Bruce Sterling - The Caryatids

Vera shrank back in her deck chair, hissing through her teeth.

“Don’t hurt Vera’s feelings,” said Herbert.

Djordje shrugged. “As long as we have the facts confirmed.”

“The fact is that Vera is a very fine Acquis officer.”

Djordje wasn’t having any of this. “Look, we’re all family now, so spare me your politics. Me, the wife, the kids: We are not political peo­ple. We’re the real people in the real world. Okay? You fanatics and po­liticals and geeks and crusading communists… You say you want to save the world? Well, we are the world you’re trying to save. We’re the normal people.”

Herbert emptied his glass. “I can sympathize.”

“I am normal, I live decently. I have shareholders and eighteen hun­dred employees in Vienna. I’m into import-export and arbitrage, logistics, shipping-and-packaging. Industrial everyware: That’s me, George Zweig.”

“I do understand that, George. Please calm down.”

A ghastly moment passed. Djordje was not getting calmer. “I’m okay, Herbert. I’m fine with life, I’m fine with all of it. It’s a family thing, you understand? It’s not too easy for me to be with your little bride here. I’m the rational one among our group. Really.”

“This world is so full of trouble,” said Herbert.

“Just keep Vera out of jails and camps,” said Djordje. “Vera is the sweet one. Sonja is a soldier. Sonja is killing people. They should arrest Sonja. They should arrest Biserka. They should try to arrest my mother.”

“I hate you,” said Vera. She spat over the side of the boat.

“Shut up,” Djordje explained.

“I want you to die, Djordje. To hell with you and your precious chil­dren and your stinking little wife. If I had my boneware on, I’d break you into bloody pieces.”

“Well, you can’t break me, you little whore! You never could, you never can, and you never will.”

She lashed out. “I’m not going to marry him!”

Djordje was stunned. “You love him. You said you would marry him.”

“I never said yes to him. You didn’t hear me say yes.”

Djordje looked at Herbert. He offered a sickening smile. “Women.”

“I’m not marrying anybody. Never.”

“You’re a virgin,” said Djordje, like a curse. “You’re not human. You’re a robot. You’re a walking corpse.”

“Look, don’t do this to each other,” Herbert told them. “This is really bad.”

“No, this is good,” said Djordje. “I want to hear this little bitch spit out what she wants! You want to sell this guy out? You want to go for the big money! At the end of the day, our home belongs to you, doesn’t it? It’s all about you, Vera, you, you, you! ”

Vera jumped to her feet. “I’m going to kill you now.”

Djordje was out of his chair in an instant. With a roundhouse swing. of his right hand, he knocked her to the deck. With a roar, Herbert rose. He threw his brawny arms around Djordje. His bear hug lifted Djordje from his feet.

“You little slut!” Djordje howled, kicking his legs in a frenzy. “I owe you a lot more than that!”

Vera watched the two men struggle. She touched her flaming, bat­tered cheek, and lifted her gaze. Overhead, uncaring stars dotted the troubled skies.

She took one deep sobbing breath, and flung herself into the sea.

RADMILA CLIMBED DOWN THE THROAT of the rehearsal pit. Her skirt floated around her kneecaps, a jeweled mass of air-tecture, bro­cade, and electric chiffon.

Glyn spoke up in her earpiece. “Mila, get back up here.”

“I need one last run-through for my chair stunt. Just to test this cos­tume.”

“You are perfect,” Glyn pronounced. “You were perfect when you left makeup.”

“This is for Toddy. Tonight I’ve got to be superperfect. ”

“Roger that,” said Glyn, a little sourly.

Radmila found her footing in the blackness. Sensing her presence, the rehearsal space woke around her. Wireframe exploded from the darkness. Prop sticks tumbled loose from their racks and flew like flung batons. The sticks clanged together, joining end-to-end.

The pit suddenly held the skeletal frame of a theater set: couches, a chair.

“Okay,” Glyn told her, “you are a go.”

Radmila dug her reactive slippers into the memory foam. “This pit is good. This place is so state-of-the-art. This is, totally, the hottest re­hearsal pit that the Family-Firm has ever built.”

“Just watch your hat,” said Glyn patiently.

Golden footmarks glowed on the floor. Radmila braced herself for performance.

“Whoa,” said Glyn, “I’ve got a bad stress readout from your left ankle.”

“My ankle is fine now!”

“The everyware knows you better than you do,” said Glyn.

Radmila rucked up the hem of her costume. The stage gear protested scrunchily. Kinetic textiles never liked departing from their script.

Radmila flexed her left knee and extended her foot. “Okay, so let me see it. Show me now.”

Narrowly focused beams sprang from the walls and ceiling. They bril­liantly painted her leg with projected data. Her bones and ligaments ap­peared, neatly coded and labeled: “Navicular.” “Cuboid.” “Anterior Talofibular.” The working pieces of the human ankle. What ugly names they had.

Radmila bent at the waist, gripped her extended toes, and rotated the joint. The simulated meat and bones writhed in a lively fashion, very glossy and painterly. Yes, she felt one leftover pang deep in there. One ugly, ankle-sprain pang. “Damn.”

“You’ve overdone it. Let’s cancel your stunt tonight.”

“I can’t cancel my chair stunt!”

“You’re booked for that big hotel opening Monday. They want your full set: your precision jumps, your vaults, all your backup dancers… If you wreck your ankle here tonight, your investors will kill me.”

Radrnila’s temper, always sharp before she went on stage, sharpened further. “Am I supposed to publicly appear tonight in the Los Angeles County Furniture Showroom, and deny the public my signature stunting­with-furniture?”

“Oh, is the diva losing her composure?” mocked Glyn.

“We can tape my ankle. That won’t take a minute.”

“Look: Tonight should be simple. You catwalk over to Toddy. You sit on Toddy’s fancy couch. Toddy lectures her public all about historical furniture, and you just listen nicely and be all ingenue about it.”

“I hear your concept,” said Radmila. “Your concept stinks.”

“We’re in a furniture museum! Toddy’s fans are a million years old! They won’t care if you don’t fly around the room like a fairy princess!”

Radmila seethed silently. What a pain Glyn was. No one could pull the rug out from under you like a member of your own family. Glyn un­derstood Montgomery-Montalban family values, nobody knew them better-but Glyn had never taken those values to heart. Because Glyn was a stage technician, not a star. Glyn had no magic.

“Toddy specifically asked me to stunt tonight. At dinner, Toddy asked me in front of everybody. I know that you heard Toddy ask me to stunt.”

“If you’re finally asking me about that idea, well, I think your cheap stunt upstages Toddy at her retirement show.”

“That’s why Toddy wants me to stunt,” said Radmila. “She’s handing it over to me in public tonight, don’t you get that? Toddy is the old school. Toddy’s retiring! Her public’s very sentimental, they love an emo pitch like that!”