A Boat Made of Bone (The Chthonic Saga) (53 page)

I wanted to swear. Loudly. But I didn
’t. I just laughed, feeling a wave of giddiness sweep over me.

I couldn
’t think of anything else to say. Honestly I would have been happy to just stare at him for an hour and fantasize. 

Before I go any further, let me just explain that I
’d never done or felt anything like this in my life. It’s forbidden.
Forbidden
. All my crushes before this were on boys. I mean, human boys. Because Hemingway was a boy, I mean a man, really, but an android. A
machine
. That’s what the kids at school call them. To be assholes. And sometimes I called them that too, well, really, everyone did. But you tried not to do it to their faces if you were decent. I was almost always decent except when I called them machines by accident, which I did in my head more than anything else.

“
Want to go for a walk?” Hemingway asked. He was named for the classical writer who lived a couple hundred years ago and at first it was weird. But aren’t all names weird? Until they grow on you, at least.

I said sure and stood up. Before long we found ourselves near a small Hyperglass shop where they sold Links and Grams and Gates. It was sandwiched between two clothing stores. I stepped toward one of the clothing stores, the RedSand store, pulled there by the window display. It was a hologram of several girls dancing on a beach somewhere—Earth, probably—wearing some cool jeans. I stared wistfully at the hologram. The girls looked gorgeous and some naive part of me thought I
’d look that good in the jeans. I worked—at the coffee bar, actually—so I’d been able to buy a RedSand jacket recently. What I really wanted now was a pair of jeans.

“
You like Redsand?” Hemingway asked, standing beside me as I looked at the display.

I shrugged.
“Who doesn’t?”

“
Well, me, to be honest.”

My mouth dropped open. I turned to him.
“What? They’re like,
it
.
The
brand. Everyone likes RedSand.”

“
Yeah, I don’t really like them.”

“
Why not?”

“
They’re an Earth-based company and they import all their materials from factories back on Earth to make the jeans and stuff.” He turned and stared at the display.

“
So? Lots of places do,” I said.

“
But there are cotton fields in New Hyderabad. Why not buy from them?”

“
Prices?”

He laughed and walked to the shop on the other side of the Hyperglass store.
“These guys buy local,” he said loudly, to be heard from that distance, flashing me a hesitant smile. “Besides, you’d look better in these jeans.” He pointed at a pair of dark blue jeans that were interwoven with strips of thin red fibers.

“
Huh,” I said, moving close to him to inspect them. “I guess I never really looked at this brand.” The store was called FreeMars. It sounded like some kind of conscientious place.

After a minute, I said,
“I’m not buying anything today, anyway.”

Hemingway shrugged.
“No big deal.” 

We went into the Hyperglass shop and browsed through the Links and other glassware. The new styles were cool and I wished I could afford to upgrade my own Link. I glanced at it, all fitted to my forearm snugly, a good four inches long and two inches at the widest end. The fabric-LED screen was starting to look scuffed up and there were one or two sections that had gone slightly dim. My entire life was loaded onto it—I could log into my profile from anywhere and contact anyone if I wanted to have a quick video chat. The new Links came in an entirely different, exciting spectrum of colors. Mine was pink. I was tired of it. And the pink looked dirty. Plus the new Links had holo-chat. Mine didn
’t.

Not that it mattered. Being able to see someone
’s entire head or body didn’t make much difference. Unless you were a doctor or something and you were trying to diagnose a lump on the back of someone’s head. But how far could you trust a hologram, honestly? And anyway, you had to buy an extra part to scan your body when you wanted to do holo-chat. It was kind of a rip-off.

“
You going to get a new Link?” Hemingway asked, drifting back to my side after venturing over to inspect the desktop Gate.

I shook my head.
“Nah. Just looking.” The new Links came on a wider band so the screen was even bigger. Almost ridiculously bigger. Mine was kind of narrow. It would be cool to have a bigger screen, but that would involve registering the device and transferring data. And also, I couldn’t afford a new one.

But it was fun to dream.

“Do you want a new one?” I asked hesitantly, glancing up at him.

“
No. I want other things. Not this,” he said.

“
What do you want?”

He shrugged and smiled.
“Stuff.”

What
did
androids want? I didn’t know. There weren’t too many in my life, none, really. At least not any that I recognized as such. Rumors abounded, but I didn’t catch many
tells
in the people I was around.

We left the shop and walked back to the coffee bar, talking casually about school and the mall. Other kids our age loitered around us, walking up and down the central plaza of the mall. I kept looking at them, then back at Hemingway, thinking how gorgeous he was. Did others notice?

Back in the coffee bar, I ordered drinks for us and sat down. I asked Hemingway about school and why we’d never met before. He said something non-committal and then looked away. It was weird. I almost asked him to clarify, but didn’t. Outside the coffee bar, I saw a group of kids that I knew from school migrating through the central plaza of the mall. If they saw us together, I could almost guarantee that I’d be ridiculed for being with an android. Hemingway’s
tell
was so obvious. I felt like ducking behind the table, but didn’t. Let them see me.

Hemingway glanced in the direction of the group of kids. He looked back at me and his expression went cold—the planes of his cheeks and jaw rippled. His eyes flickered down to his hands which were cupped around his frothy drink.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, leaning forward.

“
Nothing,” he looked out at the group of kids on the plaza, his brow knit together like the seam along the leg of my jeans. “I should be leaving.” He moved as though to get up, but my heart lurched and I found myself grabbing his arm.

I realized how desperate it appeared as I did it, and leaned casually toward him as though to make it more jokey. As if he
’d fall for that. Right. “Do you really have to go?” I asked, smiling. “At least, if you do, when will I see you again?”

Over his shoulder I saw the flock of kids from school turn as though they communicated by telepathy and not voices. They were coming into the coffee bar.

Hemingway put his hand over mine.

That was it. The moment. Right then I knew that I didn
’t care what was forbidden. He was an android. He looked like a human. He felt like me. I mean, not me. But he felt how I feel. Like flesh and blood. And besides, why the hell were they so human-like if we weren’t supposed to fall in love with them? Or even . . . lust after them? 

“
I’ll see you again, I promise.” He stood up. Each motion away from me tore a piece of my heart out. Not to be dramatic. I’m not that way, you know. Dramatic. I mean, I can be a bit. But not too bad. Nothing like my friend, Mei, anyway. So when I say it felt like chunks of my heart getting ripped out, I’m not teasing. It was like somehow there were tenterhooks driven into the flesh of my heart by that piercing blue color of his eyes and that smile, and those damned fingernails that were so perfect, I wanted to feel them all over my body. He moved away, and the hooks pulled pieces of flesh with them.

I felt a cry rise in me for him to wait, but I hunched down into my seat and watched him leave the coffee bar. The group of kids from school pushed around him. I saw some of them make robot-like faces at him and knock their shoulders into him.

I hated them for it.

“
Retta!” One of them shouted at me. It was Stig. Stupid, stupid Stig. He was a caveman, I swear. “Retta! Pour me a tall one!”

Right. Like the coffee bar served alcohol and not coffee. Real hilarious.

He came darting toward me and got in my face. I swatted him away, and not in a playful manner. In a “you’re a terrible person” way.

He fell backwards laughing, dodging another arm-punch from me.

“Leave me alone, Stig. I’m off, my shift is over.” I glanced at Matt, my boss, who was wiping the counter behind the bar. We shared a mutual look of disdain and he shook his blond head slowly at me. He hated to serve customers like Stig.

Outside I saw Hemingway stop at the fountain in the middle of the plaza. I wanted to run after him. Something in me said I
’d never see him again if I didn’t. He stared down at his reflection, shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans—I wondered if they were that FreeMars brand—pulled something out, a cappa or a markaa or something, and tossed it in. I found myself fantasizing about what he wished for.

He knew he was being ridiculous. He knew she was only being polite. He knew it was only because he was a client that she was paying any attention to him at all. Clearing  his throat again, he tried to not let the silence get to him. She glanced up from the electronic slate on the mahogany desk—she seemed to enjoy the visual references to old things, where Ramone himself preferred the sterile feel of modern glass touch-screen desks.

“What is it?” Blythe asked.

“What? Oh, uh, nothing, pardon me. Something caught in my throat,” he said, wiping his hands across the black corduroy of his trousers.

“It’ll just be a few more minutes, Mr. Ramone,” she said. She was many years his junior—ten, maybe more—with the kind of face that spawned myths about gods and the creation of rivalries between countries; not only that, her mind was an iron trap that sliced to the bone when sprung. Not usually a desirable trait, it was something to admire in a lawyer. So far Ramone had yet to say anything that she didn’t catch onto in a matter of seconds. All his explaining, his inferences, his references to references. She understood his language and therefore, him.

She was too young for him. Yet he couldn’t help but respond to the electricity he felt when around her. It stirred up a mixture of long dead feelings: that he was alive, that he was young and eternal.     

Before he left for the meeting that morning, he had shaved with a razor and shaving cream in the bathroom rather than his usual halfhearted method—in the car with the electric razor as the car drove itself through clogged morning traffic. He’d taken his time at home, studying his face in the mirror. The eyes staring back were as familiar as ever. It was the deepening creases around his mouth and eyes, the thickening brows, and the changing colors of his skin that he often didn’t recognize. His jet-black hair had collected a good share of gray—he noticed that with chagrin, turning his head to inspect the short-cropped sides. At least he still had his hair. And he wasn’t ugly, by any means. Or was he? He couldn’t say, but he didn’t feel totally repulsed by himself. Ugly people did, didn’t they? He sighed at that, shoulders drooping, and rinsed the razor.

There was a new light in his eyes that embarrassed him. He’d hummed and whistled intermittently as he shaved, thinking about the younger woman. Sue appeared in the bathroom doorway, staring at him with amusement. A half-smile tugged at her lips. 

“A new crush, Ramone?” she’d asked playfully. The razor had slipped from his fingers, clattering into the sink. She laughed and gave his arm a squeeze. They’d been married twenty-six years—had made it so long by being honest about things like attractions to coworkers and neighbors, the sort of things that crop up from time to time that were harmless when pushed into the light.

Ramone hadn’t confessed this new interest to Sue yet: he was letting it grow. He thought it might go away. Eventually he’d have to tell her, of course, because Sue meant everything to him.

He stood with the razor poised by his jaw, listening to Sue chuckle as she went into the kitchen to make coffee. She hadn’t waited for an answer, taking his reaction for a confession.

He reflected on the morning’s exchange with his wife as he watched Blythe enter notes into her slate. Her brow furrowed for a moment as she concentrated, her bottom lip tucked beneath front teeth, a strand of hair falling loose from its hair-clip and into her eyes. She had no idea how much effort he’d put into preparing for their meeting, he thought, as he rubbed his jaw. Ramone had created something—a machine, though they weren’t speaking of it openly and Ramone himself still found difficulty articulating it, even mentally—and the lawyer was drawing up patent information for him. He was paranoid of the information being extracted and destroyed before the machine even had the chance to breathe. But the lawyer had found a loophole that would protect him. Normally, the company he worked for could appropriate it, because of the non-competition contracts he’d signed eight years ago when they hired him.