Fools

by Pat Cadigan

  Well, if they were going to pull out all the stops, they could have at least changed her clothes. She looked like she’d spent a bad week with ragpickers turned fashion terrorists, and they’d won. I’d have been upset in that outfit myself.

  Faint snatches of what they were all saying to each other came to me through the underwater sound effects, which had come on without my noticing. “… clothes …” she was saying. “… itch stole my clothes!”

  I couldn’t help laughing a little. If fashion terrorists really want you, they’ll get you, no matter how careful you are. It was funny, even if she couldn’t really be expected to see the humor in it.

  “… can’t … stampede her … won’t … clean wipe …” My manager was physically restraining her and she was practically hurting herself, trying to get away from him.

  “… me … derstand that? … thinks … me!”

  My manager had both arms around her and was trying to drag her into the back room. Forget the fashion terrorists, I thought, nauseated, this had to be an enfranchising gone wrong. How awful; especially the timing. If this hurt my image, I was going to sue the pants off everybody, including my manager, who apparently didn’t have the sense to carry emergency tranks.

  The sight was making me even more nauseated. I turned away and found the fish had moved up even closer. Its face was even more human and for a dizzy moment I thought I was back on the other side of the room, looking at a reflection in the funhouse mirror.

  That face was definitely in the wrong place, I thought.

  The dizziness intensified.

  * * *

  Okay, the last thing I remember is throwing someone off a cliff.

  Now I am standing in the bottom of a swimming pool filled with holo water and fancy holo fish and a couple hundred souls who are getting a lot more out of this experience than I am, as most of them probably remember how they got here and those that can’t don’t care anyway.

  This, they say, is the lot of the memory junkie: bad living, bad cess, tough stuff. I know I am not exactly in a position to complain to karma-rama, but who ever sets out to be a memory junkie on purpose? Ten thousand people buy and sell memories every day. Me, I’m the ducky luck-out who gets the thunderbolt in the head: junkie-junkie-junkie. The crazy side effects are just another fringe benefit. But what the hell, I always did say that anyone who wasn’t pulling a fugue state here and there just wasn’t trying.

  The light in the swimming pool is the appropriate underwater mood-indigo murk, but my eyes are adjusted, which must mean I’ve been here awhile. I glance around in what I’m hoping comes off as casual, trying to get a feel for the social climate in my immediate vicinity. Apparently, I have not been throwing money, marriage proposals, or punches around carelessly, since nobody is looking except a weird, puffed-up fish with prickles all over it, floating in front of me and glowing like a radioactive yellow ghost. It’s got eyelashes about an inch long on its bulgy eyes, and instead of a standard fishy mouth, there’s a little Cupid’s bow, red lipstick and all, blowing fishy kisses at me in tiny, heart-shaped bubbles—yow! Isn’t that a hell of a thing to find coming after your bait. But what’s worse is, the face is familiar.

  The thing darts right at me. Instead of letting it swim through my head, I dodge to one side and it sails up and away, twitching its tail fins. Not that it would have hurt or anything; I just didn’t like the idea.

  A few feet off, I see this guy watching, and he’s got kind of a fishy look himself, like he disapproves but he’s too prim to say so. He’s wearing one of those lighter-than-air sacsuits, the kind that billows out if you even twitch, making him look like he really is underwater. His skin is all bleached out, prepped for a tint—I can tell by the way it glows blue. The chin-length hair is a darker blue blot around his head. I don’t know him. Maybe he’s the fish’s friend. So let him pucker up.

  Then I realize there’s some kind of something going on behind me, and that’s what he’s really looking at. Yah, that makes more sense; I can’t be important enough for anybody to disapprove of. But then, who knows what kind of changes have been playing while I’ve been fugued out?

  Whatever the big attraction is over there, it’s drawing people and holo fish from all over the pool. Angelfish are swimming through me before I can get out of the way, and I hate it. I’ve heard about this kind of thing, this is how they throw a party uptown—if you’re some kind of high’ power celebrity priv, they send all the party decorations your way so you can make La Grande Entrance. I’m not sure what I’m more curious about, who the celebrity is, or why I’m in on it.

  There’s a break in the crowd all jockeying for position and I see her. It’s that bad old kissy fish! Or rather, it’s the person the fish was modeled on. She must be Famous. I wonder if she knows what they’ve been putting her face on around here. Pretty good face; if I had those custom cheek’ bones, I’d show them off, too. But jeez, on a blowfish? At least they didn’t try putting the hair on, too. I guess a hairy fish was too sprung even for the priv’d-Out joychildren who run this place. Whoever that might be.

  The people around her are all working hard to get noticed and she’s looking a little shaky about it, like she’s not so sure she wants to be there. One woman wrapped in scarves keeps moving back and forth in front of her like she’s dancing. Boy, I’ve heard about professional pests, but I never saw one in action before. If it was me, I’d just relieve her of the waking state and use her ass for a foot-rest, but Miz Famous looks too blown out to blow up. There’s a guy in a chefs outfit and a lady angler complete with a fishing rod and waders, somebody else dressed like a court jester, two Madonnas, one pre-Raphaelite and one postmodern, a human torch whose holo flames have a bad case of static, the fakiest-looking samurai I’ve ever seen in my life, and, all told, a lot more horse’s asses than there are horses. Suddenly, I get this very loony flash that all these people are holos, just like the fish, and Miz Famous and I are the only real people here.

  And then I think, No, that’s some other place, but I’m goddamned if I know what place that could be. But I almost know. It’s on the tip of my brain. Maybe some old memory I bought to feed my beast of a habit, repeating on me like bad chili.

  Miz Famous turns and sees me then, and there’s no doubt from the look on her designer face that she knows me. That’s a good one—nobody Famous would know me or anybody like me. I sure don’t know her. I don’t know her name, I don’t even know what she’s Famous for. Whatever it is can’t be anything to do with me.

  So what am I here for anyway?

  Abruptly, the image of that cliff pops into my head again, a memory of looking over the edge into some foggy nowhere. Can’t be her I threw over, unless she can fly without a plane.

  A tall guy with sanitary white hair puts a hand on her shoulder, telling her something he obviously thinks is very important Now, him I do know … but that’s all I know. I don’t know if I like him or hate him or owe him money or worse, so I step behind a big underwater plant. A memory junkie can’t be too careful

  Then this other guy in a purple satin tuxedo steps in front of her and I get a real funny feeling. Something about him makes me think I ought to go home to the Downs where I belong as soon as possible. I’m not sure where this place is, but from the look of the crowd, it’s a long walk home if I can’t catch a freebus.

  I have got to tell Anwar about this. I don’t think he’ll believe me. He’ll think I’ve been feeding the beast again and he’ll start telling me how I’m gonna have to do something to take care of what I owe.

  Of course, if I hang around here long enough, I can maybe build up a memory I can pawn. Any pawnshop’ll pay more for firsthand stuff like this. Not enough to take care of the whole debt, but maybe enough to keep me out of any immediate trouble.

  I look over at the Famous person again. She’s turned out in full Brain Police drag—grey tunic over jumpjohns, visor cap sitting on the back of her head, even a trank-pak clipped to her belt. Jee-zuz, how did I miss
that? Everybody else must be in on the joke, but I personally do not find a whole lot of humor in it.

  Well, I was leaving anyway. I turn away and almost run right into the guy in the sacsuit. By the look on his face, I can tell I was right the first time after all, he definitely does not approve of me. And then I wonder if he meant to cut me off, and maybe that Brain Police getup on the Famous person isn’t a joke. But when I look back to see if she’s coming for me, she isn’t wearing it anymore. She’s wearing some bad designer crap that’s supposed to look like something you fished out of the trash. Figures; the guys who put the Emperor in his new duds are still getting rich these days.

  I ain’t laughing. I throw someone off a cliff and then I’m hallucinating Brain Police in water over my head? Even if it’s just holo water, that sounds like a karma-gram to me.

  I move away from the guy in the sacsuit, looking for the exit. It’s slow going, what with all the marine and other life I don’t care to get interactive with. I get to the far side of the pool and there’s another big group of people jamming things up, except they’re all mostly side by side, with other people trying to wedge themselves in between them. Stupid party games of the privs and Famous? I go back and forth trying to find a way around them and then some fool of a priv in mink shorts, so hyped out that his moonstone eyes are practically spinning in two directions, grabs my arm and says, “Here, let’s check what you look like, game-girl.”

  I’m just about to smack him and tell him I’m no game-girl when I see what’s really going on. The whole wall is one big funhouse mirror, hottest toy of choice for the filthoid rich. Whoever’s running the mirror controls tonight must know these people, because the reflections look pretty pointed. One woman reflects as a shark, and the resemblance is too good. Another woman gets an octopus, and I can see the family resemblance in that one, too. One guy’s a sponge, and the one holding my arm is some kind of tube-shaped worm thing. There’s a few eels, another sponge, a stingray with a bow tie on the tail, a giant seahorse (with studded bridle and bit, yet—wonder what he does for fun), and a lobster with only one claw.

  This is all supposed to be real big fun, but for some reason, seeing myself in that mirror is ’bout the last thing I want to do. But then Mink Shorts shoves me out in front of him, yelling, “Squid! Squid! Squid!”

  Now, I never thought I was the squid type, but what I see in the mirror doesn’t make any more sense. I’m an aquarium, filled with assorted fishes I don’t know the names of. This is supposed to be clever?

  Everybody’s staring. Then there are two new reflections on either side of me. Not fish, people wearing the same outfit. I turn to look at each one, thinking maybe the mirror operator is witty enough that I’m going to find I’m standing between a couple of holo fish. But no, they’re people on this side of the mirror, too, and the twin outfits are uniforms, not acute fashion-itis. At least they’re not Brain Police uniforms, just hired help doing security duty.

  “Madam, you’ll have to go now,” says the one on my right.

  Which is exactly what I figured he was going to say, except for the Madam. That’s a bonus.

  I pass the sacsuit on my way to the egress. Now he looks almost happy.

  When we get outside, I see I’m on the rooftop of the Royale Building, in Commerce for-God’s-sake Canyon. I also see that I have just been thrown out of the legendary Davy Jones’ Locker, which I should have figured was where I was. Where else do they have holo water over everybody’s head? An old-fashioned marquee card on an easel informs what part of the world that can read that it’s closed tonight for a private party. Jee-zuz. What am I doing this far uptown? When I get fugued up, I get damn-the-torpe-does, no-prisoiers fugued up.

  The security guards walk me over to the transit area and ask me which do I prefer, the freebus pad, the air-taxi, or the valet-service salon for owners of private vehicles?

  “What do you think?” I say, and they take me right to the freebus pad, sit me on the bench, and practice their servants’ bows. In lieu of a tip, I look impressed. A very hotwire private club, Davy Jones’ Locker, so exclusive and fancy you’re supposed to tip the guards when they throw you out. I was on the lookout to buy a memory from anyone who’d been to it, but I never ran across anybody who had one to sell. Made sense; the type of clientele the Jones’ got wouldn’t be out selling their memories. And even if they were, I probably couldn’t afford to buy.

  And then, just as if my karma’s getting all kittenish and contrary, I stick my hand down in my pocket and my fingers close around a wad of currency that is definitely more money than I am supposed to be able to ever hope to see.

  Wild.

  But what’s even wilder is that I have a matching wad in my other pocket. Good thing, I’d probably be walking lop’ sided if I didn’t.

  This is not exactly the place for an audit. But I’ve got to have at least a hint, so I pull just the very top of one wad out of my pocket and peek at the number on the outside bill. The light from the overhead floodlamp shows me the figure real clear: $100.

  My head begins playing Sousa victory marches, all brass. I push at the corner of the top bill with my thumb, trying to flip it up and see if the one underneath is the same nice round number. The wad shifts and I see that I was mistaken. It’s not $100. It’s $1000.

  I slide over to the darkest end of the bench and try to think. Lotteries don’t pay off in cash, and if I’ve inherited a fortune from some rich relative I didn’t know I had, I wouldn’t have been thrown out of Davy Jones’. So who did I kill?

  The memory of the cliff blooms in my mind like a dandelion on fast forward. My inner eye can see the grassy edge, and the foggy nowhere below. If I could just make the picture in my head a little bigger, maybe I’d see who I threw over it.

  Then I’m off on a fast hope trip. Memory junkie, yah, maybe I’ve been feeding the beast after all and this is somebody else’s memory. Two seconds later, the trip’s over. This can’t be something I got from someone else because I didn’t get a rise out of it. The only memories I get junked up on are someone else’s, no matter how dull they are. Someone else’s vacation at the shore, someone else’s wed’ ding, someone else’s frigging trip to the grocery store and I’m totaled, buzzed and rebuzzed. But the day I killed somebody—ha, and ha. Doesn’t even raise a blip.

  Across from where I’m sitting, the overhead rail lights up and I can hear the freebus droning in the distance like a bored hornet. Better hurry home now and see if I’m hiding bloody clothes in the shower. After all, who says this is my first kill? Maybe I really screwed up and got myself a murder jones from somewhere.

  The freebus pulls in and the few souls peering out the windows at me look a lot more murderous than I feel. Even the stick-tender looks like a thug and that’s just a holo, one of those cosmetic urban improvements they put in to make you feel like you’re getting personal service from all the impersonal automateds.

  Yah. Who else is gonna be on a freebus this time of night, Brain Surgeons For Jesus? They’re all gonna figure anyone who climbs aboard at the Royale is a priv and they’ll pick my bones clean before we hit upper midtown.

  Instead of getting on, I walk over to the air-taxi pad, feeling everyone on the freebus staring daggers into my back for causing an unnecessary stop. But us killers don’t sweat that small shit, ha, and ha, I think to myself, and that gives me that old sick feeling of impending doom in the pit of my chest. Anwar’s always telling me that’s just being short on potassium, and a banana a day keeps impending doom away. Ha, and ha. But not if that feeling of impending doom means impending doom, which it sometimes does. Anwar always covers his ears when I say that.

  The freebus drones away. The backwash of cool night air feels prima, which causes me to take a better look at how I’m dressed. Normally that rooftop wind would go right through my quik-wear and chill me to the bone.

  Yow … none of this stuff came out of a vending machine, not even recently. I was so blown out about the wads, I never even not
iced the quality of my frigging pockets. I have to stop, close my eyes for a second, and look again, just to make sure this isn’t another hallucination like the Brain Police rags.

  Nope. This is what real people put on their real bodies. Black tailored jacket that feels like velveteen over a silver Latin Revival shirt, and black don’t-care pants, one size covers the earth. The shoes are standard shitkickers, but they’re new shitkickers. Now that I’m aware, the shirt is just a little tight under the armpits, and the sleeves on the jacket fall short, but Jee-zuz all the same. On me, these are not clothes. They’re a disguise.

  So what am I disguised as?

  As not-a-killer, what? else? says that voice in my head, the one everybody’s got that tells them what a fool they are. Well, yah, of course, this ought to fool whoever I meant to fool. I fooled myself with it. Didn’t I?

  “Excuse me?” says a polite, amplified voice. I almost drop dead of cheap surprise. “Up here,” the voice adds.

  There’s a woman in a glassed-in booth on top of the taxi stand. Not a holo, but a real person. This is how they do it uptown, real people to serve their real selves.

  “Hello?” I call up to her.

  “No need to shout, I can hear you. May I summon a taxi for you, madam?”

  I stick my hands in my pockets and grip the wads tight. Just making sure they’re still in there. “Yah. Sure!” Bring ’em on—hell, call two so I have a spare.

  “At this time of night in this area, the only air-taxis available have drivers. Will that be satisfactory?”

  It will be Expensive is what it will be, but for once, that isn’t my biggest worry. “Just what I wanted,” I say, feeling extravagant.

  “There will be a five-to-eight-minute wait, according to traffic patterns,” she says, glancing down at something in front of her. I can see only the glow of the screen lighting her face from below. “The refreshment service is through for the night, but beverages are, available from the automated dispenser-wall to your left. Complimentary, of course, for your convenience.”