Plasticity Read online

  Portland looked at the bill that Charlie had, not-so-subtly, left on the table when she brought the second wine glass out. “Here, Hayley,” She opened the larger bottle and half-filled one glass, setting the small bottle aside, for the moment, “This is the most expensive Moscato d'Asti they have. Tell me what you think about it.”

  Hayley sipped nervously. She'd feel obliged to pay for the wine she drank, and she didn't know how expensive this was going to be. The Moscato d'Asti was sweet and lightly carbonated. It tasted just like sparkling white grape juice, with only the faintest ghost of alcohol. “This is amazing. I usually don't like wine, it's too dry and tart, but this is almost like sweetened juice.”

  “Now, try this.” She poured from the small bottle and set the glass down in front of Hayley. “This is the cheapest Moscato they have here.”

  Hayley sipped it, then took swigs of it, less concerned about the price. It was good, but it was missing something. Maybe it had less carbonation. Maybe, less grape flavor. She felt her face getting warmer, none-the-less. “This is pretty good, too, but it doesn't have the body of the other one. I can't quite pin it down, but it feels off. Although, if I hadn't had them side-by-side, I'm sure I would have never noticed the difference. I'm not a sommelier.”

  Thom watched the back and forth, eyebrows furrowed. He worried she might be teasing Hayley, somehow, but could not figure out why. He waited to see the reveal. The twist ending. He was not disappointed. Well, no more than usual, at least.

  “I lied. I switched the two descriptions. The first one was the eight-dollar bottle. The second was the twenty-three dollar bottle.”

  Hayley looked a little confused, then she looked embarrassed or ashamed, maybe both. After all this, Portland was just messing with her. Trying to make her look stupid.

  Portland read this pretty easily, and offered up defense, “I was not deceiving you to be mean. I'm not teasing you. I have a point. My body, my eyes, my tongue, they don't lie to me. I don't drink expensive wine and think it tastes better. This is a trick your mind plays on you, changing the input from your faulty sensors. I did this to show you that you can't trust your own body as it is, and to explain that my new body does not suffer this way. I don't see ghosts in dark rooms. I don't,” She stared daggers at Thom, he imagined, based on her slight head tilt toward him, “find people attractive despite being horrible monsters, and I don't think something is better because it has a higher price tag. There are a lot of things you realize when you take away the body you were born in. How much of your daily experience was tainted with the prejudice of faulty sensors. You re-learn things based on the information from the new sensors, the ones that don't color every input by mixing them with everything else in the moment. I can smell a flower and not have it mix with a memory of the person I was with when I smelled it. Two different file structures, and I have accurate access to both, independently. I confess, this can make you less sentimental, but I think we could all use a little less sentimentality. I admit, in a way I have opted out of much of the human experience, but enough of the good parts get carried over, that I don't really miss any part of being human.”

  Hayley was considering these facts, as if for the first time she really understood that this was a big decision. She was also becoming uncomfortable with how many other people were around. Trying to think this through clearly with so many eyes potentially watching was grating on her. “Maybe... Could we... Could we go somewhere else for a bit. Like, anywhere?” Hayley started digging in her purse, but Portland set a hand on her arm to stop her.

  Portland smiled again, for the first time since her eyes went black. “Yeah, let me just change into something more comfortable...” Thom opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off by the white light of creation burning beneath Portland's thick, long, permanently-perfect lashes. She held her arms out and down, then rose slowly, a pantomime float, up and out of the chair. She set a fifty down on the table, materialized out of thin air, like her ID earlier. “Let's go somewhere cheaper. More casual.” Her voice steadily increasing in volume. “Somewhere without a portico in front like some pretentious fucking Corinthian brothel.”

  Well, answers that question. Thom reminded himself that Portland really was the smartest person he had ever known. Whatever that counts for. Then, he reminded himself that she could have easily searched it without showing any signs that she didn't already know the difference between a portico and a colonnade. And Hayley thought she might have seen the ghost of a smile from him, but she could have just been projecting.

  Chapter 2: Alan Rice

  Alan Rice woke up late for work, again. His night-time activities were beginning to interfere with his day-time life. Exactly what he had told himself he was not going to let happen. It didn't help that the work schedule wasn't consistent. They knew he had a hard time working early, but the schedule changed every week, and he kept getting scheduled for the morning shifts. He thought they were doing it on purpose, but then chastised himself for his narcissism. It was doubtful they ever gave him a second thought, let alone enough thought to go out of their way to mess with him. A frantic rush to throw clothes on resulted in taking more time than if he had just calmly dressed. Zippers stuck, buttons didn't line up, putting on a sock caused him to fall against his desk, knocking a monitor against the wall, and down to the floor.

  He needed to grow up. He knew it. But, you can't just decide to grow up. You don't wake up one day a responsible adult; it's something you grow into. He had, so far, lived through fourteen-thousand-three-hundred-forty-two sunrises, although he could not remember many of the early ones. He worried that most people had grown up by that number of days. All his old friends had grown up. Wives, husbands, children, houses, dogs, nine-to-fives. All those things you were supposed to get when you grew up. They all had them. He assumed when you grew up, you wanted those things, and so you found a way to get them. He had never really wanted any of that, and he felt all-the-more juvenile for it. No time to brush his teeth, he fled the apartment, popping mints, one-after-another.

  The whole drive to work took fifteen minutes, a little more some days, a little less others. Alan Rice figured that was how most people's commutes were. Approximate times, give or take, depending on traffic. He tried to see things this way as much as he could. Tried to remind himself that he was not special. That other people had their problems, just like he did, no one was singling him out for harassment. Other people probably had shacks in the woods, too. Places where they could go late at night and do things that people thought were weird. Places where no one yelled at you just because they didn't understand what you were doing. Places where you could hide people, if you needed to.

  He scrambled through the back door and fumbled for his time card. “Late again, Alan Rice.” Half a question, half a statement of fact, in an insulting tone. The manager scowled at him from the dividing doors in the middle of the restaurant. Alan Rice could never tell if the manager was angry, or happy, because his face was almost always a scowl. This made his manager hard to read, which, in turn, made it difficult for Alan Rice to communicate with him. Also, the manager, whose name Alan Rice had a hard time committing to memory, was one of the worst people at work. They were all kind of mean to him, but the manager seemed to be a little meaner. Stop. You're making that up. Alan Rice told himself.

  “Sorry, Sir. I had a very rough morning, this morning, Sir.” Alan Rice felt more clumsy than usual. This extended to his thoughts and speech. The manager turned and went back to whatever he was doing, or not doing, and left Alan Rice alone in the back room. As penitence, self imposed, of course, he would work like a dog for the first couple of hours until he felt he had redeemed himself enough to slow down to a regular pace. Hopefully, the clumsiness would go away if he focused as hard as he could on work. It was still early, and there weren't many dishes to wash, so he busied himself with detail work, cleaning under things that didn't get cleaned often.

  The sunshine became a laser beam that split the ba
ck room in two as Dejah came through the double doors carrying a tray with several plates, glasses, and flatware. She didn't have a full name, as far as he could tell. “Here, Alan Rice.” She sneered as she dumped the tray in the dish water in the sink, without rinsing anything, or removing any of the trash from the tray. He stood up from his scrubbing, arching his back and craning his neck until it popped.

  “Thanks, Dejah.” He smiled at her. Be friendly. It's not personal.

  Dejah rolled her eyes, turned curtly, and walked away. Alan Rice did not like Dejah, but Alan Rice did not like anyone, so it was probably best to at least pretend. Well, maybe he did like someone. A couple someones, really. The Day-walker and The Emerald Blonde. They were always nice to him. Not in that way, but they were nice, and sometimes they brought him cookies, or cupcakes, or mail that had been delivered to them by mistake. They lived downstairs from him, so he saw them kind of a lot. He wished more people could be like them. He wished he could be more like them, but he couldn't, even when he tried. He assumed most people probably couldn't be like them even when they tried, too. He wasn't special.

  Oh, and there was Charlene Becker. He almost forgot about her. He did kind of like her, too, he guessed. He didn't see her much, since they always seemed to work opposite shifts, but she was nice to him when she was around. She rinsed dishes, and threw trash away before setting the dishes on the sink, not in the sink. She never called him “Alan Rice,” though. Never more than “Alan.” A couple times, “Al.” This he disliked most, but he hadn't said anything about it the first time, and now he was afraid to bring it up, in case it embarrassed her. He always tried to be considerate of other people, even if they didn't or couldn't see it.

  He looked at the clock. She wouldn't be in for a few more hours, and his shift ended in about an hour or so. One hour, twelve minutes, fifteen... fourteen... thirteen... seconds, to be precise. He tore his gaze from the clock, and looked for the next thing to do. There was always something to do. He opened one of the refrigerators and saw that someone had spilled something, sauce, juice, both maybe, and it was stickily drying at the bottom of the refrigerator. He smiled with his new-found purpose and began to shuffle items out of the way, eager to begin the cleaning. He wondered if he should stick around after work. Maybe hang out in the dining area, just to see Charlene Becker. She had a robot arm. He did love robot parts, and maybe, if he asked her nicely, just maybe, she might show it to him. If he asked. If he could talk to her, which he had never really done. Now he was nervous and excited. He was definitely going to stay after work. Or maybe go home, and change, and come back.

  He looked at the clock. Still another forty-five minutes to fill before he could leave. He needed to stop looking at the clock. He knew he did, but he couldn't just stop looking at the clock. He had been raised with clocks, and he had been paying attention to the passage of time ever since he was a young child. He assumed most people were obsessed with the passage of time. After all, he wasn't special.

  After cleaning a few more random things, he was ready to go. He brought his time-card to the nameless, scowly, manager, who took it with the usual disdain, and thumped the button on the time-clock. Alan Rice darted through the back, flinging the door wide open, and settled into his car. It wasn't much of a car, and his parents used to constantly try to get him to drive something else, but it was his car. The first car he had ever purchased with his own money. Money that he saved up over a long period of time. It was ancient, and they worried it would leave him stranded somewhere, but he kept on top of maintenance, kept the clean parts clean, and the not-so-clean parts from getting worse. It had three hundred forty-three thousand one hundred and eight miles on it, and the trip odometer was about to scroll past the eight-tenths mark, on its way to another mile. It hit, and passed, the mile marker twice before he was home.

  On his way up to his door, he passed the Day-walker. She smiled and held up a hand in a brief wave, obviously recognizing that he was in a hurry, of sorts. “Good day to you.” He choked out, as he flew past, hoping he didn't sound curt or worse, upset. She didn't seem to take it poorly, but to be sure, he would check back with her later. For now, he had to shower and change. He wanted to be presentable when he talked to Charlene Becker. Should he cut his hair and shave? Probably, but he didn't feel like spending the time to do it properly, and a shoddy job shaving was worse than not shaving at all. He once tried to do the five-o'clock-shadow thing he saw “handsome” men do, but it took him a few days to get to five-o'clock, and when it finally arrived, it was closer to noon in some parts. Worse, it showed off his trailer-park ancestry, which his family had been trying to evolve beyond for several decades, now.

  Still, a nice suit jacket, maybe a tie... Was a tie too much? No, even better, jeans, t-shirt, and hoodie. Yes, jeans, and a t-shirt would be more appropriate. He didn't want to overdo it. It wasn't the fanciest restaurant, so he could get away with some casual clothing. Besides, human restaurants needed all the customers they could get these days. Automated restaurants were so much cheaper, and, depending on who you asked, a hell of a lot more pleasant to deal with.

  Out the door and into the car in the usual amount of time, things seemed to be going well. He checked his mirrors, looked out of the windows, backed out of his assigned parking spot and crept out to the street. Clear to the right, clear to the left, a one to two ratio of head turn to the right with the steering wheel's turn. Satisfied that it was safe, he began to pull out into the roadway. He had barely made it into the street when he turned his head to check left, again, while rolling forward, and saw the other car barreling toward him. He nailed the brakes to the floor. The other car contacted his, near the body line where the front bumper meets the left fender, skimming it with a rasping scrape, before shooting off at the correct mathematical angle, approximately forty-three degrees, across the street, over the curb, and into a chain-link fence.

  Dazed and shaking with adrenaline, Alan Rice got out of his car, looked both ways, and crossed to the other car. He approached the driver's side to check on the other driver. The door was wide open as he approached. The car was empty, but a quick glance inside showed pedals, a gear selector, and an analog-looking gauge cluster. It was not a driverless car. He looked around, scanning back and forth, but he didn't see anyone. He didn't even see where anyone could have gotten to in such a short time, but he wasn't really thinking clearly, which probably explained his hesitation when he turned around, and did not immediately comply with the police officer who had quietly been shouting at him. It took several seconds for him to realize that there was a gun pointed at him and commands were being shouted. This was all a bit much, and his system wasn't used to having so much adrenaline pumping through it, so when his legs decided they needed a break, his brain decided it could take a little time off, as well. Yes, let's all take the day off... He thought, as he fell down and sideways, like a sack of meat. Of course. How else would a sack of meat fall, but like a sack of meat?

  When he came to, he was in the back of a car with metal grating separating him from the front. He was alone in the car, but two officers were just outside the door talking in muffled tones, speaking words that he could not make out. The cuffs chafed his wrists, adding to the dull aching in his knees and chest. He felt weak and drowsy, but his mind seemed to be working a little better. When the larger of the officers opened the door and poked his head in, Alan Rice shrunk back, as if he were afraid the officer was going to do something decidedly ungentlemanly. But, he only wanted to ask questions. Alan Rice was able to answer several of them, mostly about himself, his car, and his apartment across the street. Others he was woefully unable to answer, or even pretend to have answers for.

  A tow truck was loading the other car onto its bed, and Alan Rice was being released from the hand cuffs. A paramedic asked him more questions, but he assured them he was fine, just a little rattled. The sun had gone far enough below the horizon to leave the sky purple, and Alan Rice could hear a helicopter somewhere as he got into
his car, and drove off toward the restaurant. The car seemed to be fine, just a little more dented and the bumper sagged just a little more than before. Over-all, it certainly could have been worse.

  A man Alan Rice had never seen before greeted him at the restaurant, and confirmed his party of one. He was seated in Dejah's section, which caused some initial upset, until he realized that he could still see Charlene Becker from here. She was serving a short, dark-haired man coffee, and he watched her smile pleasantly, and disappear into the kitchen. Returning with a tray of items for a table of two young women, she noticed him across the restaurant, and she smiled and waved at him. He nodded, nervously, and half raised his hand in a salute-wave. Dejah walked past him, without a word or a glance, and took the drink order for the table behind him. The table behind him being populated with people who had been seated for approximately thirty-seven seconds, according to Alan Rice's watch. He was very interested in ordering a drink, maybe two, but he had not been given a chance, yet.

  He was growing impatient, and Dejah was continuing to ignore him. He had thought about trying to get seated in Charlene Becker's section, but then he saw her. But, it couldn't possibly be her. She was somewhere else. Most likely out in the woods, where she normally was. And, she would not be caught dead being this cheerful. Exuberant, one would label this level of energy. She was anything but exuberant, and would probably kill you for even implying that she could be exuberant. Alan Rice decided that he was not going to go anywhere while she was here. He was going to watch her, study her, find out what kind of game this was. Her behavior was very uncharacteristic, but physically there was little-to-no doubt in Alan Rice's mind. Unless she had a twin sister, which he had never heard her speak of, this was definitely Hayley Acero.