Greg Bear - Dead Lines

Michelle gave him a napkin to wipe his eyes. ‘Want to talk about him?’

‘I don’t think there’s time.’

‘Your appointment isn’t for another hour and a half,’ Michelle said. ‘Was he famous?’

‘Not really,’ Peter said. ‘He was a better writer than me. Maybe a better man.’

‘Do you still write?’ Michelle asked.

‘When I need the money,’ he said.

‘I admire people who do something with their talents.’ Michelle put down her glass. ‘What did you think of Weinstein?’

‘A hustler,’ Peter said. He reached into his pocket and took out the Trans. It slid smoothly past the roll of hundred-dollar bills. ‘Haven’t tried it.’

‘Give me your number,’ Michelle said. ‘Weinstein left a box of them. I’ll pick out a nice blue one.’

‘Do they even work?’

‘Not in the house, apparently,’ Michelle said. ‘But I need to get outside more. Besides, Weinstein will pay you if we convince Joseph … won’t he?’

Peter smiled ruefully, tilted his head, and nodded. He opened the unit and read her the number from the screen. It was odd, seven sets of two digits separated by hyphens.

Michelle wrote the number on a slip of paper. ‘See?’ she said, and patted his hand. ‘I was hard up once. Cast adrift. I know how life goes. It isn’t easy finding a safe harbor.’ She shook her hair and shoved out a hand toward the kitchen walls, as if to push them back. ‘I just get lost here. It’s been thirteen years with Joseph, and I still haven’t explored all the rooms.’ She shook her head. ‘Half aren’t even furnished. I can do whatever I want with the houses, but it’s just the two of us, and you, and the cleaning people once or twice a week. Joseph doesn’t want servants living on the estate.’

‘It’s quiet,’ Peter said.

‘Very quiet,’ Michelle said. She took Peter’s Trans and opened it. ‘Weinstein explained it to me a few days ago, before he spoke with Joseph,’ she said. ‘Is this the only one you have?’

‘He gave me nine more,’ Peter said. ‘Should I throw them away?’

‘No, no. Maybe it’s the weather and they’ll work inside the house later. We’ll just spread them around. They’re no use sitting in a box. Then I’ll talk to Joseph again and try to convince him. For your sake, not Weinstein’s.’

Peter leaned forward. ‘I don’t know what to say. You’re treating me like a brother.’

‘You might as well be a brother,’ she said. ‘You know your boundaries. You give me more respect than my real brothers ever did. You understand that I have a tough job, but it’s one I intend to stick with. We’ve seen a lot of the same old world, from different sides of the fence. And we both mean what we say.’

‘Wow,’ Peter said. ‘That’s something I can, I don’t know, cherish.’

Michelle’s lips twitched. ‘You’re my project, Peter Russell.’ She sipped her sherry. ‘When you toast the dead,’ she said, ‘they feel comforted and don’t bother you, and you have only good thoughts about them.’

‘You sound like an expert,’ Peter cracked.

Michelle smiled. ‘That’s what my grandmother told me when I was a little girl. She was French, from Louisiana.’

Peter took up his glass and they toasted Phil again.

‘May he sleep tight,’ Michelle said.

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