“Can’t you cook desserts?” Lorelei asked coyly. Veronika cringed, not because the line Parsons had fed her was a bad one, because she didn’t like where it was leading.
Nathan put his arm around Lorelei. “I make an awesome Lemon Volcano.”
“Ooh. Sounds delicious.”
Parsons looked pleased with himself as Lorelei and Nathan headed for the exit. Veronika signaled to Lorelei that she was going to terminate now.
No! Stay! You’re doing great.
I think you and Parsons can take it from here.
Parsons sat up as if he’d been goosed. Giggling merrily, Veronika cut the connection.
36
Rob
There came a point when Rob’s hands seemed to be moving on their own, plucking components flashing red, components flashing blue, components flashing yellow, green, orange, and black. They came out of vacuum cleaners, home management systems, antique handhelds, and dropped into the correct bins while Rob watched.
She might already be dead. She might be okay. Rob had no way of knowing, no way of finding out until Peter contacted him.
When he told her he loved her, she’d said, “That’s the last thing I expected you to say. An Easter egg in my basket.” An Easter egg was a good thing. Did that mean she loved him? No, “I love you, too” meant she loved him. “An Easter egg in my basket” meant it pleased her to hear him say it. When you’re about to die, Rob imagined there was nothing you’d rather someone say than, “I love you,” regardless of how you feel about him or her. If she was dead and buried, it didn’t matter if she loved him. Even if she wasn’t, it didn’t matter. Yet he still wondered, and wondered exactly what it was he felt for her, the Winter in the crèche, merged with the Winter in Nathan’s recordings. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, longed to see her, worried about her. That much he knew.
“Rob, brother.” Rob lifted his head. Vince was standing over him. “You going for some kind of record?”
“Just got nothing better to do right now,” Rob muttered.
“Nothing better to do? How about sleep? I’ve been home, had a meal, got six hours’ sleep after pulling a ten-hour shift, and I come back and you’re still here.”
“I can’t help it if you’re soft,” Rob said, then burst into braying laughter.
Vince shook his head. “Brother, I’m sorry, but I’m calling it. If you don’t punch out and get some sleep, I’m going to Lilly and I’m calling it.”
Rob drummed his fingers on the worktable. There was no way he could sleep. Idle time was the enemy. He needed to keep moving, to stay exhausted.
“Rob, come on.” Vince took him by the arm, led him toward the changing room. “What’s up with you? You doing some serious bugs, or what?”
“No. Just worried about someone.”
Vince led him to his cubicle, knelt and unclamped his boots. “Anyone I know?”
“Nah. A woman I know.”
“I hear you. Want to tell me about it?”
“Another time. I should get home.”
He clapped Rob on the shoulder. “You okay to get there?”
“Sure.”
Vince nodded, headed out to start his shift.
Winter could be dead right now, Rob thought. Or she could be all right. Leaving his work clothes on, Rob pulled on his shoes and headed home.
He dreamed he was at the bridesicle place, talking to Winter. Three men interrupted them, one moving Rob out of the way while the other two pulled Winter from her crèche. Her hips were twisted so badly one of her buttocks was visible from the front, her pale skin a sickening road map of black stitching. Winter screamed to Rob to help her, her frozen body still paralyzed, but the man holding Rob had a vice grip on his shoulders. They carried Winter just across the narrow hall, where there was a furnace set in the wall, the entire inside of it glowing like a hot ember. The two men tried to push her in, and suddenly Winter could move. She clutched the walls, fighting, pleading, begging Rob to help.
His handheld woke him. Heart racing, groggy, exhausted, he answered it.
“It’s Peter.” Peter sounded… good. As if he had good news.
Rob tamped his hopes, afraid it was his own wishful thinking. “Is she all right? Is she still alive?”
“She’s still in the minus eighty, if that’s what you mean. If the dead needed sleep, she’d be sleep deprived from all of the appointments she’s had.”
Rob’s whooping woke his dad, which was all right, because Rob would have wakened him anyway.
37
Rob
There was a definite spring in Rob’s step as he crossed the atrium. He looked up as he passed under the waterfall, cascading through transparent tubes.
A landslide of dates. Rob loved the sound of the words Peter had used to describe Winter’s past seventy-two hours. If the dead needed sleep, she’d be sleep deprived.
Rob now had little doubt Sunali was his anonymous benefactor. It had to be someone who was getting timely updates on Winter’s situation, because nine thousand dollars had ticked into his account while he was talking to Peter. Unless it was Peter himself? No—Rob hadn’t even known Peter when he received the first donation.
His seat rose from the floor as he turned the corner onto Winter’s hall. He drew his lute from its case as her crèche slid from the wall.
As Winter’s eyes snapped into focus, Rob set the lute aside. She looked different, her face more animated, more alive. It wasn’t her, he realized—it was him. He’d watched so many recordings of her that he knew what she should look like, and that was coloring his perception of her—like a system overlay without the system.
“Hey, you,” Winter said.
He was nervous, almost like the first time he’d waked her. He laid his sweaty palms on his thighs. “Hi.” He almost asked, “How are you?” but caught himself.
“Imagine my surprise, when I opened my eyes.”
Rob grinned. “You must be having luck with new visitors?” He wanted to tell her why she was still here, but didn’t know how closely Cryomed monitored visits. He didn’t want to risk tipping them off to the changes in her profile.
“As in, have I gotten lucky? You know the rules about fraternizing here. No necrophilia with the customers.”
“You know what I mean,” Rob laughed.
“Let’s see. I’ve had”—she closed her eyes, muttered to herself—“I’m going to say something like twenty visitors.”
Rob leaped to his feet and punched the air, whooping like a drunk fan at a boloball game. His shout echoed through the hall.
A disembodied voice said, “Mr. Mashita, please keep your voice down.”
“Sorry,” Rob said, breathless with excitement and relief.
“Quite all right. I apologize for interrupting your appointment with Miss West.”
Winter crossed her eyes for a second, mocking the voice’s ultrapolite tone. “Evidently there are some… ahem… additions to my profile? Would you know anything about that?”
Rob lifted a finger, let it hover close to his lips while giving Winter a pointed look.
Winter changed the topic seamlessly. “I don’t want to get my hopes too high, though. Visitors don’t necessarily mean I’m getting revived any time soon.”
It did mean she wasn’t going into the ground any time soon, though. Rob wondered how much time they’d bought. It had to be months, at least.
“One of my visitors has been back three times, though,” Winter went on. “So that’s promising.”