He unfolded his legs and tucked them underneath him, moving into Child's Pose. He bent forward at the waist, sinking further into the stretch with each exhalation. His forehead gradually sunk into the moss. The muscles in his neck felt relaxed for the first time in days, and the stretch felt hot in his lower back.
Self-control yields discipline, and the disciplined accumulation of power leads to freedom.
The mantra, conceived over nine years before, was still with him. It gave him a sense of gathered, focused, controlled energy, each time reminding him of his ultimate objective: to upload. He had carried the mantra with him through his time in Tate's home, following the old man's death; but only since learning of the upload project and enrolling at the University of Michigan had it taken on a sense of unwavering direction. It had fueled his intense drive to become a member of the project team. He had studied the publications and accomplishments of Bob Wells, the project's founder, with the sole intention of becoming someone Bob would find perfect for his team. He had enrolled in classes that would help him to understand all of the hardware and software used on the project, with no regard for the requirements of his declared major. And, two years ago, he had achieved his goal: he had been brought onto the team as a software developer.
Raymond stood gradually from Child's Pose into Mountain Pose. He would skip his usual relaxation cycle today.
"God mode," he instructed. "Teleport to the top of Mount Lidral."
The computer acknowledged his commands, and the environment of his v-chamber switched almost instantaneously. He braced himself against the sudden wind—he now stood atop a tropical mountain. The rocky slopes around him were steep and conical. Around his feet, wildflowers clung to bits of soil in cracks in the rock. From where he stood, he had a commanding view of the broad valley to the north, through which flowed a wide wine-red river.
Raymond spotted the flower garden he had created the night before, on a gentle slope along the near bank of the burgundy river.
"Teleport blink," he commanded.
He focused on the flower garden and slowly blinked his eyes. When he reopened them, he stood in the garden. The air was lightly perfumed with jasmine, a scent he had selected because most current v-chambers could faithfully reproduce it; he didn't want Anya's experience of the garden to be compromised by inferior hardware. Around him grew two acres of flowers, arranged in banks of increasing overall height. He had outlined the garden's perimeter with a wall of bushy trees from which hung long swaying strands of yellow-green leaves, a variety of willow he had created the night before. In the center of the garden was a small pond. Lily pads floated on the surface of the water, ample white flowers hovering over shiny green leaves. Little gold and amber frogs swam amid the roots, shimmering in the sunlight. Raymond scanned his creation, looking for anything out of place. He noticed a large rose bush in gushing bloom, and he felt that a lighter touch was needed.
"Replace the rose bushes with peonies," he instructed. The rose bushes disappeared, replaced by white peonies. "Make the peonies a bit shorter, and give the petals a pinker tint." The v-world engine carried out his commands. With the rose bushes gone, he was better able to see the flox that grew further back, and the softer color of the peonies gave the nearby dahlias a chance to shine.
He looked about nervously.
"I think she'll like it."
Raymond had created and destroyed many v-worlds since he first created Nurania, but this world had remained a work in progress ever since his teen years. Its underlying v-world engine had been upgraded many times, but the world itself had developed gradually, without the sweeping fickle changes typical of his other v-world projects. For a long time, he had dreamed of uploading and making Nurania his home, and he wanted it to feel natural and complete. Now that he might be uploading rather sooner than expected, he was grateful for his consistent, restrained approach to designing it.
Not only had Nurania been protected from whimsy over the years; it had also remained secret. It was his private sanctuary, never subjected to any criticism other than his own, an entire planet never seen by another human. Even now, just minutes before their scheduled yoga session, he was having second thoughts about sharing it with Anya. But it was his first date with a real woman, if it could really be considered a date, and he wanted to impress her.
He had dated women in public v-worlds, on the Net, but had never had a date with someone who was part of his real life. And his v-world dates weren't exactly dates. They were more like sexual rendezvous, in fantastically steamy settings, with women who may in fact have been bots. This was utterly different. Never had he experienced such a mix of hope and tremulous dread.
His thoughts returned inevitably to the intelligence relayed to him by Scorpio on Friday. Parts of the message replayed in his mind.
"The homicide division of the Illinois State Police has reopened the Tate case, at the request of family members. State Police Detective Trumbull has agreed to share records from the original missing person investigation with private investigator Arnold Murray."
One of Raymond's old listeners, spyware planted in Illinois police networks years ago, had recognized the significance of the reopening of the case and had fired a message to Raymond's surveillance headquarters, in his bunker in Minnesota. The message was flagged as urgent and sent to the private network in his motor home, which was registered to a false identity and sat concealed in a pole barn on his property northeast of Ann Arbor. There, the message was summarized and forwarded to his wrist relay. Tate's fortune was serving Raymond well.
Raymond hadn't slept more than a few hours since receiving the message. The entire weekend had been consumed hacking, listening, and data thieving, trying to figure out why the case had suddenly been reopened. He had to move carefully, making absolutely sure that none of his network activity could be traced back to him, but he was desperate for information.
He discovered that Murray had been hired by two of Tate's nephews just a few days before the reopening of the police investigation. A review of Murray's career showed him to be a smalltime Chicago P.I. Research into the nephews turned up nothing more interesting than a weak credit history, including a recent denial for a large loan. They were probably just fishing for inheritance money from their disappeared. But the fact that the police had agreed to reopen the case worried Raymond. Some new piece of evidence must have turned up. Why else would they bother to put staff on such an old investigation?
"Mosby, she's ready."
Raymond turned and saw that Scorpio stood behind him. The persona's avatar was that of an imposing man, tall, broad-shouldered, and grizzle-bearded. He wore a long black leather coat and wicked-looking boots—black leather things with chromed buckles and trim.
"If I do come here with Anya, I can't have you showing up looking like that. From now on, in Nurania, you're a... blue jay."
The man disappeared, replaced by a brilliantly-colored little blue jay.
"Exit Nurania," instructed Raymond. "Take me to the yoga studio."
The flower garden dissolved, and Raymond stood in the center of an airy, British-colonial, wood-floored pavilion—the same virtual space in which he had taken karate lessons from Andrea, as a boy. This v-space, along with all of Crown Nanotronics' other v-spaces, had been released to the public domain soon after the company went bankrupt. Raymond continued to use this space for martial arts practice, and it struck him over the weekend that it would make a fine yoga studio.
Anya stood at the edge of the pavilion, looking out at the surrounding jungle. She wore loose black calf-length pants and a tank top, and her long black hair was up in a twist. Raymond, wearing shorts and a sleeveless shirt, realized he hadn't mentioned to Anya that the setting would be tropical. He walked across the yoga mats he had set out and crossed to where Anya stood.
"If you're warm in those pants, I can drop the temperature," said Raymond.
"This is a really beautiful setting," said Anya, still looking out at the tropical flowers
and tall jungle trees. She turned to him. Her eyes and face already seemed softer than usual, more at peace. "Did you create it?"
"I copied it and made the jungle a little more lifelike. I learned karate in this space, when I was a teenager." He chose not to mention that he was a State Home child.
"The flowers are amazing. You're so good with jungles—I love the habitat you've created for Bento. You seem to give every detail equal attention."
"I have great tools." He considered making a joke about how his Vietnamese side gave him a natural affinity for jungles but cut himself off again. "So, I guess... do you want to get started?"
"Sure."
Raymond led the way to the middle of the room, and they sat facing each other on the mats, about six feet apart.
"Oh, I don't know if you heard me earlier," said Raymond. "Is it too hot?"
"No, I'm fine. These pants breathe really well. It's perfect."
A jitter went through Raymond's body. He couldn't tell how much of it was nerves and how much exhaustion.
"I've never done this before," he said. "Teach, I mean."
"Well, I'm an easy student. I've taken classes, I just have a hard time doing it on my own."
"Okay. I was thinking I would mostly just go through a routine I like, nothing too advanced. Stop me if you're unfamiliar with a pose, or whatever."
He led them through a routine that emphasized balance, stretching, breathing, and clearing the mind. He found that Anya was able to keep up quite well, and his mind started to drift. He had always pictured himself living alone in Nurania after he uploaded, free of human society and free from criminal investigation. Now, as he snuck looks at Anya's body, he imagined her visiting him in v-space. He imagined them in a secret relationship, making love on the moon-drenched beaches of Agakhan.
He finished the routine in Corpse Pose, with them both lying on their backs, eyes closed. He repeated the words of his virtual yoga instructors, talking Anya systematically through the relaxation of every muscle. "Soften the face. Soften the eyes, soften the tongue. Feel your eyes falling to the backs of your eye sockets. Feel your head sinking into the earth." Earlier that day, he had worried that she would find yoga hokey, but he found himself speaking with soul, in a rare moment of separation from self-consciousness. It made him feel close to her, at one with her, in a way he had never felt with anyone.
"Now feel your mind go blank. You are in the moment. You are not outside the moment, looking in. You are in the moment. Hear the birds. Let their song own your mind. Hear the breeze through the palm fronds. Not one muscle in your body is active. Your lips are soft, your cheeks are slack. There is only your breath and the peace of the world around you. Now lie like this, in silence. If your mind stirs, slowly bring it back and allow it to settle again. Focus on the birds, then release yourself to nothingness. Be at one with the moment."
He stopped talking and tried to let himself slip into the state of mind he had described. It was a state very familiar to him now, and one that he could usually attain quite readily. But his imagination was unstoppable. He imagined the weight of Anya's body on his, as if she were lying face-up on top of him. Her weight, motionless, on his chest and stomach, pelvis and thighs, pressing him closer to the earth. He imagined her with him in the flower garden he had made for her; he wondered what he could say to start the transition from here to there.
When he felt that a couple of minutes had passed, he slowly talked her out of the meditative state, into a position where she was curled up on her side, and finally into a seated position.
"Okay," he said, to indicate that the routine was over.
"Wow." She had a big sleepy smile on her face, a smile Raymond found infectious. "That was so nice. You're really good, Raymond."
He just smiled at her, not sure how to take the compliment.
"I wasn't expecting it to be so relaxing. I guess I was expecting you to be more into the strength-building poses. I had no idea you were so... spiritual."
The way the word "spiritual" came out, Raymond wasn't sure how to take it. It sounded like she might have meant it as a code word for "cheesy", but the look on her face made him think she was on the same wavelength.
"Wow. Thank you so much, Raymond." She slowly stood up, and Raymond followed her lead. "I guess we don't have to roll up our mats and put them away," she said with a chuckle. The dreaminess was already gone from her tone.
Raymond lifted his head slightly and spoke, an indication that he was giving a command to the computer. "Remove the yoga mats." The mats vanished.
"So, are you in the v-chamber in your office?" asked Anya.
"Yeah."
"I was thinking I might grab a bite to eat. Any interest in joining me?"
"Uh..." Raymond hesitated. "Sure." His idea of showing Anya the flower garden escaped his grasp that easily.
"Have you been to La Sevillana?" Her pronunciation of the Spanish was exquisite.
"No," replied Raymond rather dryly. He suddenly felt like he was being drawn into a dangerous undertow, and he didn't like it.
"It's wonderful. It's on Liberty, just west of Main. It's great for me—I live on the old west side. That's not inconvenient for you, is it? Where do you live?"
"I have an apartment on Kingsley, east of State." Strictly speaking, this was true—he did rent an apartment on Kingsley. He just didn't see it very often, as he preferred the secrecy of his motor home. "But, you know, I'm not sure I really feel like eating. I had a dinner shake around five."
"Oh, are you sure?"
Raymond rarely ate out, and this sounded like it might be a nice restaurant. The thought of flubbing his way through a fancy meal sounded awful.
"I just don't think I could eat."
"Maybe a glass of wine?"
"I don't know."
"We'll go for a glass of wine," she insisted, with a European flair for finality. "It's a lovely place—you'll love it. I'll just change and meet you in the lobby, and we can take a cab. Okay?"
The way she coaxed him make him feel childish.
"Sure," he replied reluctantly.
o-------------------------------o
By the time Raymond got to the lobby, Anya was already there, and she had a little two-seater cab waiting outside. They climbed into the little bench seat together.
"La Sevillana," instructed Anya, and the automated car rolled noiselessly forward. "I love La Sevillana. It reminds me of my childhood home, in Portugal. We visited Seville quite often."
Raymond tried to break through the huffy mood he was in.
"Did you grow up in Portugal?" he asked. "Your accent isn't very strong."
"I lived there until I was seven, then off and on. My father's a science journalist, so his English is fluent. Why," she asked, putting on a thick Portuguese accent, "would you like for me to speak with a strong foreign accent?"
"Well... no," stammered Raymond, taken off guard by her playfulness. "You sound fine without one."
"Fine?" she mocked. "Just fine? Good—flattery is so boring."
Raymond looked at her and smiled with eyebrows furrowed, puzzled by her sudden change of stance. She looked back at him, and he turned away.
"You keep to yourself a lot, don't you, Raymond?"
"I suppose. Aside from work."
"It's not healthy to spend too much time alone. Humans are social animals."
"What if I don't like being with other people?" asked Raymond.
"Oh, I don't know," she mused. "It's okay to want to be by yourself sometimes, but too much just isn't good for you. Oh, look, we're here."
The little car pulled to a stop. Raymond wondered for a moment whether he was supposed to have paid for the cab, but the fare would have been automatically deducted from Anya's account. They climbed out, and Anya led the way into the restaurant.
Raymond was surprised to see that the place was full of people. It was a dark, cozy interior, a couple steps down from street level. It had the feel of an old Spanish restaurant. People wer
e standing, talking loudly in tight groups around the bar. The atmosphere presented a sharp deviation from Raymond's concept of America as a country of people living out their lives in isolated v-chambers.
"Anya!"
A short, dark-complected, congenial-faced man in his forties greeted Anya with a kiss on the cheek. The man then turned to Raymond and offered an extended hand, much to Raymond's relief.
"Table or bar?" he asked.
"Table, please," answered Anya.
The man led them through a dimly-lit maze of little rooms and seated them at a small corner table. There was a stack of red clay dishes in the middle of the table, and a wire basket full of silverware and napkins. Anya picked up the wine list, and Raymond looked around him. Only in v-worlds had he ever been in a place with such energy.
"Red or white?" she asked. "Or maybe sangria?"
"Sangria?" asked Raymond.
"Sure," she responded. "Sangria always sounds good to me."
He meant, "What is sangria?", but he decided not to pursue it. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest and looked around him, feeling very out of place.
"Is everything okay?" asked Anya.
"Yeah, sure." Raymond scooted his chair forward and set his left arm on the table, trying to make himself look more comfortable. It felt odd. He removed it and folded his hands in his lap.
Anya leaned across the table and spoke in a lowered voice.
"Raymond, are you nervous about something?"
He crossed his arms again and looked away.
"We can go if you'd like," she offered.
"No, no."
A waiter approached the table, and Anya ordered two glasses of red sangria. She started reading through the tapas menu. Raymond looked at her, wanting to say something, but he didn't know what to say. She looked up and met his eyes for a moment before he could turn away.
"I'm sorry," said Anya, again in a low tone. "Was I wrong to ask you out like this?"
"No, it's not that," said Raymond reassuringly. "I... I'm just nervous. I don't know. You must think I'm a freak now."
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