The Infinity Link (6 page)

She wrenched on the hot water to renew the heat. Instead of soaking the ache
from
her, now, the warmth seemed to be driving it deeper into her. Beads of sweat ran down her forehead, wetting the fringes of her hair. There were tears leaking from her eyes, mingling with the sweat and the bathwater. She sat upright suddenly, choking, and then she hunched forward, hugging her knees, and she began to cry in earnest, shaking silently.

After a time, the sobs subsided, and she became aware of a tiny sighing voice in the room with her. It was the spigot above her feet, not quite shut off completely. She could hear the plastic pipes grunting and muttering elsewhere in the building. Grabbing a handful of tissues, she blew her nose and threw the wet wad away. She splashed her face wearily and began soaping.

Just how the thought came to her, she didn't know; but one moment the tears were leaking again from her eyelids, and the next moment she was staring in blurry astonishment at the water faucet. A drop of water was hanging, suspended, from its lip. Why hadn't she thought of it before?

For god's sake, why had she not thought of it before?

Hoshi could help her. Sandaran Link Center had all the facilities for the experimental matter-transmission process; and they were going to be trying it soon with human subjects, and David was to be the first. Where they were sending him, Hoshi hadn't said. But if they were transmitting him from the GEO-Four space colony, then they must have a facility there, as well as wherever they were sending him.

She slid down until she was submerged to her neck in the water, considering the possibilities. Before they'd been able to think of attempting a transmission, she knew, it had been necessary to develop the techniques for computerized personality profiling. The details were over her head; but along with Kadin's, she knew, they had been taking profiles of all the other subjects. If they had profiles ready for transmitting Kadin, then they must have them for her, too. She could
volunteer
for transmission, and join Kadin in person.

She felt an incredible rush. There was no other way she could hope to do it. Buy a ticket to GEO-Four? Absurd—it would cost thousands. And he was leaving there soon, anyway. But if she could do it through the project—it would be perfect.

They would never agree to something like that just to humor her, of course; but there might be a way to justify it. Hoshi would know. He could do it if anyone could. And what could she lose by trying—except a future of loneliness, and fading memories of a man she'd loved? As for her family—she could leave that sordid mess behind her, with no regrets.

Yes, call Hoshi tonight, she thought. It's perfect.

She closed her eyes, a feeling of peaceful anticipation washing through her, as she imagined the surprise on Kadin's face when she greeted him. It felt good; it felt right. As she took a deep breath and sighed, she moved her hands up her sides, and slid them over her breasts, over her stomach, and down over the insides of her thighs, and then up. Yes, she murmured, rubbing herself gently. She had nothing to lose, and perhaps a world to gain. The rubbing was beginning to excite her, and she sighed again, more earnestly this time. Go with it, she thought . . . it feels good . . . you've earned it. Her hands moved in closing circles, lifting and touching and pressing just so, and her breath came more quickly. She closed her thighs over her hands, and began rocking more forcefully, the water splashing at her chin.

New driver on the bus tonight, he thinks. Watch the lights, lights and shadow, building fronts. You're spoiled by drivers who know when to stop; tonight you have to watch for yourself.

The lights flicker, making him dizzy. He's tired, that's why. Pretends they're feedback in the linkup loop, and the dizziness goes away. It's subconscious now, watching the patterns of light-shadow, light-shadow . . . the watchdog in his head knows when to stop.

Hoshi reaches up and touches a metal plate over the window. The bus sighs to a halt, and he steps down and then pauses on the sidewalk to squint around. Purely reflex, the squinting. Does no good, not with the self-adjusting amplifying modules in his head. There's a surge and flicker in the brightness of his surroundings, while the circuits adjust and readjust. Somehow makes him feel better, like probing an ache in a tooth.

Nodding to himself, he scans the street—crosses—and walks the last block home.

The phone panel winks at him as he enters. Hangs his coat, paces a moment, and puts water in the teakettle before answering. It's Mrs. Martinsen downstairs, a recording. "Hoshi," she says, her voice nasal and dry. "When you get home, would you please check out back for me and let Armax in? I'm turning in now, and he's still outside." She coughs delicately. "Thank you, Hoshi. Have a good night."

He snaps the set off, feeling the beginnings of a headache. Poor Mrs. Martinsen, he thinks—always struggling with that bronchitis—and none of the other tenants help her much. He sighs, pressing his temple. Headaches coming more often. Got to see the doctors soon, find out if something can be done. May just have to live with it, endure it; lots of people live with worse suffering.

Returning to the kitchen, he pulls out a frozen dinner and slides it into the microwave, then starts a cup of tea. While the tea steeps, he goes into the rear hallway and down the steps. Leaning out the back door, he whistles. "Max? Armax—are you here?" He looks in all directions: bright hotspots from the floodlights, variegated shadow from the rest. Nothing moves. No sign of the cat. Trudging back upstairs, he records a message for Mrs. Martinsen. "Armax isn't here. Must be having a hot time on the town. I'll check again later."

The kitchen is the most comfortable place to sit for dinner—lots of light and dark unit shapes, solid surfaces, cooking controls. Comforting hum of the microwave fan. Activity, mechanical life. Leaves the stereo off tonight; he's not in the mood. Just the machines, the kitchen, dinner. A gong sounds; the cooker shuts off. He pulls out his dinner, glowing false-color red: hot.

The aroma of sliced roast chicken with gravy, the taste of potatoes and peas, the warmth of food in his stomach calm him, make him feel stronger. He stares across the kitchen, chewing slowly. The light intensity around him is almost steady, just a bit of a flicker. The tension in his head begins to subside.

The phone chimes. He slaps the counter in annoyance, but turns to answer. "Phone on! Hello!"

"Hoshi? Am I bothering you?"

"Mozy?" Rush of pleasure. Touch of guilt for his annoyance. "No, no, you're not bothering me." Sliding off the counter stool, he carries his cup of tea into the living room and stands in front of the phone. Considers, then says, "Picture on and send." The screen lights, showing Mozy's face as a shadowy blur. "How are you?" he says. "I didn't get much chance to talk to you today."

"Do you want to meet for a drink?" Mozy says, her voice a little sharper than usual. She sounds upset.

"Is anything wrong?"

"No. No. But I'd like to talk to you, okay?"

"Well—sure," he says. Usually
he
asks
her
to go for a drink. "I'm just having dinner now. Do you want to come over here?"

The ghostly face in the screen smiles. "Okay, if you'd rather. I'll bring some beer. See you soon."

As the screen darkens, he stares at the phone, tapping his teacup with his fingernails. He wanders back into the kitchen to finish dinner.

A half hour goes by, and by the time he opens the door for her, he's a little dizzy with anticipation. Mozy sidles in, with an awkward smile. Hands him a bag—heavy, cool, damp. He takes the six-pack into the kitchen, rustles it out of the bag, pops open two beers which he pours into glasses, and puts the rest in the refrigerator. Mozy's right behind him as he turns. "Thanks," she says, taking a glass. Seems nervous, but maybe it's just him.

They sit on opposite sides of the massive coffee table, Mozy in the stuffed chair, Hoshi on the sofa. Sip, smile, chat about the day's activities. Hoshi says, "I heard you talked to Bill today." Raises his eyebrows.

"Yah," says Mozy, staring down at the finished redwood tabletop. She fusses with her beer, starts to say something, but seems stymied for words. Finally: "Hoshi, this is confidential. It's about work—and I have to tell someone—and you're the only one I trust." She looks up. "Okay? You won't tell anyone we talked?"

Takes a deep breath and nods, feeling trapped and flattered both. She hasn't really come to see
him
, then; she's come to have him listen. But she trusts him, and she's going to lay out a lot of complicated feelings for him; he can smell that already. "Sure," he says. What's he going to say—
no?

She nods. "Okay." She gulps her beer and hesitates. "It's about Kadin," she says suddenly. He watches her silently. The room shimmers around him. He readjusts his eyes, readjusts his thoughts. She keeps talking. "I don't know how to say it . . . but I'm . . ."

It's plain to him by now, and when he clears his throat, it sounds as though he's choking. He keeps his voice flat. "You're . . .
attached
to him, aren't you?" he says, ignoring the pocket that's forming in his gut.

She nods, eyes wide. Beautiful, ghostly face with round eyes. He wants to reach out and touch her. Clenches his glass instead, wraps his fingers tightly around it. She toys with her hair, runs her fingertip down the cool, dark scar line that sets off her cheekbone. "I'm in love with him," she whispers.

A dull pain originates in his left temple, then migrates to the back of his head. A much greater pain that is not physical makes him suddenly want to flee, to be alone. He refuses to let it show, blinks his eyes instead. "I see," he says, because he has to say something.

Mozy continues, oblivious. "I just realized it today, I guess. I suppose I've been in love with him for a long time, but I never admitted it—even to myself." She laughs unhappily.

Hoshi scratches his ear. "So," he says carefully. "Yes. That would be a problem. You'll be off the project soon and you won't have any way to—"

"I
know,"
she snaps.

"Of course—sorry." He sits back, stunned by her anger. Should he tell her, come right out and tell her? No . . . no, he can't do that. But he feels sorry for her, he aches to reach out and hold her, comfort her. Mozy, oh Mozy, don't you know how appealing you are?

"I have an idea," Mozy says, "but you
must
keep it secret."

"What sort of idea?"

"Do you
promise?"

He shrugs, then nods numbly.

"It'll sound crazy, but please—hear me out." She touches his forearm, which sets off a shower of sparks in his mind, evaporating whatever's left of his resistance. Of course he'll listen. "I want to be transmitted to David," she says.

His thoughts turn to sleet. "You want
what?"

"To be transmitted through the machine at the Center—to GEO-Four—to where Kadin is." There is no hesitation or doubt in her voice.

"You can't be serious."

"You think I'm crazy. I know. But it
could
be done, couldn't it? Isn't it possible?" She blinks rapidly, peering at him.

He hardly knows where to begin, whether to laugh outright or cry. There are so many ways to answer, so many things that need explaining. But he can't explain; security forbids it. He takes a breath and tries anyway: an excuse. "They've never sent a human being through the transmitter. It's all experimental—they wouldn't do it just because you—"

Mozy interrupts. "They're planning to send David through. Isn't that what you told me?"

"Yes, but that's different. That's—" He chokes, fumbling to articulate . . . what he can't say to her. "I should never have told you," he answers lamely. Should he tell her now . . . and the devil with security? Should he tell her the truth, as much of it as he knows? He squints. Furrows his brow. The lovely alabaster woman grows brighter, then dimmer, shadows softening.

Mozy is undeterred. "They must be ready to make human transmissions, or they wouldn't be planning to put David through. That means it can be done." She's perfectly convinced of the idea. "So there's no reason they couldn't send me there first."

"Mozy, do you know what you're saying?"

"It could be dangerous, I know. But what do I have to lose?" There's a sound of real desperation in her voice.

Desperation of love? He knows about that, doesn't he? He wants to help her, wants her to be happy. There are so many things he ought to have told her, and now he can't say any of them. Instead, he stammers, "You—you have a
lot
to lose, Mozy."

She snorts, staring down into her beer.

More than you imagine, he adds silently. Aloud he says, "Anyway, Bill would never let you do it."

She raises her eyes. "Couldn't you do it for me?"

"Hah! What about security? Do you know the trouble you could get into for something like that?"

"You mean I could lose my job?" She shrugs. "I'm losing it anyway. My friends, and everything I want, are at the job. As it stands now, I'll have nothing when I leave."

That hits him like a punch in the chest.
My friends . . . are at the job.
So far as he knows,
he
is her only friend at the job. And Kadin, of course. But she must care for him, as well as Kadin, to have made that statement. He feels a band of tension across his forehead, making it harder than ever to think clearly. It's as though a part of his mind has slipped through a hole in the continuum, leaving him feeling at once connected and disconnected. It's hard to know what to say—and he stammers, "We . . . could stay friends . . . even after you leave."

Mozy has not moved; she seems in a trance. "There's really nothing to lose," she murmurs somberly. Suddenly she tilts her head, as though she has just heard his last words. She touches the cool line of her scar and laughs, a sighing sound that passes through him like a breeze through the trees. "Yes—of course, Hoshi!" She touches his wrist, and warm energy flows through him. "What would I do without you? My god, you've been my best friend there!"