infinite cage.
“Angela,” the house said, its voice quiet but compelling, “I have a call from Hilton
Swift.…”
“Executive override?” She was eating baked beans and toast at the kitchen counter.
“No,” it said, confidingly.
“Change your tone,” she said, around a mouthful of beans. “Something with an edge
of anxiety.”
“Mr. Swift is
waiting
,” the house said nervously.
“Better,” she said, carrying bowl and plate to the washer, “but I want something closer
to genuine hysteria.…”
“
Will
you take the call?” The voice was choked with tension.
“No,” she said, “but keep your voice that way, I like it.”
She walked into the living room, counting under her breath. Twelve, thirteen …
“Angela,” the house said gently, “I have a call from Hilton Swift—”
“On executive override,” Swift said.
She made a farting sound with her lips.
“You know I respect your need to be alone, but I worry about you.”
“I’m fine, Hilton. You needn’t worry. Bye-bye.”
“You stumbled this morning, on the beach. You seemed disoriented. Your nose began
to bleed.”
“I had a nosebleed.”
“We want you to have another physical.…”
“Great.”
“You accessed the matrix today, Angie. We logged you in the BAMA industrial sector.”
“Is that what it was?”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“There isn’t anything to talk about. I was just screwing around. You want to
know
, though? I was packing some crap Bobby left here. You’d have
approved
, Hilton! I found a deck of his and I tried it. I punched a key, sat there looking
around, jacked out.”
“I’m sorry, Angie.”
“For what?”
“For disturbing you. I’ll go now.”
“Hilton, do you know where Bobby is?”
“No.”
“You telling me Net security hasn’t kept tabs on him?”
“I’m telling you I don’t know, Angie. That’s the truth.”
“Could you find out, if you wanted to?”
Another pause. “I don’t know. If I could, I’m not sure that I would.”
“Thanks. Goodbye, Hilton.”
“Goodbye, Angie.”
She sat on the deck that night, in the dark, watching the fleas dance against floodlit
sand. Thinking of Brigitte and her warning, of the drug in the jacket and the derm
charger in the medicine cabinet. Thinking of cyberspace and the sad confinement she’d
felt with the Ono-Sendai, so far from the freedom of the loa.
Thinking of the other’s dreams, of corridors winding in upon themselves, muted tints
of ancient carpet … An old man, a head made of jewels, a taut pale face with eyes
that were mirrors … And a beach in the wind and dark.
Not this beach, not Malibu.
And somewhere, in a black California morning, some hour before dawn, amid the corridors,
the galleries, the faces of dream, fragments of conversation she half-recalled, waking
to pale fog against the windows of the master bedroom, she prized something free and
dragged it back through the wall of sleep.
Rolling over, fumbling through a bedside drawer, finding a Porsche pen, a present
from an assistant grip, she inscribed her treasure on the glossy back of an Italian
fashion magazine:
T-A
“Call Continuity,” she told the house, over a third cup of coffee.
“Hello, Angie,” said Continuity.
“That orbital sequence we did, two years ago. The Belgian’s yacht …” She sipped her
cooling coffee. “What was the name of the place he wanted to take me? The one Robin
decided was too tacky.”
“Freeside,” the expert system said.
“Who’s taped there?”
“Tally Isham recorded nine sequences in Freeside.”
“It wasn’t too tacky for her?”
“That was fifteen years ago. It was fashionable.”
“Get me those sequences.”
“Done.”
“Bye.”
“Goodbye, Angie.”
Continuity was writing a book. Robin Lanier had told her about it. She’d asked what
it was about. It wasn’t like that, he’d said. It looped back into itself and constantlymutated;
“Angela,” the house said, its voice quiet but compelling, “I have a call from Hilton
Swift.…”
“Executive override?” She was eating baked beans and toast at the kitchen counter.
“No,” it said, confidingly.
“Change your tone,” she said, around a mouthful of beans. “Something with an edge
of anxiety.”
“Mr. Swift is
waiting
,” the house said nervously.
“Better,” she said, carrying bowl and plate to the washer, “but I want something closer
to genuine hysteria.…”
“
Will
you take the call?” The voice was choked with tension.
“No,” she said, “but keep your voice that way, I like it.”
She walked into the living room, counting under her breath. Twelve, thirteen …
“Angela,” the house said gently, “I have a call from Hilton Swift—”
“On executive override,” Swift said.
She made a farting sound with her lips.
“You know I respect your need to be alone, but I worry about you.”
“I’m fine, Hilton. You needn’t worry. Bye-bye.”
“You stumbled this morning, on the beach. You seemed disoriented. Your nose began
to bleed.”
“I had a nosebleed.”
“We want you to have another physical.…”
“Great.”
“You accessed the matrix today, Angie. We logged you in the BAMA industrial sector.”
“Is that what it was?”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“There isn’t anything to talk about. I was just screwing around. You want to
know
, though? I was packing some crap Bobby left here. You’d have
approved
, Hilton! I found a deck of his and I tried it. I punched a key, sat there looking
around, jacked out.”
“I’m sorry, Angie.”
“For what?”
“For disturbing you. I’ll go now.”
“Hilton, do you know where Bobby is?”
“No.”
“You telling me Net security hasn’t kept tabs on him?”
“I’m telling you I don’t know, Angie. That’s the truth.”
“Could you find out, if you wanted to?”
Another pause. “I don’t know. If I could, I’m not sure that I would.”
“Thanks. Goodbye, Hilton.”
“Goodbye, Angie.”
She sat on the deck that night, in the dark, watching the fleas dance against floodlit
sand. Thinking of Brigitte and her warning, of the drug in the jacket and the derm
charger in the medicine cabinet. Thinking of cyberspace and the sad confinement she’d
felt with the Ono-Sendai, so far from the freedom of the loa.
Thinking of the other’s dreams, of corridors winding in upon themselves, muted tints
of ancient carpet … An old man, a head made of jewels, a taut pale face with eyes
that were mirrors … And a beach in the wind and dark.
Not this beach, not Malibu.
And somewhere, in a black California morning, some hour before dawn, amid the corridors,
the galleries, the faces of dream, fragments of conversation she half-recalled, waking
to pale fog against the windows of the master bedroom, she prized something free and
dragged it back through the wall of sleep.
Rolling over, fumbling through a bedside drawer, finding a Porsche pen, a present
from an assistant grip, she inscribed her treasure on the glossy back of an Italian
fashion magazine:
T-A
“Call Continuity,” she told the house, over a third cup of coffee.
“Hello, Angie,” said Continuity.
“That orbital sequence we did, two years ago. The Belgian’s yacht …” She sipped her
cooling coffee. “What was the name of the place he wanted to take me? The one Robin
decided was too tacky.”
“Freeside,” the expert system said.
“Who’s taped there?”
“Tally Isham recorded nine sequences in Freeside.”
“It wasn’t too tacky for her?”
“That was fifteen years ago. It was fashionable.”
“Get me those sequences.”
“Done.”
“Bye.”
“Goodbye, Angie.”
Continuity was writing a book. Robin Lanier had told her about it. She’d asked what
it was about. It wasn’t like that, he’d said. It looped back into itself and constantlymutated;
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