if listening. Dr. Villaz takes this opportunity to interrupt. “You have a visitor,” he says over her cochlear implants.

Before she can ask who it is, the image of a man, a complete stranger, replaces the image of Pheidoh on the wallscreen. He’s stuffed into a biosuit that’s cinched as tight as a corset. It doesn’t help that the picture is distorted, sphere-ized, as if she’s looking at his reflection in a glass ball.

The man smiles, his lips stretching in a huge, bloated grin. “Fola, I presume.” He drags out her name, pronouncing it like the first part of “follicle.”

She ratchets down her gaze. “Who are you?”

“Name’s Rexx.” The slack grin widens. “I’m a gengineer from Tiresias. How’re you doin’?”

“Okay,” she says. “I guess.”

“You guess.” He pounces cat quick on the qualifier, like it’s a half-wound ball of yarn. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Nothing,” she says, “I’m fine,” trying to erase all lack of conviction. It’s tough. The last thing she’s feeling right now is confident. “Exactly what kind of gengineer are you and what are you doing here?”

“I’m an ecotectural gengineer. I design warm-blooded plants for the Kuiper belt colonies.”

It clicks, why he’s talking to her. “You’re investigating the accident.”

His nod is molasses slow. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you some questions about what happened.”

“Where are you?” Judging by the fish-eye perspective and the claustrophobic arrangement of biolum panels and datawindows, he’s wedged in the nacelle of a shuttle pod.

“On my way to Mymercia. I should be there in a couple hours. In the meantime, I thought I’d take the opportunity to chat with you.”

“I don’t know.” A dubious twinge pinches her stomach.

“I know it ain’t easy.” He leans forward, earnest. “But anything at all you can tell me would be helpful.”

Something uncomfortable plucks at the seams of her thoughts. “I really don’t remember very much. It happened kind of fast.”

“What did it feel like?” he asks.

“Like”—she barricades both arms across her chest—“like this thing had crawled inside me and was looking for something.”

The flaccid skin around his eyes tightens. “What sort of thing?”

Her shoulders hike up, more a squirm than a shrug. “A snake.”

He frowns. She’s not sure if it’s because he thinks she’s off her rocker or if he’s taking her seriously.

“A poisonous one,” she adds.

“What was it looking for? Do you know?”

She squeezes herself tighter. “
Me
. What I am.
Who
I am.” She can still feel the tongue probing, tickling, hunting for her soul.

Rexx pauses for a moment to suck at his teeth. “Did it hurt?”

She bites her bottom lip. Describes the dull tingle in her arm. The gray, creeping cold and subsequent numbness.

He listens attentively. Then, “Any idea why it stopped?”

“Stopped?”

“Yeah. Why it quit when it did.”

“I don’t know.”

“It must have given up for a reason. Right?”

Right. Otherwise she’d be dead. “Maybe”—she wets her lips—“maybe it found what it was looking for before it finished with me.”

“You mean the construction workers who died? Liam Vitt, Ingrid Sorensen, and Tamika Wong?”

Fola swallows, nods, her breath tight against her ribs.

Rexx scratches his brow, pushing the wrinkles around with one clamshell-thick nail. “No offense, but I don’t buy it. There has to be another reason than it just gave up.”

“Like what?”

“That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.”

“You think it was some kind of mutation?” Fola prompts. “Or a corrupt piece of code?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. For all I know, a politicorp or some other org on earth could be responsible. About the only thing I am sure about so far is that I feel like spit on a hot skillet.” He rubs his chin with one perturbed hand, pinching the loose flesh into a butt crack. “Did you see anything else? Anything at all that struck you as strange or out of the ordinary?”

She pauses for a moment, and then shakes her head. “Nothing that I can think of.”

Rexx seems to accept this. Or, if not, he at least doesn’t continue to pressure her. “Well, if somethin’ comes to mind, let me know.”

She nods. “All right.”

“Thanks.” He tips his head to the side, the way he might a hat. “Take care, now.”

The conversation leaves Fola rattled. She gets the feeling he left dissatisfied, convinced she was lying.

As soon as he’s gone, Pheidoh reappears. “Were you listening?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“And?”

A furrow creases the datahound’s forehead. “He’s asked that your recent biomed scans be cross-referenced against a library of all known artificial atoms.”

It takes a second for this to sink in.

“He performed a postmortem on remains found at the site of the accident,” the IA says. “The autopsy results indicated the possible antemortem presence of programmable matter in the deceased.”