StarShipSofa Stories: Volume 3, page 46
“It’s just a search operation, boss. Like you always say, there ain’t no central registry office. It takes time. But seems to me, time’s one thing you definitely got plenty of.”
“When I want philosophy, I’ll buy a plug-in module. When you get hold of Sam, ask if we can meet somewhere different this time. Her choice.”
“Your wish is my command, O master.”
-------------------------------------------
“It’s really pretty, isn’t it? I always liked Japanese teahouses and stuff.”
Orlando wrinkled his nose. “I think that’s the first time I ever heard you use the word ‘pretty’ except when you’re on something like, ‘That’s a pretty stupid idea, Gardiner.”
Sam Fredericks frowned a little, but her samurai sim turned it into a scowl that might have graced a Noh mask. “What’s that supposed to mean? That I’m turning all girlie or something?”
“No, no.” He was depressed, now. He had only had a few brief visits with Sam since the whole Livia Bard thing had started, and he had missed her, but they still seemed to be out of rhythm with each other. “I just didn’t expect you to pick a place like this for us to meet.”
“You’re always talking about how much you like it.” She looked out from the teahouse. Beyond the open panels of the wall and beyond the tiny, orderly garden of rocks and sand and small trees, the wooden roofs of the city stretched away on all sides. On the far side of the Nihon-Bashi, the stately wooden arch across the Sumida, Edo Castle loomed proudly.
“Well, I like the war part, although that’s mostly over for this cycle – the shogun has pretty much settled in for good. The armour is ho dzang, too.”
“Ho dzang! I haven’t heard anyone say that for a long time.” She saw the look on his face and went on with nervous haste, “Yeah, that armour is great, especially those helmets with the sticking-up things – makes your elves almost look dull. I’m not crazy about the music, though. I always thought it sounded like unhappy cats.”
Orlando clapped his hands and sent away the geisha who had been quietly playing Jiuta on her shamisen. The only singing now was the hoarse chant of a water-seller that drifted up from the street below. “Better?”
“I guess.” She looked at him carefully. “Sorry I’ve been so hard to get hold of. How’s your noble quest?”
“Noble quest? Like the kind we used to have back in the Middle Country?” He fought off a moment of panic – did she think he hadn’t changed at all? “You mean about the pregnant woman.”
“Yes.” She made herself smile. “And it is a noble quest, Orlando, because you’re a noble quest kind of guy.”
“Except that apparently I impregnated this poor girl and then deserted her. Not really the kind of thing people usually call noble.”
Sam frowned, but this time because she was irritated with his flippancy. “But you didn’t do it. Just because there’s some evil clone version of you running around... ”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so. There’s never been any other sign of another version of me, not even a hint. Believe me, I’ve had Beezle combing every record since we started up the network again. I’d know.”
“I thought there wasn’t any main archive or whatever.”
“There isn’t, but there’s the informal one that Kunohara started when he and Sellars got the system running again, and most of the individual worlds have their own records that are part of the simulation. For instance, the Wodehouse place where I met this woman started out pretty much like the real early 20th Century London, so there are birth records and death records and telephone directories and everything. The data is a bit hinky sometimes because it’s sort of a comedy world, but there certainly wasn’t any mention of a Livia Bard in any of those.”
“So you she must come from somewhere else, right? She’s one of those travellers, the ones that can cross from one world to another. I can’t remember – were all the Jongleur girl’s shadows like that?”
He shook his head, felt the topknot bob. “I don’t know. They’ve always been the weirdest of all the shadows because the operating system hacked them around so much.” He sat back, toying with his bowl of tea. It was easy to believe his mystery woman could think she was pregnant – many of the Avialle-shadows thought they were pregnant, because the original had been, at least for a little while. Orlando had gone back and forth through Sellars’ history and Kunohara’s margin notes trying to make sense of it, even though he’d heard some of the story from Paul Jonas’ own mouth – it was a bizarre bit of this simiverse’s history and hard to figure out.
“Orlando?”
“Sorry, Sam. I was thinking about something.”
“I just wanted to ask you... are you absolutely sure that... that you didn’t do it?”
“Do what... ? Fenfen, Fredericks, you mean get her pregnant?” He felt his cheeks reddening in a most un-samurai manner.
Sam looked worried. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
He shook his head, although he definitely was embarrassed. He had been a fourteen year old invalid when he died, a boy denied a normal childhood or adolescence. Gifted with a life after death, with health and vigour beyond anything he had ever known, not to mention an almost complete lack of adult supervision, he had of course experimented. At first the knowledge that his partners were in some ways no more real than what you could rent on the crudest kind of interactive pornodes hadn’t bothered him, any more than the literal two-dimensionality of women in girlie magazines disturbed earlier generations, but the novelty had warn off fast, leaving him lonely and more than a little disgusted with the whole situation. Also, because he was uncomfortable with their origins, he had made a personal rule never to get involved with any of the Worldwalker Society’s female members, so he found himself more or less unable to date anyone with actual free will.
Of course, love and sex weren’t things he’d ever been very comfortable talking to Sam Fredericks about, anyway. “Let’s just put it this way,” he said at last. “If I had been in a situation where it could have happened, I’d remember. But, Sam, that doesn’t even matter. This isn’t a real person and it’s not a real pregnancy – she’s a construct!”
“Didn’t all those What’s-her-name Jongleur girls have a pregnancy thing, anyway? They all thought they were, or some of them did, or something?”
“Avialle Jongleur. Yes, and like I said, they aren’t real pregnancies. But that’s not the point. The question is, why does this one know my real name and why does she think it’s my baby?”
Sam slowly nodded. “Yeah, that all barks pretty drastically. So what are you going to do?”
“I wish I knew. I’ve been looking for months, but she’s just vanished. Beezle wants me to authorize a bunch of mini-Beezles so we can search the system more effectively – not just for this one woman, but any time we need to. It’s not a bad idea, really, but I’m not sure I want to be the Napoleon of an army of bugs.”
Sam Fredericks set down her tea and sat back. “You seem... I don’t know, a little more cheerful than the last couple of times I saw you.”
He shrugged. “I keep busy. I thought you were the one who was depressed.”
“Scanmaster. I was probably locked off with you for some reason.”
Orlando smiled. “Probably.”
Sam stirred. “I brought you something. Can you import it into the network? It’s on the top level of my system, labelled ‘Orlando.’”
“You brought me something?”
“You don’t think I’d forget your birthday, do you?”
He had half-forgotten, himself. “Actually, it’s tomorrow.” It was strange how little something like a birthday meant when you didn’t go to school and you had hardly any friends – any normal friends, that is.
“I know that, but I won’t see you tomorrow, will I?”
“Seventeen years old. I’m an old man, now.” It wasn’t funny, really – progeria, the disease that had ruined and eventually ended his previous life, was a condition that turned children into doddering ancients and then killed them, mostly before they had even reached their teenage years.
“Old man – hah! You’re younger than me, so six that noise.” A small, gift-wrapped package appeared on the low table. “Good, you found it. Open it.”
He took off the lid and looked at the thing nestled on virtual cotton in the virtual box. “It’s really nice, Sam.”
“Happy birthday, Gardino. Don’t just stare at it – it’s a friendship bracelet, you idiot. You have to read what it says.”
He turned the simple silver bracelet. The inscription said, To Orlando from Sam. Friends Forever. For a moment he didn’t trust his voice. “Thanks.”
“I know there are places you go where you can’t wear it, but I spent a lot of time thinking, like, what can you get someone who can have anything in the whole world – rocket cars, a live pet dinosaur, you name it? All I’ve got to give you that you can’t get in one of these worlds is me. We’re utterly friends, Gardiner, and you remember that. Utterly. No matter what. As long as we both live.”
Orlando was very grateful that this sim was too bushi to cry – the blushing had been bad enough. “Yeah,” he said. “No matter what.” He took a deep breath. “Hey, you want to go for a walk before you have to leave? I’ll show you a little of the Tokaido – that’s kind of the main road. It’s the best place to sightsee. If we’re lucky, a few of the daimyos will still be coming into town. They’re the nobles, and they have to make a pilgrimage here twice a year. Some of them come in with thousands of retainers and soldiers, horses and flags and concubines and all that fen, a big parade. It’s like Samurai Disneyland.”
“You really know this place!”
“I keep busy.”
-------------------------------------------
“You left tonight open, didn’t you?” Beezle asked as Orlando re-animated his Rivendell sim. “Your parents have got plans.”
“Oh, jeez, right, my birthday dinner. That means they’ll want me to wear that tchi seen robot body. Conrad’s probably hooked it up with an air-hose so I can blow out the candles on my cake.” He resented tromping around in that thing so much that he had been avoiding seeing his parents because of it. Still, in just three visits he’d broken a table-leg and several vases, and pulled a door off its hinges by accident. The thing had very delicate hand-responses, but the rest of it was meant for slogging around in mine shafts or in the holds of sunken ships and was about as graceful as an elephant on roller skates. Orlando didn’t want to hurt their feelings, and Conrad was so proud of his idea, but he just hated it.
It’s not as if I didn’t have enough to deal with. Just at the moment, two Society members were stuck in the House simulation in the middle of an armed uprising and unable to escape, there was a programming glitch or something like it causing mutations in the plant life of Bronte World so that Haworth Parsonage was under siege by carnivorous cacti, and he still had no idea of where Livia Bard might be, let alone any explanation for her weird accusation. Yeah, I keep busy.
“Any decision yet on letting me whip up some sub-agents, boss?”
“I’m still thinking about it.”
“Well, don’t hurt yourself – I hear that thinking stuff ain’t for beginners. You ready to go to your folks? ‘Cause you got an urgent message from that Elrond guy you gotta deal with first. He needs you downstairs right now.”
“Jeez, it never stops. Make the connection to that locking toy robot at my parents’, will you? After I finish downstairs I’ll duck into a closet or something and go directly.”
“Yeah, wouldn’t want to screw up the continuity.” It sounded suspiciously like sarcasm. “Don’t worry, boss. I’m on it. Just go see Elrond.”
He was halfway down the delicate wooden staircase between the small house that he called his home and the central buildings when the thought occurred to him, Why the hell would Beezle be passing message for Elrond? Rivendell doesn’t work that way.
All questions were answered when he walked into the main hall and discovered his mother, father, and several score elves, dwarves, and assorted other Middle-Earthers waiting for him.
“Surprise!” most of them shouted. “Happy Birthday!”
Orlando stopped just inside the doorway, dumbfounded. The hall was strung with cloth-of-gold bunting. Candles burned everywhere, and huge trestle tables stood against the walls, covered with food and drink. His mother came up and threw her arms around him, kissed him and hugged him. When she leaned back she looked at him worriedly, but she was also flushed with excitement. “Is this okay? You said your network can deal with incongruities. This won’t spoil anything, will it?”
“It’s fine, Vivien. I’m just... well, surprised.”
She was wearing elven costume, a long dress in shades of butter yellow and pale beige, and had piled her hair up on top of her head where it was held by diamond pins. “Do I look funny?” she asked. “That nice Arwen girl gave me these hair things. I think that’s her name – I don’t remember her from when I read the books, but it was a long time ago.”
“That nice Arwen girl?” Orlando couldn’t help smiling. “Yeah, you look great.”
Conrad came up with a goblet in one hand. “Those dwarves like to drink, don’t they? What do you think? Did we surprise you?”
Orlando could only nod, appalled and touched. The party already seemed in high gear. Someone put a cup of ale in his hands. Elrond came up and bowed to Orlando’s parents. “Regards to you on this festive day, Tharagorn,,” the elf said. “You are always an ornament to our house.”
To Orlando’s horror, Vivien actually began to flirt with Elrond, but the master of the house accepted it with good humour. Even more fortunately, Conrad had already wandered off to look more closely at the ceiling joists – he was a hobbyist carpenter – so at least Orlando didn’t have to worry about his father picking a jealous fight with an elven lord.
Arwen Undomiel, Elrond’s daughter – the one his mother had referred to as a “nice girl” – was standing with her love, Aragorn, who was dressed in a tattered cloak and seemed to have come straight in off the road. The man whose name Orlando had more or less borrowed for his incarnation in this world left his betrothed’s side long enough to come and clasp Orlando’s hand. “Good wishes, cousin. We have not met in many a long year. I did not know anyone outside the halfling lands celebrated the day of their birth in this manner.”
“Blame my parents.”
“There is no blame. They are noble folk.” Aragorn embraced him, then returned to Arwen’s side, where her brothers Elladan and Elrohir now also stood, as travel-worn as Aragorn, as though they had all rode fast and far to be here. The elven princess raised her glass toward Orlando in a silent salute. He would have been flattered if he hadn’t known it was all make-believe, just programming.
“I don’t even want to know how you arranged this, Vivien,” he said to his mother.
“Beezle helped.” She pointed to a small, disreputable, and extremely hairy-footed figure on the far side of the room, who was busy out-drinking three dwarves from Dale. “He’s almost human, isn’t he?”
“Who isn’t?” He hugged her again. “Thanks. I really didn’t expect it.”
Vivien was asking Elrond something domestic – he thought he heard her use the phrase “finding kitchen help” – when Orlando’s attention was suddenly drawn to a pale shape moving through the throng at the centre of the hall. For a moment he could only stare, wondering which Tolkien character this was, why she looked so familiar.
“Oh my God,” he said. “It’s her!”
He was across the room before Vivien finished asking him where he was going. He caught the woman in white as she stepped into Hall of Fire. The unsteady light of the flames made her seem a phantom, but if it was not Livia Bard herself who stood before him, it was her exact duplicate.
She looked up at his approach, startled and even a little frightened. “What do you want?”
He realized the look on his face might very well be something that would frighten anyone. After months of searching, to have her simply walk past him... ! “Miss Bard. Livia. I’ve been looking for you.”
She turned to face him and he had a second shock. Beneath the flowing white gown, she was very obviously several months pregnant. “Who are you?” She stared, then blinked. “Can it be? Are you truly him... ?”
And then she disappeared again.
“Beezle!” he bellowed. “That was her! Right here, then she disappeared! Where did she go?”
“Couldn’t tell you boss. Hang on, let me just roll Snori here off me, or whatever his name is, and I’ll be right with you.”
By the time his parents and his faithful software agent reached him, Orlando was down on his knees on the floor of the Hall of Fire, pounding on the boards in frustration. Conrad and Vivien suggested calling off the feast, but Orlando knew it was for them as much as himself, so he let himself be led back to the party. Still, despite all the diversions and distractions offered by Rivendell in holiday mode, he hardly noticed what was going on around him. As soon as he could decently manage it he made his excuses and headed for bed, pausing on his way up to his rooms to have a word with Beezle.
“Okay, you have my permission – I’ve run out of ideas. Put together your little army of sub-agents. But do me a favour and don’t make them bugs, huh? I’m going to have to visit Kunohara, and I’ll get enough of the things there to last me for years.”
“Will do, boss.”
Orlando went to bed. Bongo Fluffernutter stayed up late drinking with the dwarves from Dale. He showed them how it was possible to belch several whole stanzas of The Lay of Queen Beruthiel, and also that there was a point at which even dwarves should stop drinking.
