Chance Damnation
Page 27
Aillig laid his head on his arms, his chest twitching.
“Damn it.” She turned off the water, led Aillig to the bathroom, and washed him from head to toe. He cried the whole time. Then she tucked him into her bed and tried to contact Imogen, but her code was out of service.
Then she tried calling her cousin’s ship, the Conacado Revolución, directly. The ship's AI appeared as a bright green parrot and asked politely for her message. Good manners from Imogen’s husband, Ian, always made her made her suspicious. She hung up.
Aoife knew next to nothing about little boys. It struck her the boy might wet the bed, so she decided to wake him up and make him sleep on the floor.
When she went into her bedroom, she was shocked to see a shimmering blue specter hovering over the bed: Imogen, as real as life; her hair had been cropped almost to her skull, and she was wearing a jumpsuit.
At first Aoife was sure the image was a simple hologram, but then the smell made her sneeze. Imogen used to bathe with a satchel of cocoa beans, lavender, and dried blueberries, then douse herself with the same perfume; it was that exact smell. Aoife had never heard of a scented hologram.
The image bent over the boy, who tossed and turned in the bed. “No Mamma,” he said. “No, Mamma.”
Imogen stroked the boy's hair and whispered in his ear. Aoife couldn't understand what the ghost said, but it made the boy kick the covers off as he tried to get away.
“Stop it,” she told the ghost. “If you scare the piss out of him, I will send grad students to foul up your research. Where are you transmitting from?”
“From the other side,” the image’s voice echoed eerily around the room.
“Gobshite, ya bitch.”
Imogen laughed and switched back to her normal voice. “All right, it's a hologram. But if you're seeing this, I am dead. Aillig and I were coming to see you.”
“You left Ian?” she asked. “Excellent.”
“I want you to help him.”
“No,” Aoife said. “He stole the prototype for the Anything Box. At your wedding. After trying to stick his tongue down me cleavage for twenty minutes. What did you even marry him for? Is he that good in bed? I doubt it. He's a born wanker.”
“I'm dead, dear. Don't argue with me.”
“I won't do it,” Aoife said. “I don't care what it is.”
“I want you to complete my research on the prima materia.”
Aoife sucked in her breath, which sparkled cold in her mouth like snow. “The prima. Matter from a black hole. That's what you were working on.”
“I made a breakthrough, using your box.”
“What did you find out?”
“Go to the Conacado on Knockdrin and you'll find out. My notes are there.”
Aoife only just stopped herself from snapping at a hologram. “The answer's still no.”
“Oh, the Empire's already given you all the prima your heart desires? You got funding for your project?”
“They won't fund me,” Aoife hissed. “They never intended to fund me. They want my research and then they want me to feck off.”
“Ian can take you right to the threshold. You can steal the prima from under their noses.”
“Wouldn't that just tickle Ian's knickers? Stealing prima. What's he smuggling now? Potatoes?”
“Chocolate.” Imogen sounded defensive. “It's worth more on the black market than you might think.”
Aoife shook her head. “You can take your life of adventure and shove it, Imogen. You're my blood and I love you, and I'll care for your son as if he were my own. But the answer is still no.”
“I thought you might feel that way.” The ghost bent over Aillig, whispering again. Aillig shrieked. His chest convulsed, and his legs drummed on the sheet. His bladder let go, soaking her bed.
“Ye fecking hole.” Aoife shoved a pillow between Aillig's head and the wall and made sure he didn't fall off the bed. “What did you do to him?”
“I triggered his seizures.”
“What?”
“He has a neurological disorder that I was keeping under control with a transmitter. I shorted it out. You're going to have to go to the ship now, Aoife. What he needs is on the ship. If he doesn't get it, he'll die.” Imogen disappeared.
“This is one of Ian's hoaxes, isn't it? I'm going to kill him.” She yelled, “Emergency, emergency!”
The flat's AI said, “What type of emergency, please?”
“Medical, stat.”
“Help is on the way,” the AI said. “Please remain calm.”
The emergency vehicle, at least, was a modern hovercar. The medics parked on the roof and floated the equipment in.
After a few minutes, the lead medic told Aoife his diagnosis. “He's a fairshopper.”
“But he pissed on me bed.”
The medic nodded as he talked. “He was built to be able to produce a urine-like liquid. Built for it. And his intelligence! It's off the chart.”
“He acts just like a little boy. Tears. Mucous.”
The medic was still nodding. “This is the most advanced AI I've ever heard of. Not even the, uh, Fair Ones have an AI that sophisticated.”
Aoife waved that aside. “Is he going to be all right?”
“That's just the thing, miss. Even though he's a fairshopper, his neurological functions are degrading...”
“Very well. How long have I got before it’s irreparable?”
“Honestly? I have no idea,” the medic said. “I've never seen anything like this. Have you backed him up? I can't find his ports.”
“That would be too easy,” she said. “I'm sure he'll be fine as long as I'm doing what his father wants, God rot his soul. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a great deal to do before we lift off in the morning.”
“Yes, miss,” the medic said.
***
As always, thanks to my husband Lee and daughter Ray,
without whom none of this would be written.