Will McIntosh - Love Minus Eighty

Were there other ways to get permanently “revived”? Did she have any living relatives she might contact, or maybe a savings account that had been accruing interest for the past eighty years? Had she had any savings when she died? She’d had a house—she remembered that. Jeannette would have inherited it. Or maybe Lynn.

“Fine, if you’re not going to talk, I’ll just say good-bye,” Alex snapped. “But don’t think anyone else is coming. You’re a level eight-plus.”

Mira opened her mouth to ask what that meant, but Alex raised a finger to silence her.

“What that means is your injuries make you one expensive revival, and there are many, many women here, so not even your nine-point-one all-original face and thirty-six-C tits, also original, are going to pry that kind of treasure from any man’s balance.” He stepped back, put his fists on his hips. “Plus, men don’t want women who were frozen sixty years before the facility opened, because they have nothing in common with those women.”

“Please,” Mira said.

He reached for something over her head, out of sight.

The woman across the aisle from Rob yammered on as the micro-T rose above street level, threading through the Perrydot Building, lit offices buzzing past in a colorful blur. He should have taken his Scamp. Public transport was simpler, but he always seemed to share a compartment with someone who didn’t have the courtesy to subvocalize.

For no reason except that she was annoying the shit out of him, Rob decided to scan her to see how much work she’d had done on her face.

As his fingers danced over the skintight system on his left arm, the woman glanced his way and curled her lip—a microexpression that was there and gone in a flicker. Now he had another reason to dislike this complete stranger. No, his style wasn’t elegant and seamless, and he was tired of being judged by the technological glitterati as lacking some vital core because he only cared about making his system function, not how he looked doing it.

A flashing grid superimposed itself over the jabbering woman’s face. He grinned, satisfied. Nose work, lip work, eye work, chin work. There wasn’t much to her that was original. It was petty of him to check, even more petty to take satisfaction in her artificiality, but she was truly bugging him.

“I wasn’t the one who told him,” the woman was saying to some guy’s screen. “Ask Corrie if you don’t believe me.” She was naked except for her skintight system running upper thigh to midchest, which was a 5/5 Manatee—totally state-of-the-art, glittering like blue-green jewels on her skin.

The screen she was speaking to, which was huge and floating two feet from Rob’s head, was muted. The unshaven face framed in it looked sleepy, or maybe just uninterested.

“Since when don’t you like Corrie?” the woman asked in response to something the guy said. “So you don’t like any of my friends, is that it?”

She had no class. If a conversation was going to be intense, you did it in person. She probably showed up for weddings and funerals via screen. He could mute her, but her gesticulating form would only be more distracting if her mouth was moving soundlessly. Rob decided to go to screen himself, and see what Lorelei was up to. Of course that meant working his system again, and another contemptuous microsneer.

Lorelei was in their bedroom. She was utterly surrounded by screens. Rob was stunned at how many people were watching her, and she was adding more by the second. Onlookers’ eager screens jockeyed for the best vantage point, rolling and shifting like rectangular gnats, scooting low to corners of the room, all shrunk to palm-size to accommodate the crowd. Yes, Lorelei was a total attention hound, but she’d never scored (he called up the stats on his screen) one hundred eighty-two simultaneous viewers before.

Lorelei actually looked nervous, kneeling on her bed in the midst of the storm, probably terrified she might blow it by saying something stale or letting the pace of whatever she was doing drag. What was she doing? Rob zoomed in on the stack of greeting cards in her hand, just as she activated the one on top.

“Aw, how cute: ‘Love to Robby, from Grandma on your sweet sixteen.’” She grunted, flipped the card over her shoulder, toward a scattered mess that Rob recognized as his journals, remote photo files, all the personal stuff he kept in his lockbox. As Rob’s heart began to hammer, Lorelei activated the next card. “Oh, here we go. I knew it.”

He could see it was the one from Penny, the one Rob had almost thrown out when he moved in with Lorelei. A rush of rage, threaded with tendrils of guilt, hit him as Lorelei read the card aloud:

“‘To Rob. Okay fine, if it’ll make you happy. XX(X). Penny.’”

No! Rob subvocalized to Lorelei as she activated the video, holding the card at an angle as the screens swooped and rose, bumping up against Lorelei’s privacy perimeter, jockeying to see.

“This should be choice,” she said, ignoring Rob. As the video started, Rob set his screen to lurk, hoping no one had noticed his brief presence. Of course they hadn’t; all eyes were on Lorelei. She was scoring more and more eyes—her stunt was going viral.

Penny’s video was etched in Rob’s memory from a hundred viewings. Penny was sitting on her bed, one leg tucked under her, dressed in a high-necked, double-button blouse and demijeans. Her gaze dropped shyly as she lifted her hands and began unbuttoning the blouse.

There was no sound, so Lorelei provided slutty “buh-buh-buh-bah” stripper music for her audience as Penny exposed first one, then the other small, erect-nippled breast.

That was all; Penny stopped there and blew a kiss, a kiss only Rob was meant to see.

“I knew he was keeping secrets from me,” Lorelei hissed. She tried to sound outraged, but undertones of triumph and excitement leaked. “Let’s see what else we’ve got.” She picked up the next card.

Shaking with rage, Rob cut the feed and returned to the train, and the loud chick still arguing with her bored boyfriend. Stabbing sensors on his biceps, Rob submitted a destination change, hoping the microrailcar would plot a reroute that was inconvenient for the woman, who never seemed to need to take an inbreath.

Lorelei looked up when Rob burst into their room. She made no attempt to hide what she was doing.

Without taking his eyes off Lorelei, Rob gestured toward the screens with his chin. “Block them.”

“ No. It’s my apartment. They’re my guests.”

Rob looked at the sea of floating faces, all of them waiting to see what would happen next. Messages were surely flying among them—reactions, predictions, snide asides.

Rob spotted his friend Mort in the crowd. When he saw Rob had noticed him, Mort looked away sheepishly, then tucked his frame out of sight behind some others.

Rob realized there was no way he was going to get Lorelei to block the eyes, because she was loving this; it was her finest hour.

“Fine. Can you and your friends go somewhere else so I can pack my things?” As he said it, the certainty of it sunk in. They were through; there was no walking this back, not after what Lorelei had done. Despite himself, despite what Lorelei was doing, he felt a lump of pain forming in his chest.

Lorelei folded her arms and pouted dramatically. “So you still have a thing for Penny. I guess that makes sense, since she ditched you, not the other way around.”

“You’re rummaging through my stuff without my permission.” He gestured toward the wall of small faces watching them. “In front of hundreds of people . And you think I should feel guilty for keeping a card from my ex-girlfriend?”