Mace felt himself step back from her as if physically shoved. “Urn...”
“If you could do it again, what would you wish for?” she asked.
“I suppose...well, I suppose I would wish that I’d find something very important.”
She smiled, but without her initial enthusiasm. The skin at the corner of her eyes crinkled. “Do you like parties?”
“Not one of my favorite things, no. I always end up in a corner, watching it go on, and wondering why everyone’s having so much fun.”
“I always come thinking one of these times I’ll figure it all out.”
Freckles spattered across her nose and cheeks. A fine tracery of lines on her forehead dispelled the initial impression of youth. She wore a plain white chitin, belted at the waist.
“I’m Mace Preston,” he said, extending a hand.
“The victim—I mean, guest of honor—I know. Nemily Dollard.”
“Mace,” Piers laid a hand on his back. In his other he held a small dish with a mound of cake. “Your piece. Oh, and I packed up all the candles and put them with your gifts, I thought you’d like to have them.. .ah, Nem, have you...?”
“Just now,” she said.
“I hate to steal you away” Piers said, “but I want to talk to you briefly. Nem, would you excuse us?”
“Of course. Uh, maybe we’ll see each other later?”
“That would be—” Piers dragged him away “—nice...”
They reached the hallway and for the moment it was empty except for them.
“Mace, I wanted to explain about tonight—”
“Explain what? We’ve talked about this before, I don’t care for surprises. But you never listen.”
“People worry about you, Mace. We don’t want to see you turn into a hermit.”
“Thank you, Piers. And actually—this one is pretty good so far.”
Piers smiled hesitantly. “Wonderful. In that case, enjoy yourself. I just wanted—”
“You succeeded. I’m grateful. Can I eat my cake now?”
Grinning, Piers walked away. Mace thought it often seemed too easy to validate the man’s existence. Hawthorne had taken it upon himself to watch over Mace since representing him during the claims process, and at times Mace suspected Piers’ motives, but he had put it down to a kind of assumed guilt—he had been there when Mace’s life had changed and felt partly responsible. Much the same as Cambel Guerrera, though Piers still worked for PolyCarb.
He wanted to eat his cake in peace, away from the insistent well-wishing and socializing. The dish in his hand held no fork. He looked from the cake to the party and weighed the benefit of braving the gauntlet against the messy inconvenience of eating his cake with his fingers.
Then he glimpsed Delia. He turned sharply and strode down the hall, to the small toilet half hidden beneath the stairs. He knocked and heard no reply He stepped inside and locked the door.
In darkness, he listened. No one walked by
The only illumination—unless he switched on the main light—came from a small orange nightlight above the sink. Mace’s eyes adjusted quickly He sat down on the stool and propped the plate on his knees.
Gradually he picked up the muffled sounds of the party. By now people would be spread through most of Piers’ meandering house. Of the few he might genuinely wish to see, none had shown up. At least not yet. Though he hoped to find Nemily Dollard again.
Nemily Dollard did not seem like Piers’ usual coterie of guests, who used parties like a stage, all actors performing for each other, trying out their masks, new and old. That was the main reason Mace tended to dislike parties—he never knew, in this context, where the act ended and the actor began.
Not a problem he had in his occupation. In that context, he expected people to lie and hide. When the point was to unmask the actors, he felt confident, in control, but when the point was to simply appreciate the act and accept it as momentarily real, he experienced mainly distrust. It came automatically and he had to work to suppress it.
He had not felt that from Nemily.
Of course, it could have been a very, very good mask.
Mace pulled a few sheets of paper from the dispenser and, in the dim light, ate his cake.
Five – AEA, 2118
PIERS KEPT ALL HIS DOMICILE EXPANSION PERMITS in a frame at the top of the main staircase, proof of permission and display of ego to anyone who might question his possession of so much space. Mace noted the tiny eye of the recorder set in the center of the mount board; it counted the number of people who stopped to look at the array The fact that Piers’ house stood in an exclusive section of Aea where ostentatious use of cubic volume was expected and that the most likely people to visit his citadel couldn’t have cared less how much room he took up only made the display inexplicable except as vanity.
At the far end of the hallway, someone stood pressed to the jamb, peering through a barely opened door. Music, partly obscured by the babble of voices, emanated from the room beyond. The man did not seem interested in the sound, but strained as if to get a better look at something or someone within. As Mace approached, treading quietly, the man stepped back, turned sharply, and disappeared down the adjacent hallway.
The stranger had moved so smoothly that Mace could not tell if he had been ready to leave on his own or had left because of Mace’s presence. Curious, Mace went to the door and looked in. He saw no one he knew very well. He followed after the stranger, who had walked with the slightly hunched posture of a Lunessa. At the end of the shorter hall, stairs descended.
Near the bottom, Mace stopped.
“—told you not to—”
The voice was faint, but it sounded like Piers.
“She’s up there. She’s here.” A different voice. Accented. Mace had heard that accent often enough working for InFlux. Definitely from Lunase.
“I don’t care, that’s no concern of yours. Now get your butt back—”
A door slammed and the voices became unintelligible. Mace felt torn between satisfying his curiosity and being a polite guest.
Before he could decide, a door below opened, casting light at the foot of the stairs, and heavy footsteps sounded. The stranger appeared at the bottom of the stairs. He stopped and glanced up at Mace, scowling, features half lit from the open door behind him. Then he was gone, the door closed, and Mace was left in silence.
Mace backed up the stairs.
He paused by the door to the music, his ears warm, and tried to sort out his impressions. There had been a familiarity about the stranger. Just a glimpse, not enough to be sure he could identify him later, but nevertheless he had felt a strong sense of recognition.
And who was “she”?
“Happy birthday,” Mace murmured sardonically. He made himself shrug as if to leave his misgivings on the floor behind him, and went to the music.
Three guitarists played interlacing lines through the conversational noise. Curiously, the music came clearly through the clutter, and as Mace stood in the door listening he began to notice a rhythm to the talk, as if the audience were structuring their rudeness to counterpoint the melodies. But no one seemed to be talking. Of the twenty or so people present, all of them appeared intent on the performance.
The piece ended with a flourish of chords and the conversation blent into a short gush of white noise. The audience applauded. The musicians nodded, grinning with appreciation.
Nemily Dollard was on the floor, back against a sofa, clapping enthusiastically. She sat with her legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, and her chitin had ridden up to her hips. She had taken off her slippers. She reached for the glass on the floor beside her and looked up at him.
“Oh, the birthday victim.”
“May I?”
She patted the floor. “Absolutely”
He eased down, arm draped on the sofa seat. “I came in here expecting to see everyone being impolite to good music.”
“Instead the musicians are impolite.”
/> “What, uh...?”
“They have a sampler midied to their guitars. The music is designed to be played through chatter. They make the chatter compliment the music. It’s annoying at first, but it makes sense after a while.”
“Do they do anything without the talk?”
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard them elsewhere. Did you ever get to eat your cake?”
“Yes. Fine cake. Life is good.”
She smiled. “What do you do, Mace?”
“You mean as in career? I’m retired.”
“At forty-six? I’m jealous.”
“Don’t be. It hasn’t got a lot to recommend it. Too much time and not enough to fill it.”
“You live alone, then.”
The inference surprised him. “More or less. I have a domestic personality in my house system. Among other things, she makes me go to parties.”
“I don’t even have a house system. Do you like them?”
“House systems?”
“Domestic personalities. Do you like them? You don’t find them a little... alien?”
“I...no, not at all.”
“You called it ‘she.’ A female template?”
“Yes. What do you do, Nemily Dollard?”
“Oh. I guess I’m prying. Sorry. Actually, I work for Piers. In his department, anyway.”
“PolyCarb. Do you like it?”
The guitarists began a new piece, the first measures a strong set of chords that seemed to ricochet off each other, surrounding the main theme before actually attacking it. Nemily’s attention shifted immediately back to the music. Mace almost repeated his question, but Nemily Dollard’s entire focus centered now on the musicians and their work. He knew that if he touched her she would react with surprise, that for the moment he was forgotten.
Her hands pressed flat against the floor, causing the muscles all along her arms to tense and reveal the definition achieved by long hours of exercise. Her fingers were short and slightly thick. Her legs were also muscular, making them appear shorter than they actually were. A faint trace of scar followed the line of her knees and Mace recognized the operation: adapt reconstruction. Her knees had given out and had been replaced. Nemily Dollard was an immigrant.
He might have seen her coming through InFlux. For all he knew, he might have been her first councilor, though he felt certain he would remember. As he thought about it he recognized that his attraction to her had less to do with her sincerity, as he had imagined, and more to do with a muzzy familiarity. He had seen her, he was sure of that, but it might have been only once in the last three years. If it had been during his first six months of volunteer service, he might never recall it; he had kept himself half numbed by alcohol, leaf, or any other intoxicant that came to hand. She may well have changed since then, too. He looked more closely now at the fine lines around her eyes and mouth for signs of other surgery. The fact that she appeared to wear her own face at one of Piers’ gatherings, where the rule by which these people lived and breathed was to arrest aging at all costs (and the costs afforded on average were considerable), had also attracted him, but he wondered now if it might be an affectation, as meticulous in its own ends as the smooth obscurity of experience common among nearly everyone else here. He could not tell. The best remodelers could manage to hide their work from anything less than a professional examination. But the best were expensive and those who could afford it could afford it all. Why remake a face to appear naturally contoured by laughter and tears and worry and pleasure and leave unaltered the crude scars of an earlier, cheaper operation to replace overstressed and broken knees?
Her lips opened and her head swayed ever so slightly in time to the music. Mace caught the intricate melody now. They played major off of minor, weaving the relative keys in and out and around a long repetitive whole-tone arpeggio. The piece suggested the feeling that comes with the near understanding of a long-desired truth. Nemily Dollard listened with enviable attention.
As it ended, she closed her mouth and eyes and let her head fall back onto the sofa seat. Mace stared at her neck and wanted to touch it. Startled by his own impulse, he looked at the musicians. They were bright with perspiration, smiling the way lovers do after sex, exhausted and refreshed at the same time. People applauded and one of the guitarists ran his hand along the neck of his instrument, fingers teasing out a playful line as if to say thank you.
“So,” Nemily said. “May I get you a drink, Mace Preston? Maybe another piece of cake?”
Piers’ house emptied by twos and threes and even a few individuals, gradually revealing the debris of revelry. Partly empty cups, smeared dishes, lost bits of clothing, scraps of unidentifiable paper and droppings of food littered the floors, chairs, tables, stairs and any other horizontal surface available. Only a handful of people seemed to remember the reason for the party and, as they left, gave Mace a last wish for a good year to come. He wondered if he had missed the Lunessa; he did not see him leave. But there were others he had missed that he could call in the next few days to thank for being at the party.
Nemily wandered from room to room, chasing last fragments, a brief conversation or a drunken musician still attempting to hold an audience. Mace followed, at first at a distance, but more closely when she kept returning to find him, wondering what she sought, half hoping it would turn out to be him.
Piers emerged from the direction of his kitchen, grinning broadly.
“Leaving so soon? But there are still people! Passed out here and there, but if they were awake I know they’d be disappointed.”
“Give them my apologies. Thank you, Piers. I really enjoyed it.”
Piers gave him a dubious look.
“No, I really did,” Mace insisted.
“Then the surprise is complete. I’m glad you came.”
“So am I.” He gestured at the debris. “You need to clean up. I’m sure your houseguests don’t need to wallow in aftermath.”
Piers frowned. “Houseguests? I don’t—oh! You mean the passed-out and semiconscious? I’ll send them home by morning; they’ll never know the difference.”
Mace nodded, carefully controlling his reaction. “I have to go before I turn into a squash.”
“Hmm? You mean a pumpkin.”
“I mean I’m tired. Thanks again.”
Nemily waited outside on the pedistry
“I live in segment three, arc ninety,” she said as they strolled down the path from Piers’ house.
Mace automatically looked downshaft, about a quarter of the way up the curve of Aea, along a line of glittering lights that sprawled over most of eight arcs of circumference, CLUB STANDARD occupied most of twelve arcs, from one hundred thirty to one hundred eighteen.
“I’m... over there,” he said, waving his left hand in the general direction of his dom, nearly sixty arcs away
“Are you going there now?”
“I don’t have to.”
“I didn’t think so. May I hold your hand?”
Mace spread his fingers. A moment later he felt her touch, interlacing his own.
“We could go—”
“I’d feel better in my own place,” she said. “If you don’t mind.”
He wanted to ask why, then wondered why he did not. It surprised him that he might want something too much to question it, especially when he knew so little about it.
Even in the spent hours before morning returned through Aea’s jalousied windows, people rode the shunts, as if pursuing final truths or last chances. Nightcycle was a pattern biological systems could not dispense with, but humans found it equally impossible to conform to its intended limits. Instead of cessation and rest, darkness only brought a different suite of activities. Five other people occupied the car they entered. At each stop, one or two would get off, only to be replaced by two or three new commuters. With each shuffle of occupants, Mace’s anticipation increased. When Nemily stood, his nerves seemed to skip, jolting him to his feet. They ran up the steps to the spinward shunt.
“Here,” Nemily said at her stop and took Mace by the hand.
They emerged in the middle of the strip of doms. All Mace saw, all he recognized clearly, was a collection of apartments, preformed assemblages, lights in some windows, most dark, the variously hued walls lit by bright halogens mounted on the upper corners of the structures. Nemily dragged him along the straight pedistry till she selected a doorway and led him inside.
He hurried after her up the stairs to the third floor, imagining as he ascended that he could feel the falling away of gravity. She inserted a key disc in a scanner and the apartment door slid aside.
He stepped through after her and stopped in the dark hallway, his shadow stretched ahead from the corridor light. The door closed, obliterating the shadow and leaving him abruptly motionless. Momentum lost, he stood still, agitated by unspent haste and uncertainty.
He sensed her close, then caught the whisper of breathing. Something approached his face, hesitated, and he flinched.
“Should I leave it dark?” she asked.
“Do you... I mean—”
“Either way. It—”
He caught her hand, surprised to find it so near. He tugged lightly and she came against him. He missed her mouth and kissed her chin, then dragged his lips up to hers.
“Dark is fine,” he said when he broke away.
Mace sat up in darkness, disoriented. He stared out the open doors of a balcony. Beyond the railing, the lights of a township glowed up to the edge of farmland. The fields rose like a tsunami, flash-frozen at the horizon line of one of the light traps.
The panic passed in seconds. He drew a deep breath and reached for the nightstand. He found his pendant and held it, remembering everything in a rush.
“Mace? Are you okay?”
Nemily sat up beside him. The sheets fell into her lap. She did not touch him, only waited, which he appreciated. He swallowed and nodded.
Her apartment, her bed. Details of the room emerged—chair over there, bureau with mirror just inside the balcony doors, closet, dresser—even as the dream images that had waked him faded from memory, tucked back into the corners from which they crept in sleep.
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