Idolon (7 page)

"Nice philm, " Marta said. "How long have you been waring it?"

Pelayo watched her twirl a partially empty water glass on the glossy green surrface of the table between them. "Not long."

"Who's it supposed to be? Or is that some deep, dark secret you're not allowed to talk about?"

Pelayo spread his hands,
nolo contendre
.

They sat at a table in the Jade Dragon, a fast-food franchise where Little Shanghai rubbed shoulders with the Zona Sagrada. As expected, there were a lot of people philmed in Hip Sing and Fuk Ching gangware, along with the standard Bruce Lee, Jet Li, and Fu Manchu aficionados. Speakers from the ceiling blared music from an alt prog band called Bali Lama. The aroma of soy sauce seasoned with habanero peppers spiced the courtyard outside the main restaurant.

"New clothes, too," she observed. "They part of the 'skin? Or is that proprietary, too?"

Pelayo leaned forward and picked up the menu in front of him. The subwoof bass from the speakers kicked at his eardrums, heavy as steel-toed boots. "I saw Lagrante this morning," he said.

Ice rattled in the glass. "He rip the new ware?"

"He said you talked to him."

She shrugged, and he knew he'd touched a nerve. She watched him from behind a veil of indifference. He said nothing, content to wait her out, and ,after a moment she ran one finger along the curve of one ear, tucking back long black hair and exposing the lithe outline of her neck.

"You could have come to me," he said.

"No."

"Why not?"

She looked up from the glass. "None of your busi- ness."

Pelayo weighed her gaze, but couldn't tell if she was trying to protect him or avoid him. "I might be able to help," he said.

"What makes you think I need help? Your help?"

Good question. "What kind of trouble we talkin' about?"

She shook her head. "There's nothing you can do."

"How do you know?"

"Don't," she said.

"What?"

"Just leave me alone." The hair behind her ear slipped free, fell in a thick cascade across her face.

"If that's what you want." He set the menu down and slid the chair back, scraping loudly on the floor tile.

She jerked her head, tossing the hair back. "You don't know a goddamned thing," she said.

He eased back into the chair. "About what?"

" Anything."

Meaning her. Things had never gone the way he wanted between them. For some reason, they always ended up at odds. It had been that way for as long as he could remember, cousins that had almost, but never quite, kissed. "Lagrante didn't say shit. You wanna keep it that way, no problem."

"You're just jealous."

"Maybe," he conceded. Except that there was no maybe about it. ..

She let out a breath and, deflated, looked sudddenly drawn and pale, perhaps even a little sick.

"You seem tired," he said, his voice softening.

"I'm fine," she snapped. But some of the rancor had bled from her. "I've been busy, that's all." She rested her head in her hands.

He fought the urge to reach out and touch her on one slender wrist. He might have been able to at one time, years ago. Not anymore. They'd settled into different orbits, any attraction between them more a perturbation of memory than anything else.

"Any word on Concetta?" She was peering at him from between her long, delicate fingers.

Pelayo shook his head, glad that she'd been the one to bring it up. "Not yet. Still waiting."

Marta made a face but seemed resigned. Not only had she expected this, Pelayo realized, she'd come to accept it.

Was that why Marta hadn't come to him? Because her sister had ... and had never come back? How much did Marta know?

"I'm not the one who's in trouble," Marta said.

"I'm just trying to help somebody out, is all."

"That sounds like Concetta. Not you."

"I don't think so.".

"I do."

"It's not like that." She pulled her hair back from her face and held it tight against the top of her head with both hands. "This is different."

We're
different, she seemed to be saying ... distancing herself from her sister.

"Help out how?" he asked. "New ware? Philm? DiNA?"

Marta smoothed her hands back, down to the base of her neck, and clasped them together. "Reemoval."

"Full strip?"

"Yeah. The 'skin's degrading. I don't know how long. A few days, week at the most before the neurotoxins kick in."

Pelayo shook his head. "That's not what Lagrante does."

"I know. But I thought he might be able to hook me up."

"And?"

She lowered her hands to the glass on the table.

"He said he'd get back to me."

"Sounds familiar. How much is he charging?"

"He didn't say."

"In other words, expensive. I hope your friend's rich."

Marta stiffened. "She's not my friend."

A woman, then, not a man. "If she doesn't have any money, what do you or she have that a rip artist might be interested in as payment?"

Marta blinked. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"You don't think Lagrante's above asking for payment in trade?" It was unfair, a low blow, but he wanted to shock her, help her understand exactly what she was getting into and what kind of people she was dealing with.

Marta's cheeks flushed. "Not everyone's a
—
" She bit her lip.

"Go ahead"
—
His fingers curled inward, digging into moist palms
—
"say it."

He knew what she was thinking. Slut. Whore. Instead, she said, "You're pathetic," and got up, oving the chair back so hard it toppled over, clattering against the table behind her.

The thudding beat covered most of the ruckus. But a few people turned, drawn to the commotion . "At least I know who I am," she said. "What I want, who I want to be. Which is more than you can say."

Pelayo could feel eyes on them, curious to see how the telenovela would play out.

It didn't. He wouldn't let it. He remained in his seat,
omerta
, until she turned and stomped out.

So much for trying to scare some sense into her, prevent her from following in her sister's footsteps.

Pelayo stared down at his fists, clenched white-knuckle tight on the table, emptied of everything, including his anger.

From her executive office on the top floor of the Iosepa Biognost Tek building, Ilse Svatba could see beyond the seawall and the dervish lights of the Boardwalk to the far side of the Monterey Bay. A dagger of moonlight glinted on the water. It pierced the clear diamond window in front of her, slicing through the nanometer-thin film of graphene coating the surface.

Turn her back and the sterling dagger would still be there, aimed at a point directly between her shoulder blades.

Her neck prickled at the thought. It was a good reminder of the threats that lurked, waiting to strike if she let down her guard.

A virtual d-splay appeared toward the bottom of her field of view, announcing the arrival of Giles Atherton.

She mirrored a section of the window, reflecting the office around her. Framed in Art Nouveau curlicues dolloped with pewter leaves, she considered her attire.

How to present herself for the meeting? That was the question.

She mentally opened a selection menu and canceled her current philm, a d
é
coupage of knitted bamboo fiber, copper foil, glass beads, and peacock feathers.

Should she go soft and voluptuous, lipstick smeared? Elegant waif? Or something more ostentatious?

She selected an outfit from IBT's upcoming Gil Elgren line of pinups. Black lace brassiere, fishnet stockings, garters.

She pirouetted, critical, gauging the effect.

No. Atherton was a sesquicentenarian—practically posthuman. The Betty Paige look would have little or no effect on him. Besides, she didn't want to taunt him, merely tantalize. And intimidate, it was true. Even if they were business partners, there was no sense giving him the upper hand.

She tried Alphonse Mucha next, replacing the black lace and fishnet with a diaphanous lavender gown. Ankle-length, sleeveless, her hair a thick flowering cascade of honeysuckle pink that caressed her neck and bare shoulders.

Too faery, she decided. It put
her
in the wrong mood.

In the end, she settled on Art Deco, circa 1928. A shift-style dress, mustard yellow, with a straight bodice and collar. Waistline near the hip. Hem pleated, falling to just below the knees. A matching bell cloche hat and lustrous pearl necklace completed the ensemble.

A perfect combination of sophisticated but sensual professionalism. She rephilmed the office next, replacing the Scandinavian wood floor with black-and-white checkerboard tiles. She papered the walls with a Poiret print of repeated parrots, rendered in flamboyant green and pink. Seashells scalloped the ceiling. For the light fixtures and door, she selected a stylized papyrus motif, articulated in classic Metyl-Wood veneer. Lastly she downloaded a new voice, something dusky, less puerile than her own nasal alto.

"All right," she announced, testing the voice. It curled around her, as sensuous as a midnight clarinet. "I'm ready."

Atherton was dressed in a tweed jacket with brown suede patches on both elbows, a paisley bow tie, flannel Oxford baggies, and loafers. His collar-length hair
—
parted marginally on one side
—
was tan, silver-streaked, and slightly unkempt. A pair of round wire-frame spectacles rode low on his tapered nose.

The style was professorial, she thought, intended to put her at ease by projecting an air of polite if effete intelligentsia. Instead, it came off as self-conscious, or self-indulgent. He didn't ware the look well, and seemed uncomfortable.

She took a small measure of satisfaction that his attire was out-of-date. Expensive, hand-tailored, but unlike hers his electronic skin didn't support programmable fabric.

For the moment, she had something he didn't. IBT was the only philm studio that could provide the technology and services he needed. That gave her the advantage in any confrontation.

Ilse smiled warmly and extended her hand. "My dear." He bent to peck her hand. "A pleasur as always."

"Likewise. "

He straightened and stepped back. She withdrew her hand, conscious of the saliva cooling on her skin. She should have worn gloves.

He appraised her, arching one brow inquisitively. "A beta version of the new ware, I presume."

She ran a hand down the front of the dress ... relishing her role as model even as she mocked it, "Do you like it?"

He applauded her with a smile. "My compliments to the fashioneer. Does it meet spec?"

"Can I get you anything? Coffee. Tea?" She refused to let him dictate the pace of the conversation.

"Is that a no?"

She moved toward the safe haven of her desk. "It’s a courtesy, Giles."

Atherton trailed impatiently after her. "I didn't come all the way up here to stand on ceremony, Ilse"

She sighed, as if indulging a child, then ran a fingertip along one Sphinx-bordered edge of the desk. "It's early in the test cycle."

"What does that mean?"

"Patience. "

"By now you should have some preliminary data from the clinical trial."

Ilse turned to face him from behind her desk, fingers pausing delicately on polished ebony. "We're still in the process of 'skinning the first group of test subjects and acquiring feedback."

Atherton leveled his round wire-frames at her, sighting down the barrel of his nose. "But so far the interface is functional? Stable?"

"Uri's keeping a close eye on the situation. Rest assured, if there's any indication of a problem, I'll let you know."

Three years ago, Atherton Resort Hotels had conntracted with IBT for an OEM 'skin, an original equippment manufacture that would support peer-to-peer shareware. Not only would users be able to philm themselves via standard download, they would be able to xfer images between one another. Combined with a rootkit neural interface, the result would be a shared sensory environment.

It had been a challenge. Atherton had provided the third-party wetronics for the new electronic skin. Adapting and integrating them into the existing  graphene substrate of embedded nanofibers and quantum dots had been a nightmare. It had also, almost certainly, been illicit. Ilse felt certain the tronics were of foreign manufacture, probably blackmarket, and had been illegally imported.

Smuggled. There was no sense sugarcoating her involvement or the queasy legal ramifications.

That was one area where Atherton held the upper hand. From the beginning, she had made a conscious decision to assume that the project involved military or government interests and that a blinde eye would be turned to any trade restrictions or national security violations. But she hadn't asked. Officially, she didn't know the third-party ware wasn't legal. She didn't want to know. Her only interest was in the financial and technological benefits IBT would realize from the project. Beyond that she didn't care. It was none of her business.

"You'll keep me apprised," Atherton said.

"Of course."

"I'd like to review the preliminary data as soon as it becomes available," he said, brushing aside her reeassurance.

"Certainly."

By the way"
—
he tipped his head at her dress
—
"how’s the new line progressing?"

The question took her by surprise. "Fine. On schedule."

"Do you have a release date?"

She flapped a vague hand. "General availability is in few weeks. Why?"

He shrugged. "Just curious." He seemed almost embarrassed.

Her gaze sharpened. "You wouldn't be trying to wheedle a pre-GA copy? Would you?"

"Of course not." He held up both hands and beat a hasty retreat. "Nothing of the sort."

She let a sly smile, bordering on conspiratorial, into place. "I may be able to arrange it."

He shook his head, then quickly made his way to the door, as if he had overstayed his welcome. "I'll be in touch."

She nodded and watched him leave, wondering what had he neglected to tell her.

_______

Giles Atherton emerged from the IBT building ... and found himself caught in a smart mob on Pacific Avenue. One of those crowds that suddenly formed, for no apparent reason, around an event.

Typically they were the result of advertising
—
some biochemically or electronically mediated urge that people spontaneously, thoughtlessly, responded to. No different from a simple microorganism.

He hated smobs, it was like stepping into a seething

colony of bacteria. Information exchange. Quorum sensing. Kin selection. Group swarming.

His cheeks flushed, then prickled. Sweat broke out, and festered in his armpits and on the nape of his neck. His scalp began to itch.

He cupped a hand over his nose and mouth to ward off a plume of incense from an aromatherapy vendor.

Where the hell was Uri? He coughed, a real lung scraper, and searched the cars on the street. The skintech had insisted on seeing him immediately affter the meeting with Ilse. They needed to talk, Uri had said, presumably about something that could only be discussed in person.

A crowd of Lost Boys and Gashlycrumb Tinies formed around him, seemingly out of nowhere.

Eyes watering, Atherton bulled his way through the smob. He loosened his tie and collar, and hunched his shoulders against the suffocating press.

He passed a clot of Transcendental Vibrationists. The TVs sat in the middle of the sidewalk, shaking tambourines, beating drums and chanting. An accordionist, philmed as a Day of the Dead skeleton wearing a leather vest, sombrero, and cowboy boots, regaled him from the recessed entrance to an office building. Several steps farther on, the haunting notes of a harmonica unfurled from a breezeway beetween two buildings. Peals of childish laughter echoed off the barrel vault overhead, where a clown was twisting balloons into animals.

The cacophony washed over him, followed by a wave of dizziness. Nausea boiled up from his bowels. He choked on a lungful of air and felt his gorge rise against the smell of pickled seaweed being sold at a nearby Sue-Sh
é
kiosk.

"Relax," he told himself through gritted teeth. "Breathe."

Three Barbies approached, long-legged, with unnnaturally large breasts, and coiffed hair. One of the young women cut a passing glance at him.

"Apphia?" he said.

The Barbie quickened her pace, heels sharp. Atherton, tasting bile, stumbled after her. "Apphia. Wait."

The girl spun, defiant. "Leave me alone, you fucking perv. Before I call the police on your ass."

It wasn't his daughter. It couldn't be. Apphia would never speak that way. Not to him, or anyone else. He'd raised her better than that.

"My mistake," he muttered, apologetic.

"No shit," the girl said, spitting the words. Full of spite for him, or whatever she thought he repreesented.

Bent over the dagger of pain in his stomach, Atherton watched her hurry to catch up to her friends. When she was gone, disappeared into the crowd, he glanced around, disoriented, uncertain where he was. He didn't recognize any of the storefronts. The street names were unfamiliar. Suddenly it felt like he was the one who was lost, not Apphia. His faith was being tested, not hers.

He had to believe that his daughter would find her way back. Her repudiation of him wasn't a repudiation of God. It was the messenger she hated, not the message. Jesus would shepherd her back, return her to the fold. To doubt this was to doubt God, a failure on his part.

Still, a lost sheep should be searched for. It was an act not only of duty, but of love. Without that there could be no forgiveness. No reconciliation.

A low-slung Mitsubishi sedan eased up to the curb next to him and glided to a stop. The passenger door slid open. Inside, Uri, dressed as a Russian Mafioso in black denim, gestured for him impatiently.

Breathing heavily, Atherton slumped into black contoured leather and leaned his head back against the cushioned rest. The ceiling and dash were brushed stainless steel, inlaid with green tourmaline, the diamond windows and adjustable frame fully programmable and stealth-enabled.

"What are you doing all the way down here?" the skin tech asked.

Atherton dismissed the question with a brusque wave of one hand. "You're late," he said.

"Traffic was heavy."

"Just get us out of here," Atherton said. He shut  his eyes, feeling suddenly weary.

The sedan slid away from the curb and commotion.

"How did the meeting go?" Uri said.

"Fine." At last, Atherton could breathe again. The ache in his stomach and the pressure in his chest were easing. He opened his eyes. "I asked when the new fashion ware was due out."

"And?"

"She didn't connect it to the beta test. She thought I was interested in obtaining a prerelease of the philm."

Uri's lip twisted in a smirk. "That sounds like her. Self-centered bitch. Thinks the world revolves around her."

"She was philmed in one of the new dresses. That made things a lot easier. Less suspicious." Atherton fixed him with a pointed gaze. "Right now, I'm far more worried about you."