Idolon (33 page)

"I'm not going to make it," Marta said. She stared up at the ceiling, tracing a hairline crack in the plaster to take her mind off the contractions.

"Yes, you will," Atossa insisted. She sat on the side of the bed and held Marta's hand with firm fingers. "Help should be here soon."

A contraction gripped Marta. She squeezed her eyes against the pain, clenched her teeth. Perspiration tickled her neck.

"Not soon enough," she gasped as the pain relented, only to be replaced by a more forceful, more adamant tightening.

"Bad?" Atossa said.

Marta nodded. She spat out a strand of hair caught in the corner of her mouth and concentrated on breathing through the pain—taking rapid sips of air.

Atossa stood. She checked the washcloths in near-boiling water, then picked up a box of Sponge-Aid and set it next to the sterilized sheets she had spread between Marta's legs. She sprayed antibiotic on Marta's bare thighs, then her own hands.

"Son of a bitch." Marta gripped the wood sides of the bed frame. A muscle in her calf cramped.

"Here it comes," Atossa said. "I can see the head! My God! I can't believe how tiny it is!"

_______

Marta woke to faint strobing outside the window. The curtain and the walls pulsed red. How long had she been out? A few minutes, no more. Otherwise, she would already be on her way to the hospital.

"Is it alive?" she asked. Afraid to look. Afraid not to. If she didn't look—if she didn't force the baby to be dead or alive—it would be neither and both. If she looked at the baby, it would have to be one or the other. And Nadice would have to be one or the other.

"See for yourself," Atossa said.

Taking a deep breath, Marta rolled her head sideways on the pillow.

Atossa sat beside her on the chair. She had bundled the infant in purple-flowered aromatherapy leggings, microwave-warmed and UV-sterilized.

Alive. Under the glossy protective coating of un-philmed 'skin, Marta could see a tiny blue vein throbbing in puckered, red-mottled flesh.

"We need to get her into a neonatal unit," Atossa said. "I don't know how long the 'skin will keep her alive."

A flash of green peeked from a fold in the legging. "What's that?" Marta asked. The tiny hand clutched something.

"It's a toy fish," Atossa said.

"From where?"

"She was holding it when she was born." Atossa shook her head. "I know. It's crazy, but—there it is."

It was from Nadice, Marta thought. Some part of her that the baby was bringing into the world, making her real.

She couldn't feel Nadice anymore. The Nadice she knew was gone, changed in a way Marta didn't yet understand.

Might never understand. Nadice didn't feel dead, yet she didn't feel alive either. Marta exhaled, forcing the tightness from her lungs, and waited. The ambulance drew closer, the strobing brighter.

Uri made it halfway to the door before hotel security showed up to detain him.

They found him on his hands and knees, crawling across the glazed ceramic floor tile. Walking upright was out of the question. The layer of tin he'd been sheathed in was thin, but stiff. He'd fallen when he stood up from the toilet. Since then, he'd been unable to raise himself

any higher than his knees. His balance had never been all that great to begin with.

Metal fatigue. That had been his hope. Flex enough

joints enough times and the tin would break and he'd

be walking around like a knight in plate armor.

"Where do you think you're going?" one of the guards said. He prodded Uri with the rubber toe of his boot.

The second guard crouched in front of him. "Word is, you like to hurt women and children."

With effort, Uri straightened at the waist. Slowly, a few millimeters at a time, he opened his mouth to speak. Perspiration poured off of him, soaking his clothing and hair. His breath came in a series of slow, tortured gasps.

"No bark," the first guard said.

"No bite, either." The second guard whistled. "Check out those teeth. The shark man cometh."

The first guard stood. "What are we supposed to do with him? Wait until the cops show up, or take him into custody?"

"Custody, I think."

The first guard grinned, his cheeks round and chubby as a cherub's. "I have an idea."

"What's that?"

"Give me a hand." The first guard walked up to Uri and reached down, gripping his right arm.

Together the guards turned him around until he was facing in the opposite direction. They hauled him over to one of the open toilet stalls. The only thing he could see was the open toilet crouched between the green-and-white-speckled walls of the one-meter-by-two-meter stall.

"What you got to look forward to the rest of your life," the first guard said, sending him headfirst into the stall.

Giles Atherton offered Kasuo van Dijk his hand the way he would an olive branch. He smiled like a man who had something to hide. "Detective. Please come in."

The hotel entrepreneur escorted van Dijk into an office with several floor-to-ceiling Vurtronic d-splays mounted on mahogany paneling. All of the screens were blank, except one. "My wife," Atherton said. "Lisbeth." The woman had simaged herself on a plush high-backed chair upholstered in chez Art Brico silk-screen. She wore a dour gray dress, buttoned tight at the throat, and unflattering black shoes. For the occasion, she had philmed her face in severe Tamara de Lempicka planes and angles that rendered her cold and aloof.

Van Dijk offered a polite tip of the head. "Mrs. Atherton."

"Lisbeth," she implored. "Please. I don't see the need for formality. Do you, Giles?"

"Have a seat, Detective." Atherton indicated a burgundy leather chair in front of the vast desk. "Can I get you anything?"

"Thank you," van Dijk said, "but I won't be here long." He had no intention of letting either of them get too comfortable.

"You indicated that you might have some news about our daughter," Mrs. Atherton said.

Van Dijk nodded. "I'm afraid so."

"Where is she?" Atherton said.

"San Francisco."

Mrs. Atherton leaned forward. "Is she all right?"

"She's obviously in some kind of trouble," Atherton said. He turned from his wife to van Dijk. "Is she in custody?"

Van Dijk pursed his lips. "Two nights ago a young woman was found dead in her apartment."

Mrs. Atherton straightened with a sharp breath. "What makes you think that this woman is our daughter?"

"A witness identified her by name."

"That's all you have?" Atherton said. "A name?"

"At this point, yes. That's why I'm here."

"So it could be anybody," Atherton's wife said.

"Not anybody," van Dijk said. "The young woman was seen with Uri Titov." He turned to Atherton. "I believe you've met."

"No," Atherton said.

"That's not what Mr. Titov says."

Atherton paled, his face as ashen as his hair.

"Giles?" Mrs. Atherton worried the white, lace-fringed collar of her dress. "Who is Mr. Titov? What's going on?"

"A mistake," Atherton said, disconcerted.

"I don't think so," van Dijk said.

Lisbeth Atherton fixed him with a brittle glare. "What exactly do you want from us?"

"A soft DNA sample. To confirm her identity."

"So it might not be our Apphia," she said.

Atherton roused himself out of his agitation. "Was this young woman 'skinned?"

Van Dijk nodded. "Recently."

Atherton paced. "Then why can't you ID her using the DiNA code in the 'skin?"

"Unfortunately, the 'skin isn't registered."

Mrs. Atherton softened with relief. "Then that settles it. Apphia's 'skin is legal. Definitely registered. So it couldn't be her."

"The 'skin was experimental," van Dijk said. "A prerelease version in the initial stages of a clinical trial. For some reason, it wasn't registered with any of the required databases."

"The woman was a test subject?" Atherton said. "With who?"

"IBT."

Mrs. Atherton stood, hands knotted around the ends of her sleeves. "That's not possible. Apphia would never put herself at risk like that. It's absurd."

"There's a simple way to prove it," van Dijk said.

"How did the young woman die?" Atherton asked.

"Preliminary autopsy results indicate acute neuroleptic shock, leading to sudden respiratory and cardiac arrest."

"What does that mean, acute neuroleptic shock?" Mrs. Atherton's gaze darted between them. "Giles?"

"All of her autononomic functions shut down," van Dijk said. "Heart, lungs, and brain—they all stopped."

Atherton took a moment to massage his temples.

"What led to—what caused her to go into shock?"

"There appears to have been a problem with the 'skin."

"Has IBT been notified?"

"This morning. That was the first they'd heard of it."

Atherton peered at him from between the palms of his hands. "Why weren't they notified earlier?"

"Titov wanted to keep it under wraps."

"He tried to cover it up?" Mrs. Atherton said.

"Along with the person or persons he was working for," van Dijk said.

Mrs. Atherton looked confused. "You just said that IBT hadn't been informed. If no one else at IBT knew about it..."

Van Dijk waited for her to connect the dots.

"He was working for someone outside of IBT," she said.

Beside him Atherton sagged, propped up only by the hidebound shell of his 'skin.

"If you would like me to get a warrant for the soft DNA," van Dijk said to him, "I will be happy to do so."

"No," Atherton said. "That won't be necessary."

"Giles?" Mrs. Atherton sat, her hands looking lost in her lap. "Is there something I should know?"

Van Dijk took a clear plastine bag from inside his jacket and laid it on Atherton's desk. "I'm sorry," he said.

Atherton picked up the bag. He held it up to the light to look at the Roman glass necklace and earrings inside.

Behind him, Mrs. Atherton burst into tears.

"Shall we go?" van Dijk asked.

Atherton nodded. He replaced the plastine evidence bag on the desk. "I think—" He cleared his throat. On the d-splay screen, his wife covered her face with her cupped hands. After a moment, Atherton looked away. "I think that would be best," he agreed. "For everyone."

Nadice had two faces. There was the mask. And then there was the face that her grandmother had stroked while she sang Nadice to sleep.

"Just smoothing away the wrinkles of the day," the old woman had once explained, as if the day had left a mark on her that could be removed, no different from a blouse or a pair of pants creased with wear.

No, that wasn't right. It was really just one face, like one of those drawings that contained two images. Depending on how you looked at it, sometimes one face emerged, sometimes another one. But both faces were there in the same place at the same time.

Like foreground and background. One couldn't exist without the other. Take one away and the other vanished.

That's what she was now.
Who
she was. Take away the mask, and the rest of her would go away as well.

She lay on the bed, the sheets rumpled and her hair a disheveled mess. In places her 'skin was stained red, but she couldn't tell if it was blood or remnants of fabric.

Mateus lay unmoving on the floor, the gown coiled like a python around his neck. She barely recognized him. He had changed, too, dephilmed, and pale as UV-bleached bone. Only his eyes gave him away. Even sightless they felt toxic.

Just past the edge of the mattress, she could see the balding head of another man, tipped sideways and slightly forward. One of his feet was visible on the carpet, the onyx-black leather of the shoe almost but not quite polished enough to show his face.

Nadice looked away. She lifted her hands to the mask, exploring the contour, and something wriggled inside her, akin to a shadow rippling across the sandy bottom of a streambed. The shadow flowed over her and through her. Like blood, it filled her, kept her alive. Without the shadow—and the mask that gave it shape—she would never be whole.

A room took shape around her, replacing the hotel room. The room had a wood-plank floor and foam-insulated sheet-metal walls, the foam backing yellowed by age and heat. Cloud-bitten light, spattered with bird shit, misted down from sheets of corrugated plastine.

A slender thread of fear tightened inside her, drawing her taut. "What's going on?" she said.

—Do you remember me?
the shadow said.

It was the fish that had appeared to her in Dockton, swimming through the sultry Delta air. "Yes," she said.

—Do you want to join me? Us?

"Where?"

The shadow rippled,  then slid across the streambed into muddy coolness.

—This construct. Or another one.

"Who else is here?"

A chorus of shadows plucked at her. They schooled around her, inside of her for a moment, then departed.

Unborn children, she thought, casting shadows onto the world.

A shut door appeared across the room from her, a mirror image of the door to the hotel room.

Nadice glanced back at the door that led back to the hotel room, to Mateus, to the grave of her grandmother, and Marta.

"Go on," she imagined her grandmother saying. " 'When one door closes, another opens.'"

Nadice hesitated.

"It's okay," Marta whispered within her mind, or maybe only her imagination. "I understand." And let her go, releasing her with a smile.

"Thank you," Nadice said. She pulled the door shut. Across the room, the sister door opened onto a covered porch joined by a wide walkway to other porches and other homes.

Each door gave rise to the other, Nadice thought. Without one, the other would never exist.

Without looking back, Nadice stepped through the doorway.