Clade (21 page)

“It’s not fair,” he mutters, shaking his head.

“There’s always a fare to pay,” Varda tells him. “Nothing is free. Lunch doesn’t grow on trees.”

Rigo rests his forehead against the acoustic wall-foam and resists the urge to bang it. He thinks about how easy it was for Whipplebaum to manipulate him. Anthea’s right. He can be such an
idiota
sometimes. Sees only what he wants to see. Hears only what he wants to hear.

Rigo shakes his head, returns his attention to the ribozone. “How come you’re able to show me all this?”

“Because you’re still softwired,” the IA says. “Able to remote-link to molecular code. Pherions. DNA. Sniffers. Bitcams.”

“I thought the link was only for the Tiresias ecotecture.” He hasn’t been in direct contact with the comet for days. Not since the disaster.

“No,” Varda says. “Every pherion sequence, protein fold, and DNA concatenation in an ecotectural system has a corresponding digital component it maps to.”

“Which I’m able to access?”

“Yes.”

So it’s no different from the remote link he had to the warm-blooded plants. Digital complements of molecules are how gengineering companies like RiboGen create and test new molecular code. How politicorps store the clade-profiles of people and objects in the environment so they can track their location or movement, model social demographics, manage public services, and monitor/adjust ribosome production of key pherions.

“The information isn’t ecotecture-dependent?” Rigo says.

“No. Since there’s no direct interaction between the records—no physical contact required to exchange or generate information, like there is with molecules—it’s clade-neutral.”

Rigo takes a second to mull this over, make sure he’s hearing things right. “So all you’re doing is accessing the digital record for a certain biological component, and then downloading the information to me?”

“That’s it in a nutcase,” Varda says.

At which point the molectric circuitry he’s doped with converts the digital signal into a chemical signal, which can then be used by a ribosome to manufacture a real live molecule.

“Can I export information?” he asks. “Send the digital code for a specific pherion I’m doped with to someone else and have it show up in them?”

“If the other person is softwired,” Varda says. “Otherwise the information has to be downloaded to the surrounding ecotecture.”

“But the person could still import the pherion through the environment.”

“Yes.”

Rigo blinks. Frowns. “What happens if the information you download codes for a pherion that I haven’t been claded for?” Theoretically, if the pherion his cells produce turns out to be a superbadass, he could be in deep shit.

“That won’t happen,” Varda says.

“Why not?”

“The Tiresias ecotecture is unique. It’s unrelated to any other ecotecture.”

“So the warm-blooded molectronics can’t manufacture pherions from other ecotectures.”

“Correct.”

“What about pherions that are already in the environment? Can they affect me?”

“Yes. You’re still susceptible to direct exposure. But as long as you avoid physical contact you’re safe.”

What was it Dorit had told him during their final conversation?
Nothing
has
to be the way it is. . . .
New beginnings can happen anytime. The key is
wanting something enough to make it happen.

Rigo presses the tip of his tongue to half-parted lips, recalling the blood orange taste of her farewell kiss.

“I have to talk to Anthea,” he says. “Get in touch with her and Ibrahim as soon as possible.”

And his mother. Before she’s too far gone—slips out of reach beyond the event horizon of the grave.

TWENTY-ONE

Now what? Anthea’s not sure what to do after getting put on suspension. Rigo’s mother is asleep. Rigo’s unavailable. Doug’s phreaking a Shakespearean rag. What does that leave? She could try calling Noogenics to see if Rigo’s supervisor or someone else can forward a message for her—or at least tell her how he’s doing. But it’s late. Nearly nine. All she’ll get is voice mail.

She takes a seat at the pod stop a half block down from the Global Upreach clinic, tries to clear her head. Can’t. Manic zydeco from the Cajun bar directly across the street and the jumbled flicker of storefront biolums leave her jangled. She can feel the pressure of the sound and the light against her skin, holding the tension in. She needs to get away for a while.

Malina. She hasn’t talked to her in a couple of days. This might be a good time to swing by, see how Josué’s doing. It’ll give her something to do for a few hours, give her a chance to regroup.

“Anthea?”

She starts at the voice, which originated from one of the stand-alone vending kiosks she’s sitting next to, an outlet store for Imelda Marcos shoeware. The tiny pavilion offers a Philippine ambience, including island decor with bamboo trim. Arrayed behind the glare-free scratch-resistant display window is a collection of the latest Cami!!eon® smart shoes. Able to change shape, breathability, or color, depending on environmental conditions.

“Can you hear me?” the vending machine says. It seems a bit uncertain, as if this is the first time it’s approached a potential customer.

Anthea ignores it, depressed that a marketing IA has finally identified and targeted her as a frequent user of this particular stop. Now she’ll have to walk another half block to the next stop.

“Come on,” the kiosk says. “Answer me.”

An older man shuffling past the bench slows, cocks his head in the direction of the sound. “Eh?” he says, arms hanging loosely.

“I know you can hear me, Anthea,” the vending machine says, still focusing on her. The
viejo
must not fit its consumer profile.

“I’m not interested,” she says. “Leave me alone.”

The elderly man shakes his head and moves on, jerked forward by the marionette whir of the ancient exoskeleton under his baggy sprayons—an old titanium contraption that lacks the smoothness of the newer nanimatronic models.

A pod appears at the intersection down the street, turns toward her. Anthea stands and moves to the edge of the sidewalk, away from the kiosk. Slides into the pod as soon as the door hisses open, and takes a seat. Finds herself seated next to a dental adscreen for teeth engraving.

“Anthea,” the ad pleads in a different voice. “Just listen to me for a second. It’s not what you think. Okay?”

Anthea stands, looks for another seat.

“Wait,” another adscreen says as she passes by the satisfied grin of man who’s just had his lips dosed with flavor-exuding bacteria. Available tastes are mango, peach, strawberry, guanabana, and lychee.

The pod eases to a halt at the next stop. Rather than stick around, Anthea makes a quick exit and walks hurriedly away. Hopefully the marketing ware has a fairly small territory. Go far enough and she’ll be out of range. She can always catch another pod a few blocks away. Meanwhile, all she has to do is steer clear of all signs, adscreens, or store outlets.

After three blocks and no new ad assault, she’s feeling good. Then the palm of her hand starts to itch, and a cartoon face appears. The same pen-and-ink line drawing of a politicorp security guard that Rigo got the night they went to the Boardwalk. The cartoon salutes her. But instead of launching into a jingle, it says, “You’re not going to get away from me that easy.”

Anthea stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk, almost gets run over by a pack of prepubescent kids spilling out of a theater.

“What the fuck’s going on here? Who is this?”

“It’s me, babe.” The cartoon grins. “Just trying to catch up with the sun and the moon.”

“Rigo?” Anthea holds her palm up in front of her nose, inspects the square-jawed jarhead.

The tattune raises both eyebrows. “I know this doesn’t exactly look like me, but it’s the best I could do. The only option left when you wouldn’t talk to me at the kiosk or in the pod.”

“That was you?”

“Yeah.” The eyebrows pinch together, a pair of angled exclamation points. “Can you believe it? Just what I always wanted to be. A shoe salesman and lip service spokesperson.”

Anthea frowns.

“What’s wrong,
mami
? I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

“How do I know it’s you, and not some marketing IA pretending to be you?” she says.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

She balls her hand into a fist.

“Hey,” the tattune protests through her closed fingers. “How can you not know it’s me?”

She opens her hand. “Prove it.”

The blocky face sags, mouth curving into an inverted half-circle. “I can’t believe this.”

“Me, neither. That’s why I’m asking.”

The tattune grows contemplative for a moment, face immobile. “Okay,” it finally says, mouth a lopsided oval. “What about that vacation we took to Sin City to celebrate our first year together? We stayed at the Pink Sands. You played Black Jack, and won seven straight hands before they asked us to leave.”

“That doesn’t prove anything,” she says.

“Why not?”

“Because all that data is on record. Hotel bill. Gambling receipts. Transportation costs. Tell me something that’s not part of your or my personality profile.”

“You mean something private? Just between the two of us that no one else would know about.”

“Exactly.”

“Like the way I always leave the toilet seat up at night, and you get all pissed at me when you splash-down?”

“I don’t know,” Anthea says, dubious. “There could be public utility records of that.”

“You think South San Jose keeps track of whether someone has their toilet seat up or not, and who’s using it?”

Anthea sniffs. “It could be part of an ongoing statistical program to graph toilet use for waste management optimization.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“Okay.” The tattune makes a face. “How about when we’re having sex and you like to be on top because if you’re not your pubic bone starts to—”

“Not that personal!” Anthea blurts out.

The tattune squiggles its lips. “Don’t blame me. You wanted details.”

Anthea glances around, moves into the empty doorway of a shuttered-up café—a former sushi bar-
cum
-game room. The tables through the diamond window still have Go boards on them, piles of dust-covered black and white stones.

“Where are you?” she says, speaking into her cupped hand and dropping her voice to a whisper.

“Some shithole hotel in Africa. Used to be a Hilton. Now BEAN’s using it for a detention center.”

“You’re locked up?”

“Along with Hsi-Tang and Claribel.” The face droops in sadness. “No one else survived.”

“Survived what?”

“The accident. I thought you’d know by now.”

“We haven’t heard a thing. I mean, we heard that something was going on, but no details.”

“Well, it was a disaster. A nightmare. Let me tell you. I’m not surprised they’re keeping a lid on it.”

“What happened?”

“The colonists decided they didn’t want to be part of the program anymore, and took off. Made a run for the outer solar system. The asteroid belt—or maybe even the Kuiper belt. Who knows?”

“Should you be telling me this?”

“You mean, will I get in trouble?” The face contorts, a constipated mix of raw emotion. “Not anymore. I got fired this morning. There’s nothing they can do to me. I can say what I want.”

Anthea spreads her fingers, stretching the lines in her palm taut. “What did they fire you for?”

“It’s a long story, babe. I don’t want to get into it right now. The bottom line is, I got set up. Made to look like the bad guy. Plus it didn’t help that Beto’s in jail. Gives people the wrong impression, like I’m a criminal just because he is.”

Anthea stiffens. “Beto’s in jail?”

“That’s what they said. I don’t know, maybe it’s bullshit. I was hoping that you could spec out the situation for me. Get the details.”

Anthea nods. “I’ll see what I can find out.” She has to be careful. Doesn’t want to risk getting ID’d as one of Beto’s former customers, or worse, as an accomplice.

“What about my moms?” Rigo asks. “I heard she’s in a clinic. Got injured when BEAN kidnapped Ibrahim.”

“You know about that?”

“Yeah. Sounds like they storm-trooped her ap, showed up without any advance warning.”

“I wasn’t there. I’m not exactly sure what happened. But your mom didn’t have much of a chance.”

“So how bad is she? What’s the latest?”

Anthea shakes her head. “It doesn’t look good. Her immune system is going crazy, forming bone around the injury. The doctors are trying to stop the process, slow it down, at least. But they’re not having much luck.”

“How’s she taking it?”

“Pretty good. Says if she can’t walk anymore it will be just like sittin’ in a chair in heaven.”

“That sounds like her. If something bad happens it’s for a reason. God’s will and all.”

“It’s a kind of optimism,” Anthea says.

The tattune grimaces. “Fatalism is more like it.”

“Whatever. You see it as negative. She sees it as positive.”

Rigo grunts. “What about Ibrahim?” he says. “Any word on him?”

“No. I tried calling BEAN. They denied all knowledge of the agents who questioned me and picked him up. Which makes me think the goons who broke into your mom’s place weren’t from BEAN.”

“You spec they were from a politicorp instead of the government?”

She nods. “RiboGen or Noogenics. Maybe one of the independent pharms they contract with.”

“So you have no clue where they took him? If he’s still in the country?”

“No. I don’t even know where to start.” She sags against the lichenboard behind her, shoulder blades gouging the hard, pressed fibers.

“I might be able to do something here. Scope his location.”

“Can you do that? From detention, I mean?”

“I’m not as isolated as you might think. I’m still wired for the Tiresias ecotecture. That’s how I’m talking to you now.”

Anthea straightens. Pushes away from the flimsy wallboard. “When will you be home,
papi
?”

“I don’t know, babe. Any day now, I hope.”

“I miss you.”

“I miss you, too.”

She traces a line on the tattune’s face with a fingertip, gets no reaction. “How are you holding up? Okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says. “Great.”

“You sound different.”

“What do you mean, different?” he says.

“Changed.” She can’t quite put her finger on it. Instead of stressed or worried, the way she’d expect, he seems calm. Confident, almost.

“Well, it’s not like almost dying and then getting fired doesn’t give you a different perspective on life.”

True, she thinks, he’s got nothing left to lose. “What are you going to do when you get back?”

“Take you out for an evening of amor. A romantic dinner followed by a night of dancing salsa or merengue.”

She smiles. “I like that.” Then, “Have you thought about what you’re going to do about a job?”

“I don’t know,” Rigo says. “I thought maybe I’d apply for a position at another ecotectural firm like OAsys or Ecotrope.”

Anthea grimaces. She doesn’t want to see him end up in the same dead-end job as before.

“You could go to school,” she suggests. “It’s the perfect opportunity.”

“I don’t see how,” he says. “I couldn’t afford classes when I was working. No way I’m going to be able to enroll on unemployment.”

“We’ll talk when you get back,” she says. “It’ll work out.”

“You’re starting to sound like my moms.”

“I’ve been spending a lot of time with her lately. Getting to know her.”

“Listen,” he says, “I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.” The tattune starts to fade, pale as a daguerreotype.

“I love you,” she says, not wanting him to go. Desperate to hold on—frightened of losing him again, this time for good.

The tattune’s mouth moves, but there’s no sound. Audio’s been lost. Too bad she can’t read lips.

She kisses the palm of her hand, swears she can taste the salt of his tears, or hers, maybe. There’s no way to know.