Near + Far (42 page)

"Do me a favor, Fitz—don't sign anything until then. Give me two days to try to figure out some better alternative."

"I suppose," he said dubiously.

From the time I was a small child, I associated the HyperDome with problem solving. My great-uncle Roy took me to every game as a child and then as a teen, and I'd used the time, bored out of my skull, to sit and watch the patterns of the players and figure out mathematical equations in my head. It was during the 2039 HyperBowl, and Vinnie Testaverde's famous final touchdown, in fact, that I'd worked out the formula for what became my trademark story arc, which allowed one extra chapter for the aftermath.

So today I returned to the stadium, using my employee badge to access the box under the pretense of checking out dimensions for the party.

"How many balloon bouquets can you fit in one of those and still let people move around, that's what I need to know," I told the attendant.

Sitting up in the box, I looked out over the empty green sward stretching from goal to goal and tried to imagine the patterns that would emerge on Sunday, not just the elaborate loops of the players as the ball moved from one group to another, but the even more complex patterns of the patrons and vendors, the swarms going to and from the restrooms. On Sundays like this, dedicated football fans might pull out a Body with their team's markings, a paw-print marked chassis for the Cheetahs, rainbow paint for the Freedoms, glitter and tinsel and sparkle for whatever team you cared to name. Everyone would wear something flashy, particularly those who could afford dress-up Bodys; others would make do with decals and temporary paint. But it would be a festive, party atmosphere.

The air-conditioned cold of the box penetrated my Body and I tongued the thermostat to up it. Gloom edged my thoughts with darkness. Some party, I thought, if it ends with a gladhand and farewell, see you all on the flip side. I
liked
working for Fitz. I didn't want to become a cog again.

Someone knocked on the door, and I opened it to find the Kali.

"Stars and Stripes," I said, employing one of Roy's more colorful expressions. "Are you everywhere? Are you cloning yourself?"

"Too expensive," Mimsy said. She craned her neck to look behind me. "Would you happen to have Ticky with you?"

"No," I said firmly.

"My uncle's going to kill me if I've lost him."

"What's your uncle's name?"

"My uncle Juan. He owns half the HyperBowl."

"Such problems you have," I said. "Look, I don't have any control over your servo, but I'll tell it tonight to go home."

Clearing her faceplate, Mimsy brightened. She was a surprisingly pretty girl for such a ditz, I reflected. Her hair was the precise shade of her dark blue eyes, and her chin was narrow and vulpine. She looked a little like Sally. But a lot weirder.

"Will you?" Mimsy said.

"Yeah, whatever."

"I'm sorry I said I hated people like you."

"I'd forgotten about that actually. It was the abandoning me on the zeppelin that you should be apologizing for."

"I'm not apologizing for anything!" Mimsy said. "I was trying to be nice!"

I sighed. "There's no winning with you."

"I should hope not!" Mimsy said. "When can I have my servo back?"

"If it won't go back on its own, I'll bring it with me here on Sunday, and you can come claim it."

"That works," Mimsy said.

"Of course it does," I replied. "What, you think we practical and competent people can't come up with working plans?"

"See, there you go again!"

"What? What?" But Mimsy had vanished, leaving me there at a loss. And smiling.

That night, as Ticky served gazpacho in a bowl crafted from freshly baked spelt bread, I said, "Ticky, why exactly did Mr. and Mrs John Doe send you, again?"

It set salt and pepper on the table and gazed at me with eyes whirligigged with synthethic emotion. "Why, because you're such a fine author."

"They've read all my books?"

"Every single one. Even
Helga's Tunic
."

"That was out of print almost as soon as it appeared," I said, astonished. For a robot, Ticky had excellent taste.

It rearranged the condiments on the table with a careful mechahand. "They like your writing very much," it said. "Perhaps at some point you would like to talk about your writing process and I would record what you say for them."

A dire suspicion grew in my head. "They don't want to write, do they?"

"Of course not!"

"Whew."

"But they would like for you to instruct me in the art."

"Oh." Now I understood. A servo who wanted to be a writer. No wonder Mimsy had said it had gotten odd.

"Perhaps after dinner, you would care to discuss how you began writing while drinking a fine port that I have synthesized for you."

"Perhaps," I said. "Hey, I'm going to be at a party on Sunday with some of the other writers. Why don't you come along and that way you'll get a chance to listen to them?"

It gazed at me, enraptured.

"You could make some treats for the party," I slyly suggested.

"I will start preparing right now!" And with that it vanished into the kitchenette, from which the smells of citrus and mint began emanating.

"I'd still like that port," I called after it, but there was no answer. Sighing, I finished spooning up my gazpacho, and flipped on the computer. Trying to find ways that the press could earn more money was harder than I'd imagined it could be. No matter what avenue I scouted down, I found traces that Fitz had been there before me. I slept briefly, then set to it again on Saturday, fueled by freshly baked cinnamon doughnuts and Mexican hot chocolate. Nothing. Again and again, nothing. I worked through the day and into the next night until finally I pushed the screen away with a groan.

"I can't figure it out," I told the wall. From the kitchen, a waft of coconut and orange was my only answer.

At the HyperBowl, I made my entrance, followed by the servo with its arms laden with containers of doughnuts, cookies, empanadas, churros, and coconut ices. I pointed to the buffet table, already laden with Fitz's offerings, and a massive punch bowl brimming with a murky, pale brown liquid.

"Try the punch," Fitz said, appearing at my elbow. "I was going to save it for Christmas, but I figured might as well use it now. It's coffee based. A recipe from one of the cookbooks I kept."

I looked at him as he poured me a cupful. "You've made your decision, haven't you?" I said.

In the corner, Daisy was talking earnestly to Lila, yet another sheet of plas in her hand. Mikka was staring out the window at the field as though witnessing the four horsemen of the Apocalypse. The other two writers occupied themselves with their dates and the containers the servo was setting out. Rapturous noises came from that corner of the room; I didn't want to look closely enough to determine their source.

Fitz's shoulders slumped, assuming an exaggerated and awkward angle. "Yeah. I appreciate your position, Addie, but I just can't go it any longer."

"Well," I began, then glimpsed Mimsy's face at the door. "Just a minute, Fitz. I'll be back in a second."

I opened the door and Mimsy entered hastily, followed by an elderly man in an immaculate vanilla-shaded BodySuit.

"You have my servo!" he cried angrily at me. "I could have you arrested for theft!"

"Now just a minute," I said, looking between Mimsy and the man.

"This is my uncle," Mimsy said unhappily. "He realized Ticky was missing."

I glanced back over my shoulder and saw the servo trying to unobtrusively edge behind Daisy and Lila.

"Arrested!" the man shouted.

"Is there some problem?" Fitz appeared at my elbow.

"I am Juan Estrella and this woman has stolen my prize servo, laden with ten thousand secret recipes!"

"Addie?" Fitz said, his tone full of admiring wonder. "Did you really?"

"It followed me home and baked me muffins!" I said. "How was I supposed to know?"

"I'm Fitzroy Huggins," Fitz said. "Now, here, Mr. Estrella ... you're the chef Estrella, aren't you? Come and have some punch, and we'll discuss this all like civilized adults."

"Arrested!" Estrella said again, but his tone was lower, mollified and flattered at being recognized.

"I'm so sorry," Mimsy whispered in one of my external microphones. "He saw me leaving and decided he wanted to come too."

Overhead, two silvery zeppelins circled, filming the crowd, their shadows falling across the flanks of festive Bodys and noBodys alike. Fitz poured Estrella a cup of punch, and the old man gingerly poured a sip down an intake tube. His suit colored in surprise and delight, blossoming peacock blue and turquoise.

"What is this drink?"

"Coco-latte punch," Fitz said, pleased. "late twentieth century ... "

"I must have the recipe!"

I'm fond of happy endings.

"Well," I said to Mimsy, as we stood watching the halftime show. Down on the field, cheerleader Bodys marched in tandem, spelling out "Victory for all!" in cursive lettering. "That seems to have turned out all right. Your uncle has a new source of recipes and Fitz has enough cash to keep the house alive for a while."

"And Ticky has a new friend," Mimsy said, nodding over at the corner where the servo and Daisy were comparing notes on plot twists. "But what did you and I get out of all of this?"

I trailed a finger along the inner curve of one of the Kali's elbows. It didn't seem as tacky as it used to. "Oh, I don't know," I said. "But I'm sure something will emerge."

Afternotes

This story was written for Clarion West, during the week that L. Timmel DuChamp was our instructor, and is my attempt at a screwball comedy, combined with the idea of the Bodys, which was inspired by a long walk in which my foot began to hurt and I was thinking about what it would be like to be able to switch out body parts easily.

The story appeared in the final issue of
Crossed Genres
, a magazine which I was pleased to support during its existence, and which went away far too quickly (although at the time I'm writing this, a Kickstarter project looks as though it may succeed in reviving the magazine). "Long Enough and Just So Long," which appears in the Near volume of this collection, was originally written for a contest of theirs, but got purchased before I could send it to them.

O
kay, so it's not really an elevator or even a space elevator in the way anyone originally meant it. But it looks like an elevator, the transo-chrono-ecto-vasi-via. You get on, you punch a button, you go to your destination. Sometimes you stop along the way, people get off, get on. You get the picture. Transportation for the masses. Rich people don't have to stop for other people, they just go straight up to the top. The rest of us stand waiting and listening to the piped in entertainment and the commercial pause every five minutes.

It's always the same music. At first it's just muzak, aural wallpaper, and then a few notes pluck at your consciousness, and then some others, starting to unsettle you, until you realize, finally, it's a Led Zeppelin song, glossed and slicked in a way that should bring Jon Bonham's corpse staggering out of the grave like a zombie dervish, spinning out protest.

Why do we have to turn our cell phones off until we reach the stratopause? What's the point?

Sometimes people leave posters or pamphlets in the elevator, crumpled on the floor or taped to the side with illicit magnetic tape, suggesting alternate transportation or hijacking, TAKE THIS CAR SIDEWAYS or EJECT THE RICH. You have to read them at some point, because you end up looking at every available inch as it is, counting the rivets lining the corner or the number of teeth in a fellow passenger's mouth. You find yourself humming the music, or tapping your foot in time maybe, the fourteenth or fifteenth time it comes up, not realizing that by the end of this trip you'll never be able to listen to that music again.

Every time someone gets on, there's these new configurations, an inch to the left, a step to the right. Everyone's line of sight adjusts, never colliding with anyone else's like laser beams guarding a security vault, never meeting anyone else's eyes as though to do so would be to cross the beams and risk the universe's implosion.

Someone thought glass sides would be a good idea. They were wrong. It's spooky, as though space were reaching into the elevator, the stars fingering at the edge of your consciousness. Unsettling as standing on Alice's mushroom for some unstable souls. You always have to watch for that.

Everyone's there, but you're in an iron tank of solitude if you don't know your fellow travelers. Those people can look each other straight in the face, maybe even lean together, while all you can touch is the chilly glass in front of you, watching their reflections. Maybe you listen to them talking about last year's turkey-plasma or bitching about the music.

At what point did you realize—this trip will never end?

Afternotes

A conversation at Confusion led to this flash piece, which has not previously appeared in print. It has some similarities to "Bus Ride To Mars," a slipstream story produced before this piece.