Woman of Glass

by Stephen Cote

looked past Bashi at the girl. A pitiful child hunched over in a bundle of blankets. Cool rain drizzled silver rivulets on the fabric. "No hive queen, that’ve been bit-wise. You skulk for her?"

  "I make sure she is safe from you," Bashi said with the same warm, deep tone.

  Julian glanced at his front door, rain dripping through his hair and rolling across his face. Try a new song, scan for effects, and kick it home. No big deal. He nodded.

  Bashi returned to the girl’s side and pushed her into the house. He beckoned Julian to follow. Inside, humid warm air stirred throughout the house. For some reason, it reminded him of Christmas. Foreign statues and art decorated the hallway and adjacent rooms. Bashi wheeled the girl into the living room and then left her alone.

  Uncomfortable in the foreignness of his neighbor’s home, he pointed at his chest and spoke first, "Julian." By way of compliment he added, "You can drape a cage." But, the words echoed empty, insincere.

  "Thank you," she softly spoke. Her sickly voice carried from a head too large for its small body. Moderately attractive, Julian supposed, though mousy. With her legs strapped to the base of the wheel chair, she only seemed to move her head and right arm. She folded her hands in her lap. A belt cinched her waist and buckled a strap holding up her left shoulder.

  Julian swallowed. Don’t shiver. "Never scratched an ear solo."

  She smiled. "I'm Lee, and I've never been bold enough to ask, so we're even." Her lips were thin, dry and a sickly gray color. "Please, sit down." She pointed to a chair on the other side of the room.

  Julian set his axe near the chair and sat, looked about the room. "Your tail still waggin’?"

  Her lips twitched, and she said, "I live with Bashi, my husband."

  "Truth?" Julian asked in disbelief.

  Lee touched the ring on her left hand. "Call it necessity. I had to leave India, and Bashi wouldn't let me leave alone. Besides, since the war, India must follow Sharia Law and won’t grant exit visas to single women."

  Julian scanned the room, peeled back the layers of art and culture from the drywall canvas. Glancing at Lee in his peripheral vision, he thought, Twisted: She hardly moves. An advertisement blared in the back of his head: Get out. Across the room, a sketch dominated the wall. A female silhouette, possibly a synthetic, drawn in a demur pose. Julian made out shadows suggesting liquid or glass. Unreal. Not a picture – A blueprint.

  He swallowed, fumbled with the guitar case and set the Les Paul on his knee. "Vote to scratch?" He tweaked the tuning.

  Lee said, "Honestly, I wanted the company, but a song will suffice. Bashi told me there was trouble at the club. What happened? I was lucky not to get caught between the police and gang." Although her body remained still, her eyes darted over him, watching his every movement.

  Julian finished the adjustments. He shrugged. "Someone choked on some funk and shivered." Another shrug. "Take an x-bath, dry, get wet. Replay." Rocking the guitar on his knee, no song came to mind. Did she really want to hear speed flamenco metal? Their songs sucked. Why would she want to hear amplified angst?

  She cocked her head and said, "I suppose its good the x-series weapons keep the peace."

  Julian fingered a chord, warmed-up. "You grok an x-bomb is right? Burn your hair, your clothes, your skin? Infrasonic, you know? Too low."

  Lee looked blankly at Julian. "The x-series weapons prevented World War III. You do know that, right?"

  Julian shrugged. "Bobble. Truth. That’s real, I guess."

  Lee laughed softly, but not in a way Julian thought condescending. "They’re chemical laizers with super-cooled xenon gas to induce a harmless radiation burn. Mostly harmless. Most fabrics and body hair disintegrate, and your skin gets a bad suntan. The person loses their individuality, and with it goes their anger."

  "Psycho gun." He made a pistol with his fingers and pointed it at the wall. "Zap."

  Lee nodded, only slightly. "The psychological effect passes, but at the time is quite devastating. The physical attributes are so ingrained that their brain is unable to respond to aggressive stimulation."

  Julian looked back down at his guitar. "It’s a bust-up idea if the hives keep swarming."

  "Everyone has the right to freedom of expression, and the freedom of learning right from wrong."

  "Que? No tu grokas? You hearing me?"

  She nodded. "I understand. I grok you. The learned reaction is to accept the x-weapon, so they only work as a deterrent."

  Julian reclined, swished his tongue over his teeth. He pointed the guitar neck at the picture on the wall. "Some tropical synthetic tail." Glassy ‘ric tail might cut sound.

  "A dream. A silly dream. I'm a synthetic scientist." She watched Julian for a moment. "It’s a fiber optic chassis. Transparent camouflage, fast. Very fast. I still have a lot to do. The programming is not finished." She shifted her right hand. "Hard to work on things like this."

  "Does it work?"

  She shook her head, tilted it. "Almost. Without the software it only operates on remote."

  Julian glanced up from the guitar. "You talk like a scientist."

  "I'm twenty," she said and rolled her eyes. "Twenty six. Cursed in body, gifted in mind."

  "A genius," Julian said.

  Her expression darkened. "Some think so. I’d like to hear a song if you’re ready."

  Julian switched the guitar to broadcast to a practice amp built into the case. Eff metal flamenco. Scratch it old school. No distortion, nylon and wood body resonation. He turned the distortion off and adjusted the effects processor. He picked the strings as his father had taught him years before, so the guitar sung hollow, empty notes. The notes and words he had in mind made no sense, but nonetheless weighed down his chest.

  Down bit dreams you’re there

  Cos’ no skank tail cares

  Or groks what I’ve done

  Since the download begun

  He let the notes slip into a brief flamenco flutter and bit his lip. As he did, Lee’s expression softened.

  So real is a chance

  Charm a woman of glass

  Burn her fantasy

  In reality

  He swallowed a cough, singing the words to the simple, but what he thought poignant, beat.

  Transparent inside

  This woman of glass

  Who wants to live this way

  Empty day to day

  When he finished, Lee smiled and closed her eyes. "Thank you. It's late, I should be sleeping now."

  Julian tucked his axe into the case. Then, he remembered how much he wanted to leave when Bashi entered the room. He stood, glanced at Lee, and quickly left the room.

  From the front room, with the front door open, he heard Lee say, "Bashi, bring me the spine tap."

  "It's late. Tomorrow is better."

  Julian closed the front door and returned home.

  That strange night faded into memory, and four months later he remembered little but the haunting sketch on the wall. He never told Carlos or Gloria what happened, and never saw Bashi or Lee again. But, he dwelled on the woman of glass, and convinced the band to try the song.

  The first night they played it, they knew they had a hit. The audience went rabid and The Pipeline management met them backstage to extend their contract. They hurried from the back office before the crowd broke the fencing, and exited into the alley.

  "Bang!" Carlos said, smiling widely. "We kicked!" He slapped Gloria's and Julian's shoulders.

  "You're huffin’ , Carlos," Gloria said, sounding relieved behind the sarcasm.

  Julian started walking to the end of the alley. "Fly. Bit’s got Garcia's scrapin’ the Pipe this week."

  Carlos laughed. "Que? The pop-tarts kicked hard, sprayed his hive. X-bombs don’t burn p-tarts."

  "Bobble," Julian said. "Carbon burns."

  Near the end of the alley, Julian heard metal grind and wood splinter. He turned and saw two hardscrabble men laughing and walking t
owards them. Julian identified Garcia’s hive lines on their jackets.

  "Don’t leave, chicas," the smaller one sang. "So lonely."

  "Wag that stank tail," the other sang along.

  Gloria tried to push ahead of Julian and Carlos, but stumbled back.

  "No retcon," Carlos said. "No swarmin’ dead color."

  A crowd gathered around the alley entrance. Julian bit his lip and felt for his x-grenade, twisted the thumb catch with his index finger.

  "Rewind," the smaller man said to Julian and pointed an x-pistol.

  "I don't shiver," Julian said.

  Carlos took a step back. Two more men wearing Garcia’s colors pushed him back into the alley.

  "Fuse it!" A voice shouted.

  And Gloria said, "Call my synth again. I’ll x-bomb…" But others shouted over her, "Fuse it!"

  Something stirred in the shadows behind the two men, a silver streak in the night air. Something stirred in the shadows behind the two crib boys, a silver streak in the night air. The shadow struck the smaller man, knocked the pistol from his hand and threw him against the wall. Then it rammed into the larger man and drove him to the ground.

  "Rogue," several gasped. Another said, "Synth gone stack."

  Gloria screamed, "Madre de Dios!"

  She pointed at what, to Julian, had only been a dream: A feminine synthetic, glass melding with the night's shadows, stood at the far end of the alley. Threads of light flashed through the body along a translucent neural network.

  Carlos hit Julian's shoulder. "From the song."

  The synthetic turned and immersed itself into the shadows. Traces of light rose along the length of the wall and then to the rooftop. Julian took two steps towards the departing synthetic when a strong hand gripped his