by Jim Stark
Julia slumped down beside her, and stopped talking ... something she figured Lilly would appreciate, even if that was a tad weird, by clan standards. “Hi,” she hollered at a young lad with Downe's Syndrome. He was pushing a little table on wheels that clinked with bottles, and he was staring wide-eyed at Julia. “What's your name?” she asked.
"I'm Bruno Kelly!” he announced loudly through a congenital smile. He jiggied the serving cart right up to Julia's knees, and pointed to the stuff on top, the bottles, the rows of tiny empty paper butter-cups and the clay toothpick holder full of skinny, hand-rolled joints. “You want some stuff to drink or smoke?” asked his big rubbery lips. “It's for free if you just take only one! We call it the honor system."
The boy hadn't even looked at Lilly—he seemed entranced with Julia—so Lilly poured herself a thimble of Drambuie. Julia passed. “Preggers,” she tried to explain to Bruno Kelly, to no effect. Lilly automatically went for her purse to tip the boy before she remembered that you just don't do that with Evolutionaries. It was too late for a rewind, so she took out a toonie—a Canadian two-dollar coin. “Can you put this in the—uh—Foundation-E jar for me, please?” she asked.
"Shoor I can,” said the boy as he trundled off, wobbling precariously, pushing the booze and pot cart with one hand and holding the prized toonie aloft in the other. This was a real treasure for Bruno, a day-maker.
"Bye ... and thanks, Bruno Kelly,” hollered Julia with an aborted wave, but Bruno was way too excited to turn back. “I'll face him tonight to thank him,” she said quietly.
"Why?” asked Lilly before she'd thought through the situation.
"I just said that to you, Lilly,” explained Julia patiently. “To say thanks.” Julia was beginning to wonder about Lilly's memory, or comprehension. It's her CQ, she realized. “Bruno Kelly doesn't know that what he does is a job. He just ... likes doing that stuff he does. Everybody's nice to him, eh? And he feels important."
It occurred to Lilly that young Bruno Kelly had used both his names in the blatant hope that someone, anybody at all, might be inclined to Netlink with him. “Will he ... do you think he'll like ... remember you?” asked Lilly.
"Maybe he will,” said Julia. “But there's lots of people in the world, and they're all just behind the glass, you know, so we all forget most people, eh?"
The glass...? thought Lilly. Ahhh ... the screen of an MIU! “I ... suppose,” she said. “Anyway, I'm sure he'll be pleased to—” She cut herself off at the arrival of a tall, fifty-something man with absolutely no hair on his head. He had the body of a pro wrestler and a grin as big as Bruno's. “Hi,” Lilly said ... “Pierre,” she added, remembering his name in the nick of time.
She's learning, thought Julia as Pierre returned the salutation. Or maybe her CQ is higher than we figured.
Pierre welcomed them both to the E-Store, by name, and thanked Lilly for making young Bruno happy. It turned out that Pierre was the adoptive father of the boy's mother, and that he had moved into Evolution only a few years ago, when he saw the dramatic change in his grandson's life after his daughter joined. Julia had heard a thousand such stories, and they never failed to touch her heart.
Lilly gave the subtlest of body-language hints, and Pierre picked up on them. “So,” he said, “I can talk you around the store on an MIU over there, or I can take your order here and bring stuff out, or we can go for a stroll. What'll it be, ladies?” (He said “ladies,” but he was addressing Lilly.)
"Actually, I'd love to just poke around the store,” said Lilly. “We'll just pick up a shopping cart and—"
"Can he come too?” asked Julia innocently. She'd stood up and clasped her hands around Pierre's bulky biceps. “You're not too busy to come too, eh?"
"Whatever you two decide on,” he said diplomatically, looking at Lilly for the final word. He didn't know she was WDA, but it was obvious to him that either her mood or her CQ was suffering severe frostbite. She's certainly not an Evolutionary.
"Shoor,” said Lilly, with what she thought was a minimum of ice.
Pierre didn't know this was Lilly's first time in an E-Store, but he'd guessed as much from her attitude—and the way her eyes flitted about, drinking in all that was there. He grabbed a shopping cart on the way from the waiting room to the store proper—he was prepared to do the pushing. Lilly politely reached over and assumed that duty for herself.
The aisles were wide, and they were covered in lawn-green indoor-outdoor carpeting, and very clean. They must be forever vacuuming, thought Lilly. There were counters with every kind of merchandise, from cabbages to pearls to snow tires. The displays were only chest-high, so that a standard-issue adult could take in the well-lit expanse of the E-Store over the top. There were perhaps a hundred other shoppers’ heads visible ... not many for a retail outfit of this size, she thought, although it is miserable weather for going out.
There were only a few of each item on the shelves, so that every bit of counter space seemed to present a dizzying array of products. As Lilly tossed two tubes of toothpaste in the shopping cart, Pierre quietly spoke the specific purchase into his Sniffer. The shelves will be replenished in minutes, Lilly recalled from her study of all those Netfiles on these E-Stores.
"These are nice,” said Pierre when he saw Lilly fondling some low-quality earmuffs. “They're only five dollars more, and they have four different colors of interchangeable puffy things for when you fancy a change."
Lilly took them without comment, then dropped them into the cart. She wasn't in a mood to talk with Julia or her new old bald pal ... whose arm she's still holding, Lilly noticed. Julia and Pierre lagged behind, sensing Lilly's mood, trying to respect it without sharing it. Lilly occasionally heard them having a snuffled laugh, and realized she had no desire at all to be included in whatever merriment they were enjoying.
She bought two long scarves that seemed to be hand-made and three pairs of so-called “thermal” long underwear. She wanted to buy a lifetime's supply of facial tissues for her lingering cold, and Pierre asked on his Sniffer that three “valu-paks” be brought out from the back. Then she picked out a pair of warm-looking, attractive calf-high boots for any normal outing, plus a pair of “tramping” boots with steel toes for use in the bush, should she ever venture there. “I'm size eleven,” she told Pierre, who had to have things brought out from a storage area.
Lilly had never seen the much-touted Canadian bush up close and personal, and she'd been forewarned to do it—if at all—before the mosquitoes and blackflies arrived or after they'd gone to bug heaven—which eliminated June through September, she'd been told. There was a display of electrically heated boots, gloves, and headgear—Lilly passed. I'll get through winter without these kinds of things, she thought. With any luck, I won't even be here next winter.
She also bought two pairs of gloves, one utilitarian and the other rather stylish, and some thick woolen socks—three pair. She looked long and hard at some warm flannel pajamas, but ultimately decided against. She'd never bothered before, and there were a number of other, better ways to keep warm through a winter's night. Her living expenses were paid by the WDA, the hydro for her apartment was separately metered, and she was not really expected or obliged to share the Evolutionary obsession with conservation and energy saving. “I'll catch up with you later,” she said to Julia. “I've got some—uh—"
"We'll be in the cafeteria,” said Julia. “It's over there in the corner."
Lilly had seen the sign, and waved them off as she pushed her shopping cart past a small cluster of customers and towards the plumbing section. She had a particular hatred for reduced-flow showerheads, like the one she had in her so-called suite. It did the job adequately, but sometimes she didn't want mere adequacy. Showers were a necessity, but they were also therapeutic, and sometimes she wanted a damn torrent. She also wanted a detachable, flexible-hosed showerhead to ... well, to enjoy. She smiled inwardly, looked around, and found a large sink with several working models hooked up.
"This one has, like, twelve different settings,” said a male voice behind her as a long bare arm reached out to point.
Lilly was startled. “Oh ... hello—uh—Lars,” she said. It was the young man who'd tossed her the keys to her new Aura a few days ago and loaned her the overshoes she'd been wearing today ... and both times he took the occasion to look me over pretty good, the smarmy little freak. She remembered him from her Netsnooping too, and felt herself almost gag at the mental image of twenty-something Lars Johannsen and fifty-something Annette Blais doing their version of Shakespeare's “two-backed beast."
"Ms. Petrosian!” he said, expressing—or at least feigning—surprise. “How nice to see you. I'm an apprentice plumber, you know, and I work here sometimes. How's your new job working out?"
"Can you install it for me?” she asked coolly, ignoring his question.
"Be my pleasure,” he answered enthusiastically. “No charge,” he added, in a voice that suggested conspiratorial secrecy.
Lilly didn't want any favors from Lars, and she didn't appreciate what she felt was the hidden agenda behind his furtive generosity. Evolution was well known in the Normal community as a place of never-ending “love” triangles, quadrilaterals, and more. She did not need such hopeless complications in her life, and even if she had been in the market for gratuitous thrills, it wouldn't be with the likes of him. Dumb name, Lars, she thought as she re-examined the showerhead. God, I'm plain mean sometimes, she realized. “Just put the installation on the WDA's bill, please,” she said neutrally, without looking at him. “We can afford it."
"Whatever,” said Lars. “I'll try to get by your place tonight, if that's convenient."
"That would be just fine,” said Lilly. She almost said his name again, but she had her guard up—she didn't want to do the slightest thing that could be interpreted as responsive to his transparent overtures. She put the twelve-stop showerhead in her shopping cart, and turned the wrong way. Oh God, she thought. “The cafeteria is ... uh...?"
"All the way down to your right,” said Lars, pointing.
Even the brief eye contact of that innocent exchange wasn't free of subterfuge, and Lilly felt queasy. He wanted to join her for a coffee; she could tell. She most assuredly did not want that, and he was disappointed; she could see it in his eyes. She saw that he knew what she was feeling, and that he actually felt sorry for her ... the presumptuous little sperm-pistol. She turned to leave, and hoped to hell he hadn't sensed her thoughts. He was extraordinarily good-looking, in a twenty-two-year-old sort of way. In fact Lars oozed sensuality, and knew it. And he knew that others couldn't help but notice. And he loves every decibel of discomfort he causes, she knew.
Lars stood in the aisle thinking about that lucky damned showerhead with the twelve settings, and watched the gangly WDA agent walk stiffly away. She won't turn around to see if I'm standing here watching her ... he knew that in spades. He knew she wanted to, but she still absolutely would not do it. He figured she'd expect to catch him in mid-ogle, and he wondered what she'd feel if she dared to glance back and didn't see him standing there. Until this evening then, he said in his mind as her long black hair lay too still on the back of her white blouse.
Lilly turned up an aisle, and made a phony effort to examine a display of soaps. She was vaguely facing the plumbing department. The counters weren't high enough—he could still see her head and shoulders ... and the outline of my breasts ... if he was still there. She chanced a lightning-quick peek, looking maybe forty-five degrees to the right of the spot where Lars had been. In her peripheral vision, she could see him walking away briskly, going back to whatever apprentice plumbers did when they ran out of tall willowy customers. Ewwww, she thought as the possibilities of Lars’ next move crossed her mind. Wanker, she said to herself, remembering the oh-so-British put-down for that sort of thing.
She turned her back to the scene of the crime and took out her Sniffer. “Access the financials of the E-Store associated with the Victor-E clan for two thousand and thirty-three,” she instructed in a light voice. “No ... sorry ... make that two thousand and thirty two, last year, and bottom lines only ... and no audio."
Whew! she thought as the answers popped up on the small black-and-white screen. The E-Store sales floor alone covered more than twenty-five thousand square feet. It employed forty-three full-time and part-time staff, had sales of sixteen million dollars in fiscal 2032, and made three million in after-tax profits. Even though the E-Store was based in a very small town, population 3,800, its customer base, she noticed, extended almost to Ottawa. She scrolled down, and was newly astonished at the range of products and services that were offered. This E-Store had two dentists, it built houses, it even had a trust company that amounted to a bank. God, she realized, a person could go cradle to grave and never shop anywhere else! No wonder capitalists are pissed off at Evolution!
The policies of the E-Stores were everywhere the same. No price could be higher than the regular prices of their capitalist competitors, the service side had to be ultra-personal, and to top it all off, every November 3, just in time for Christmas or “holiday” buying, every customer got a check in the mail amounting to three percent of all their purchases in the previous twelve months. It's not fair, Lilly thought. Evolutionaries represent just over two percent of the world's population, but they do seven percent of all sales in the world.
She pushed her cart to the cafeteria entrance. I could bring it in with me, she thought, but that would be foolish. After a few seconds of reflection, she left her purse in the cart, just to show she was trusting. She even thought of taking her LieDeck-equipped Sniffer out of her purse and putting it on top, out in the open, but she declined. No sense being stupid about this. I don't really care what they think of me.
The cafeteria was large, perhaps fifty or sixty tables, and Lilly was surprised to find it half full—the store was quite unbusy. Then she noticed that many of the customers were staff—sales people, stockroom workers, drivers, greeters, shopping assistants—all wore some badge or article of clothing that identified them as staff. Some were taking a break, but most were talking to their Sniffers—either to people or to an MIU at the other end—doing work that could be done as easily here as anywhere else. That was one of the things she'd noticed about Evolutionaries. They seemed rather carefree and lax, but they were serious diggers. Their Netfiles were highly organized, as were their days, or at least the work portion. Every Victor-E member carried a Sniffer, and every Sniffer had a gang of waiting-to-be-done tasks and reminders ... for just such slack times as this.
It was easy to spot Julia's blond head of hair about thirty feet down the right-hand aisle. And she had her back to the entrance ... which means that she won't be doing her jump-up-and-down giddy-teenager act, Lilly thought, with a dollop of gratitude. As she closed in on her quarry, she noticed that Pierre's eyes were locked onto Julia's, and the two of them were hand-dancing! Lord love a duck, felt Lilly. Bald, ancient, Pierre and young, luscious, dim, preggers Julia were glomming each other's eyeballs while their hands formed a damp, wiggling ball on the tablecloth. What ever happened to good old-fashioned conversation? she wondered. And modesty? It's almost like they're ... doing it ... in public!
"Oh ... hi Lilly,” said Pierre as he quickly uncoupled their hands and remembered the rest of reality. “You want a coffee, or—"
"I should get back,” said Lilly, wishing she had a basis to add the word “home.” She could have used a coffee, but she wasn't up to a surface-level chat with these two aliens, especially as she had apparently caused a kind of “interuptus” in their pursuit of ... jeeze ... happiness? she wondered. She never had understood the universal post-Revolutionary obsession with sex—real, Netbased or quasi—make believe—including hand-dancing. I realize there's no God to tut-tut us humans any more, but...
Julia and Pierre actually kissed goodbye when they parted in the parking lot. Lilly had felt obliged to slam the trunk lid on what seemed a rather prolonged lip
lock between the two ... strangers, she decided they were. They've just met, for heaven's sake. What's the damned point of all this—
"Bye Lilly,” called Pierre as he turned to leave. She nodded and got in her new green Aura as Julia unbuckled the extension cord from the block-heater. The engine started up smoothly.
Julia was still outside, bundled up in her Hudson's Bay parka, waving both her fleece-lined mittens at Pierre. “Okay,” she hollered. “Tomorrow night.” She finally got into the passenger seat, clutched her shoulders and gave herself a robust hug.
Lilly backed out carefully on the crunchy snow. “What was that about?” she asked, a flick of the head indicating she meant the thing with Pierre, not the self-hug.
"He wants to face me on the Net,” said Julia as she buckled up. That was what Pierre had yelled at her, but Julia knew that he was probably thinking Netsex. There was no end of willing partners out there, and Evolutionaries never worried about money when they tingled each other in cyberspace. It was a compliment that he wanted her, at least once, and he obviously knew that the key to pleasure was the giving of it. Julia knew she would enjoy the anticipation of their encounter, as he would, and she knew she would also enjoy giving him pleasure. In the cafeteria, they had touched hands, minds, hearts ... and feet, she remembered ... so why not?
Of course Lilly just didn't get it ... and probably never will, Julia realized. Many Normals didn't, and WDA agents were even more frigid than the average Normal. Not that they didn't like sex or patronize Netsex services, including the Soft-E operation based at Victor-E. They did lots of that, but they pretended otherwise, made as if they were above it all, or regarded it as a private bodily function, like defecation or flossing.
They prefer illusion, Julia remembered being taught when she first came to live in Victor-E. It took her a long time to get her mind around what “illusion” was, until her friend Annette summed it up for her: “Illusion is the way it isn't,” she had said. “It's ... make-believe.” For a long time, Julia found it hard to believe that people who weren't retarded could lean that way, but after a million perfectly clear real-life examples, she had accepted it—even if it didn't make any sense. “He's really nice,” she blurted out as Lilly turned onto the highway and headed west.