Filter House (18 page)

Light receded, poured out of her like water from a strainer, left her sitting in her own chair, dressed in her red robe. She knew how she’d gotten there, knew Kressi had come home and roused her from the tank. Nothing was lost. What happened while Good Boy rode her remained in her memory, only faded, thinned of all immediacy. And her body felt so heavy now that she had to lift it on her own. But she made her hand rise, reached out to touch her daughter’s cheek.

“Don’t worry, Kressi. I’m still here. This is right, what Good Boy’s trying to do—”

“Ivorene? You’re okay?” Tears filled her daughter’s eyes and voice.

“Yes.” She wanted to sound surer. “Listen, I’m going to let him come back again, I just didn’t want—”

“‘Him?’ Ivorene, why won’t you—Good Boy’s not
real!
Admit it!” Kressi stood and stormed away from the table so Ivorene had to turn to see her. Now the tears were of anger.

“Define real,” Ivorene said, then sagged in her seat. She was too tired to argue. “No, never mind. Don’t. Whether Good Boy or Aunt Lona or any of them are ‘real’ doesn’t matter in the end. Just act like they are and everything will work out fine.”

“But—”

“For three days, that’s all. That’s how long I asked him to stay.” Stubborn silence. At the edge of Ivorene’s vision, whiteness flickered. With each pulse it grew, drawing in, a bright tunnel down which her daughter’s once-more-worried face receded. Saying words she couldn’t hear. Apologies? Ivorene overrode them with her own instructions: “Three days. Promise me that.”

“…each computer has a certain level of ability in metaprogramming others-not-self.”

Posted on Citynet 01.18.2065, 08:18:14

FROM: [email protected]

TO: ALL USERS:

Subject: Be a Souldier in the Army of Uncle Jam!

Body:

PARTY UP!

You are hereby notified that in accordance with the wishes of the Supreme Funkmeister,

you are required to bring your Waggity Asses on over to

McKenna’s Mothership

for the

CELEBRATION!

of our Grand Ascension to the status of

Chocolate City, Capitol of the Known Negro Universe, said

CELEBRATION!

to commence on the evening of 01.21.2065, promptly at

21:00 hours.

IT’S THE BOMB!!

[link to mckennapage.home]

Sent via Citynet 01.18.2065, 13:34:10

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

CC: CAPTAINGROUP, [email protected]

Subject: Attached Posting

Body:

Allow me to bring the attached to your attention, Miz McKenna, as it may somehow have escaped your notice. It purports to issue from a “goodboy,” currently unlisted as a Citizen. But the voice ID closely parallels your own, and reveal commands show your login.

Miz McKenna, aside from the highly questionable language of this “invitation,” the obvious irresponsibility of organizing a frivolous assembly now, at the height of an epidemic, leads me to conclude that the posting is a clever but childish hoax on the part of your normally quite level-headed daughter. Please take immediate steps to disavow it as such.

Far be it from me to meddle in your personal affairs, Miz McKenna, but I’m sure you’ll agree that her understandable longing for popularity does not excuse Kressi’s participation in a prank of this magnitude.

Sent via Citynet 01.18.2065, 18:42:33

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

Re: Be a Souldier in the Army of Uncle Jam!

Body:

Passela told me to tell you this is such a swollen idea! Or I guess I should say it’s The Bomb! Those fashions on your page were just wild, and I hope we can get our printers sufficiently togetha in time for the big partay!

Now for the important news—I heard Fanfan ask his daddy if he could borrow his record player!
And
some of his old jams! I bet he has lots of the songs your page listed, because I was over at their place one time, and in one closet they had this whole big rack of those black plastic circles! So it’s only the guns you have to worry about getting.

Are you sure your mother won’t mind?

Sent via Citynet 01.19.2065, 00:16:29

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

CC: CAPTAINGROUP, [email protected]

Re: Attached Posting

Body:

Are you purposely TRYING to set off a City-wide panic? Of all the officious, unscientific nonsense I’ve heard on this expedition, yours, Pearl, takes the pound cake! This is not, repeat NOT an epidemic.

There is no, repeat NO single, underlying organism that I can discover at the root of this recent wave of disorders. On the other hand, whatever it is seems to be affecting just about everyone on Renaissance. To a greater or lesser extent.

I’ve attached several tables I’ve been working on in my copious free time…. I don’t know what they mean yet, but there’s an unprecedented variation in the degree to which symptoms manifest, in the number of symptoms any case exhibits, and in the comparative seriousness of symptoms. Fear of insanity, salt cravings, heart palpitations, fevers, hernias, sore feet, sprained backs, tonsillitis—what have they got in common? Nothing. Except that they all cropped up as problems at about the same time. But not in the same household or among workers on the same shift at the same plant.

So whatever this thing is, it’s not contagious. There’s no excuse for your killjoy attitude, Pearl. Let the kids have their party.

Sent via Citynet 01.19.2065, 12:12:12

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

CC: CAPTAINGROUP, [email protected]

RE: Attached Posting

The invitation is entirely legitimate. Those who find the language in which it’s couched to be odd should refer to the available historical data on mid-Twentieth Century black musicians, specifically
Sun Ra, Parliament, Funkadelic,
and
Earth, Wind & Fire.
A notable space-travel mystique developed around their work, and it is to honor its creative impetus that I’ve arranged for y’all to party up! Everybody party up! Come fly with me! I
am
the Mothership Connection. You
have
overcome, for I am here!

“At times the cross-model synesthetic projection may help…excitation coming in the objective hearing mechanisms can be converted to excite visual projection. The commonest excitation used here is music….”

A good long ride on this one. She a strong horse, Ivorene. I even let her get some sleep, talk to her tickety-tap machine a little, calm her daughter down with some kinda explanations. No danger of losing my seat. She don’t buck, don’t rear. Three days.

All the partay people comin now. I made many preparations. Poor nervous daughter Kressi done helped, shown me how ta cook the candy and color over them too bright lights. But the pole, I erect that sucker all myself.

We sit in chairs by the door. “Raise up the blind,” I say. She a good, obedient girl. And wearin the blue I said, most pleasin to the ocean. Her mother and I both told her time and again, till I do my business I ain’t goin nowhere.

Fillin up the ramp, the peoples who been waitin come in. They laugh, but not too loud yet. One brought me some a my music. Kressi gets up to make it play. I watch while more people arrive. Everybody stop an stare when they see my big ole pole. It stuck up in the middle a everthing, hard to miss.