Idolon

by Mark Budz

  "All right," she announced, testing the voice. It curled around her, as sensuous as a midnight clarinet. "I'm ready."

  Atherton was dressed in a tweed jacket with brown suede patches on both elbows, a paisley bow tie, flannel Oxford baggies, and loafers. His collar-length hair—parted marginally on one side—was tan, silver-streaked, and slightly unkempt. A pair of round wire-frame spectacles rode low on his tapered nose.

  The style was professorial, she thought, intended to put her at ease by projecting an air of polite if effete intelligentsia. Instead, it came off as self-conscious, or self-indulgent. He didn't ware the look well, and seemed uncomfortable.

  She took a small measure of satisfaction that his attire was out-of-date. Expensive, hand-tailored, but unlike hers his electronic skin didn't support programmable fabric.

  For the moment, she had something he didn't. IBT was the only philm studio that could provide the technology and services he needed. That gave her the advantage in any confrontation.

  Ilse smiled warmly and extended her hand. "My dear." He bent to peck her hand. "A pleasur as always."

  "Likewise. "

  He straightened and stepped back. She withdrew her hand, conscious of the saliva cooling on her skin. She should have worn gloves.

  He appraised her, arching one brow inquisitively. "A beta version of the new ware, I presume."

  She ran a hand down the front of the dress ... relishing her role as model even as she mocked it, "Do you like it?"

  He applauded her with a smile. "My compliments to the fashioneer. Does it meet spec?"

  "Can I get you anything? Coffee. Tea?" She refused to let him dictate the pace of the conversation.

  "Is that a no?"

  She moved toward the safe haven of her desk. "It’s a courtesy, Giles."

  Atherton trailed impatiently after her. "I didn't come all the way up here to stand on ceremony, Ilse"

  She sighed, as if indulging a child, then ran a fingertip along one Sphinx-bordered edge of the desk. "It's early in the test cycle."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Patience. "

  "By now you should have some preliminary data from the clinical trial."

  Ilse turned to face him from behind her desk, fingers pausing delicately on polished ebony. "We're still in the process of 'skinning the first group of test subjects and acquiring feedback."

  Atherton leveled his round wire-frames at her, sighting down the barrel of his nose. "But so far the interface is functional? Stable?"

  "Uri's keeping a close eye on the situation. Rest assured, if there's any indication of a problem, I'll let you know."

  Three years ago, Atherton Resort Hotels had conntracted with IBT for an OEM 'skin, an original equippment manufacture that would support peer-to-peer shareware. Not only would users be able to philm themselves via standard download, they would be able to xfer images between one another. Combined with a rootkit neural interface, the result would be a shared sensory environment.

  It had been a challenge. Atherton had provided the third-party wetronics for the new electronic skin. Adapting and integrating them into the existing graphene substrate of embedded nanofibers and quantum dots had been a nightmare. It had also, almost certainly, been illicit. Ilse felt certain the tronics were of foreign manufacture, probably blackmarket, and had been illegally imported.

  Smuggled. There was no sense sugarcoating her involvement or the queasy legal ramifications.

  That was one area where Atherton held the upper hand. From the beginning, she had made a conscious decision to assume that the project involved military or government interests and that a blinde eye would be turned to any trade restrictions or national security violations. But she hadn't asked. Officially, she didn't know the third-party ware wasn't legal. She didn't want to know. Her only interest was in the financial and technological benefits IBT would realize from the project. Beyond that she didn't care. It was none of her business.

  "You'll keep me apprised," Atherton said.

  "Of course."

  "I'd like to review the preliminary data as soon as it becomes available," he said, brushing aside her reeassurance.

  "Certainly."

  By the way"—he tipped his head at her dress—"how’s the new line progressing?"

  The question took her by surprise. "Fine. On schedule."

  "Do you have a release date?"

  She flapped a vague hand. "General availability is in few weeks. Why?"

  He shrugged. "Just curious." He seemed almost embarrassed.

  Her gaze sharpened. "You wouldn't be trying to wheedle a pre-GA copy? Would you?"

  "Of course not." He held up both hands and beat a hasty retreat. "Nothing of the sort."

  She let a sly smile, bordering on conspiratorial, into place. "I may be able to arrange it."

  He shook his head, then quickly made his way to the door, as if he had overstayed his welcome. "I'll be in touch."

  She nodded and watched him leave, wondering what had he neglected to tell her.

  _______

  Giles Atherton emerged from the IBT building ... and found himself caught in a smart mob on Pacific Avenue. One of those crowds that suddenly formed, for no apparent reason, around an event.

  Typically they were the result of advertising—some biochemically or electronically mediated urge that people spontaneously, thoughtlessly, responded to. No different from a simple microorganism.

  He hated smobs, it was like stepping into a seething

  colony of bacteria. Information exchange. Quorum sensing. Kin selection. Group swarming.

  His cheeks flushed, then prickled. Sweat broke out, and festered in his armpits and on the nape of his neck. His scalp began to itch.

  He cupped a hand over his nose and mouth to ward off a plume of incense from an aromatherapy vendor.

  Where the hell was Uri? He coughed, a real lung scraper, and searched the cars on the street. The skintech had insisted on seeing him immediately affter the meeting with Ilse. They needed to talk, Uri had said, presumably about something that could only be discussed in person.

  A crowd of Lost Boys and Gashlycrumb Tinies formed around him, seemingly out of nowhere.

  Eyes watering, Atherton bulled his way through the smob. He loosened his tie and collar, and hunched his shoulders against the suffocating press.

  He passed a clot of Transcendental Vibrationists. The TVs sat in the middle of the sidewalk, shaking tambourines, beating drums and chanting. An accordionist, philmed as a Day of the Dead skeleton wearing a leather vest, sombrero, and cowboy boots, regaled him from the recessed entrance to an office building. Several steps farther on, the haunting notes of a harmonica unfurled from a breezeway beetween two buildings. Peals of childish laughter echoed off the barrel vault overhead, where a clown was twisting balloons into animals.

  The cacophony washed over him, followed by a wave of dizziness. Nausea boiled up from his bowels. He choked on a lungful of air and felt his gorge rise against the smell of pickled seaweed being sold at a nearby Sue-Shé kiosk.

  "Relax," he told himself through gritted teeth. "Breathe."

  Three Barbies approached, long-legged, with unnnaturally large breasts, and coiffed hair. One of the young women cut a passing glance at him.

  "Apphia?" he said.

  The Barbie quickened her pace, heels sharp. Atherton, tasting bile, stumbled after her. "Apphia. Wait."

  The girl spun, defiant. "Leave me alone, you fucking perv. Before I call the police on your ass."

  It wasn't his daughter. It couldn't be. Apphia would never speak that way. Not to him, or anyone else. He'd raised her better than that.

  "My mistake," he muttered, apologetic.

  "No shit," the girl said, spitting the words. Full of spite for him, or whatever she thought he repreesented.

  Bent over the dagger of pain in his stomach, Atherton watched her hurry to catch up to her friends. When she was gone, disappeared into the crowd, he glanced around, disoriented, uncertain
where he was. He didn't recognize any of the storefronts. The street names were unfamiliar. Suddenly it felt like he was the one who was lost, not Apphia. His faith was being tested, not hers.

  He had to believe that his daughter would find her way back. Her repudiation of him wasn't a repudiation of God. It was the messenger she hated, not the message. Jesus would shepherd her back, return her to the fold. To doubt this was to doubt God, a failure on his part.

  Still, a lost sheep should be searched for. It was an act not only of duty, but of love. Without that there could be no forgiveness. No reconciliation.

  A low-slung Mitsubishi sedan eased up to the curb next to him and glided to a stop. The passenger door slid open. Inside, Uri, dressed as a Russian Mafioso in black denim, gestured for him impatiently.

  Breathing heavily, Atherton slumped into black contoured leather and leaned his head back against the cushioned rest. The ceiling and dash were brushed stainless steel, inlaid with green tourmaline, the diamond windows and adjustable frame fully programmable and stealth-enabled.

  "What are you doing all the way down here?" the skin tech asked.

  Atherton dismissed the question with a brusque wave of one hand. "You're late," he said.

  "Traffic was heavy."

  "Just get us out of here," Atherton said. He shut his eyes, feeling suddenly weary.

  The sedan slid away from the curb and commotion.

  "How did the meeting go?" Uri said.

  "Fine." At last, Atherton could breathe again. The ache in his stomach and the pressure in his chest were easing. He opened his eyes. "I asked when the new fashion ware was due out."

  "And?"

  "She didn't connect it to the beta test. She thought I was interested in obtaining a prerelease of the philm."

  Uri's lip twisted in a smirk. "That sounds like her. Self-centered bitch. Thinks the world revolves around her."

  "She was philmed in one of the new dresses. That made things a lot easier. Less suspicious." Atherton fixed him with a pointed gaze. "Right now, I'm far more worried about you."

  The sneer slipped from Uri's face. From his shirt pocket he produced a small vial containing a barely visible biopsy chip.

  Atherton took the vial for closer inspection. "Is this it?"

  "The quantum-coupled switches aren't completely in phase yet," Uri said. "They're in the final stages of becoming coherent.'" He had been enthusiastic all along—something about a stable electron tunnel in the quantum circuitry—convinced from the beginning that the quantronics he'd obtained from a fly-by-night research lab would prove viable in vivo. "As soon as the resonance state is stable we can integrate the circuitry into the production reelease of the 'skin." .

  "How long are we talking?"

  "A day or two."

  "So"—Ather!on shifted his attention from the vial to Uri—"what's the problem?"

  A muscle in the 'side of Uri's face twitched. Once.Twice. "One of the initial test subjects died. Earlier today. I don't have the exact time of death."

  Atherton closed his eyes, stared into the darkness for a moment. "How?"

  "I'm not sure. I just found out about it a couple of hours ago. The cause of death hasn't been deterrmined."

  The burning sensation in Atherton's stomach rekindled, along with the pressure in his chest. He squeezed the vial, then reopened his eyes.

  Uri wet his lips. "It might not have been the ware."

  "But it could have been."

  Uri nodded. "That's what I need to find out." Atherton relaxed his grip on, the vial. "What about the mule? Is she going to be a problem, too?"

  Uri shook his head cautiously. "I don't think so. She should be easy to keep quiet. Her handler might be more difficult."

  "Why? What happened?"

  They were cruising through a quiet neighborhood known as the Jewel Box, because the streets were named after gems: Garnet, Emerald, Agate. The houses were midtwentieth-century modern. Frank Lloyd Wright, Walter Gropius, Le Corbusier.

  "Nothing," Uri said. "I just don't trust him."

  A lie. Atherton could smell it on the skintech's breath, sour and clammy. Uri had done something—or knew something—he was keeping to himself. That might be for the best. Then again, maybe not.

  "Don't worry," Uri said, "nothing will get out of hand."

  Atherton decided to back off. For the time being. He returned the vial. "Tell me about this phemeticist you've contacted."

  "Zhenyu al-Fayoumi." Uri pocketed the vial. "I'm meeting him tonight."

  Once the quantum component was in place and bootleg copies of IBT's new 'skin became widely available on the street, they needed to know what was likely to happen as the shareware spread—what patterns and modalities of behavior would emerge. For that, they needed a whole new set of mathemattical tools and evolutionary models.

  "You're sure about him?" Atherton said. "He knows what he's doing? He can be trusted?"

  Uri chafed. "The Lamarckian inheritance of acquired traits was disproved over a hundred years ago. As a theory, it's considered a joke-synonymous with quack science.'"

  "I fail to see how that proves he can keep his mouth shut and do what he's told."

  "He can't talk about he's working on. No one in the scientific community would take him seriously. He'd be a laughingstock."

  "You're saying he has a chip on his shoulder—something to prove."

  "If he says anything, he'll be risking his job and his reputation. He's not going to take that chance. This is an opportunity to pursue a line of inquiry that would otherwise get him discredited."

  Atherton pressed his lips into a tight line. "I don't like being used as a means to someone else's end."

  "You're worried he'll try to take advantage of the situation?"

  "I refuse to be held hostage."

  "That's not going to happen. If he's our best option, we're also his. Outside of us, there's no one he can turn to."

  "All right." Atherton worked his jaw from side to side. "Just make sure you keep a tight leash on him."

  Uri touched the tip of his tongue to his teeth. "You aren't the only one who doesn't want to get bit."

  "And find out what happened to that test subject." That, more than anything, had him on edge.

  "Is that it?" Uri said after a short pause.

  "For now."

  The Mitsubishi slowed to a stop next to a deserted sidewalk near the yacht harbor. They were still a long way from the Boardwalk. But even from this distance, music flayed the damp air, brash as the neon/LED glare that detonated off the bellies of low-hanging clouds.

  "I'll let you know how it goes in the morning," Uri said. He eased out of the car and dissolved into the night like venom in dark, oily water.

  13

  Judy's Garlands was back in business. A month ago, the salon had been closed by the San Francisco health inspector for running an illegal bathhouse and 'skin parlor out of the basement. To van Dijk, it looked like the salon was on the up-and-up, back to hairstyling, nails, nanimatronics, and minor cosmetic surgery.

  For the moment. It wouldn't be long before the 'skin parlor was back in operation. The owner didn't have much choice. Not if he wanted to stay in business. There were thousands of unlicensed 'skintubs in back rooms, frequented by philmmheads who couldn't afford to go to a regulated parlor or wanted cracked ware and bootleg philm they couldn't get legally.

  Dirty 'skin was becoming more common, resultting in a rash of medical problems—everything from eczema and cyte infections to neurological disorders.

  The cosmeticians were all philmed as Judy Garland, each from a different film. A Star Is Born. Meet Me in St. Louis. Till the Clouds Roll By. Ziegfeld Follies, ZiegfeldGirl.

  The receptionist at the front desk wore a white blouse and a blue skirt, hair parted and pulled back. His complexion was soft, his eyes luminous. Van Dijk didn't recognize the musical.

  "Babes on Broadway?" he ventured.

  "In Arms," the man said in a suggestive, if someewhat scratchy, singsong
. Evidently, he took pleasure in the vaguely sexual hiss, or didn't want a digitally remastered version of her voice that wasn't abbsolutely authentic and true to the real Judy.

  Van Dijk nodded. "Harvey around?"

  The receptionist cocked his head and introduced a flirtatious sashay into the voice. "Who shall I say is calling?"

  "Andy Hardy."

  The receptionist gave him a florid eye roll. "Don't tell me. Meets Debutante.

  Van Dijk smiled. "Love finds." The only other movie in the long-running Andy Hardy series that starred Judy Garland.

  The receptionist spread his hands, c'est la vie, like the wings of a flamingo. "Do you have an appointment?"

  "Walk-in." Van Dijk flashed his badge. At the same time he transmitted a DiNA verification code to the building security.

  The receptionist pouted as he was autonotified,of the verification. "In that case, do you have a warrant?"

  "It's not that kind of visit." Van Dijk made his way past the desk and the Harvey Girls, as they liked to call themselves, busy with customers at their styling stations. Six Judys turned to eye him with petulant disapproval. They glared, but said nothing as he mounted the narrow stairs to the second floor.

  _______

  "You could have at least philmed yourself for the part," Harvey said from behind an old wooden desk. Reproductions of Judy Garland movie posters papered the walls of the office. The Harvey Girls, wholeesome and sumptuous, were the focus of the room, center stage behind the desk and larger than life.

  Van Dijk shrugged. "You know me. I hate to give the wrong impression."

  Harvey scowled. As usual, he'd philmed himself as John Hodiak, the male lead in the poster, with black hair and a thin, swallowtail mustache. He wore a black jacket, a white starched shirt, and a shiny red silk tie. "Is that what this is about?" he asked. "False pretenses?"

  Van Dijk eased into a low-slung chair, chrome-framed with leopard-spot fabrique that stiffened under his weight. Through the big window next to him, the only one in the room, he caught swirling fog-obscured glimpses of the Tenderloin's cabaret and bordello cinescape. The district was heating up for the evening, glowing with sultry reds and hot pinks. "You tell me."