by Nancy Kress
“Cai told me,” Waverly said. “He was good to his brother and he’s good to Tommy. I like that.”
Violet murmured, very low, “Trying to change your image, Waverly?”
Rafe said, “Well, here we all are. Somebody think of something camera-worthy to do.”
Violet got up and began to dance, something modern. Her long body bent and swayed, passing through trees as if they weren’t there—which, of course, they weren’t. Still, it gave her dance an eerie, mythical feel.
Rafe said, “You look like a dryad, except that they were never so tall.” He began to sing, an old folk song about lovers meeting early one morning when the buds were all “a-green-o.” His voice was surprisingly tuneful and sweet. Waverly made a sound of disgust, rose, and stalked off.
Violet danced until sweat poured off her. Her long legs curved and rose, her arms swayed, her supple back arched. She finally stopped, only because Rafe had stopped singing. He said, “Not bad.”
“God, I miss that. During this show, I have to take class in the evening, and I really prefer morning.”
Amy said, ‘You’re wonderful.”
Rafe said, “How long have you been dancing?”
“Eight years, since I was ten. The last two professionally. The stories I could tell you!”
“Tell one now,” Amy said. The more Violet talked, the less Amy would have to. It was now nearly seven o’clock. No time to get Gran to Bentley Arena; Amy would just have to get a cab and see Kaylie in All-City without her. The second this stupid scenario ended, if it ever did.
Violet said, “Well, last year I was in a production of Lane Carstairs’s Tripos. Only as a background dancer. But after the first act, the principal dancer got greedy. She stayed out in front taking curtain call after curtain call, like it was the end of the whole show. It was Carlotta Neiman, of course.”
The names meant nothing to Amy.
“So,” Violet continued, “the stage manager signaled to have the curtain dropped in front of her, just so we could all get on with it. But just as the curtain falls, Carlotta steps forward to do one more egomaniacal curtsy, even closer to the audience. She has this signature deep balletic reverence, where she looks up through her lashes and smiles, like she’s Anna Pavlova crossed with a Vogue model. Anyway, the curtain falls and whacks her. Those things are heavy. She stumbles and collapses on the stage and breaks her leg. Shouting, yelling, threats to sue. Finally the understudy dances the second two acts, and then she’s so leery about the curtain that she won’t take a curtain call at all. The stage manager’s begging and pleading with her. The whole production’s a shambles anyway, so the lead male dancer, whose nose had been out of joint because Tripos is all bravura female dancing and the men get to do practically nothing, ties a practice skirt around his hips, goes out on stage, and does a perfect imitation of Carlotta’s famous curtsy. And the audience goes wild.”
Rafe said, “Was he fired?”
“Are you kidding? He was mentioned positively in every single review!”
Violet told story after story about the dance world. Rafe countered with stories about working summers and after school as an apprentice refrigerator repairman, which Amy would not have thought a particularly humorous occupation. But Rafe’s stories were hilarious. Cai and Tommy came to sit and listen. Lynn did not reappear, but Waverly did, lurking between the false trees. Tommy was smiling now. He even volunteered, “There are no spiders on these trees. Not even fake ones.”
“Good,” Violet said. “We already have Myra.”
However, Amy couldn’t really enjoy the camaraderie; she was too aware of time passing. Seven thirty—All-City was starting. When was Orange Decision scheduled to go on? Kaylie hadn’t said. If this stupid scenario ended right now and Amy caught a cab almost instantly, maybe she could—
The “sky” brightened to a strange glow, and beams of light shot down from the ceiling. The beams were so sudden, so bright, and so red that Amy was momentarily blinded. Tommy cried out. When sight returned, Lynn came tearing through the trees.
“They’re coming for me! They’re coming for me!”
“Who?” Cai said.
“Them! Them!” Lynn’s voice rose to a shriek. Standing in a red beam, she looked demented, her face twisted with fear and her hands curved into claws. “They’re after me and you all knew about it! You’re in on it!”
“Who?” Cai asked again.
“You know who! The aliens!”
Rafe began to whistle the theme from The Twilight Zone. Waverly gave a snort of disgust. Tommy said, “I don’t like this! Lynn, stop making that noise!”
She didn’t. Tommy took a step toward her. He looked more confused than menacing, but Lynn screamed, “Stay away from me! You’re one of them!”
Amy managed to get out, “He’s not—” That was all the time she had before Lynn, running backward through the trees, yanked something small and dark from her pocket, aimed at Tommy, and fired.
In the dark office the shot sounded like an explosion. Waverly screamed; Cai gasped. Tommy fell to his knees and put his hands over his ears. By the eerie glow of the overhead “stars” Amy saw tears roll down his face.
Lynn fired again. Cai ran toward her but she eluded him, a small darting figure, and jumped up onto Myra’s desk. The clock thudded to the carpet. Lynn shouted, “Don’t anybody come near me or I’ll shoot you! I will!”
Violet said, her voice shockingly clear and shockingly quavery in the sudden silence, “This isn’t part of the scenario. She’s really lost it.”
No. She hasn’t.
The phantom jumped whole into Amy’s mind, and she realized that she’d seen it before: the empty cardboard box. Lynn wasn’t really having a psychotic break. She was part of the scenario arranged by Myra. The gun wasn’t real.
Cai, who evidently thought differently, said shakily, “Lynn, give me the gun. You don’t want to shoot anybody here.”
“Keep away!”
“I will, I promise.” It was the same soothing voice he used with Tommy. “Just give me the gun.”
“No!” She fired again and Cai dropped to the floor. For a heart-stopping moment Amy thought she’d been wrong and Cai had been hit, but he had merely ducked. Tommy clutched at Cai, who put one arm around Tommy’s shoulders. In the glow of “starlight” Amy could see that Cai’s arm shook.
Waverly and Violet had disappeared, probably crouching behind the real chairs or even the fake trees. But Rafe crept across the carpet on his belly, staying in shadows, toward the desk. He was going to try to disarm Lynn.
Had Rafe guessed that Lynn was an actor? Rafe was smart, the smartest of all of them. But he didn’t have Amy’s phantoms, and she guessed that he was, at best, uncertain about Lynn. That made him heroic, but all at once Amy wanted the heroism for herself. This was her chance to redeem herself for freezing in front of the rats, for not knowing Romeo and Juliet, for doing nothing in the ersatz lobby attack. This was Amy’s chance to shine on camera and keep her job, and she was taking it.
“Lynn!” she said, moving toward the desk into a “clearing” where Lynn could see her plainly.
“Don’t come closer!” The gun swung in Amy’s direction. Which was also Rafe’s direction and he stopped creeping forward, motionless below the eerily realistic trees.
“I won’t,” Amy said. She had to fight to keep her voice steady, even though there was no real danger—was there? If she was wrong . . .
“I won’t come closer, Lynn. I just want to ask you a question. About the . . . the aliens. How do you know that these trees are their doing?”
“I know!” Lynn snapped. “None of you understands the situation the way I do!”
“Well, I certainly don’t understand it,” Amy said. “Could you . . . will you explain it to me? Please?”
In the gloom Amy couldn’t see Lynn’s expression. Did Lynn suspect that Amy knew she was acting? If Lynn was suspicious, would she go along anyway, because it would “make good television”? Those
must be blanks in Lynn’s gun, but if Lynn chose to fire directly at Amy, then what? Amy was not going to pretend she had been shot. Lynn must know that. And it was in Lynn’s best interest to keep this confrontation looking “real” for the audience.
Damn you, Myra!
Lynn said, “The situation is desperate! The aliens are going to take over Earth. They’ve been closing in for two years now, choosing their contacts, trying to take over our minds . . . but I won’t! I won’t!” Her voice rose to a shriek.
“Of course you won’t,” Amy said gently. “But you know that we’re not aliens. We’re just people who don’t want to be taken over. Like you.”
“I don’t know that,” Lynn said. “I don’t know who they’ve already taken over! Don’t come any closer, I’m warning you!”
Amy hadn’t moved, but Rafe had. While Lynn’s attention was focused on Amy, Rafe had crept closer to the desk, angling toward its base. Amy guessed he would circle to one side and try to take Lynn by surprise. She wanted to get there first. Carefully she measured the distance to the desk. A little too far.
Amy took a step closer. “Lynn, I’m really interested in what you’re saying. Sometimes things have happened, in my mind, I mean. Like . . . presences. Maybe you’re the answer to what I’ve been wondering about and struggling with!”
Lynn said, “They tried to get to you?” Her voice held wonder, fear, longing for someone to understand—she was a good actor. Too bad the Oscars didn’t include a category for Best Supporting Actress in a Mind-Fucking Manufactured Scenario.
“They don’t have me,” Amy said. “But I think they’re trying. Can you help me?”
“I don’t know,” Lynn said uncertainly.
“At least tell me where the aliens come from.” She took a step forward.
“Stop!” Lynn screamed. “I don’t know about you and if—”
Rafe had nearly reached the desk. Amy couldn’t wait any longer. She launched herself forward, into a handspring. Her muscles weren’t warmed up enough and she was out of practice, but the spring took her halfway to the desk, just as Lynn fired. Amy’s second handspring, pushed into with all her strength, flipped her up onto the edge of the desk, where she grabbed at Lynn. The small girl hadn’t expected that. She yelled and lunged, throwing Amy off balance. Both girls crashed together off the desk and onto the floor. Amy rolled on top of Lynn and pinned her arms, but there was no need; Lynn had gone limp and unconscious.
“Get off her!” Rafe said, the first to reach them. “Is she breathing?” He picked up the gun from the carpet.
“She’s breathing,” Amy said grimly.
Rafe said, “I think she hit her head on the edge of the desk.”
His words jolted Amy. What if Lynn wasn’t acting, if Amy really had injured her? All at once Amy felt shaky, and as if she wanted to cry. Stop it! She told herself fiercely. It was just the backlash from adrenaline, she was fine—
Rafe peeled back Lynn’s eyelids and peered at them. Lynn didn’t move. Others came rushing up. Violet said, “My God, Amy, are you all right?”
“Just . . . just shaken.”
“Your head is bleeding!”
Rafe looked up. “Head wounds produce a lot of blood relative to their seriousness. Is your vision blurry?”
“No,” Amy said. She forced herself to breathe naturally.
Lynn stirred, opened her eyes, and began to cry.
Rafe, unsentimental, moved away from her. Cai moved in and put his arms around Lynn. It wasn’t clear to Amy whether he was restraining her or comforting her: maybe both. But the sight of Cai holding someone else sent an irrational spear of jealousy through Amy. She looked away, knowing herself to be an idiot.
“Wow,” Violet said breathlessly. “You’re brave! Come away from that nutcase, One Two Three.” She pulled Amy to her feet and led her through the “forest” to one of the leather chairs. Violet pushed her down into it and knelt beside the chair. She ripped the bottom off her own T-shirt, exposing perfect abs, wadded up the material, and held it to Amy’s head. “Where did you learn to do those backflips?”
“I used to do gymnastics. Don’t fuss over me, Violet, I’m fine.” She pushed Violet’s hand away and pressed the cloth to her head.
“Well, it was pretty fucking heroic, what you did. She could have killed you.”
“I doubt it,” Amy said truthfully. Then Rafe was beside her, peeling back the cloth and examining her wound. Amy remembered that he wanted to be a doctor.
He said, “Superficial, just like I thought. Any headache?”
“No. I’m fine, Rafe.”
“Uh-huh.” His eyes met hers. They were brown, with gold flecks—Amy hadn’t noticed before. She saw that he knew Lynn had been acting, that he was going to go along with the pretense, and that he wanted her to do the same. She gave a tiny nod.
Violet, oblivious, said, “Well, I think you’re both heroes. Looks like I underestimated you, Rafe. You’re not just a nerdy brain after all.”
“No,” he said dryly, “I’ve got the same number of balls as Cai. They’re just not as pretty.”
Violet laughed. Amy turned her head—where was Cai? And Tommy and Waverly?
Rafe said, “Cai has Lynn under control. He took her over to a corner and he’ll just listen to her or talk to her or whatever it is he does so well. Tommy—”
Violet said, “Is help coming?”
“Oh, yeah. A scenario gone this ‘wrong’”—only Amy heard the quotation marks—“has to be ended. Should be any second now.”
Amy said, “Where are Tommy and Waverly?”
Before Rafe could answer, the trees disappeared and the doors were flung open. Three men ran in, faces creased in concern. “Anybody hurt?”
“Amy and Lynn are,” Violet said.
“I am not,” Amy said crossly. “I’m fine!”
“Let me see,” one of the men said. “I’m a paramedic.”
Another man demanded, “What happened here?”
Violet began to explain. Rafe again caught Amy’s gaze. They smiled faintly at each other, co-conspirators. Amy knew it would be her last smile for a long time. It was eight thirty; she and Gran had missed Kaylie’s band at All-City.
Myra Townsend rushed into her office. “Oh, everybody, I’m so sorry, we had no idea—”
Sure you didn’t.
Amy demanded, “Do our cell phones work yet?”
Myra looked at her. For a brief flash the kind, motherly concern was replaced by shrewd speculation; Myra guessed that Amy had seen through Lynn’s act. No phantom told Amy that, but she didn’t need one. Myra knew.
But all she said was, “Yes, of course, dear, your cells work now. Go ahead and phone whomever.”
Amy stood, walked away from everyone, over to the glass wall, and called Gran, who was frantic. Amy told her that she’d had to work overtime under circumstances where she couldn’t call, and would explain more later. Gran, never slow on the uptake, said only, “I’m sorry, Amy. And Kayla will be too. But the important thing is that you’re all right.”
“I’ll be home when I can,” Amy said. “Love you.” Sorry did not describe what Kaylie was going to be.
When Amy turned, she was surprised to find Rafe, not Violet, at her elbow. Waverly and Violet stood on opposite sides of the vast room, talking into cells. Everyone else had gone.
Rafe said, “Myra and two security guards took Lynn to a ‘hospital.’ Cai took Tommy home.”
“Oh,” Amy said. She suddenly had no energy to think about Cai, about Tommy, about TLN, about anything except Kaylie. Across the room Violet, frowning, snapped shut her cell, waved briefly at Amy, and stalked out. Apparently Violet had her personal-life problems, too.
Amy said dully, “I have to go home.”
“Sure.”
They walked out, Waverly trailing behind, ending her phone conversation. In the elevator the three of them said nothing. Amy was glad the lobby was nearly empty; few people to see her holding the bloody wad of cloth to
her head. They reached the street just as a black car pulled up. A uniformed chauffeur jumped out and opened the door for Waverly, who got in without so much as a glance at either Rafe or Amy. The car pulled away.
“Never thought of offering us a ride,” Rafe said. “No, that’s not correct—she probably did think of it and took pleasure in not doing it. Taxi!”
A cab stopped. Rafe opened the door and gently pushed Amy toward it.
“I can’t,” she said. Until she cashed her paycheck, she had exactly twenty-seven cents in her jeans. The thought of walking all the way home, bleeding from the head and dizzy with hunger, nearly started tears, but there was no help for it.
“My treat,” Rafe said. “Get in.”
“But you—”
“Get in!”
She did. Nonetheless, she finished her sentence. “—don’t have much money either.”
“No,” Rafe agreed, “but I’m spending some of what I do have on this. Give him your address, Amy.”
She did, then leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. Rafe said quietly, “The scenarios are getting rougher.”
“Yes.”
“How far are you prepared to go?”
“How far do you think Myra is prepared to go?”
“All the way.”
Amy’s eyes flew open. Rafe’s face was grim. He said, “Depending, of course, on the ratings. If they’re good—and I think they will be—eventually TLN will create scenarios that are both dangerous and illegal, in—”
“They can’t do that!”
“In ways that have plausible deniability. Lynn was just the first. They’ll present this as if she was a legitimate contestant who just happened to go bonkers—just watch. The next thing we’ll hear is that her ‘family’ has taken her away to get her some help. But for the rest of us, things could get really rough. What I want to know is, are you willing to ally with me, to meet any scenarios as a team? You were impressive back there.”
“Thanks. I think. But it doesn’t . . . I don’t see how TLN could dare do anything really illegal.”