Asimov's Science Fiction: March 2014 (11 page)

"Yeah, it's okay, Mrs. Bannerjee," said Remeny. "You don't have to call people if you don't want."

Mrs. Banerjee glanced up at Remeny. "You're the girl. Rachel's child. Isn't there a brother?" She pointed a finger as if in accusation. "We never see you kids playing anymore."

"Johanna, that's right. We're all grown up now."

"You know in those coffins? The people?" Mrs. Banerjee leaned toward her. "Do you know what they call them?" Her voice was low. "Trash. I swear it, Sadhir was with me, he heard too."

Remeny and Mom exchanged glances.

"You mean stash?" said Remeny.

"Stash?" Mrs. Banerjee rocked back and gazed up at the darkening sky for a moment. "Yes. That was it." She nodded at them. "Stash." Her mouth puckered as if she could taste the word.

The Daughertys gathered their weekly family dinners in softtime because Dad was so often on location and Robby couldn't leave his room, much less sit at table. Besides, her brother's two thousand calorie high-bulk liquid diet looked to Remeny like just-mixed cement. Not appetizing. Mom had paid for a space in the family domain that recreated the actual dining room at 7 Forest Ridge Road. A buffet with a marble top matched a china closet with glass doors. Its dining room table could seat ten comfortably but had just the four upholstered chairs gathered around one end. The furniture was all dark maple in some crazy oldschool style that featured arabesque inlays, fleur-de-lis and Corinthian columns. The meal that nobody was going to eat was straight out of the darkest twentieth century: a platter of roast chicken—with
bones—
bowls of mashed potatoes and green beans with pearl onions, a basket of rolls. Remeny thought the whole show a waste of processing power; in soft-time you were supposed to challenge reality, not just fake it. But this was what Mom wanted and Dad always humored her. Robby and Remeny didn't have a vote.

"The kids were working on their coop today," said Mom.

"They're on the same team?" Dad liked to sit at these meals with a knife in one hand and a fork in the other, even though all they did was stare at the virtual food. The kids could have made their avatars appear to eat, but their parents, Mom especially, had yet to master the tricks of full immersion. "How does that happen?"

"Just lucky, I guess." Remeny's dinner was the leftover smoothie and snap peas out of the bag. She ate in her room.

"So what's it about?"

"It's kind of boring actually." After talking to Robby that afternoon, Remeny had been hoping coop wouldn't come up.

"No, it isn't." Her brother opened their private channel with a.(4) impatience blip.

=We should have this conversation now.=

=They'll want to talk about it all night. I'm going out later.=

"Something to do with the Declaration of Independence?" Apparently Mom had been paying attention after all.

=With Silk?=

=None of your business.=

"Oh, right," said Dad. "We the people blah blah in order to form a more perfect union of whatever." Remeny had been hoping that Dad would take the conversation over, as he usually did. "I've always wondered how you get to be more perfect. I played James Madison once, you know, he was a shrimp, five feet four—what's that in meters?"

"A hundred and sixty-two centimeters." Even though Robby was using his parent friendly version of Sturm—no scars, no iridescence—she could tell he was mad.

"Just about Johanna's size." Dad's avatar was wearing a Hawaiian shirt with a sailboat motif. As usual, he looked like his hardtime self, handsome as surgery and juv treatments could make an eighty-three-year old, but then his image was part of his actor's brand. "No, wait. That's not right." He pointed his knife at Remeny, as if she were thinking of correcting him. "More perfect union is the Constitution. The Declaration was Jefferson. He was a tall one, him and Washington. Never played Washington. Wanted to, never did, even though we're about the same size."

"We're declaring our independence," said Robby.

=Sturm, no.=

That stopped Dad. "Who?" He frowned. "Teenagers?"

"Everybody who's stashed. We're giving up on hardtime—reality. We want to live as avatars."

"Cool." It was exactly the wrong thing to say. Remeny wondered if he'd been biting into a slice of pizza wherever he was and hadn't been paying attention to the conversation.

"And how do you propose to do this?" Mom's avatar looked like she had swallowed a brick.

"Just do it. Stay stashed." Robby gave them a (.6) impatience blip. "Never log off."

"No blips at the table, please." Mom had strange ideas about manners. "Never come back—
ever?"

Remeny started to say "Only when we want..." but Robby talked over her. "Never." He pushed back his chair and stood up, which seemed to Remeny more disrespectful than a blip. "And we want to be able to overclock as much as we want. Live double time. Triple. Whatever."

"Now you're talking nonsense," said Mom. "Your brain is not a computer, Robert. Overclocking causes seizures. And being stashed is hard on the body. The mortality rate for..."

"That's why we overclock," he shouted. "We can burn through years subjective while the meat rots."

Mom looked shocked that he would use the m-word at the table. Remeny couldn't believe it herself.

"Sit down, Robby." Dad didn't seem angry. He just scratched his chin with the fork while he waited for Robby to subside. Robby obeyed but sulked. "Funny this should come up. So I'm in Vermont with Spencer this morning..."

"Jeff."
Mom sounded betrayed.

"Pirates in Vermont?" said Remeny.

=Don't encourage him.=
Robby was on Mom's side in this one.
=Let's finish this.=

"I was done early at the
Treasure Ship
shoot." Dad shook his head. "Bastards cut half of my part. So, there I am at Steve Spencer's summer place in Vermont and he pitches me an idea about how people want to do exactly what Robby is talking about.

He's got a script ready to go and everything. Financing no problem, sixty mill starter money he says. Sixty million dollars kind of gets my attention. The idea is that there are people who want to live in virtual reality...."

Remeny raised her hand to correct him. "Softtime."

"Sure. And they never want to come out. It's wild stuff. They're cutting off arms and legs and whatever, body parts they claim they don't need and I say it sounds like horror, which isn't what I do, but Steve says no. The script plays it straight. It's a damned issue piece! Apparently there are people who believe this is a good thing. People who can raise sixty million no problem. Do you know about this, Rachel?"

She shook her head.

"How do we not know about this?"

"Because we're still only
some
people," said Robby. "Not
enough
people yet."

"And you're going to do it," said Mom. Remeny wondered who she was talking to. Dad? Robby? Both of them? It almost looked as if she had calmed down except that just then her avatar went completely still. Remeny searched the house cams and found her at the real dining room table with a plate of tortellini in front of her. She had pushed her Deveau back onto her head. She was crying.

"Sweet part for me." Dad hadn't noticed that Mom had logged off. "I'm a senator and I'm against it. I've never actually played a senator before. President, yes. Mayor. It's only a supporting, but still Frederick Nooney is attached, Gonsalves to direct. I told Steve I'd give him an answer tomorrow, but this... is this some coincidence or what?"

"You should do it," said Robby. "Absolutely. What's it called?"

"Title on the script is 'Declaration,' but that will never fly."

Remeny almost choked on a snap pea. Robby started to laugh.

Then Dad did something that Remeny didn't think that an oldschool eighty-threeyear-old could. He opened a private channel to Robby in softtime.

=You there, son?=

=Maybe.=

Unfortunately he didn't know how to close Remeny's private channel with her brother, so she was able to eavesdrop.
=Look Robby, if this is what you want, I'm for it. I know you're in pain and miserable.

= =Only when I'm stuck in hardtime.

= =I get that. Ever since that day, all we've wanted is to help.=
His sympathy blip was (.8).
=I know it's hard for you but it's hard for us too. Your mother blames herself because she sent you...=

=Dad, stop. I love you but stop. You want to help me then take the damn part. It'll be good for the cause. My cause, Dad. But what I really want is for you to come home and help me with Mom. Because reality sucks and I'm giving up on it. We need to make Mom understand. All of us, face to face. Oldschool.=

"Stop saying you're sorry." Sturm was trying for stern but his blippage read embarrassed.

"I just didn't want Mom to freak," said Remeny.

"Well, she did and nobody was killed. I call that a win for our side."

"Think Dad can convince her?"

"He's an actor." Sturm scanned the crowd around the dance floor for Silk. "He'll give a performance."

The music twanged and couples began to take their places.

"Nine minutes after," said Sturm. "He's not coming."

"There's no schedule." Remeny's irritation climbed to (.3). "He's not a train."

"Bow to the partner, now bow to the corner, all join hands and circle to the left, please don't step on her, now circle to the right, and we go round and round."

Now that she was old enough to know better, Remeny was sick of square dancing. When she was twelve, ForSquare had been one of her favorite EOS playgrounds. She had loved the movement, the color, and the concentration it took to remember and execute all of the calls. When she was sixteen she had come in second in the Jefferson County Challenge. There had been more than twenty calls that day that involved changing avatars on the fly, on top of two hundred more traditional calls. A hell of a lot of remembering, but that was the point. It was all about teaching kids how to use their interfaces while they pretended to have fun.

"Promenade now, full promenade."
Crystal stalactites rose at random from the dance floor and the dancers weaved around them.

Another thing: the music was so loud that you had to shout to be heard. Okay for these kids, so young that they had nothing to say. But now that she was eighteen, Remeny preferred a quiet place like Sanctuary. It was better for flirting.

Remeny spotted Botão and waved. She skirted the dancers to join them.

"I'm here but I can't stay. I'm babysitting my sisters." Her avatar was wearing a
Life Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness
T-shirt.

"I like this." Remeny brushed a hand down the sleeve.

"Yeah." Botão tugged at the hem, stretching the front of the tee so she could admire it too. "My mom and I designed them and then I printed out ten on our home fab, sizes six and seven. I'll bring them to the Gates Center tomorrow and have the teachers send them home with the kids. Cost less than ten bucks."

"I was just there today myself."

"Oh my god, what if we had met?" She clutched her throat in mock horror. "You ask me, I say the whole secret identity thing is dumb. The oldschool is just trying to keep us from ganging up on them." She brushed up against Sturm. "What do you think, Sturm, or are you ignoring me on purpose?"

"You forgot the commas," he said, "and I wasn't ignoring you. I was looking for Silk."

"Asshole." She was stunned. "Be that way then." She pushed away from him.

"What do you know about Silk?" he said.

=What are you doing?=
Remeny sent Robby a private message.

=I think she's in on it.=

=In on what?=

"Why should I tell you?" said Botão.

"Because Silk isn't who we think he is."

Botão's anger blip had a sarcastic edge. "Nobody here is who I think they are."

"Did he tell you to come up with that slogan?"

"Oh, I get it. I'm not smart enough to come up with an idea on my own. Let's see now, is it because I'm a girl? Because I am
uma Brasileira?"

"There." Remeny pointed. Silk had entered with a couple of avatars new to her.

"All roll now, and spin those wheels, easy now and boys form a star...."
Some of the avatars on the dance floor morphed their shoes into roller blades; the others grew casters in their legs.
"Now be our stars, and keep it rolling."
One of the boys in the star formation slipped and toppled into the boy next to him. The girl dancers clapped and giggled, but the caller didn't pause.
"That's all right, no time for regrets, head back home and into your sets."

Silk appeared beside Remeny. "Our meeting isn't until Tuesday," he said, "but as long as we're here... I don't see Toybox."

"Leave him out of this," said Sturm.

"Oh, and are you giving the orders now?" His amusement blip barely registered.

"I think there is some kind of conspiracy going on and you're part of it. You're manipulating me. Us."

"Speak for yourself," said Botão.

"How can it be manipulation..." Silk spread his hands. "... if you're doing what you wanted to do anyway? You believe, Sturm. I know you do. "

"But I don't," said Botão, "and you can take your conspiracy or revolution or whatever the hell it is and shove it." As Botão tore her T-shirt off and hurled it at Silk, she generated a replacement Seleção Brasileira soccer jersey. "I'll find another coop. Remeny? You with me?"

With a shock, Remeny realized that she wanted to say yes, that she was actually afraid of what Silk and Sturm were trying to do to themselves. She liked being an avatar, sure, but this wasn't how she wanted to live the rest of her life. Not if it meant getting stashed. She started toward Botão.

=Wait.=
Sturm was desperate.

Silk didn't wait. "You can't quit," he said. "Don't you want to live your life in soft-time? You're the one who wanted to make your own domain and never get real again."