40
After showering, Netherton put on gray trousers, a black pullover free of any turtle’s neck, and a black jacket, chosen from the clothing Ash had provided.
It was the peripheral’s turn to shower. He could hear the pumps, and wondered what percentage of that was the same water he’d just used. The vehicle’s water management regime had been designed for desert exploration. Ash had warned him not to swallow any, in the shower. At least two pumps were running, whenever the shower was in use, one sucking every fallen drop away for recycling.
The sound of the shower stopped. After several minutes Ash emerged, followed by the peripheral, which looked, after showering, radiant, as though freshly created. Ash herself was still in her sincerity suit, but the peripheral wore the black shirt and jeans that Ash had based on the clothing Flynne had worn when he’d first spoken with her.
“Did you cut its hair?” he asked.
“We borrowed Dominika’s hairdresser. Showed him the files of your conversation. He was impressed, actually.”
“It doesn’t look like her. Well, the hair, a bit. Has this been done before? Someone from a stub using a peripheral?”
“The more I think of it, the more it seems a natural, but no, not that I know of. But continua enthusiasts are generally secretive, while peripherals of this grade tend to be very private possessions. Owners don’t often advertise the fact.”
“How will we do this, then, with Flynne?” The peripheral was looking at him. Or wasn’t, but seemed to be. He frowned. It looked away. He resisted an urge to apologize.
“We’ll have her on a bunk,” Ash said, “in the rear cabin. There can be initial balance issues, nausea. I’ll greet her when she arrives, help her orient. Then I’ll bring her out to meet you. You can be at the desk, the way she’s seen you before. Continuity of experience.”
“No. I want to see her. Arrive.”
“Why?”
“I feel a certain responsibility,” he said.
“You’re our bullshit artist. Stick with that.”
“I don’t expect you to like me-”
“If I didn’t at all, you’d know it.”
“Have you heard from Lowbeer yet?”
“No,” she said.
Lowbeer’s sigil appeared, pulsing softly, gilt and ivory.
41
Everything in the trailer that Macon and Edward hadn’t brought in with them was squared away, at right angles. They’d unpacked their blue duffels and the cartons. Edward, seated in the Chinese chair, was cabling things to Burton’s display. One of the cables ran to the white controller, centered on the drum-taut army blanket on Burton’s bed. “Nothing’s wireless?” she asked.
“These aren’t just cables. They’re about a third of the device. Give me your phone.”
She handed him her phone, which he passed to Edward.
“Password?”
“Easy Ice,” she said, “lowercase, no space.”
“That’s such a shit password, it’s not even a password.”
“I’m a just normal fucking person, Macon.”
“Normal fucking people never do whatever it is you’re about to.” He smiled.
“Ready,” said Edward, who’d already cabled her phone, rolling the chair back from the table.
“Can we get the lights down?” asked Macon. “You’ll have your eyes closed, but this is still too bright. Otherwise, there’s an eyeshade for you.”
She went to the display, waved through it, turning the LEDs down to teen-boy sex pit. “Okay?”
“Perfect,” said Macon.
“How’s this going to work?” she asked him.
“You lay on the bunk here, head at a comfortable angle, wearing this.” Indicating the controller. “Close your eyes. We’ll be here for you if you need us.”
“For what?”
He indicated a yellow plastic bucket with Hefty Mart stickers still on it. “Nausea’s a possibility. Inner ear thing. Phantom inner ear, she said, but I think that was shorthand for our benefit. You fast?”
“By accident,” she said. “I’m starving.”
“Use the toilet now,” said Macon. “Then we go.”
“I go.”
“I know. Pisses me off.”
“Jealous of the crown?”
“Curious. As I’ve ever been.”
“Whatever it is, I’ll tell you.”
“Not while it’s happening, you won’t. This thing works, you’ll be in an induced version of sleep paralysis.”
“Like how we don’t hurt ourselves when we’re dreaming we do things?” She’d seen an episode of Ciencia Loca about that, plus lucid dreaming and being hagridden.
“That’s it. Go use the ladies’ now. It’s time.”
When she came out of the trailer, she saw Burton and Carlos standing there, about fifteen feet away. She gave them the finger, went into the toilet, where there was no light at all, peed, hoped she didn’t get the cedar sawdust on the seat in the dark, came back out, used sanitizer, and stepped up into the trailer, ignoring Burton and Carlos. Closed the door behind her.
Macon and Edward were looking at her. “Take off your shoes,” said Macon.
She sat down on the bed, Macon carefully moving the controller aside for her. She got a closer look at it as she took her sneakers off. It looked tight as all of Macon’s top-end printing, tight as her phone, except for the sugarplum fairy stuff he’d fabbed it from. Edward was positioning Burton’s pillow. “Have any more pillows?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “Bunch it in half. You have their log-in?”
“We do.” Macon produced a little plastic tube, showed her the Pharma Jon logo. “This’ll be cool.”
“That’s what they all say,” she said.
Macon put saline paste on his fingertip.
“Don’t get any in my eyes.”
He spread a line of chill wetness across her forehead, like some weird and possibly unwelcome blessing. Then he picked up the controller. “Pull your hair back.” She did, and he settled it on her head. “Fit?”
“I guess. It’s heavy. In front.”
“Our hunch is that the real deal weighs about as much as a pair of throwaway sunglasses, but this is the best we can do, short notice, on our printers. Pinch anywhere?”
“No.”
“Okay. So it’s heavy, right? I’m going to hold on to it while you lay back, slow, and Edward’ll position the pillow. Okay? Now.”
She lay back, straightened her legs.
“Because of the cable,” Macon said, “you need to keep your hands away from your head, your face, okay?”
“Okay.”
“We’re running off our own batteries here, just in case.”
“Of what?”
“More doctor’s orders.”
She looked from him to Edward, just moving her eyes, then back to him. “So?”
He reached down, took her right wrist in his hand, squeezed it. “We’re here. Anything looks too funny, we get you out. We built in some very basic monitors, on our own. Vital signs.” He released her wrist.
“Thanks. What do I do?”
“Close your eyes. Count down from fifteen. About ten, should be a wobble.”
“Wobble?”
“What she called it. Keep your eyes closed, keep counting down to zero. Then open ’em. We see you open ’em, it hasn’t worked.”
“Okay,” she said, “but not until I say go.” Holding her head still, she looked up and to the right: the window, in the wall beside her. Up: the ceiling, tubes of lights glowing in polymer. Toward her feet: Burton’s display, Edward. To her left: Macon, the closed door behind him. “Go,” she said, closing her eyes. “Fifteen. Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve. Eleven. Ten.”
Pop.
That color like Burton’s haptics scar, but she could taste it inside her teeth. “Nine. Eight. Seven. Six.” It hadn’t worked. Nothing had happened. “Five. Four. Three.” She should tell them. “Two. One. Zero.” She opened her eyes. A flat ceiling sprang away, polished, six feet higher than the one in the trailer, as the room reversed, was backward, was other, weight of the crown gone, her stomach upside down. A woman’s eyes, close, weirdly blurred.