Idolon

by Mark Budz

  54

  Nadice floated in a bathtub filled with surgical gel and stared up at an Art Deco pattern of microchips on the ceiling. The back of her head pressed painfully on the ledge where the marble tub met the granite wall. A sponge pad, wedged between her shoulder blades and the edge of the tub, kept her from sliding fully into the surgel. Cool air tickled her newly shaved scalp. It wasn't nearly as comfortable as the first time she'd been 'skinned as a new employee at Atherton. The glass-enclosed tank there had been part of a spa, complete with a whirlpool, sauna, and pool. Tropical green ferns had pressed against the steam-fogged enclosure.

  A coughing fit seized her. She snapped forward, expelling a wad of phlegm-thick gel. More gel poured from her nose like mucus. Her body seemed to be rising up out of the tub—levitating.

  She could feel her arms and legs, an improvement, but she still couldn't move them. With every breath, her lungs ached. They felt bruised, raw as peeled fruit.

  A second bout of coughing gripped her. When the fit subsided, her frame of reference flipped. It wasn't her body floating up, but the surgel lowering, sucked down by the drain in a thick, lazy spiral. It receded from her naked flesh, leaving a bright patina of new 'skin.

  Blood oozed from an open puncture on the back of her right hand, where a drip IV had been inserted and removed. A puddle of sludge remained in the bottom of the tub, cloudy with hair, dead cells, and the last of the Atherton 'skin that had been scraped from her with viral scalpels.

  The new 'skin wasn't as waxy as the old. She'd gotten used to the old 'skin's stiffness. This one was different, supple. And illegal. It incorporated whatever she had smuggled for Mateus.

  "How much longer?" a voice asked from the room outside the bathroom. Mateus. He sounded jittery.

  "Not long." This voice belonged to the man who had examined her in Dockton.

  "Gonna take a while to clean this up," Mateus persisted. "Knowmsayin?"

  "What I know is the sooner you shut up and let me do my job, the sooner we'll get out of here."

  Nadice imagined Mateus prowling the room in nervous circles, bouncing from one spot to another like spit on a hot plate.

  With effort, she twisted her head to the side. Her neck was stiff. The muscles trembled. They only stopped shaking when she allowed her head to rest against the edge of the tub.

  Nadice swallowed. Something wasn't right with her. Whatever he had dug out of her had ripped up roots, done permanent damage. She'd known it was a risk, just not how much of one. Nadice squeezed her eyes, batting damp lashes.

  The mask was gone. It came to her suddenly: she could no longer feel it plastered to her face. Wary of triggering a renewed bout of muscle spasms, Nadice shifted her eyes, searching for the mask. Her gaze orbited the room. Finally, she spotted it hanging on a brass towel hook next to the vanity. It resembled a partly detached bas-relief, with sightless caryatid eyes. .

  Petrified, she thought. Like her.

  The door to the bathroom stood open a crack. Through it she could see a glass-and-chrome coffee table that had been moved away from a U-shaped sofa unit. A large caddy of blinking biomed equipment took up one end of the table.

  A shadow darkened the carpet. The tech from Dockton appeared, holding a sample tray filled with a grid of square wafers. The wafers were smeared with different-colored swatches of cloth or gel. It was hard to be sure; they looked a little like both.

  He was growing 'skin, Nadice realized, analyzing it. She'd heard of biochips that mimicked the properties of human flesh. Doctors and scientists used them to check smart fabric and drugs.

  "Almost ready," he announced. He placed the tray on the coffee table, apparently satisfied with what he saw. A sudden image of his teeth leaped to mind, smiling sharply at her.

  " 'Bout time," Mateus said. He joined the man at the coffee table and watched as he checked the readouts on the biomed equipment.

  "The quantronics are almost in phase," the man said. "As soon as the oscillations are coherent, we can start philming."

  "I hope you picked out something fine for her." His voice carried a faintly wistful note. "Be nice to send her out in style."

  Send her out where? Nadice had the feeling it should be obvious. But she wasn't thinking clearly.

  "What fucking difference does it make? Who gives a rat's ass what she looks like at this point?"

  "Still. A fine-ass bitch like that. Be a shame to waste her."

  The man scowled. "What you do with her is your business. As soon as I'm done here, she's your responsibility."

  "I'm just sayin'."

  "Just make sure you do your job."

  "I feel ya. No worries."

  "Okay," the man said. "That's it. We've got full resonance." He straightened and his teeth flashed in the hygienic glare of the white LEDs.

  Her body tingled and her scalp itched. She felt a pore-deep change in the 'skin. It was shifting, morphing in response to the commands he was tapping in on a palm d-splay. A splash of red tinted one of her hands.

  Adrenaline jolted her gaze back to the rest of her body. A smear of red spread across her stomach, breasts, and thighs. She watched her nipples vanish, followed by her belly button and pubis.

  Not blood, she realized. Scarlet silk. The nano-weave threads assembled to form a low-cut, ankle-length evening gown. Elegant red gloves slithered up her forearms, halting just below her elbows. Threads wove into hair on her scalp, thick copper-tinted curls that lengthened into a luxurious tangle of ringlets.

  "Ain't that it!" Mateus said from the doorway. He let out a low whistle and joined her. "Got you all g'd up."

  Her heart drummed, the tempo in her chest hard and fast.

  Mateus sat on the side of the tub. He touched the side of her face and ran a finger down her cheek, tracing the curve of her jaw and neck to the vein throbbing in her throat.

  He cupped her chin and turned her face toward him. "You scared or excited?" he asked.

  She tried to spit on his hand, but her tongue lolled helplessly. The best she could manage was a guttural grunt.

  "Maybe a little of both," he said. His hand dropped to her right breast, cradling it in his palm while his thumb circled her nipple through the sheer fabric. "You an' me is gonna knock down later on. Cut sumthin' up, fasho! Payback for all the trouble you've caused me."

  She shut her eyes, trying to shut him out. A moment later, she felt his dry lips on her mouth. Then his tongue, prying her apart and entering her.

  "A little taste," he said. "Something to whet your appetite." She felt him get up and heard the departing thump of his Timbo boots over the heavily starched rustle of his jeans and black canvas jacket.

  As the smell of his cologne settled on her tongue, she felt a warm spurt between her legs.

  Pee. She'd wet herself.

  Embarrassed, angry at the fear and the shame he'd provoked, Nadice opened her eyes.

  Instead of urine, a tiny spot of blood darkened the surgel near her crotch. Like a single red tear, it trickled toward the drain.

  Panic knifed through her. The baby!

  55

  Pelayo sprinted down the arabesque-tiled stairs leading from the magtube platform to the street. The Fairmont was two blocks away. He could see the topmost floors of the grandiose hotel. Sculpted by architectural lights, it rose above the surrounding milieu of office buildings, stores, and restaurants philmed in industrial wrought iron, Mediterranean white and pink Spanish stucco.

  "You got a room number yet?" he asked Lagrante.

  The rip artist shook his head, "No one registered under Titov or Yukawa. What about you?"

  Pelayo dodged around a loose knot of people tumbling out of a wine-tasting cafe. "Nothing yet."

  The eyefeed from the ad mask had cut out again. Even when the d-splay was up, he'd been unable to get a clear view of the room. Grainy snippets of a bathroom vanity, bathtub enclosure, and a partially open door that looked out on a narrow entryway to the room. There was a full-length mirror on the wall across from t
he door, and in it he could make out the reflections of a bed, a coffee table, and a couple of indistinct figures, one of which might or might not be Mateus.

  So far, there was no indication Nadice was alive or even in the room. The mask hadn't moved.

  "What do you want to do when—"

  Pelayo screamed, doubled over by nausea and a sickening, excruciating pain in his abdomen. He sprawled headlong onto the sidewalk and rolled onto his side, clutching his stomach. The scream seemed to come from outside of himself. It clawed at his vocal cords. Something, somewhere inside of him, was on the verge of rupturing.

  He lay on his side panting, his legs folded up, his knees squeezed tightly together. He tasted blood.

  "What the hell?" Lagrante bent over him, his black spex pushed up on his brow, his eyes bloodshot with concern. "You all right?"

  Pelayo writhed onto his back. "I don't—" He coughed at the desiccated tickle in his throat. "I'm not sure."

  Lagrante rested a hand on his shoulder. "What happened?"

  Gingerly, Pelayo pushed himself to a sitting position. "Muscle—"

  Another spasm gripped him. He curled forward and huddled around himself, his hands clenched over his kneecaps. The concrete was warm; it smelled of spilled coffee, cigarette butts, and dead leaves.

  Lagrante looked around. "I'll call for—"

  "Go." Pelayo sipped air, slow shallow breaths. "I'll catch up with you soon as I can."

  "You sure?"

  Pelayo waved him on. "Cramp. That's all." Lagrante nodded, lowered his spex into place. "Holler at me if things get crucial."

  "I just need to rest for a couple of minutes."

  Pelayo winced as another contraction shuddered through him.

  _______

  Pelayo eased himself in the space between two square planters, out of the way of the dwindling foot traffic and ad masks. Leafy bamboo stalks leaned out over the concrete sides of the planters, which were philmed as an Egyptian frieze. Pharaohs, hieroglyphs, and ankhs in raised and sunken relief. The frieze had been painted once. Pelayo leaned his head back, resting it on chipped flakes of paint. He shut his eyes against the pain.

  Almost immediately, the eyefeed from the ad mask d-splayed on the inside of his lids. Colorless emulsion, stripped of RGB. Faint audio trickled over his earfeed, single channel and scratchy.

  A slight movement in the mirror snagged his attention, "...probably Tiago," one of the figures crackled.

  "About... time," a scratchy voice answered. No way to identify either one.

  "... get it..." the first voice said.

  A raster-edged figure occluded the reflection in the mirror, casting a fuzzy shadow across the carpet and wall. The figure stepped forward, then back, its face brightening momentarily as the door to the room swung inward and light from the hallway washed across the entry. A third figure entered the room, stepped past the door, and turned to close it. Metal flared on the door, then ran like molten gold across his retinas, elegantly crafted cursives that hardened as they cooled in memory.

  Eyes clenched tight, watching the script fade from red to green to violet, Pelayo called Lagrante. " 1028," he said. "That's the room number."

  "Word?" The rip artist's voice echoed, cold and stony, off polished marble walls. Behind it, lounge music bubbled up from a piano. Laughter drifted into the evening, airy and meaningless.

  "Be careful," Pelayo said. "Somebody else just showed up. I didn't get a good look."

  "Sounds like they're getting ready to bump shit."

  "Go hard," Pelayo said. "Or don't go at all."

  Lagrante grunted. "Count on it."

  _______

  A light tickle on his left cheek teased his eyes open.

  A blue dragonfly hovered centimeters from his left cheek. Not a real dragonfly. The insect had pectoral and tail fins. Flames roared back from its mouth and the wings, which beat lazily, and sported concentric red and blue RAF roundels.

  "Whatever you're selling," Pelayo said, "I'm not interested." He swatted at the dragonfly. It dodged easily, into the bamboo, only to circle back and land on his cheek. When he brushed at it again, the ad-ware had fastened itself to his 'skin.

  "Nadice is running out of time." The voice over his earfeed sounded saxophone smooth. "So is Marta."

  "Who are you?"

  "You don't have long. If you want to help them, you have to do it now."

  Pelayo clamped his eyes shut. No sign of Lagrante yet in the room. "I'll never make it."

  "Yes, you will." The dragonfly seemed to sink into his 'skin, then through it.

  It emerged deep inside of him, body flattened and wings folded back into a yellow dorsal fin with a single black roundel that disappeared as it plunged downward, into cold turbulent black.

  56

  When the call came, shortly after ten, Giles Atherton was screening a classic Billy Graham revival.

  The broadcast was one of Atherton's favorites. He'd lost track of how many times he'd watched the sermon. Five or six times a year, probably, for twenty years. Graham's fervor, the heated certainty of his conviction, never failed to ignite in Atherton a feeling of renewed hope and determination. Things could change—they would change. He ached to be struck down, to be touched by the hand of God, his hair singed and his clothes turned to soot. Only then would he be cleansed, blackened on the outside, but purified within.

  With a quick mental command, Atherton paused the broadcast to take the call from Ilse Svatba.

  "I apologize for the hour," she said. "I wouldn't have awakened you unless it was absolutely necessary."

  "Bad news?" It was the only reason she could be calling at this time. Not from her office at IBT, he noted, but from what appeared to be a study.

  "I'm afraid so." She pursed her lips delicately, as if this would soften the impact of what she had to say. He was reminded of a closed flower, squeezed tight against the chill of night.

  Atherton arched one brow. Ilse had philmed herself in a periwinkle evening gown, low-cut, sleeveless, with white elbow-length gloves. A pearl necklace manacled her neck. Matching earrings accented the half-shell curve of her ears.

  "It appears that our security datician has detected an unauthorized modification to the test 'skin."

  "What kind of modification?"

  She swallowed, rearranging the gloom that darkened her collarbones. "A plug-in of unknown function and manufacture."

  In other words, black-market. "You're certain?"

  "Quite."

  Atherton sharpened his gaze, whetting it on her chagrin. "When?"

  "I was just notified."

  Atherton delicately cleared his throat. "What I meant was, how long ago did the incursion take place?"

  She took a moment to smooth the elegant wrinkles from her gloves. She seemed sleep-addled, as if she had only just been awakened with the news. "Our sageware indicates that it was compromised fairly recently. Earlier today, possibly within the last few hours."

  "Have you located the leak?" he asked. "The source of the plug-in?"

  "No. We're currently trying to contact the skin-tech in charge of this phase of the clinical trial."

  "Without success, I gather."

  "None yet. He's not responding to our calls. I've ordered security to send someone directly to his home address."

  "Do you think he's responsible?"

  "I don't know." She shook her head. "I doubt it. More likely it's the test subject he contracted to beta the general-availability version."

  "There was only one subject?" Atherton's stomach soured. Uri had implied there were several.

  Why?

  Because Uri had ripped his own copy of the 'skin, and if the rip came to light too soon, Atherton would know who was responsible unless Uri could point to someone else.

  "We decided a single test subject would be easier to monitor the 'skin," Ilse said. "Prevent the situation we have now."

  Atherton took a measured breath. "I don't suppose you've been able to locate the subject either."


  "Not yet." She brushed at an imperceptible speck of lint on her chest. "But we will. It's only a matter of time."

  "Unfortunately," Atherton said, "the damage has been done. And I don't see any way to undo it."

  Ilse made no response. Her lips crimped tighter, increasingly parsimonious and unattractive.

  "I was afraid something like this would happen," Atherton went on. He found it oddly satisfying to watch her squirm.

  "We took every precaution," she said.

  "Apparently it wasn't enough." He allowed a scathing note of disappointment to creep in.

  "We're doing everything we can."

  Atherton steepled his fingers. "Perhaps I can be of assistance," he suggested.

  Her gaze narrowed. "What do you have in mind?"

  "Send me the DiNA code for the 'skin the test subject is waring, and I might be able to help you find him."

  "I'm afraid that information is proprietary."

  "Of course." Atherton rested his chin on the tips of his thumbs. "But if you're looking for blood, two hounds are better than one."

  57

  Pelayo surfaced—came up and out of himself, into another self.

  Cold water slid up his spine. He could feel it circulating in his veins. The resulting shiver spread myelin-fast. He gasped, felt his breath ice over, and coughed. Tried to sit up. But a leaden numbness held his arms and legs in place.

  Dead—

  —weight.

  Light pried at his eyes—the blade of a knife slicing through a thin-skinned yellow fruit.

  Curves, sharp edges, and rounded concavities pressed against his 'skin. The topology hard and unyielding. A sauna tub with nozzles. Floral petals, vines, and leaves etched the pink granite.

  An invisible fingertip carved a line on his cheek, following bone, to hook the slack corner of his mouth.

  Nadice's mouth. He was waring her 'skin.

  The realization reached below the surface, touched some shared autonomic reflex that quivered low in her abdomen.

  —No, the fish whispered over his earfeed. You are not waring her 'skin. You are her 'skin. She is waring you.

  He heard the voice through the part of him that was still seated against the planter. His mind ghosted here, a hologram fragment of his thoughts there, suddenly aware of the Hamilton Nadice wore, invisible except for the weight of it on his own wrist.