by Mark Budz
"Morning," the mask said. Instead of launching into a sales flash or catalog listing, it switched from external audio to his earfeed. "I was hoping I'd catch you."
"Atossa?" Pelayo stopped. "I thought you weren’t scheduled to go online until this afternoon." He could never keep her schedule straight.
"I was supposed to. But Vij isn't feeling well. She threw up or something. So I'm filling in for her."
"I'd swing by," he said—she worked five blocks away, at Model Behavior, remote opping the ad agency's masks—"but I'm running late."
"That's okay, I just wanted to say hi." The mask tilted sideways and smiled. "See you later?"
He cut a quick glance past her to the main entrance to the IBT building. "What time you off?" he said.
"Four."
He nodded. "I should be done by then."
"How about I come by your place after?" Atossa said. "Bring some Asian Rose or Beau Thai?"
"You don't have class tonight?" She was taking an adult ed in philmography, and usually knee-deep in homework.
"We're doing independent study projects. I'd like to tell you what I have in mind. See what you think."
"Sounds good."
The mask drifted forward, pecked him on the lips, then drifted aside, allowing him to pass.
"Love you," she said.
"You, too."
Three meters from the main entrance, the Che Guevara philm he'd downloaded at the end of his last clinical trial faded as a datician in the building registered his DiNA cast and placed his current test 'skin into sleep mode in preparation for a new skin-job.
The IBT building had rethemed since his last visit. It was now Victorian, with redbrick masonry walls, arched windows, and a barrel vault of glassine panes suspended in a Gothic wrought-iron frame.
Like an Atherton resort hotel, IBT was one of those places that existed mainly as an idea. There was a building, but it could be any building, real or unreal, from any place, any time.
On either side of him, lofty palm trees in marble planters formed a leafy colonnade that shaded the center atrium from the industrial-strength glare pouring in through the tall factory windows.
"You're late," Uri said over his earfeed. The words, pinched thin with annoyance, stripped the kiss from his lips.
3
The customer, a tall woman in her late teens or early twenties, stepped tentatively into the Get Reel cinematique. The glass door—etched with sleek Egyptian Deco—swung shut behind her with a stiletto-sharp click.
The woman looked not only scared but desperate. She wore inexpensive disposable 'skin, the kind of business ware that companies issued to low-wage employees to project a uniform corporate image. It was already starting to cloud up as it biodegraded. She didn't have any appliqués that Marta could see. No obvious nanoma- tion, pierces, logos, or tats—just cheap diamond earrings and a shapeless Third-World dress woven from coarse yellow cotton.
Poor. New to town. Probably a refugee. Probably illegal.
The woman blinked toffee-brown eyes, then ran one hand over close-cropped hair the texture of coffee grounds. Her gaze darted around the narrow store, taking in the floor-to-ceiling collages of old celluloid movie and vidIO snippets, the plastic display cases filled with 'skin grafts, the shelves of lip collagen and spray dispensers of bacterial makeup, the dolls outfitted with a variety of prosthetic nipples, lips, and labia.
Marta glanced at the Japanese partition that screened the back room of the shop, making sure her boss was still occupied, and hurried from behind the display counter. "Can I help you?"
The woman started at the sound of Marta's voice. "I don't know."
Marta couldn't place her accent. West Africa, maybe. Mali. "Is there anything in particular you're interested in?"
The woman's gaze returned to Marta, grazed her like a rock skipping across water, then skittered away, alighting on a rack of skincense phials. "I was told..." Her voice snagged. "I need your help."
"Hold still, for fuck sake!" Jhon's voice bellowed from the edit room in the back of the store.
The woman froze. Her pupils dilated, brimming with adrenaline-fueled fear.
"You keeping moving," Jhon went on, "and I'm not responsible if the graft doesn't take. Understand?"
"The owner," Marta explained, hoping to quell the woman's anxiety. "He's editing the philm on a customer. We have a few minutes."
The woman bit her lower lip. She looked unconvinced, ready to flee. An argument erupted on the sidewalk just outside the store, a thunderclap of shouts that made the young woman hesitate.
Marta touched her lightly on the wrist. "What exactly are you looking for?" she asked.
A place to stay for a couple of days. A warm meal. That was what Marta typically saw in the store.
The woman hollowed her cheeks. "I was told to come here."
"By who?"
The woman glanced at the partition. "Sister Giselle."
Sister Giselle ran a number of local homeless shelters. Marta was one of the people the nun referred at-risk illegals to for "counseling."
"All right." Marta let out a breath. More than just a place to lie low for a few days. "I'll see what I can do."
Some of the panic receded from the woman's eyes. She swallowed, forced a smile as thin as a pressed flower.
Marta felt an echo of the smile play across her own lips. She led the woman to a changing booth and sat her down on a stool. "I need to get some information from you. It's important you tell me the truth. Understand?"
A nod. "You want to know how long I've been here and where I'm coming from."
"Yes," Marta said. "For starters."
________
The woman was from Nigeria. Nadice. She had arrived two days ago as part of an internal workforce reorganization by Atherton Resort Hotels. Atherton owned and operated a worldwide network of philm resorts for vacationers and business travelers who wanted a safe place to stay. Nadice had worked for Atherton Lagos as a maid. Upon her arrival in Atherton San Jose, she'd run.
"I don't want to have an abortion," the woman explained.
"You're pregnant?"
The woman nodded. "I found out just before the transfer."
"Is that part of your contract with Atherton? No children?"
"Yes."
So the child was an accident, Marta thought, or an excuse. A convenient way out.
"I want my baby to have a chance," the woman went on. "I want her to be free. I don't want her to get caught in the same situation I did."
Assuming the child made it to term. In all likelihood a security marker authorizing her xfer to the Bay Area had been spliced into the wetronics of her corporate 'skin. Normally security markers expired on a specific date, or after a set amount of time. But they could also be keyed to the life of the 'skin or the duration of employment. When the degradation reached a certain point, nonlethal neurotoxins would be released into her system.
"Have you been to a doctor?" Marta asked.
The woman ducked her head and touched a hand to her abdomen. "I'll go as soon as I can."
"What about diseases?" Marta asked. "Are you sick? Carrying anything?"
The woman looked up, indignant. "No. Nothing I know of."
"Good. If you're right, that will make things easier." Marta gave her an unmarked squeeze ampoule.
The woman took the white plastic capsid and turned it over in her hand, careful not to touch the nozzle. "What's this?"
"Something to counteract the release of toxins from your 'skin. You need to dose yourself once a day. There are seven doses. That means you have a week to find someone who can reconfigure whatever you're waring."
The woman frowned. "I thought that's what you... the reason Sister Giselle sent me here."
"No, I'm not set up for that. You need to make other arrangements." The support network for refugees and illegal aliens was ad hoc. Marta had a contact who supplied her. She didn't know who supplied him and didn't want to.
"I want to get rid o
f the 'skin completely," the woman stated. "No more philm. No more images. I just want to be me."
Marta pressed her lips into a thin line. The woman wasn't just looking for a place to stay. She was looking for a new life. "That will be harder. More expensive. Do you have a job lined up? Experience?"
The woman shook her head. "Just cleaning. That's all I've ever done." The woman lowered her gaze. Embarrassed, apologetic, she brushed raw fingertips across the Atherton watermark staining her right cheek. Marta hadn't noticed the stylized A before, with its central cross, ghosting her 'skin. Otherwise, she didn't appear to be a member of any particular philm cast.
"Not a problem," Marta said. "You should be able to find something as a waitress, or in retail."
"Like you."
For some reason people always assumed that if she was helping refugees she must be one herself. They assumed she had suffered, too. How else could she understand their plight? Why else would she want to help, if she wasn't one of them?
"What about family or friends?" Marta said. "Is there anyone in the area who can help?"
"No. I'm alone."
"Where's the father?"
The woman jerked one shoulder in sharp dismissal. "There isn't—he's not here."
But not gone, either. The real reason she was running, Marta decided. "You still at the shelter?"
The woman nodded and white-knuckled the ampoule, resolute. "Who do I see to get rid of the 'skin? Do you know anyone?"
"Maybe," Marta allowed. Why? Why was she going out of her way to help this woman? "I'll make some inquires. It might take a couple of days. Don't come here. I'll find you."
"Thanks."
"Don't." The gratitude chafed. Marta didn't want the responsibility that came with it. "I'm not doing you any favors."
The woman blinked but held her gaze.
"My advice," Marta said. "Go to domestic security, apply for asylum. There's still time. You're in no condition to do this. Not now. It would be different if it was only your life you were risking."
The woman scraped her lip with her teeth. It wasn't what she wanted to hear. All the more reason it needed to be said.
"Why are you doing this?" Her fingers tightened around the dispenser.
"Because you need to know what you're getting into."
"What I mean is, why are you helping me if you think it's such a bad idea?"
The question always came up. It wasn't only curiosity. They wanted reassurance, an explanation... a reason to trust her. "Because someone helped me once." What she told everyone, even herself from time to time.
"So you were like me. Once."
"No." Marta had never been like her. "We're different," she said. "For one thing, I wasn't responsible for another life."
The woman moistened her dry, chapped lips. "But you know what it's like to want to get away. To start over."
"I know you can't run forever. I know you can't ever get away. Not the way you want or think. Soon as you put one thing behind you, another takes its place."
The woman started at the scrape of chair legs in the back room.
"That's what I'm talking about," Marta said. "Always looking over your shoulder. That never ends. The fear is always there."
The woman took a breath, hardening her resolve. "Would you have done anything different, if you'd been pregnant?"
Marta hesitated. Too long. All the answer either of them needed.
"Image will take a couple hours to set," Jhon said, his voice louder, closer. In the main shop now. "Don't scratch it. You do, it could smear."
"You got any anti-itch stuff?" the kid asked. He couldn't be more than eleven or twelve.
"All out." Jhon paused. "Sorry."
"Bullshit."
Hard to tell if the kid was referring to the apology or store inventory. Marta turned to the woman. "You better go now." She nudged the curtain aside to look out.
Jhon stood next to the partition with the kid, who was fumbling through the bins of skin cream on the back wall. Their backs were turned.
"Now," Marta said. She stood and made her way out of the booth, accompanying the woman to the front door.
The aroma of grilled tempeh and steamed rice drifted in from the Wok This Way two doors down.
"Be careful," Marta said. "You aren't..."
"I'll be fine," the woman said. "What you already said—I'm not like you."
A moment later she was gone, carried away by the roiling current of Pacific Avenue, philmed in the luminous watercolor foliage and quaint seaside architecture that recalled saltwater taffy, merry-go-rounds, red-striped towels, and beach umbrellas.
Marta turned back to the store.
"Fuck outta my way," the kid said, giving her a shove.
As he scooted past, she caught a glimpse of the images that Jhon had snipped from dusty electrons. The kid had cast himself as a member of the Lost Boys. Bloodless white 'skin, red lips, bat-black jackets with upturned collars. The Lost Boys weren't an exclusive philm cast. All it took to become a member was image grafts from the original movie or the later Chinamation adaptation.
It must be nice, Marta thought, to know where you belonged in the world; who you wanted to be.
_______
"Who the hell was that?" Jhon said, his breath heavy, his eyes pallid, jittery despite the graphene philm covering his corneas. He'd supposedly clipped his eyes from Bruce Lee in Enter the Dragon. But Marta could swear that a little of Peter Lorre's Hans Becker, the pasty pedophile from the 1931 film classic M, had crept in.
"Window-shopper," she said.
He moistened his keloid-smooth lips, leaving a snail trail of saliva. "She buy anything?"
"No."
He frowned. "Spent a lot of time with her for nothing."
"She couldn't make up her mind."
"You seem to get a lot of those."
Marta shrugged. "She wasn't ready to buy. I pressure her, and she doesn't come back. Next time, she goes someplace else."
"Been happening a lot lately." His tone as sour and puckered as his sweat-yellow shirt.
"I don't want to sell them something they don't want."
"Right." He blinked. "Well, keep up the good work."
Before she could retort, he turned and trundled back to his office, where she knew he would spend the rest of the afternoon mining digitally preserved celluloid and archived vidIO for usable images.
What he did in his free time. All the time. Holed up behind his grapheme, not just letting the past wash over him, but through him.
Marta shivered and hugged herself against the chill aura of the philm samples and the toxic flicker of old video.
Her muscles ached under the virtual radiation. Tired. She needed to sit down, rest for a few minutes.
Six months she'd worked at the Get Reel. Too long. She could feel the skeleton of her life showing through her philm, radiograph-white bones etched on black microfiche. It was time to move on, before she became fully exposed.
Tonight, she'd call Sister Giselle and warn her not to refer anybody else to the Get Reel. Tomorrow, Friday, she would look for another job, someplace new where she could start over. Again.
4
Music swelled the chest of Giles Atherton, filling him to the point of bursting. He felt himself rising up with the rest of the Right to Light congregation, all of them straining as one to be with God.
They were all drawn to that center, like iron to a magnet. The force was there, always pulling. There was no escaping it. The only release was to give oneself over to it.
And yet Atherton remained trapped within his body. God wasn't ready for him to cast off his flesh. Not yet. He had work to do. The lightness he felt was a promise of the joy that awaited him after he carried out his earthly duties.
For the service, he had chosen a patrician suit and philmed himself in a pseudoself based on Martin Luther and John Brown, in order that the spirit of those men, long dead, might enter him. By casting himself in their image he became something other, grea
ter, than himself. He not only resurrected them in mind, but in body. In that way he was born fully into the body of Christ. Perhaps the same was true for all men of faith. They embodied those who had gone before, an extension not only of their faith but of their lives. That way their work on earth continued, unbroken, as if they had never died. The torch passed from one hand to the next, from one generation to the next, down through the ages.
Atherton combed precise fingers through his cloud-white hair, a delicate puff that contrasted sharply with the graphite-hard eyes and charcoal- gray suit. He turned to his wife, seated next to him. Lisbeth's face was uplifted, turned to the light from the chrome-and-glass ceiling, her eyes folded shut in prayer. The sharp-edged lines of her Tamara de Lempicka-inspired philm fractured the light around him as her lips moved in prayer, silently reciting the words she was thoughtcasting to the Church's datician. Like a lot of people, she needed to subvocalize a mental command for it to be clearly annunciated and accurately translated by the nanoelectrodes in her brain-computer interface.
It was the same petition she had offered up every week for the last three months, since the disappearance of their daughter. Atherton looked for the words on the d-splay screens mounted on the three steel-frame crucifixes, lined up in a row from tallest to shortest, that supported the tentlike canopy of the church. The d-splays flickered with vidIO images taken from classic Billy Graham revivals, 700 Club episodes, and Promise Keeper rallies.
Sometimes it seemed as if the images of luminous rapture from those programs pierced his flesh to take up residence in his soul. The upraised hands, the tears of joy, and the bowed heads, respectful, reverent, and at peace. They lived in him, like flames feeding on wood, consuming him. Some nights the intensity of their burning left him feverish, his mouth dry, his thoughts addled by a parched, throbbing ache.
Fuel for the fire, he thought. In the end that was what everyone was. Burn with the holy spirit or burn in hell. Those were the options.
Atherton refused to believe that Apphia had run away of her own free will. She had been tempted, misguided.