Slant

by Eikeltje

  mistakes, can be smoothed by a visit to the compassionate experts who painlessly

  balance and re-tread the worn soul, all expenses paid by her vid company

  or lover of the moment. It has been quite a sly spin, and it lasted all of seven

  years, giving her sufficient momentary joys to fill a long quiet early morning

  with muzzy splendor.

  Twist is still asleep on the couch; yellow morning glow is visible through

  the half-closed shutters; there is no need to get up this early, they have no

  appointments. Alice is enjoying the lassitude until she catches up with last

  night, and the fringes and edges close in and turn the bright living hearts

  of her memories gray and she becomes fully aware who and when and where

  she is.

  She squeezes her eyelids together tight and tries to bring back the savor.

  She wonders if it is time for her to go back for a refresher on her thymic

  balances.

  After what happened last night, Lisa owes her a few therapy visits.

  Twist mumbles and tosses on the couch.

  "You awake?" Alice asks.

  "Yeah, unfortunately. Just like when I was a kid."

  "Good dreams?"

  "Sometimes. When I wake up, I'm normal for a couple of minutes. I feel

  strong. Then it all comes back. Jesus, Alice, thanks for having me over, but I

  must be darking your day."

  "I need company, too," Alice says.

  "I'm terrible company." Twist sits up and rubs her temples and forehead.

  "What have I ever done to deserve this?" she asks.

  "We're just more vulnerable," Alice says.

  Twist grins sardonically. "You mean, because we spread our legs to so many,

  so often?"

  Alice makes a face and gets up, tying her robe.

  Twist follows her into the kitchen. "Got any hyper-caff?"

  Alice shakes her head. "Hell no. Who you been hanging with?"

  "David does it occasionally."

  "Yeah. The David. He would need it."

  "Don't ex him," Twist says, frowning. "He puts up with a lot from me."

  "Was he happy with Cassis, last night?"

  "Yeah, probably," Twist answers, eyes unfocused.

  "Regular coffee enough?"

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  them and stretches out her arms, shaking the hands and wriggling her fingers.

  "I've been racing the ribes on this sort of thing, all the news and views. How

  sex lies at the core of our personalities, our take on things."

  "Why Twist... how introspective."

  Twist sticks out her tongue. "Dont ex me, either, Alice."

  "No ex intended."

  "I've been swimming through strategies for surviving the sexual life. How

  we try to fit in without following the rules."

  "We don't fit in," Alice says, watching the coffee pour hot and brown from

  its spigot. She pulls a cup for Twist and hands it to her.

  "Just what I mean," Twist says. "I've never had a consistent strategy. Have

  you?"

  "I never thought I needed one. Men come to us."

  "Yeah, but for what?" Suddenly Twist seems to collapse. She barely puts

  her cup on the edge of the table before she flops like a rag doll. Tears stream

  down her face. "Alice! My God, Alice."

  Alice kneels beside her and holds her hand. Twist is shaking. "I am so sick

  of myself, it scares me. I can't feel anything without it turning brown and

  dark, like shit. I'm just hanging on. All I can think about is how miserable I

  am."

  "I'm getting you in for therapy," Alice vows. "I need to pull some strings,

  and the hell with whatever other arrangements the David has made. You're in

  bad shape, girl."

  Twist pulls herself together enough to say, "It was supposed to be different.

  Pretty young women standing by the wall, waiting for the nice young men to

  ome by--"

  "Bullshit," Alice says.

  "So many women make themselves pretty now, so much competition, take

  off the pudge and straighten the hair and fix up the skin, so many smooth,

  clear-skinned women--"

  Alice isn't sure where this is going, but she doesn't like it. "There are some

  things the geniuses can't touch."

  "What? Our souls? They do that, too." Twist sits up, takes a deep breath,

  then leans forward and puts her head neatly on the table, right on her ear,

  without using her hands as pillows. She looks so stretched and distant that

  Alice feels a sudden prick of fear. Am I falling into a hole as deep as this?

  "I don't like my soul," Twist says. "It's brown like shit."

  Alice's home monitor announces a touch. Alice watches Twist for a moment.

  Twist sits up and lifts her cup. She slugs it back quickly, stares levelly at Alice,

  and says, "Maybe it's a job."

  "I doubt it," Alice says, but tells the home monitor, "Okay, put it over my

  pad." She does not like taking calls in the open when she has visitors.

  The touch is still fresh and the caller has waited patiently. Alice unfolds

  /

  SLANT 141

  the pad and stares with a curling shiver of disorientation at a face she never

  expected to see again.

  "Is this Alice Grale?" the woman asks. "The vid star?" It's the officer she

  passed outside the elevator on her call-in, the tall, strong-looking woman with

  shining mahogany skin.

  "Yes," Alice says.

  "We met last night under unusual circumstances. My name is--"

  Another touch, this one an emergency, makes Alice lose the woman's name.

  A key sign in the upper corner of Alice's pad tells her the second touch is from

  Lisa at the temp agency.

  "--and I hoped you'd be able to answer some questions for Seattle PD."

  Alice does not react quickly, so much coming in so fast. "Could you hold

  on a moment, please? I--need to--I'll be right back with you."

  She puts the officer on hold and answers Lisa's touch. Lisa looks frantic.

  Within the pad's frame, her face is bobbing all around, and her skin is livid

  behind overly red lips and hastily applied eye enhancements. Lisa should never

  get mad. She looks so old.

  But Lisa is not just mad, she's scared.

  "Jesus, Alice, what happened? Our payment for last night has been canceled

  and I've had touches from Citizen Oversight. Your date is dead! What in the

  hell happened?"

  "Nothing," Alice says, tring to stay calm. She moves farther from the

  kitchen to avoid having Twist hear. "I did my job. It was not pleasant, Lisa,

  I'll tell you that--"

  The information sinks in and Alice stalls. Then she murmurs, "Dead?"

  "PD released the details two hours ago. The whole apt is tombed and rumors

  are wild."

  "Who was he, Lisa?"

  "His name was Terence Crest."

  The name means nothing to Alice.

  "Did he do anything to you?" Lisa asks, fishing for information she can use

  perhaps in her own defense, the agency's defense. "I mean, to make you--"

  "He was alive, he was alive when I left him," Alice says, her voice a little

  screechy. "You arranged it, and he was very weird, and I hope God you never

  put me through anything like that again!"

  "He was a very rich and important man, Alice, and they're not ruling out

  murder. The whole agency is on my back."

  "I don't even know what he looked like. His face was t
his awful blank--"

  "We can only go so far in this, Alice."

  "My God, Lisa," Alice says, "you set it up and you persuaded me/I did not

  kill the man!"

  Lisa gives her a look of utter professional disdain. "We'll just have to see

  how it works out, honey," Lisa says tonelessly. "You should keep your head

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  down and get an advocate. I can't assign an agency advocate--not directly. If

  the ribes get word you're involved... And take a look at your account, Honey.

  His estate pulled the payment. We have a big zero for our pains."

  The touch ends abruptly.

  Alice stands in the living room, staring at the gently glowing blank screen,

  too stunned to think. The PD officer is still on hold. Alice puts the pad down

  on the living room table, turns as if to go talk to Twist, see how she's doing,

  then stops. She picks up the pad again.

  "Sorry to keep you waiting," she says to the officer. "I had a call-in last

  night and we met on my way out. What more can I say?"

  "Did you know your client?"

  "I don't do call-ins.., as a rule. My agency vetted him. He didn't want me

  to know who he was."

  "You've never done this sort of thing for him, you've never met him before?"

  "Never. As I said, I don't do call-ins."

  "His name was Terence Crest. A billionaire, quite well known around town.

  Did you know him before your call-in?"

  "I already said no," Alice says. "He asked for me in particular. I don't know

  anything about him. And I don't know your name. I didn't catch your name."

  "Seattle PD Fourth Rank Mary Choy."

  "Yes, well, if I'm a suspect, I need an advocate before I say any more."

  "We do know that Crest kept a vid record. You're probably in the record."

  "Oh, of course," Alice says angrily, dismayed, her face flushing.

  "And so are we, I suspect--the PD, the medicals. We're getting permission

  from Citizen Oversight and his estate advocates to play back the vid and

  Q

  stablish the sequence of events. I understand your position, Alice, but if you're

  innocent, you'll be cleared."

  "Maybe you live on a different planet, Mary Choy. I'm not even going to

  get paid for last night if his advocates have their way."

  "I understand."

  The hell you do. You look very together, Mary Choy.

  "I'd like to meet with you," the officer says, "with your advocate present--just

  to tie up this loose end. Actually, I'm not very concerned with this case,

  if it's a suicide, as it appears to be. But it's going to be high-profile, especially

  in the financial news, and I'd like to keep my department on firm footing. And

  Alice... I hope your agency doesn't cut you loose."

  Alice swallows. A tough bitch, trying to act j3'iendly Still, it's best to leave one's

  options open. "Give me your sig and I'll get back to you after I think things over."

  "Of course."

  Mary Choy smiles at her. Alice cuts the touch.

  Twist comes in from the kitchen, scrubbing her face with a washrag. Alice

  stands utterly still on the metabolic carpet, shoulders drooped, head low, face

  / SLANT 143

  Alice jerks, straightens, trying to get back into being the together gal in

  this gloomy duet. It's no good. She shakes her head.

  "Yeah, well I know what we need," Twist says. "A really tro spin party.

  We should be able to chase up one of those, right?"

  Alice nods. She needs to think long and steady, bring up her defenses against

  this threat. She had it so good for so long that this is almost just; this is real

  life in action, balancing the books. "When it pains, it roars," she says. "But I

  told you I'd get you in for therapy."

  "I'm better. Coffee seems to help. Isn't that strange?" Twist, whatever her

  weirdnesses, has always been very empathic. She understands others and their

  situations; she just doesn't have a clear view of her own self. "We'll get out

  tonight, all right? I'll find the party."

  Alice gives her a too-much look and Twist lifts her small, thin fingers. "A

  sly spin romp, not a heavy lapper," she says. "Dignity, toujours dignity. Did

  you know Gene Kelly was a nineties person?"

  "He died in the nineties," Alice says. "He was a forties and fifties person."

  Twist accepts this with a thin smile. "You ever make it with him, character

  sim?"

  "Not authorized," Alice says.

  "Me either. I'd like to stay with you here for a while, though, if that's all

  right, if you're not in a rough about it."

  "You're welcome to. I need the company."

  "You're a true friend," Twist says. "That's rare in our crowd, you know?"

  She gathers up her nightbag and scattered clothes and goes into the bathroom

  to dress.

  Alice drops her smile as soon as Twist leaves the room. She touches her

  stomach through the robe, rubs it lightly. Sperm will remain active for several

  days.

  She carries the last living parrs of a dead man.

  The consulting room is pale green and yellow, meant to be soothing but

  Jonathan finds it like the bottom of a shallow sea, watery and neutral. The

  doctor is polite, a small woman with bobbed white hair and a direct, no-frills

  manner; this at least he finds reassuring.

  "Did you know your wife had substantial therapy for amygdalic disorders

  when she was twenty?" the doctor asks. She holds ut her nad fair

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  thing about such matters. She left him with the impression she was a natural;

  not a high natural, perhaps, but never therapied. But twenty--that means she

  must have been therapied after they met. "She didn't tell me," he concludes.

  "Yes, well, that's common enough. We're still ashamed of such things,

  which is stupid." The doctor looks up and faces him squarely. "What do you

  know about therapy? Have you ever had it yourself, any kind?"

  "No," Jonathan says. "Not that I haven't thought about it. I mean, I don't

  have any prejudices against it. Against those who have had it. I don't know

  why she wouldn't have told me."

  He closes his mouth firmly, hoping he doesn't seem nervous. Of course he

  is nervous; Chloe is in a room down the hall, under a special plug, not quite

  asleep but being kept in an artificial calm.

  "We just received her files. What she asked for, at the time, was therapy

  for impulsive-destructive behavior, what we call counter-will. She thought she

  was engaging in behavior against the better judgment of her conscious persona.''

  Jonathan stares at the doctor.

  The doctor ports her pad into a wall display and brings up a few charts.

  The jagged lines and color bars mean little to him. "She's had a major re-tracking,

  something we put in they category of therapeutic fallback. All of her

  therapy has failed her, and apparently the failure triggered a collapse of conscious

  function. In old terms, not too far wrong, a nervous breakdown."

  "What's this 'allostatic scarring'?" Jonathan points to the caption below a

  jagged line on the largest graph.

  "Neurons and axons can wear out like any other part of the body. It's one

  e

  of the most frequent reasons for therapy. Judging from your wife's condition,


  I'd say she suffered axon path habituation and wear caused by cyclic impulses

  and behaviors her social persona did not feel comfortable with."

  Jonathan nods, but he only partly understands.

  "Her original therapists rerouted the habitual pathway impulses for several

  important personality functions, to avoid the areas damaged by allostatic load.

  That requires a maintenance implant, therapeutic monitors, usually microscopic,

  to make sure the impulses don't revert. It's a routine procedure, and

  the monitors can last years--usually do. In your wife's case, she had an upgrade

  performed four years ago. But somehow, the newer monitors have shut down.

  Something triggered a stress . . . And her mind reverted to the damaged neural

  pathways, bringing back the old thymic imbalances. All at once. It must have

  been horribly painful."