Hubert spoke to Samson, None of the Voles’ Fracta Kids are sentient, Sam. Myren Vole’s subem isn’t powerful enough to support the apps. They have only basal logarithms: hungry, happy, sad, sleepy, and the like. They don’t grow or develop.
How ghastly, thought Samson. All the hassles of child rearing and none of the payoff. Even he, father of an unconceived son and genetically unrelated daughter, had enjoyed more parental bliss than that.
Justine returned. Her seat bumped Samson’s and latched to it. She said she had put the children down for the night, which Samson took to mean she had switched them off. Murphy, the cat, quit its howling and climbed over Samson’s seatback to Justine’s lap.
It was already twilight in the huge space. Only the rim of the stadium opposite them was still in sunlight. Elsewhere it lay in shadow. There were no lights except for the exit chutes, the biolume railing and walls, and the scape surrounding Moseby’s Leap.
“What did I miss?” Justine said.
“Nothing, my love,” said Victor.
“Bring them in closer, please.”
The parapet, with its hollyholo characters, zoomed toward them until it appeared suspended directly in front of Samson. Now he could see and hear the characters clearly. Jason, who straddled the railing, one leg dangling over the abyss, flung angry, tear-soaked words at Alison.
“But Cindy said the castle belonged to Carole and Candy!” he shouted.
“Cindy lied to you,” Alison protested. “It doesn’t belong to them or to Teddy, Patrice, or Oliver either. It doesn’t belong to anyone we know. That’s what I’m trying to tell you!”
“But why would she lie? And what about the diamonds? Surely, you’re not trying to tell me that Frank would—”
“Feck Frank. Forget about him. It was Karman’s scheme, or his sister Kameron’s—no one knows for sure. The only thing we know is that someone stole the deposit and blamed Roddy who now faces revocation of his parole, but you know he won’t testify because of what Charles said.” Alison took two cautious steps closer to Jason, who balanced precariously on the railing.
“Charles? Are you sure it was Charles?” Jason gasped for air like a drowning man. But when Alison took another step closer, he shouted, “Stay back!” and swung his other leg over the rail. “I’ll jump! Can’t you see I’m serious?”
“All right, Jason. Relax. Look, I’m backing away.” But she only pretended to backstep.
Jason began to weep again. “Charles,” he said between sobs. “Charles—my cad, my curse, my dad, my cure, my love.”
Next to Samson, Justine leaned forward in her seat and said, “Oooh!”
“Jason!” Alison gasped. “Did you just say that Charles is your dad—your father? And he’s your lover too?”
Jason turned a face of self-loathing to Alison and let go of the rail, but Alison snatched the collar of his jacket just in time and was nearly pulled over by his weight. She was doubled over the rail, unable to lift him, unwilling to let go.
“You fool!” she gasped. “Don’t you know who I am? Don’t you know what I sacrificed for you?”
The quality of the scape changed then, and there seemed to be two Jasons and two Alisons struggling within the same frame. “Interactive audience divergence,” Victor explained to Samson. “I fixed it so Justine can watch all the branchings instead of just one.”
Two Jasons sobbed, and two Alisons strained against his weight. Then one Jason cried out, “Don’t you get it? Charles is my father, but he’s not my lover. He’s my victim. I raped him.” And with that confession, he shrugged himself out of his jacket and hurtled head first, down, down toward the field below, where now, inexplicably, there was a track meet in progress. The field was awash in light, and the lower stands were jammed with spectator placeholders. The Alison still clutching his jacket fell backward from the rail, leaving the other pair of lovers struggling there.
“Oh!” said Justine.
Samson snuck a peak at Justine. Her hand moved delicately over her breast, and he wondered if she perhaps wore a simsock under her clothes in order to enjoy the feely track of this novella. The first Jason, meanwhile, was taking an inordinate amount of time to hit the ground. He was tumbling in an overly artistic slow-motion flashback summary of his life. Key scenes and whole episodes of his past streamed off him like ribbons. Interested viewers could prolong this high dive for weeks as they replayed the whole sorry story tree of his life. Samson looked away and remembered why he never watched this crap. Had he come all this way to waste his final hour like this?
Jason hit bottom at last, but instead of splattering like a water balloon, he landed on a pillowy pole vault mat. Bruised but unbroken, he would live to cheat another day.
“For crying out loud,” Samson said. He looked at Justine. She was happy. He looked at Victor, who winked at him.
Meanwhile, Jason and Alison No. 2 lost their balance and fell together from the railing. They also fell in slow-motion, but instead of reviewing their past, they were relishing the present. They had somehow managed to undress and couple in midair and were frantically banging away at each other. They drifted down past a mural of spectator faces with O-shaped mouths, down toward the fifty-yard line (for the sport in this thread was American rules football). Samson had no doubt but that the lovers would climax simultaneously at the moment of their impact.
A musical score that Samson had not noticed till now rose in an emotional crescendo as the grunting, straining couple hit. At least they did burst open in a satisfying way. Justine shuddered. Samson tried not to notice. Justine wiped tears from her eyes. “That was so sad,” she said. In her lap, Murphy was purring.
Victor reached across Samson to squeeze Justine’s hand. “Life is full of tragedy,” he crooned.
The Moseby’s Leap parapet, with its bereft Alison, receded back to its real spot, and the scape lights faded out.
“A glass of wine to wish our novella friends bon chance?” said Victor.
Samson didn’t want more alcohol. He wanted to be clearheaded. But then he thought that a high blood alcohol content might make a hotter fire, and he said, “Sure, I’ll join you, but isn’t there something a little stronger than wine?”
“Whiskey!” replied Victor. “A man with a taste for life!” He produced a flask from an inner pocket and unstoppered it. He wiped the spout with his sleeve and passed it to Samson. “Please excuse the lack of ice.”
WITH THE FLASK empty and the evening well advanced, Samson fell into a maudlin mood. “I’m afraid I’m eating and drinking you out of house and home,” he said.
“Nonsense,” said Justine. “We entertain so few guests these days.”
“Neverthelesh, I insist on replenishing that lovely liquid. Hubert!”
Yes, Sam.
“Don’t yessam me. You heard me; order my hosts a case of Glenkinchie.”
I’m sorry, Sam, but that would be very expensive, and I’m not sure how I would transport it here without alerting the authorities to the Voles’ presence.
“Are you telling me I’m broke? I can’t even afford a lousy case of booze?”
The brand you named is distilled according to traditional methods and—
“You’re a fucking mentar, aren’t you? Figure it out, for crying out loud, and don’t bother me with the details.”