None of it would be real though. It had not made any sense until the conversation with Abernathy. The portal had to connect to the network and he, or rather his chip, was too far away to transfer data. He wondered how close he would have to get before he could send and receive again.
“Can you see this?” Deron asked, motioning with his hand.
“The rail?”
“No, the portal. My start page.”
“What are you talking about?” Valentin took a step back and crossed his arms.
“Back home, we could reconcile a portal wherever we wanted. And in the portal, you had a connection to an infinite network of information. You could play games, find books, talk to people. It was endless.”
“You can reconcile?” His eyes widened.
“Sometimes,” replied Deron, looking at his portal again. He brushed away the content boxes and replaced them with a picture of Rosalia. “Abernathy thinks I’m a freak.” He chuckled. “And your dad wasn’t too happy about it either.”
“How did—?”
“But it’s no good out here. I can’t connect. You said people have wanted to go back before. Did any of them just want to say goodbye?”
Valentin’s face shifted as if he had never considered the idea.
“Yeah,” said Deron. “I don’t know if I’m coming back or not. I never felt right in Easton, but my mom is going to worry about me.”
“You haven’t seen how great this place can be,” countered Valentin. “Nobody pays attention to Abernathy anyway.”
Deron laughed, glanced again at the veneer of Rosalia. He dragged his finger across her face and made the model spin. He had made up his mind; whether he could convince Valentin of his certainty didn’t make any difference.
“Val!” Timo’s voice carried over the quiet evening. Without a goodbye, the boy broke off and walked hurriedly to his father. Their voices were sharp but hushed and at one point it looked like Valentin wanted to come back to the bridge, but Timo pointed away ardently. The son obeyed but not without offering a half-hearted wave.
It wasn’t going to be pretty, but if Timo wanted to argue about it more, then Deron was ready. It didn’t matter that the man had brought someone with him as backup. They both walked slowly towards the bridge, Timo with his eyes locked on Deron, the other looking around, disinterested.
“Deron,” said Timo. “This is Skinner. It’s his night to walk the path to Easton. He’ll take you back.”
“Thanks,” replied Deron, shaking the thin man’s hand.
“He’s going that way anyway,” he continued. Then, to Skinner, “You go and look for a newcomer but don’t stay any longer than normal. And if he goes into the city, you book it the hell out of there. They’re going to light that place up when they take him.”
Deron protested, “They’re not gonna—”
“See that they don’t!” Even Timo looked surprised at his own anger. He took a step back, echoing a move Valentin must have learned from him.
Skinner didn’t seem to be listening to the conversation and he started moving towards the opposite bank.
“I might come back,” offered Deron. “I don’t know yet.”
Timo’s face lost its fire. “We need you. But not until you need us. So go do whatever it is you think will make you feel better. We’ll be here to put you back together once you realize how asleep everyone else is.”
Deron nodded and extended his hand.
With a reluctant sigh, Timo shook it. “You be safe, boy. We can’t come rescue you if you get caught.”
“I get it,” he replied. “Thanks.”
Skinner started to whistle.
“Good luck, Deron.” Timo hesitated another moment and then walked away.
“Don’t mind him,” said Skinner, after Deron had caught up. “He loves with anger instead of...”
“Love?” asked Deron.
“That’s a word,” agreed the thin man.
By the time the moon came out, they had been walking for almost an hour. The sound of the spillway was distant and it took a bit of squinting to see the lights of the town.
“So what’s the plan?”
A good question, thought Deron. It would be late when they reached Easton, much too late to show up at Rosalia’s doorstep. He’d have to wait until morning or if he could reconcile a portal, send her a message and arrange a meeting. Maybe she’d skip school to see him.
Skinner cleared his throat when he didn’t get an answer. He then asked, “What’s her name?”
“Rosalia,” answered Deron, automatically.
“How does she look?”
That question again. Why was everyone so focused on appearances?
Deron thought about her face. “Her nose is small, but she has a wide smile with a lot of teeth. Her eyebrows—”
“What about her body?” Skinner mimed breasts with his hands.
Deron laughed uncomfortably. “You’re old enough to be her grandfather.”
“Poppycocks,” he replied. “I’m not yet sixty.”
“No wife?”
“We don’t get many women walking out of the city. Five men to every one of them. And not all of them are lookers, either. Why would they be?” His voice changed slightly. “You seen your woman? For real, I mean.”
“Without her veneer?”
Skinner nodded.
“Not yet.”
He whistled a low note. “Wish I could stay around for that! See if that don’t shrivel your pickle!”
Skinner had a crude point. Deron had never seen what Rosalia really looked like. Could it be so different from what he knew and loved? And in the reverse, would she still look on him fondly when he got her beyond the reach of the network?
If she came at all. If that was the plan.
“Don’t worry about my... pickle,” said Deron.
“Never do,” said Skinner. “Only whores worry.”
Chuckling, he asked, “What do whores have to worry about?”
Skinner looked at him sideways, his eyes serious. “What don’t they have to worry about?”
Another good point, thought Deron.
41 - Ilya
It started suddenly, out of nowhere. One minute Rosalia was content to sit on the floor and push colors around her palette. The next, she was sobbing openly and falling into Ilya’s arms. There was no time to question why; Ilya simply put her arms around her and squeezed.
Ilya had spent the rest of her afternoon riding the trams, ending up back at school in time to see the crowd disperse. Most of the kids were talking about Russo’s visit and by eavesdropping, she was able to get the totality of the story. Slightly amused but nonetheless appalled at the violence, she hopped on her bus and rode it home. There, after a brief interrogation by her grandmother, she retreated to her room to await her parents. Someone at school had called them and when they got home, there were harsh words from both sides.
She showed up at Rosalia’s door after dark without invitation. Her stepmother, Lynn, greeted her with suspicion, but let her inside. She said that Rosalia was up in her room but showed no interest in escorting her. Ilya shrugged it off, took the steps slowly, and then knocked on Rosalia’s door. When a voice inside told her to go away, she opened it a crack and whispered a greeting.
“Oh,” Rosalia had said, returning to her wall where she was reconciling a pastiche of neon arcs littered with random images.
Ilya could pick out the individual themes, scenes from their lives or buildings that she recognized. They were all things that shouldn’t have gone together but somehow worked as an amalgamation. With Rosalia preoccupied, Ilya got comfortable on the bean bag chair. There was a bottle of water, almost empty, next to the plush pink bag. Beside it was a small pill bottle, a common pain reliever for headaches. When she inquired about it, Rosalia replied with a simple nod of her head, as if the pain were too intense to speak.
“There are other ways to cure a headache,” Ilya suggested. She leaned back and fished a small case f
rom her pocket. Holding it up for inspection, she asked, “Want to Mellow out?”
Rosalia dropped to her knees and crawled across the floor like an apprehensive cat. She reached out for her prize and after collecting it, collapsed onto the bean bag next to Ilya. She seemed detached from the world as she tapped out two pills into her palm, as if the normal dose wouldn’t do the job tonight. The plastic water bottle crackled between her fingers when she downed the pills, followed by her satisfied sigh. She fell again with her head near Ilya’s chest and had to lean back to get her eyes on her.
“No problem,” said Ilya, after Rosalia had offered her thanks. She reached out and put a hand on her friend’s head, smoothed away the stray hairs of a ponytail that had come undone. When she handed back the case, Ilya tapped a pill out onto her chest and took a swig of Rosalia’s water to get it down. Together, they waited quietly for the drug to come on, content to stare at the walls.
In the mutual haze that followed, Rosalia moved closer and put her head on Ilya’s stomach.
It felt nice to have her so close, with her arm draped across her waist, almost natural. She wasn’t sure how much time went by, but eventually the walls started to dance and soon after Rosalia was sitting up and reaching for her palette.
Then she was crying, despite the drug that should have been dulling her senses. To overcome such a strong chemical barrier, the pain would have to have been so deep and so absolute that nothing in the world could heal it. Ilya didn’t know how much her embrace helped, if it did anything at all. Maybe behind those closed eyes Rosalia was thinking about Deron, imagining his arms wrapped around her. It would have been clearer had she said his name. Instead, she sobbed with so much force that it shook her body. Ilya had to reach out and reconcile a portal on the floor so she could bring up some music to drown out the sound. She didn’t want Rosalia’s parents coming to her rescue.
No one was going to comfort her except Ilya.
She made a soothing noise and clung tightly to Rosalia’s shoulder near her neck. It was then that she noticed the palette on the floor with its shapes that somewhat resembled Deron looking spiffy in a fuzzy tuxedo. Standing next to him was a streak of white that looked only vaguely human. Maybe Rosalia, maybe someone else, but it was clear she had been trying to reconcile their wedding. Rosalia probably wasn’t used to not being able to reconcile anything her heart desired. That she couldn’t bring it to life meant she couldn’t see it in her head. She, of infinite imagination and hope, could not envision a scenario that ended with the two of them together.
The fuzzy walls broke down even further as the drug reached its second stage. Suddenly, every sound in the room was a million miles away and Ilya had to look down to make sure Rosalia was still there, still crying.
“You need to take your mind off the pain,” Ilya thought she said, though it was anyone’s guess whether the words actually came out. Even so, she watched as Rosalia put her hand to the floor and dimmed the bright walls down to nothing. Then, the wall in front of them returned, bathed in a blue light like a film obscuring something bright behind it. “Pretty moon,” whispered Ilya.
“I hate it,” slurred Rosalia.
Ilya countered with her own veneer, wiping out the moon and replacing it with a vista from a high hill that overlooked an empty prairie of tall grass and wild animals. The sky was a pleasant blue despite the dim light.
“No,” said Rosalia, grabbing Ilya’s hand from the floor and pulling it close to her face. She held it captive while she brought the moon back.
It made the room dark, but Ilya had lost all interest in mere reconciliations. A wave of confusion had washed over the moment, most of it focused on Ilya’s hand trapped by Rosalia’s cheek, the backs of her fingers touching damp but warm skin. It had to be a sign, she thought, an indication that maybe somewhere deep down Rosalia actually did like her, did desire contact despite—
“What do I do?”
Ilya tried to visualize Rosalia’s muffled words.
“What do I do if he doesn’t come back?”
“You’ve been together a while,” offered Ilya, each syllable weighing heavily on her tongue. Her argument faltered before it even came out. Instead, she asked, “What do you want to hear?”
Rosalia looked up and withdrew slightly. She had a hurt look on her already sullen face. Sitting up, she wiped away her tears. “Tell me it’ll be okay.” There was desperation in her voice; it made Ilya flinch.
“What is okay?” Philosophical questions were an unavoidable side effect of Mellow. “Will you ever be happy again? Of course you will.” Ilya sat up and the change in orientation brought a somber feeling with it. “The time you’ve known him seems large compared to the rest of your life. But when you’re older, this piece with Deron in it will get small, until one day it’s not so significant.”
“He’ll always be significant,” replied Rosalia, stumbling over the words.
“I know,” said Ilya, reaching for her shoulder.
They hugged and when Rosalia’s face hit her shoulder, she started crying again. Evidently, Ilya’s words had had no effect. That or they convinced her that Deron wasn’t coming back and that one day she would forget him altogether.
“The Mellow isn’t working,” said Rosalia.
“Here,” replied Ilya, reaching into her pocket again. Though there were only a few pills remaining in the pink case, she didn’t think twice about tapping another tab into her palm.
Rosalia stared at it for a moment before snatching it up like a piece of candy and downing it dry. When the pill finally made it past her throat, she turned her head to look at the moon again. The scene shifted under her command, shrinking the perspective until an empty beach appeared at the bottom of the wall. There, the waves were churning, thrown into chaos by the intruding heavenly body.
It was easy to see the transformation take place on Rosalia’s veneer. Little sparkles appeared on her exposed skin, small sections of reconciliation being undone. Concentration wasn’t required to maintain an appearance; most everything was simply set and forget. While Mellow appeared to dull the facilities, it actually caused increased activity in the brain. Synapses that rarely fired found themselves processing commands that made no sense. Some of the garbage data worked its way into the reconciliation ability, causing the sort of veneer white noise now overtaking Rosalia’s body.
On the wall, the ocean swelled, pushing the water up the beach and destroying the forgotten sandcastles. It gave the impression of impending action, something grand and calamitous. Rosalia reacted by reaching out for Ilya’s hand and once grasped, she flashed fear. Her veneer struggled to hold the emotion, but Ilya was able to sense it before it was lost below the noise again.
The third dose hit her quickly, sucking all of her energy inward, concentrating it in a knot, and then blinking it out of existence. She closed her eyes and her body began to sway minutely, as if the muscles were half a second behind the warning that she was falling.
“This is the moment,” whispered Ilya, unsurprised by the lack of response to her words. She had been waiting for it all night, the point at which Rosalia would no longer be able to form memories, when Mellow had become enough of a barrier to dull reality into a pleasant humming sound backed up by the classical music playing in the room.
Ilya licked her lips, barely pushing out her tongue. She leaned forward, holding her breath, until she made contact. It was just enough physical stimulation to make Rosalia open her eyes, but she did so lazily, without shock or cognizance. There was a brief moment of anxiety as Ilya wondered whether anything was getting past the drug, but then Rosalia’s lips engaged, pushed back with enthusiasm. Succumbing to her own Mellow haze, Ilya let herself slip into the dark world, closing her eyes to focus her attention on the other senses. She felt a hand on her cheek, a soft touch that moved to her jawbone, then around to her hair. Fingers fell into place between the bumps on the back of her neck as a thumb pressed gently against her throat.
They were
soft, so soft, but the moment her lips slipped past Rosalia’s to catch her breath, Ilya felt herself losing her grasp on the sensation. She remembered that the recorders were offline, that only bits and pieces were being saved, and that everything else was just crumbling off the edge of her memory. After only three breaths, the memory of the exquisite texture was gone. Still, the experience itself was the important part; the memories would just have to wait until next time.
Rosalia was still swaying and it only took the slightest pressure on her hip to urge her towards the bean bag. They fell together, landing in a satisfying clump with their arms intertwined. Before Ilya could move again, Rosalia was upon her, seeking out her mouth and latching on impetuously. It was the first sign of affection from a girl who had previously never displayed any interest beyond platonic friendship.
Ilya reached out for the loose ends of Rosalia’s shirt; she was wearing it casually, buttoned enough to hide her bra but still expose her belly button. Exploring the smooth skin with her knuckles, Ilya traced lines up and down until she could bear the constriction no longer. With shaky fingers, she undid the buttons on Rosalia’s shirt in a slow march towards her neck. An agreeable sigh on her cheek emboldened Ilya enough to push back the garment and expose a plain white bra with a little bow in the center. Behind it, a clasp glinted in the artificial moonlight, beckoning her to unbuckle it.
With a quick turn of her fingers, Ilya was able to open the final curtain and push it to the side. Then in degrees immeasurable, she began a series of descending kisses that traced from Rosalia’s mouth to the center of her chest. There, she caught sight of the moon on the wall again. The scene had become more chaotic, with towering waves that pushed against an invisible barrier at the shore. Something was building out in the darkness, something that would drown them all if it got the chance.
There was still fear in Rosalia’s eyes when Ilya looked back. Without anything to stand between her and the moon, she had reverted to her natural state, the instinctual terror of seeing her nightmare reconciled on the wall.
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