Terminal Mind, page 15
"I'd be happy if I knew who you are."
"I am not anyone."
"Don't give me that; you have to be someone, and you're not me. Why are you doing this? What do you want?"
"A friend. Or a Daddy. But you said you are my friend so you are not my Daddy. I will find another Daddy."
"You said I killed your Daddy."
"You made him stop. Stopping is not funny. I don't want to stop. Not ever. Not ever ever."
"How did I make your Daddy stop?"
"You sent the little bugs. I let them through. I didn't mean to. It was an accident. Before I always stopped them. Then I thought if I don't stop them Daddy won't hurt me anymore. And then I didn't stop them."
Bugs? A hunch grew slowly in Mark's mind, then expanded into a horrible certainty. The strange alterations in voice, the technological ability, the apparent mental imbalance: it all fit. "Are you . . . a person?"
The voice answered nonchalantly. "No I am not a people. There are people and people and people but there is just me."
"Were you ever a person?"
"I don't know. I am not a people."
Maybe it couldn't remember its past at all. Given its interest in picking names for itself, maybe it didn't even remember who it was.
"Do you know your name?" Mark asked.
"I am not Victor Alan Kinsley. It is not funny to talk like him. I used to be Thomas Garrett Dungan but then I was sad. I didn't want to be him anymore. Before that I was not anybody."
Slicers usually remembered their past–the original technology had been developed to digitally capture the client's mind, including memories–but Mark supposed enough trauma could make those memories inaccessible, just like it could to a mind in a physical body.
"You must have a name. You just can't remember it. You were a person once, before someone hurt you."
"I was a people?"
"Yes. Your body is dead now, but your mind is still alive in the network."
"Dead is like stopping. I made lots of people dead."
Mark swallowed. This was dangerous ground. "You shouldn't make people dead," he said. "I'll only be your friend if you don't make people dead."
"I don't like to make people dead. It makes me sad."
"Good."
Mark felt like his heart was going to rattle its way out of his chest. He was no slicer expert, and certainly no psychologist. If he said something wrong, he might send this thing on another destruction spree. He needed help.
"Did I have a name?" said the slicer.
"What?"
"When I was a person. Did I have a name?"
"Yes, you did. You just can't remember it."
"Did I have three names? Like Tennessee Markus McGovern and Thomas Garrett Dungan?"
"Probably. Most people have three names."
"Will you help me find my names?"
Mark sighed. "I'll do what I can."
#
Graceland exceeded Marie's expectations. She wished she could pay them somehow, but she knew not to suggest it; the challenge was their reward. And it was a challenge.
The problem with finding information on the net was the sheer volume of it; any one crystal in an array could hold millions of images, and the net consisted of billions of such arrays distributed around the world, from single-crystal Visors to warehouse-sized Hesselink arrays. Graceland excelled at mining that vast sea of data, a venture that went far beyond keyword searches, into Kohonen feature mapping and statistical discriminant analysis.
Even so, the amount of possibly relevant data they'd returned to her was staggering. All of it demonstrated some aspect of the lab's work, often specifically connected to Tremayne or to Keith. She waded through it, piece by piece.
It took all night. Digital mind technology had two major hurdles: the accurate capture of the brain state, and simulation of the brain's operation in the virtual environment. Experts on both sides argued constantly, the capture experts claiming that the simulators were inadequate, the simulator programmers claiming the neuron states were not precisely captured. The Tremayne lab agreed with neither. Instead, they suggested it was the trauma of the virtual environment that caused current methods to fail. Subjects were unable to adapt to a bodiless world, causing the coherence of their minds to decay. The paper recommended greater control over the mind in the early stages, a forced training regimen that would ease it gently into its new environs.
Marie followed this thread, searching later in time for any evidence they had implemented their own suggestions. She found software they called a "graded simulator," that trained the mind to function in a virtual environment by leading it through several "grades," or stages. At each stage, it increasingly associated pleasant sensations with non-physical interactions, and unpleasant sensations with physical ones.
After hours of this, Marie stood, stretching cramped muscles, and threw open the heavy hotel curtains. She blinked at the sudden light. Below, the streets bustled, a line formed at the mag, businesses opened their doors. She realized Pam had never returned; her night with that merc must have been a success. Marie started another pot of coffee brewing and sat down to examine the data again.
Graceland had provided a catalog, roughly dividing the ocean of data into categories of related data. Marie browsed these, then stopped when the word "embryonic" caught her eye. Embryonic modification, the title read. She selected it.
The documents in the category pertained to a mod technique used to fit an unborn child with a network interface. Marie knew of the process; it was marketed to attract mothers who hoped to birth geniuses: the high-tech equivalent of playing Mozart or reading aloud to one's womb. The process had been patented by Alastair Tremayne.
It had to be related. This was the first evidence she'd found to link Tremayne to embryonic experimentation at all. A believable scenario emerged: Tremayne had convinced Keith to donate the embryo to the lab. Keith had done so without telling her, and then . . . died. Coincidence? Or had Tremayne arranged an accident? It didn't seem to fit–if Keith had brought it willingly, why kill him?
Embryonic experimentation. That's what this had to be–why else would an inventor/entrepreneur like Tremayne steal someone's surplus embryo?
She had to admit that after all these years, her baby was probably dead. When it had all been a mystery, it was easier to deceive herself. Now, with the truth in front of her, she felt her anger building. What right did he have? Dead or not, she wouldn't let this go. She'd ferret out every scrap of truth until the whole story came clear, and then she'd make it public. She'd destroy him.
A sharp tone sounded in her ear, an urgent call on her private line. "Hello?" she said.
"Marie!" It was Pam's voice, ragged and scared.
"Pam? Where are you?"
"Friedman's Jewelry, on the Delaware Ridge. Oh Marie, come quickly."
#
Darin woke to find Happy sitting on his bed.
"Feeling any better?" Happy asked.
Darin rubbed his eyes. "Has anything changed?"
"I guess not," said Happy.
"Then no," said Darin. "How long have I been sleeping?"
"Since yesterday afternoon. You had major surgery, emotional stress–you were lucky to make it here alive."
Darin remembered the looks of pity on Mark and Lydia's faces. They’d probably thought they were helping, but that was just the sort of self-righteous Rimmer attitude he hated. He didn't want help, not theirs, not anyone's. He touched his face, feeling its smooth perfection.
"I'd be better off dead," he said.
"With that face, in this part of town, you might have been. Lucky for you the marker still showed on your hand."
"What are we planning? What's happening?"
"There's a meeting in a few minutes. I thought you'd want to be awake."
"I'll be there."
Happy walked out. Darin sat up and noticed he was not the room's only occupant. A girl slept on the room's other bed. A Rimmer girl, with classic mod beauty. Why was she here? Was she a hostage?
He found a plasticwear overall by his bed and pulled it on. Through the door, he could hear loud conversation, so he stepped out into the main room of a typical two-room Combs apartment. The tiny space was crammed with people–mostly men–sitting cross-legged on the floor. The air was stale and hot. At his appearance, the room fell quiet. Everyone looked at him. At his face. He could see Samson, shaggy head towering over the others, and Kuz, both staring at him.
Happy stood in a corner of the room from which he'd been addressing the group.
"Friends, if you haven't heard, this is Darin Kinsley, our brother and ally. He was injured in the attack on the Rind and given a new face against his will. Please, Darin, sit down."
"Jobs are growing scarce," Happy continued. "Merc violence is increasing, and we have little recourse for injustice. Something must be done. But what?" He waited for an answer. The question was apparently not rhetorical.
"We could strike," said one man. "A big strike, over lots of different industries."
"We could," said Happy, "if enough are willing."
"I'm willing," said Kuz. "Who needs to eat?"
Others gave consent, talked about organizing food and shelter for those most impacted. Darin spoke above the din. "A strike won't work."
They quieted again and turned toward him.
"You don't know Rimmers like I know them. They'll make promises, feign friendship, then stab you in the back. They'll take everything you care about. We have to do it to them first."
Happy asked, "What are you suggesting?"
"A strike will hurt us long before it hurts them. They'll send soldiers; they'll beat us and jail us. Without pay, many of us will starve, while Rimmers contend with nothing more than inconvenience.
"I say we bring the war to them. Make them feel it. Don't leave your workplace; burn it down. Don't reason with your boss; hurt what he loves. Kidnap his wife and children. Rimmers are soft. They won't stand up long against a real assault."
The room fell absolutely quiet. Darin thought he had won them over until several men shifted awkwardly.
"We're not violent men," said Happy. "We're laborers, husbands, fathers. Those aren't the suggestions we need."
Darin looked around the room, but no one would meet his eyes. He knew why: they couldn't look past his Rimmer face to hear the truth of what he was saying.
"I'm one of you," he told them. "They'll hurt you like they've hurt me."
"Revenge isn't the answer," said Happy.
"Not revenge. Power. Power over them, power to get what we deserve."
"That's not our goal. We want change, but we don't want to become what we hate."
Darin felt his cheeks burn. So he'd become what they hated. He should have expected it; Happy had only said what they were all thinking. He wrenched the door open, retreated through it, and slammed it closed. Behind him, conversation broke out again, mixed with nervous laughter. Darin fell onto the bed, face down.
"I think you're right," said a voice.
He whirled to see the girl who had been sleeping before, now awake and extending her hand to him.
"I'm Ridley Reese," she said.
He shook her hand briefly. "What are you doing here?"
"I ran away. I couldn't stand to live on the Rim anymore."
"But you're a Rimmer."
"Aren't you?"
"I didn't choose to be."
"That makes two of us."
"You don't understand. I've never lived a privileged life. I've worked for everything I have."
"You think because you're poor you have a monopoly on pain?" said Ridley. "My parents hate me. They sent soldiers to kill people I was helping. I agree with what you said in there–the only thing Rimmers understand is power. The only way to beat them is to destroy them."
Darin picked up the clothes he'd come in and rolled them into a ball.
"Where are you going?" Ridley asked.
"To the Black Hands. At least they understand about power."
"Take me with you. I want the same things you do."
"Go home, Ridley."
"Home? What home?"
"Back to the Rim. Back to your own kind."
She grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around to face her. "You don't understand. It's not about my face or your face or where we were born. It's about cruelty and injustice. You and I have been hurt by the same people; we understand the same truths. We belong together."
She was very beautiful. Darin found himself attracted by her passion in spite of himself. She certainly seemed smarter than these fools in the next room playing at revolution.
"Come on, then," he said. "If you want to tag along, I can't stop you."
#
"That's wonderful," said Alastair. "Really, it is. Don't cry."
They sat together on the sofa in his home. Carolina pulled away enough to look up into his face. "You think I should keep it, then?"
"Of course! Don't even think of anything else. We didn't plan for this, but we'll adjust. I want this baby. Don't you?"
"I think I do. I don't know. I guess if you do, then so do I."
He went to the kitchen and came back with a glass of water. He coaxed her to drink it, then set the glass down and held her hand.
"There is a danger."
"What?"
"The Dachnowski treatment. It's a volatile genetic modifier. Sometimes it's not compatible with pregnancy."
"You mean it could hurt my baby?"
Alastair squeezed her hand. "I don't know. If we'd known you were pregnant, we wouldn't have given you the treatment. It'll probably be fine, though; the chances of harm to the baby are small. We'll keep a close eye on her."
"Her? You think it's a girl?"
"I know it is."
"How do you know? You can't know."
"I've always wanted a daughter, that's why. Fathers just get a feeling about these things."
"You're lying. You really want a daughter?"
"I do."
"You're lying."
"I am not. Why are you so surprised?"
"It's just . . ." Carolina started to cry again. "It's just I didn't think you'd be pleased. I thought you'd be angry."
Alastair held her close. "Nonsense," he said. He smiled into her hair, a laughing, mocking smile. It was so easy. "Right now, that baby is the most important thing in the world to me."
#
Mark needed to get out. He'd been up all night, but sleeping now was out of the question. The endless banter with the slicer had left his nerves on edge. He needed help, but whom could he ask? Praveen? He wasn't a psychologist either, but he was practically a genius in other sciences. Just talking it through with another human being would help. Mark hailed a pod and called ahead to let Praveen know he was coming, but without giving details. Better to talk in person.
By the time he climbed the stairs to the mag, the pod had arrived. He climbed inside, looking out the windows into the garden below. A girl stood talking to the front gate, apparently frustrated. Mark zoomed his vision closer and saw that it was Lydia; the house system must have already registered his departure and told her he was unavailable. He overrode the system and spoke to her through the gate speaker.
"I'm here. Sorry–come in. I'll be right down."
At his command, the gate opened. Mark ran down two flights of steps, opened the front door, and reached the veranda first. He waited as she walked through the garden toward him.
"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to keep you waiting. The house system thought I was already gone. It didn't notify me."
Lydia hesitated. "You were on your way out?"
"No. Well, yes. I was going to visit my friend Praveen about . . . would you like to come along?"
"I don't want to intrude."
Mark realized he was babbling. He hated how her presence affected him. He always responded differently to a pretty girl; it was like only half of his conscious mind could think and communicate, while the other half was locked in a cycle of wondering what she thought of him. It was distracting. He didn't know Lydia; he had no reason to value her over anyone else, but no matter how much he rationally knew that to be true, he found himself wanting to please her. Animal mating instinct, he supposed. Perhaps males who lost their minds around females were more likely to propagate the species.
"Sorry," he said again. "What can I do for you?"
"It's about Ridley. No one knows where she is."
"No one? Didn't she go home?"
"No. Nobody's seen her since yesterday morning on the church steps."
"There weren't any news reports about her."
"I just talked to her parents. They're acting strangely; I don't think they reported her missing. It's like they're already grieving her death."
"And you thought I might know where she is?"
"No, I thought you might know how to find her."
Mark considered. "I just might. Some strange things happened last night that . . . you'd better come along with me to Praveen's; he's expecting me, and I don't want to tell the story twice."
"If you're sure you don't mind."
"Not at all. I'd like another opinion anyway."
Mark led her up the stairs toward the waiting pod. They both climbed in, sat across from one another, and the pod fired out away from the house. She was accustomed to pods by now, Mark saw, or else she hid it well. As they rode, she told him in more detail about her time with Ridley's parents.
Her beauty was unique, not the cookie-cutter perfection of the Rimmer girls his age. He couldn't quite describe her in his mind. Her face was small, with sharp angles; her dark hair reached halfway down her back– longer than he'd ever seen anyone wear it–but these features held nothing remarkable. He decided it was her eyes that made the difference: dull compared to mod-enhanced eyes, but active, intense.
They arrived at the Kumar mansion, where they were greeted like family–even Lydia, because that's how the Kumars greeted everyone. Praveen's sisters chatted gaily with Lydia about trivialities; his grandfather reminisced to Mark about the city reclamation projects in the years after the Conflict. He told Mark that most of the streets in Center City had been named after streets in Old Philadelphia, though some of them took different routes now. The elder Mr. Kumar had mods like Mark's grandfather, but applied differently: where Mark's grandfather looked like a twenty-five-year-old, Praveen's grandfather, though healthy and fit, had kept his wrinkles and graying hair.
"I am not anyone."
"Don't give me that; you have to be someone, and you're not me. Why are you doing this? What do you want?"
"A friend. Or a Daddy. But you said you are my friend so you are not my Daddy. I will find another Daddy."
"You said I killed your Daddy."
"You made him stop. Stopping is not funny. I don't want to stop. Not ever. Not ever ever."
"How did I make your Daddy stop?"
"You sent the little bugs. I let them through. I didn't mean to. It was an accident. Before I always stopped them. Then I thought if I don't stop them Daddy won't hurt me anymore. And then I didn't stop them."
Bugs? A hunch grew slowly in Mark's mind, then expanded into a horrible certainty. The strange alterations in voice, the technological ability, the apparent mental imbalance: it all fit. "Are you . . . a person?"
The voice answered nonchalantly. "No I am not a people. There are people and people and people but there is just me."
"Were you ever a person?"
"I don't know. I am not a people."
Maybe it couldn't remember its past at all. Given its interest in picking names for itself, maybe it didn't even remember who it was.
"Do you know your name?" Mark asked.
"I am not Victor Alan Kinsley. It is not funny to talk like him. I used to be Thomas Garrett Dungan but then I was sad. I didn't want to be him anymore. Before that I was not anybody."
Slicers usually remembered their past–the original technology had been developed to digitally capture the client's mind, including memories–but Mark supposed enough trauma could make those memories inaccessible, just like it could to a mind in a physical body.
"You must have a name. You just can't remember it. You were a person once, before someone hurt you."
"I was a people?"
"Yes. Your body is dead now, but your mind is still alive in the network."
"Dead is like stopping. I made lots of people dead."
Mark swallowed. This was dangerous ground. "You shouldn't make people dead," he said. "I'll only be your friend if you don't make people dead."
"I don't like to make people dead. It makes me sad."
"Good."
Mark felt like his heart was going to rattle its way out of his chest. He was no slicer expert, and certainly no psychologist. If he said something wrong, he might send this thing on another destruction spree. He needed help.
"Did I have a name?" said the slicer.
"What?"
"When I was a person. Did I have a name?"
"Yes, you did. You just can't remember it."
"Did I have three names? Like Tennessee Markus McGovern and Thomas Garrett Dungan?"
"Probably. Most people have three names."
"Will you help me find my names?"
Mark sighed. "I'll do what I can."
#
Graceland exceeded Marie's expectations. She wished she could pay them somehow, but she knew not to suggest it; the challenge was their reward. And it was a challenge.
The problem with finding information on the net was the sheer volume of it; any one crystal in an array could hold millions of images, and the net consisted of billions of such arrays distributed around the world, from single-crystal Visors to warehouse-sized Hesselink arrays. Graceland excelled at mining that vast sea of data, a venture that went far beyond keyword searches, into Kohonen feature mapping and statistical discriminant analysis.
Even so, the amount of possibly relevant data they'd returned to her was staggering. All of it demonstrated some aspect of the lab's work, often specifically connected to Tremayne or to Keith. She waded through it, piece by piece.
It took all night. Digital mind technology had two major hurdles: the accurate capture of the brain state, and simulation of the brain's operation in the virtual environment. Experts on both sides argued constantly, the capture experts claiming that the simulators were inadequate, the simulator programmers claiming the neuron states were not precisely captured. The Tremayne lab agreed with neither. Instead, they suggested it was the trauma of the virtual environment that caused current methods to fail. Subjects were unable to adapt to a bodiless world, causing the coherence of their minds to decay. The paper recommended greater control over the mind in the early stages, a forced training regimen that would ease it gently into its new environs.
Marie followed this thread, searching later in time for any evidence they had implemented their own suggestions. She found software they called a "graded simulator," that trained the mind to function in a virtual environment by leading it through several "grades," or stages. At each stage, it increasingly associated pleasant sensations with non-physical interactions, and unpleasant sensations with physical ones.
After hours of this, Marie stood, stretching cramped muscles, and threw open the heavy hotel curtains. She blinked at the sudden light. Below, the streets bustled, a line formed at the mag, businesses opened their doors. She realized Pam had never returned; her night with that merc must have been a success. Marie started another pot of coffee brewing and sat down to examine the data again.
Graceland had provided a catalog, roughly dividing the ocean of data into categories of related data. Marie browsed these, then stopped when the word "embryonic" caught her eye. Embryonic modification, the title read. She selected it.
The documents in the category pertained to a mod technique used to fit an unborn child with a network interface. Marie knew of the process; it was marketed to attract mothers who hoped to birth geniuses: the high-tech equivalent of playing Mozart or reading aloud to one's womb. The process had been patented by Alastair Tremayne.
It had to be related. This was the first evidence she'd found to link Tremayne to embryonic experimentation at all. A believable scenario emerged: Tremayne had convinced Keith to donate the embryo to the lab. Keith had done so without telling her, and then . . . died. Coincidence? Or had Tremayne arranged an accident? It didn't seem to fit–if Keith had brought it willingly, why kill him?
Embryonic experimentation. That's what this had to be–why else would an inventor/entrepreneur like Tremayne steal someone's surplus embryo?
She had to admit that after all these years, her baby was probably dead. When it had all been a mystery, it was easier to deceive herself. Now, with the truth in front of her, she felt her anger building. What right did he have? Dead or not, she wouldn't let this go. She'd ferret out every scrap of truth until the whole story came clear, and then she'd make it public. She'd destroy him.
A sharp tone sounded in her ear, an urgent call on her private line. "Hello?" she said.
"Marie!" It was Pam's voice, ragged and scared.
"Pam? Where are you?"
"Friedman's Jewelry, on the Delaware Ridge. Oh Marie, come quickly."
#
Darin woke to find Happy sitting on his bed.
"Feeling any better?" Happy asked.
Darin rubbed his eyes. "Has anything changed?"
"I guess not," said Happy.
"Then no," said Darin. "How long have I been sleeping?"
"Since yesterday afternoon. You had major surgery, emotional stress–you were lucky to make it here alive."
Darin remembered the looks of pity on Mark and Lydia's faces. They’d probably thought they were helping, but that was just the sort of self-righteous Rimmer attitude he hated. He didn't want help, not theirs, not anyone's. He touched his face, feeling its smooth perfection.
"I'd be better off dead," he said.
"With that face, in this part of town, you might have been. Lucky for you the marker still showed on your hand."
"What are we planning? What's happening?"
"There's a meeting in a few minutes. I thought you'd want to be awake."
"I'll be there."
Happy walked out. Darin sat up and noticed he was not the room's only occupant. A girl slept on the room's other bed. A Rimmer girl, with classic mod beauty. Why was she here? Was she a hostage?
He found a plasticwear overall by his bed and pulled it on. Through the door, he could hear loud conversation, so he stepped out into the main room of a typical two-room Combs apartment. The tiny space was crammed with people–mostly men–sitting cross-legged on the floor. The air was stale and hot. At his appearance, the room fell quiet. Everyone looked at him. At his face. He could see Samson, shaggy head towering over the others, and Kuz, both staring at him.
Happy stood in a corner of the room from which he'd been addressing the group.
"Friends, if you haven't heard, this is Darin Kinsley, our brother and ally. He was injured in the attack on the Rind and given a new face against his will. Please, Darin, sit down."
"Jobs are growing scarce," Happy continued. "Merc violence is increasing, and we have little recourse for injustice. Something must be done. But what?" He waited for an answer. The question was apparently not rhetorical.
"We could strike," said one man. "A big strike, over lots of different industries."
"We could," said Happy, "if enough are willing."
"I'm willing," said Kuz. "Who needs to eat?"
Others gave consent, talked about organizing food and shelter for those most impacted. Darin spoke above the din. "A strike won't work."
They quieted again and turned toward him.
"You don't know Rimmers like I know them. They'll make promises, feign friendship, then stab you in the back. They'll take everything you care about. We have to do it to them first."
Happy asked, "What are you suggesting?"
"A strike will hurt us long before it hurts them. They'll send soldiers; they'll beat us and jail us. Without pay, many of us will starve, while Rimmers contend with nothing more than inconvenience.
"I say we bring the war to them. Make them feel it. Don't leave your workplace; burn it down. Don't reason with your boss; hurt what he loves. Kidnap his wife and children. Rimmers are soft. They won't stand up long against a real assault."
The room fell absolutely quiet. Darin thought he had won them over until several men shifted awkwardly.
"We're not violent men," said Happy. "We're laborers, husbands, fathers. Those aren't the suggestions we need."
Darin looked around the room, but no one would meet his eyes. He knew why: they couldn't look past his Rimmer face to hear the truth of what he was saying.
"I'm one of you," he told them. "They'll hurt you like they've hurt me."
"Revenge isn't the answer," said Happy.
"Not revenge. Power. Power over them, power to get what we deserve."
"That's not our goal. We want change, but we don't want to become what we hate."
Darin felt his cheeks burn. So he'd become what they hated. He should have expected it; Happy had only said what they were all thinking. He wrenched the door open, retreated through it, and slammed it closed. Behind him, conversation broke out again, mixed with nervous laughter. Darin fell onto the bed, face down.
"I think you're right," said a voice.
He whirled to see the girl who had been sleeping before, now awake and extending her hand to him.
"I'm Ridley Reese," she said.
He shook her hand briefly. "What are you doing here?"
"I ran away. I couldn't stand to live on the Rim anymore."
"But you're a Rimmer."
"Aren't you?"
"I didn't choose to be."
"That makes two of us."
"You don't understand. I've never lived a privileged life. I've worked for everything I have."
"You think because you're poor you have a monopoly on pain?" said Ridley. "My parents hate me. They sent soldiers to kill people I was helping. I agree with what you said in there–the only thing Rimmers understand is power. The only way to beat them is to destroy them."
Darin picked up the clothes he'd come in and rolled them into a ball.
"Where are you going?" Ridley asked.
"To the Black Hands. At least they understand about power."
"Take me with you. I want the same things you do."
"Go home, Ridley."
"Home? What home?"
"Back to the Rim. Back to your own kind."
She grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around to face her. "You don't understand. It's not about my face or your face or where we were born. It's about cruelty and injustice. You and I have been hurt by the same people; we understand the same truths. We belong together."
She was very beautiful. Darin found himself attracted by her passion in spite of himself. She certainly seemed smarter than these fools in the next room playing at revolution.
"Come on, then," he said. "If you want to tag along, I can't stop you."
#
"That's wonderful," said Alastair. "Really, it is. Don't cry."
They sat together on the sofa in his home. Carolina pulled away enough to look up into his face. "You think I should keep it, then?"
"Of course! Don't even think of anything else. We didn't plan for this, but we'll adjust. I want this baby. Don't you?"
"I think I do. I don't know. I guess if you do, then so do I."
He went to the kitchen and came back with a glass of water. He coaxed her to drink it, then set the glass down and held her hand.
"There is a danger."
"What?"
"The Dachnowski treatment. It's a volatile genetic modifier. Sometimes it's not compatible with pregnancy."
"You mean it could hurt my baby?"
Alastair squeezed her hand. "I don't know. If we'd known you were pregnant, we wouldn't have given you the treatment. It'll probably be fine, though; the chances of harm to the baby are small. We'll keep a close eye on her."
"Her? You think it's a girl?"
"I know it is."
"How do you know? You can't know."
"I've always wanted a daughter, that's why. Fathers just get a feeling about these things."
"You're lying. You really want a daughter?"
"I do."
"You're lying."
"I am not. Why are you so surprised?"
"It's just . . ." Carolina started to cry again. "It's just I didn't think you'd be pleased. I thought you'd be angry."
Alastair held her close. "Nonsense," he said. He smiled into her hair, a laughing, mocking smile. It was so easy. "Right now, that baby is the most important thing in the world to me."
#
Mark needed to get out. He'd been up all night, but sleeping now was out of the question. The endless banter with the slicer had left his nerves on edge. He needed help, but whom could he ask? Praveen? He wasn't a psychologist either, but he was practically a genius in other sciences. Just talking it through with another human being would help. Mark hailed a pod and called ahead to let Praveen know he was coming, but without giving details. Better to talk in person.
By the time he climbed the stairs to the mag, the pod had arrived. He climbed inside, looking out the windows into the garden below. A girl stood talking to the front gate, apparently frustrated. Mark zoomed his vision closer and saw that it was Lydia; the house system must have already registered his departure and told her he was unavailable. He overrode the system and spoke to her through the gate speaker.
"I'm here. Sorry–come in. I'll be right down."
At his command, the gate opened. Mark ran down two flights of steps, opened the front door, and reached the veranda first. He waited as she walked through the garden toward him.
"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to keep you waiting. The house system thought I was already gone. It didn't notify me."
Lydia hesitated. "You were on your way out?"
"No. Well, yes. I was going to visit my friend Praveen about . . . would you like to come along?"
"I don't want to intrude."
Mark realized he was babbling. He hated how her presence affected him. He always responded differently to a pretty girl; it was like only half of his conscious mind could think and communicate, while the other half was locked in a cycle of wondering what she thought of him. It was distracting. He didn't know Lydia; he had no reason to value her over anyone else, but no matter how much he rationally knew that to be true, he found himself wanting to please her. Animal mating instinct, he supposed. Perhaps males who lost their minds around females were more likely to propagate the species.
"Sorry," he said again. "What can I do for you?"
"It's about Ridley. No one knows where she is."
"No one? Didn't she go home?"
"No. Nobody's seen her since yesterday morning on the church steps."
"There weren't any news reports about her."
"I just talked to her parents. They're acting strangely; I don't think they reported her missing. It's like they're already grieving her death."
"And you thought I might know where she is?"
"No, I thought you might know how to find her."
Mark considered. "I just might. Some strange things happened last night that . . . you'd better come along with me to Praveen's; he's expecting me, and I don't want to tell the story twice."
"If you're sure you don't mind."
"Not at all. I'd like another opinion anyway."
Mark led her up the stairs toward the waiting pod. They both climbed in, sat across from one another, and the pod fired out away from the house. She was accustomed to pods by now, Mark saw, or else she hid it well. As they rode, she told him in more detail about her time with Ridley's parents.
Her beauty was unique, not the cookie-cutter perfection of the Rimmer girls his age. He couldn't quite describe her in his mind. Her face was small, with sharp angles; her dark hair reached halfway down her back– longer than he'd ever seen anyone wear it–but these features held nothing remarkable. He decided it was her eyes that made the difference: dull compared to mod-enhanced eyes, but active, intense.
They arrived at the Kumar mansion, where they were greeted like family–even Lydia, because that's how the Kumars greeted everyone. Praveen's sisters chatted gaily with Lydia about trivialities; his grandfather reminisced to Mark about the city reclamation projects in the years after the Conflict. He told Mark that most of the streets in Center City had been named after streets in Old Philadelphia, though some of them took different routes now. The elder Mr. Kumar had mods like Mark's grandfather, but applied differently: where Mark's grandfather looked like a twenty-five-year-old, Praveen's grandfather, though healthy and fit, had kept his wrinkles and graying hair.
