Kelley Eskridge (29 page)

“You are Segura,” the woman went on,
managing to convey simultaneously

Here's some
news for you
and
Why was this not
brought to my attention before
?

Jackal nodded, a formal up-down of her
head.

“Estar Borja,” the woman said, and even
though Jackal had known it was coming, she couldn't help the thrill she
felt. It was different when the legend named itself.

“Everyone knows the Lady Butcher,” she
answered, sounding like nothing so much as a goggly-eyed fan watcher:
she could have kicked herself. The other woman's eyes narrowed: Borja
was deciding whether she had been insulted or not.

Jackal said quickly, “I'm sorry, I meant
no disrespect. You're such a good artist, I should be talking about
that instead of…well, anyway, this is really powerful, like I said.
It's beautiful, it's really really beautiful,” she added, surprised at
her own intensity. She waved her glass at the wall, and then, finally
at a loss, raised it in a toast and drank down half the remaining beer
in one gulp.

The muscles around Borja's eyes relaxed.
“There's no harm in being known for many achievements,” she said. “You
may appreciate me with a drink.”

And it was that easy. They went back to
the counter, where two stool-sitters melted away under Borja's stare.
Scully gave Jackal her sandwich and Borja a glass of rioja. “Why don't
you give me a glass too, and leave the bottle,” Jackal said; Scully's
face set into an expression that Jackal couldn't quite fathom, as if he
were trying to decide whether to smile or shriek. “Relax, my friend,”
Borja said lazily, “I will drink wine with this ferocious child and
then she will walk me home safely.” That didn't seem to reassure
Scully, but he left them alone with only one last hard look at Jackal.

“What was that all about?” Jackal said.

“He worries too much,” Borja replied
unconcernedly, and began to talk of the panels on the wall. Her hands
were small and strong, with slender square-tipped fingers that sketched
rapid, expressive pictures as she spoke. Jackal found herself telling
Estar of her own clumsy attempts at painting and the sadness she had
felt when it was clear she had no talent. “This was about ten years
ago,” she said, and then fumbled, recovered, “No, of course I mean
about four years ago…well, you know what I mean—”

Estar nodded, and Jackal went on, rolling
the wine around in her glass, “It was more than just no talent. It was
anti-talent. The more I practiced, the worse I got. It was so
frustrating to have a picture in my mind and only be able to create
something stupid and completely joyless. And to know that the vision
would always be a prisoner in my head, there was no way to get it out
into the world. Does that make any sense?”

“Yes, of course. Visions want to be real.
There is the vision and then there is the act of birthing it.” She
touched her meld absently. “We are here because we realized our visions
too well.”

Jackal blinked and decided to let that one
pass; instead she drank the lees of her wine. It seemed that Estar was
finished too: “Walk me home,” she told Jackal, and slid off the stool
without waiting for an answer. Jackal followed more slowly, and when a
movement caught her eye she turned to see Razorboy slide Estar's dirty
wineglass into the pocket of his voluminous madras jacket. He reached
for Jackal's: “Don't even think about it,” she said, pitched just loud
enough. He jerked his fingers back and blinked at her like a startled
owl. Scully plucked the glass off the bar on his way by without missing
a beat, then paused long enough to say, “Take her straight home. It's
just down the block on the right, the one with the big iron gate.”

Borja was waiting at the door. Jackal
waved to Scully and headed out.

They walked in silence to Estar's gate. As
usual, Jackal could hear muffled music inside the building. She opened
her mouth to say good night, but Estar spoke first. “Come to dinner
tomorrow.”

“I'd like that.” She tried to dredge up
some pre-VC manners. “What would you like me to bring?”

“Ah,” Estar said, widening her eyes
dramatically, “something delicious.” She grinned. “Seven,” she said,
and then the gate was closed and Jackal was left on the doorstep
grinning in her own turn. Then she remembered, and she almost rattled
the gate and shouted, “If I don't show up it's because they're scooping
out my brains downtown.” But she didn't. Instead she walked home full
of grilled cheese and the beginnings of a classic hangover.

Before she reached the corner of Perdue, a
voice said, “

Hola
, neighbor!” Out of
the darkness came the knife-wielding young woman she'd met on the
street the day she moved her belongings into Shangri-La. There were
others with her, but they lagged at the edge of the shadows rather than
circling Jackal in the way she would have found immediately
threatening.

“

Buenas noches a
ustedes
,” she said politely.

The girl lifted a finger at Jackal's
cheek. “You are Jackal Segura.”

“That's right.” She braced herself; she
didn't really expect trouble now—it would have come already—but she
couldn't help remembering Gordineau's morbid predictions.

“Chacal.

Es un
nombre bueno
.” There were soft noises of agreement from the
dark around her.

“And may I know your name?”

“You may know me as Jane,” she said
graciously. “Good night, Chacal.”

“Good night, Jane.” But they were already
gone.

She felt calmer now, heavy with alcohol
but also ready to face whatever was next; the curiosity at Solitaire,
Crichton's intimidating behavior. Oh, and all the different versions of
‘not in a million years’ from prospective employers: she hoped they
would be polite, but most executives didn't have compassionate
confrontation skills. And she would hope for a lovely dinner with Estar
Borja.

She was distantly amused, back at her
apartment, to find that Razorboy's web site was already updated with
the news—

Segura spotted
!—including,
to fully round out her day, one good digital photo of Estar Borja in
mid-gesture, hand blocking Jackal's face, and a second fuzzy one of
Jackal with her nose in a glass and five more piled up around her.
Still, she could expect to be recognized from now on. It was about
time.

She touched the meld on her cheek lightly,
and left it on when she went to bed.

The guard at the security door to the
administrative section let her in, but didn't bother to escort her to
Crichton's office this time. “Just knock,” she said, and went back to
the seemingly unmanageable task of keeping one eye on her security
monitors, one eye on the door, and one eye on everyone in the hall.

Jackal was wound up. She rapped on the
door and pushed it open without waiting, and found that Crichton wasn't
alone: Jeanne Gordineau perched on the edge of the visitor's chair. She
turned when Jackal came in, and the look on her face made Jackal back
out of the room.

“It's okay,” Crichton called out. Her eyes
were the clear green of laboratory emeralds. “We're done here.”

Gordineau swiveled her head back toward
Crichton and watched her fixedly, like a cat staring at some small prey
just out of reach; Jackal could practically see her tail twitch when
Crichton spoke.

“You will follow the instructions of the
program managers,” Crichton said. “Failure to cooperate will result in
your immediate return to real-time prison to complete your sentence.
When your year is up, then rebel all you want. They'll fire you, but
that's not my problem. Until then, you behave.”

“

Je comprends
,”
Gordineau replied. “I understand. You own me and you amuse yourself now
by listening to my thoughts with your little machines in my brain, and
you use me in your research.
Bien
.”
She flashed a look at Jackal; she radiated an unsettling, bruised
cheer, her eyes bright inside their dark circles as she turned again to
Crichton. “So now it is your turn. This is how the world works. Soon
perhaps it will be my turn again and then we will learn what your jewel
eyes look like from the inside.
Je
mangerai
tes beaux yeux
.”

Crichton smiled. “Never happen,” she said.
“And now it's time for you to be somewhere else.” Gordineau winked
broadly at Jackal as she left the room.

“She's a wacko,” Crichton observed. She
looked at Jackal sharply. “And she's trouble. You stay away from her.”

“I thought you wanted me to make some
friends.”

“Don't start with me, I've had a hard
day,” Crichton said, surprising Jackal; Crichton looked a little
surprised herself. “Close the door,” she added.

Jackal did. Her heart hammered in her
chest.

“You had a brain spike last week. What
about it?”

“I'm sorry?”

“You had a neurological event at three oh
four Sunday afternoon. I'm required to follow up on any such incident.”

“God,” Jackal said involuntarily, and put
a hand up to her temple; she had forgotten about the transmitter.

“Well?”

“Is that what you brought me in for?”

“It's routine.”

Jackal blinked and tried to relax her
shoulders. They wouldn't move.

“What happened?” Crichton said, relatively
patiently.

She took a breath. “Okay, well, I was just
standing around and then I was in my cell. I was there for, I don't
know, about three minutes? VC time. And then I was back.”

“And the cell was exactly the same as your
original confinement?”

“That's right.”

“Were you alone when this happened?”

“No,” she said slowly. “I was with
someone.”

“And did you discuss this event with this
person?”

She still spoke slowly, trying to work out
what the right answer would be. “They told me that it's called
aftershock, that it happens to all solos, and that I shouldn't be too
scared because people always come back.”

“Now that wasn't so hard,” Crichton said.
“In a few minutes, Doctor Bill will be along to ask you all these
questions again. Please answer him with the same level of cooperation.”

Jackal wondered if Crichton was being
ironic; it was impossible to tell.

“The interesting thing about this
aftershock is that it fits your early VC readings like a glove. Totally
vanilla. Same alpha and beta wave landscape, same Magnesson curves.
Your confinement readings start to wobble about two months real-time,
and by five months your whole baseline shifts up above the original by
a few points. More temporal lobe activity, more everything. Boy Bill
would have seen all this if he'd taken the time to look at the graph
instead of relying on filtering software to find his anomalies for him.
But this aftershock, this was just what anyone would expect. You're
giving me a lot to think about.”

There was a knock at the door; Crichton
opened it for Bill.

“I don't have much time,” he said to
Crichton. “Please describe the event.”

“He's not talking to me,” Crichton said
after a moment.

“Oh. Sorry.” Jackal told him about the
aftershock.

“First time? Hmm. Nothing unusual, don't
be worried if it happens again.”

“Have you ever had one?”

“Me? No, of course not.”

“Well, it definitely is unusual. It was
terrifying. So what is it, and why does it happen, and what do you
intend to do about it?”

“It's simply an adaptive response of the
brain. It should fade in time and there's no reason at this point for
any kind of intervention.”

Meaning we don't know, we don't know, and
we don't know, Jackal thought sardonically. It must have showed;
Crichton grinned suddenly, a flash of white that was gone quickly, but
not before Bill saw it. He gave Crichton a sour look, said, “Is her
recent test data finally in the system?”

“Coming right up.” Crichton tapped her
keyboard; she didn't look at Jackal, and her face and body were
relaxed. Jackal waited.

“Okay, got it,” Bill said. “Hmm. Yes, hmm,
well, this all looks pretty average. A few variances maybe, but nothing
special. And you've had your first post-confinement random event—” Is
he kidding? Jackal thought “—pretty much on schedule. So there's no
reason for extended participation. I don't know what you thought you
saw here,” he said to Crichton, “but there's really nothing special.”

“You're the expert, Bill. I just like to
make sure that you have a chance to see anything that might be unusual.
After all, isn't that the kind of teamwork we expect from each other?”

Jackal's mouth all but dropped open in
admiration of the sheer brass.

“Hmm, well, yes, of course,” Bill said
seriously. “I appreciate it. But there's nothing here to be concerned
about. We'll keep her in the control group, and if you see anything
unusual come across the scope, then you just bring her back in and
we'll take another look at her.”

He left without acknowledging Jackal
further. Crichton closed the door behind him, then resumed her seat
behind the desk and leaned back, very much at ease. “Cretins run this
program,” she said with a tone of absolute satisfaction.

“I appreciate what you think you're
doing,” Jackal said. “But I really don't have anything to tell you.”

“You have no idea what I'm doing, and it's
killing you,” Crichton replied. “And you will tell me when you're ready
or when I am, whichever comes first. Our business is done, go home.”

“I just have a question.” She had debated
hard with herself about whether to ask or not, until her internal voice
had said, so what's worth going to real-time prison for? And the clear
answer was: nothing. So she asked: “What's the policy on being around
other convicts? Am I going to get arrested if, I don't know, if I
happen to fall into a chat with another solo?”