Asimov's SF, June 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Then she remembered what day it was.

  She groaned, realizing that she was about to be run down by a surprise party. Coco was just scattered enough to have forgotten that lunch was supposed to be a secret. No doubt her friends meant well, but why couldn't they just accept that, after a certain age, some people needed to mourn birthdays, not celebrate them?

  She swung her legs onto the couch, settled back into a nest of pillows and waited for the chemicals in the coffee to set fire to her nervous system. Fifty-one wasn't old, was it? She used to think it was. She'd been just twenty-six when she'd turned the storyboard for Finger in the Sky over to Kai. And her mother had been forty-eight. Forty-nine? Always grumbling about how the day would come when Mercedes would understand about the whole maiden, mother, crone thing. Well, Mercedes had only been a maiden for about a minute and a half in her teens and she'd never been a mother at all and so why the hell would she bother to worry about the coming of cronedom? She wasn't supposed to die until she was ninety-nine, according to her life clock, and if she gave up bourbon like she kept promising herself she might live even longer. Mimi Burgess down the street was a hundred and ten. The feeds claimed that old Ray Kurzweil was pushing a hundred and thirty. Mercedes was barely middle-aged, too young to mope around on a couch at eight-thirty in the morning. She had a neuro to write. She had a beamer paying to spend time in her head.

  It wasn't much of a life, but it was all hers.

  * * * *

  The studio was in a shed that had held farm equipment back when Rake's great-great-greats had worked the land. It had been tacked onto the main house but there was no direct entry; she had to cross the back porch to get to its only door. Some days that was as much fresh air as she could stand. She shut the office door and sighed at the impression of Mick Raven shimmering on the wall. He was about to swing his leg off his bicycle as he eyed the Stallworth mansion. What was he going to find there? She wished she knew.

  Opposite the wallscreen were floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with paper books—upright, vertical, slantwise, and misfiled in every possible way. In the middle of the room facing the wallscreen was a vintage A-dec 500 dentist's chair done in paprika vinyl. The matching hygienist's cart next to it now housed the cognizor where her agent lived. There was a cup with a sludge of day-old coffee on the tray atop the cart. She trashed it and set the cup she'd just brewed in its place. Around the dentist's chair were piles of epaper that she needed either to read or reprocess. A ficus had shed a scatter of leaves on the floor in front of the north window. Her busts of Shakespeare and Peter Jackson needed dusting, as did her three Oscars.

  She slumped as she remembered that the beamer was contemplating the mess that was her life along with her.

  “So,” she said aloud, “meet Mr. Chair.” She settled onto Rake's A-dec 500 and touched the toggle to reposition it. The chair whined as it lifted and tilted backward. Rake had loved that chair. “Guess what, Mr. Chair? We have a guest with us today, a beamer. Mr. Nobody.” She sipped her coffee. “You don't mind if we call you that, do you? Oh, and you'll have to excuse Mr. Chair. He's like you, doesn't speak. Neither does Mr. Shakespeare or poor Miss Ficus, going bald over there. Mr. Raven, on the other hand...” She paused and curled her fingers over the keypads built into the arms of the dentist's chair. “What do you say, Mick?”

  She and Rake had first introduced Mick Raven in A Shot of Moonlight. That was back in the old virtual reality days, when you watched and listened to neuros, instead of inviting them to live between your ears. Mick was Rake's idealized version of himself—healthier, smarter, and with better hair. He wasn't a private detective exactly, more like a research librarian with a gun. He cracked wise so relentlessly that at first Mercedes had regarded Mick as a kind of joke that Rake was playing. But when Mick got popular, Rake had started taking his hero seriously. Mercedes felt as if she had to indulge him. They churned out eleven sequels in five years and had been recoding them for full neurality when she left Rake and their money for John Dark. She'd given Rake permission to do whatever he wanted with their franchise when they broke up, but there had been no more new Mick Raven adventures. Until now.

  She snugged the mindreader onto her head, draping its thick cable over the back of the chair.

  =Okay,= she thought. =Where were we?=

  =Scene Five,= thought Dai-rinin. =Packet 342.=

  =The first time he sees the Stallworth place?=

  =Yes.=

  =Begin.= Mercedes concentrated on the wallscreen and Mick Raven swung off his bicycle.

  5.342: [impression: shrink Ascot House, Buckinghamshire, England 20%. Hold through 5.350]

  5.343: [Mick's thoughtstream:] 122 Fairview is the kind of Mock Tudor mansion that would give Henry VIII nightmares.

  5.344: [subliminal: Henry VIII's face pumping like a heart]

  5.345: [Mick's thoughtstream:] Its steep roof is covered in bright terra cotta and the walls are a hodgepodge of herringbone brickwork and stucco the color of smokers’ teeth.

  5.346: [smellfx: smoker's breath]

  5.347: [Mick's thoughtstream:] Someone painted the half timbers blue—probably a bot.

  5.348: [subliminal: out of control blue bot with blue paintbrush hands painting, walls, windows, doors, etc.]

  5.349: [Mick's thoughtstream:] I've never quite understood why bots love to paint things; they don't have the color sense that God gave to shrimp.

  5.350: [neurofx: limbic bump to subchuckle, level 1]

  5.351: [Mick's thoughtstream:] The windows on the first floor have heavy iron casements and diamond-shaped leaded panes.

  5.352: [impression: chamfered mullion windows from outside. Hold through 5.358]

  5.353: [Mick's thoughtstream:] Anyone looking out of them is going to see a world that is pinched and dark.

  5.354: [lightfx: continuous darkening of 5:352 from edges @ 5% per second]

  5.355: [Mick's thoughtstream:] An accurate view maybe, but depressing as hell.

  5.356: [neurofx: increase serotonin uptake .01%]

  5.357: [Mick's thoughtstream] If it were my place, I would've long since busted a chair through those windows to let in some sun.

  5.358: [soundfx: glass breaks]

  5.359: [impression: chair legs punching through 5.352, daggers of flying glass ]

  5:360: [neurofx: 70mV stim to amygdaloidal fear complexes ]

  5.361: [impression: door at the Stud Gate Entrance, Hampton Court Palace]

  5.362: [impression: Chevrolet housebot opens the door. Hold through 5.366]

  5.363: [bot's dialog] Am I making the acquaintance of Mick Raven?

  5.364: [Mick's dialog] Not if I can help it.

  5.365: [Mick's thoughtstream] I don't chitchat with bots.

  5.366: [Mick's dialog] I'm here to see Bishop Stallworth.

  There was a tickle in Mercedes's throat and she coughed. The bot's impression shimmered on the wallscreen, waiting for its next line. Her agent waited for her next thought. Brainstorm was waiting for the new Mick Raven neuro.

  What was Mercedes waiting for?

  “Damn it, Rake,” she muttered. He'd always been the one who knew what Mick was doing. This had been his idea, one last Raven adventure. One last adventure for Rake, dying of chronic myelogenous leukemia, one of the few cancers they hadn't beaten. Only he hadn't had near enough time to finish it and now she was left alone to breathe life into Rake's hard-boiled ghost.

  5.367: [Mick's thoughtstream] I don't want to be here, I don't need this. This is a mistake.

  =Strike 367,= she thought.

  =Struck,= thought her agent.

  =I'm think I'm done for today.=

  =The contract with Brainstorm requires that you submit The Bishop of Hell by February first.=

  “I've read the damn contract!” Mercedes was surprised to hear anger in her voice.

  =Saving,= thought Dai-rinin. =Ending session.=

  She left the mindreader hanging over the arm of the chair. On her way out of the studio, she kicked a
t a pile of epaper. “Happy birthday, bitch.” Plastic sheets sailed across the rug.

  * * * *

  Mercedes thought about pouring a bourbon, but had Dai-rinin call a carryvan instead. It had two passengers, the Novick boy and Page Buchholtz.

  If Page was headed for the birthday party, she didn't let on. “Why Mercedes,” she said, “what tears you away from the wall so early?”

  “It's ten past eleven in my time zone, Page.” Mercedes sat on the bench next to her. She liked Page, even though she was one of the biggest snoops in town. “Ricky Morgan messaged me. I'm picking up a book at the library.”

  Page gave a teasing giggle. “Oh, is it Ricky now?” The giggle might have fit a teenager but Mercedes thought it was a little tight on a seventy-something who wore size sixteen. “Tell the truth, Mercedes, is it a book you're picking up or...” Her voice got all smoky. “...the librarian?”

  The Novick kid looked like he wanted to throw up. Mercedes didn't blame him. It seemed as if all of her friends in town wanted to push her into some man's bed. Rick Morgan was on all of the shortlists—including her own. But Mercedes wasn't quite sure what do with him. Her problem was that he knew he was on Melton's all star bachelor team, and was cocky about it. Mercedes liked it better when she was catching, not pitching.

  She swerved to a different subject. “You want to hear something strange?” She leaned into Page. “I woke up this morning with a beamer.”

  “Really?” Page practically squealed. “What happened to him?”

  “Oh, he's still with me.” She touched a finger to the corner of her eye. “Peeping you this very moment.”

  “You're kidding.” There wasn't anyone else in Melton remotely famous enough to attract a beamer. Page's face flushed with excitement and she started to babble. “Who is he? What does it feel like? How do you know he's a he?”

  Mercedes was taken aback by the intensity of her reaction. She reminded Page that celebs were never sure who was beaming into their heads. “So I can't swear that he's a man,” she said, “but back when I used to have crowds, I could figure out whether beamers were men or women by what senses they paid attention to. Women like smell and taste. Men watch.”

  “Oh my god!” Page goggled as if she were the second coming of Zoe Zanzibar. “That is so amazing.”

  Even the Novick kid seemed impressed.

  When the carryvan stopped at the Highmarket, Page floated off, as starstruck as the first time she'd met Mercedes. Mercedes cursed her own foolishness. Page would bring this bit of gossip to every wall in town. Mercedes had intended to abandon what little fame she had left when she moved to Melton. So what if all her friends here knew that she had been a neurality star once? Her day had passed. Scripted neuros like The Bishop of Hell were passe. Neurality was all about plotless worldscapes and unscripted sense dumps these days.

  So why was Page acting like a drooling fan again?

  “Lady.” Young Novick pulled one of his earstones out. “You maded Sleeping on Razors, did you?”

  “I worked on it, yes.”

  “With John Dark?”

  “That's right.”

  “Is total.” He nodded approval. “What be he like? Feeds say he gets the ladies.”

  She didn't hesitate. “Horny as two minks and a goat.”

  The kid grinned and popped the earstone back in. “You most lucky.”

  * * * *

  The carryvan dropped her off in front of the library but she scuttled to the rear entrance. She was spooked and didn't want to run the gauntlet of the front desk and the neurocom and the mediapod and the stacks of books to get to Ricky's office.

  =All your fault, Mr. Nobody,= she thought, as she stole up to the third floor. =You're giving me a reputation.= Ricky wasn't in, so she had Dai-rinin message him. Minutes later, there came a tap at the door.

  “Are you decent?” said Ricky.

  She opened the door and pulled him in by the arm. “I'm not here.”

  “Let me know when you arrive, will you?” He gave her a polite kiss. “I'm taking you to lunch.”

  “You and how many others?”

  He stepped away from her, then waggled a finger in mock severity.

  “So it's true,” she said.

  “Now I see why you make detective neuros.”

  “Raven isn't a detective and I do plenty of other stuff.” She sighed. “Let's have the guest list.”

  “There'll be fifteen for sure, maybe as many as eighteen, and that's all I'm saying.” He showed her a crooked smile. “You'll know everybody.”

  She settled onto the chair behind his desk. “You shouldn't have.”

  “I didn't.” He sorted through a stack of books in a cart by the door. “Janeel and Page put this together.”

  “I don't like surprises, Ricky.”

  “And this isn't going to be one.” He dropped a book in front of her.

  “This him?” Mercedes picked up Raymond Chandler: Stories and Early Novels.

  “I can't believe you've never read Chandler,” said Ricky. “His detective, Marlowe, could be Mick Raven's grandfather.”

  She opened the book to a random page. “I needed a drink,” she read aloud, “I needed a lot of life insurance, I needed a vacation, I needed a home in the country. What I had was a coat, a hat, and a gun.”

  “See?” said Ricky. “You could steal from him six days a week and nobody would know it wasn't you.”

  “What makes you think I need to steal from anyone?”

  “Ah, you're in a fighting mood today.” He held up both hands in surrender. “All hail Mercedes Nunez, queen of...”

  She reached into the candy dish on his desk and threw a jellybean at him.

  In the fast company she'd kept as a young woman, nobody would have noticed Ricky Morgan. He was fifty-two and looked as if he belonged behind a desk in some drab second floor office with a view of the company parking lot. Service in the Air Force had straightened his backbone but had left him looking a little rigid. But as soon as he started talking, everything changed. He spoke in complete sentences with a lilting Alabama accent and made eye contact. His laugh made strangers smile. He and Mercedes had dated three times, but were still circling each other. The way she added him up, there were about as many possibilities as liabilities. He had charm, but he spread it promiscuously. He was divorced, but that proved that he was willing to commit.

  As they walked down Lyon Street, Mercedes let him take her hand. “If things get too awful, just give me a sign. I'll get you out,” he said.

  “I'll be all right. They're friends. They mean well.”

  “We love you, Mercedes. We're happy you live here with us.”

  She squeezed his hand but said nothing.

  “So I was wondering if you might consider giving a talk at one of my First Friday Forums.”

  “What kind of talk?”

  “Just basic stuff, like where do you get your ideas, how a project gets started. I'm sure there'd be a big turnout. You've lived here almost two years now and you're still our number one request at the neurocom. The demand was there so I've bought pretty much everything you've done.”

  “Really?” Mercedes had never accessed the library's neurocom. “The artsy stuff ? Suit of Clay? BlueSkin?”

  “All of them, although I've put warnings on the sexy material and restricted access. You're our local celebrity, Mercedes. You've won Oscars.”

  “For Achievement in Neurological Special Effects.” She snorted. “The ones they give away in the afternoon ceremony.”

  “Just think about it, all right? It would mean a lot to people.”

  * * * *

  Copper's lone wallscreen was set to a view of 11th Street, so that whether diners looked out the window or at the wall, they saw the same scene. Mercedes appreciated the understated view—too many restaurants had walls set to calving icebergs or Martian dust storms or, worst of all, vintage football. A copper bar with a dozen stools stretched to the left of the restaurant's entrance. To the rig
ht was an open kitchen. Copper-topped tables were scattered artfully around the L-shaped dining room.

  Mercedes was surprised when they were shown to a table for two by the bar. As soon as they were seated, however, the singing began.

  Mercedes couldn't see the singers because the party was around the corner. Rick nodded at the wall. For the first time ever, it had turned its gaze inward from the street. Half of the wall showed a long table surrounded by Mercedes's party. She and Ricky watched themselves on the other half. “It would be nice if you looked surprised,” he mumured.

  There was wild applause as she came around the corner; she felt the sound in her bones. What was it Rick had said? We love you, Mercedes. Many people in her life had spoken of love, but most of them had just been breathing on her. However, in this moment she could make herself believe that these people with their glowing faces felt something like true affection for her. Her own face felt odd and she realized that a smile had spread across it, stretching muscles she hadn't used since Rake had died.

  “Speech, speech!” called Matti Ryberg.