Will McIntosh - Love Minus Eighty

He wasn’t sure he was capable of killing himself, and even if he were capable, he couldn’t do that to his father.

His father had been right—the only possible absolution would come from facing Winter West. Which meant the answer was obvious. No matter what it took, he had to return and face Winter. Nothing else mattered.

He’d have to suspend his musical career for the time being, find reliable hourly work that paid. Otherwise it would take years to raise nine grand. He could cut expenses. Most of his money went to rent and system fees. He could go on living with his father, so rent wasn’t a problem. His biggest expense by far was his system.

There was no getting around it: he’d have to give up his system for a few months—suspend his account and pick up some ancient handheld for the unavoidable stuff like paying tolls.

All that was left was to tell his father what had happened. It was ironic—he had to face his father and ask his forgiveness, because he hadn’t been able to do so with Winter. He would, though; he would face Winter, and he would tell her. The certainty of that was all that allowed him to keep walking.

“Hi.” It came out phlegmy; the man cleared his throat. “I’ve never done this before.” He was a black man, maybe forty, tall and beefy. His eyes were soft and kind, jittery and shy, and he had an honest smile, though the smile couldn’t mask a melancholy he all but radiated.

“What’s the date?” Mira asked, still groggy.

“January third, twenty-one thirty-three,” the man said. Nearly thirty years had passed since Alex had waked her. She had no idea how long ago her brief encounter with the old man had been. Unless that had been part of her dream. No—there would have been no dream unless someone had waked her.

The man wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. “I feel like I’m doing something wrong, being here.” He frowned. “Is it okay, for me to be visiting you? There’s no way to ask ahead of time.”

“I’m happy to have the company.”

The man gave her a big, sloppy smile. “I’m Lycan, by the way.”

“I’m Mira. Nice to meet you.”

“I can tell you’re an honest person, from your eyes.” Lycan had abysmal posture; Mira wondered how he could breathe sitting so slumped.

“I like to think I am,” Mira said.

“You’re the oldest woman in here, did you know that?” He shook his head. “I mean, not the oldest, since you’re only twenty-six, but the oldest based on your birth date. That’s why I chose you.”

“I see.” So she really was an antique. It made her feel terribly alone, and forgotten.

“You know, you wouldn’t know it from what’s coming out of my mouth, because I’m so nervous, but I’m actually very smart. I’m probably the smartest person you’ve ever met.” Lycan fell silent for a moment. “I’m talking too much. I’m sorry.”

“No, I like it,” Mira said. It allowed her precious time to think. When she was alive, there had been times in Mira’s life when she had little free time, but she had always had time to think. She could think while commuting to work, while standing in lines, during all of the other in-between times. Suddenly it was the most precious thing.

Lycan wiped his palms. “First dates are not my best moments.”

“You’re doing great.” Mira smiled as best she could, although she knew it must look forced. She had to get out of here, had to convince one of these men to revive her. One of these men? This was only the third person to revive her in the past thirty years, and if the first guy, the pervert, was to be believed, she’d become less desirable the longer she was here.

Mira wished she could see where she was. Was she in a coffin? On a bed? She wished she could move her neck. “What’s it like in here?” she asked. “Are we in a room?”

“You want to see? Here.” Lycan held his palm a foot over her face; silver netting covered his hand, flashing words and images. It transformed into a mirror.

Mira recoiled. Her own dead face looked down at her, her skin gray, her lips bordering on blue. Her face was flaccid—she looked slightly unbalanced, or mentally retarded, rather than peaceful. A glittering silver mesh concealed her to the neck.

Lycan angled the mirror, giving her a view of the room. It was a vast hall. A lift was descending through the center. People hurried across beautiful bridges as crystal-blue water traced twisting paths through huge transparent tubes suspended in the open space, giving the impression of flying streams. Nearby, Mira saw a man sitting beside an open drawer, his mouth moving, head nodding, hands set a little self-consciously in his lap.

Lycan took the mirror away. His eyes had grown big and round.

“What is it?” Mira asked.

He opened his mouth to speak, then changed his mind, shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Please, tell me.”

There was a long pause. Finally, Lycan answered. “I’m sorry, the last thing I want to do is make you feel bad. It’s just that it’s finally hitting me at a gut level: I’m talking to a dead person. If I could hold your hand, your fingers would be cold and stiff.”

Mira looked away, toward the ceiling. She felt ashamed. Ashamed of the dead body that housed her.

“Is it bad?” he whispered, as if he were asking something obscene.

Mira didn’t want to answer, but she also didn’t want to go back to being dead. “It’s hard. It’s hard to have no control over anything, not when I can be awake, or whom I talk to. And to be honest, it’s scary. When you end this date, I’m going to be gone—no thoughts, no dreaming, just nothingness. It terrifies me. I dread those few seconds before the date ends.”

Lycan’s eyes had filled with tears; he looked genuinely distraught at her plight, so Mira changed the subject, asking about Lycan’s family. He had a father and a sister, had never been married.

When Lycan asked about her, she avoided any mention of Jeannette. She told him she’d been an engineer in the military, that she loved Purple Fifth’s music and old 2-D Woody Allen movies. She’d been a retro girl, loving all things old and out of fashion, dressed in baseball caps and leg warmers, decorated her apartment with covers of old print magazines. She told Lycan her father died when she was young, but her mother was still alive. Then she remembered that her mother must be long dead as well.

“What if we fell in love, and you agreed to marry me?” Lycan said when she finished. “Would people sense you were too beautiful for me, and guess that I’d met you at a bridesicle place? We’d have to come up with a convincing story about how we met.”

“Bridesicle?”

Lycan shrugged. “That’s what people call this kind of place.”

Then even if someone revived her, she would be a pariah. People would want nothing to do with her.

“I’m afraid it’s time for me to say good-bye. Maybe we can talk again?” Lycan said.

Mira didn’t want to die again, didn’t want to be thrown into that abyss. She had so much to think about, to remember. “I’d like that,” was all she said, resisting the urge to scream, to beg this man not to kill her. If she did that, he’d never come back. As he reached over to turn her off, Mira used her last few seconds to try to reach for a comforting memory, something involving Jeannette.

She remembered last Christmas Eve, just her and Jeannette curled up on the couch, watching an old romantic comedy starring Carly Coates and a willowy blond woman whose name Mira couldn’t remember.

The air was filled with the rumble of conversation, spiked with drunken laughter, set over music drifting out of a dozen doorways. The narrow streets were tight with people Rob’s age, the air sweet with the scent of popcorn and pastries and buttered lobster sticks, sold by shiny drones from mobile stands. How many nights had Rob spent down here with Lorelei? He had such positive associations with this part of High Town, yet tonight was turning out to be one of the most demoralizing of his life. He’d never really needed a job before; playing the lute had earned him what he needed, because he’d always needed very little.