Transcendence (69 page)

To pull Jonathan out of himself after that, Charity landscapes the inside of the car to look like the subscription-version of a Stratofighter: clean, more spacious, full of control sticks and switches, NKK spacecraft blasting to clouds of debris as, in meatspace, they pass towers or other features Charity can overlay. She slowly makes the scene more and more comic until Jonathan looks down at himself and sees a caricature of the brawny space-opera hero, bulging with muscles and weapons.

He laughs and fires up his own internal virtuality. In a few seconds, Charity’s 3VRD has turned into a top-heavy maiden dressed in sheer silk. A mischievous grin crosses her face as the car slows and lands on a grassy hilltop overlooking a stream. She shuts down her landscaping, so Jonathan does the same.

“
We’ll see. . .” she says, reaching into a cabinet behind the front seats, where a family car would have a back seat. The canopy opens when Charity turns around, picnic-basket and supplies in hand.

Jonathan has his very first picnic in a park—they even sit in the tall grass on a checkered blanket. After they’ve finished eating the real croissants with real cream cheese and preserves, Charity leans against his side and lays her head on his shoulder. She runs a finger along the quick-healed incision on the side of his neck. Jonathan flinches.

“
What’s this?” she asks.

“
Nothing. Well, I mean, it’s where I had extra powercells installed. Nothing big.” He shrugs; Charity’s eyebrows crinkle a little.

“
I’ll run a check on Fritz,” Jonathan says, mostly to change the subject. “What’s his last name?”

Charity sits up. “Oh, don’t worry about him. We’re safe out here, and the police will catch him soon.”

“
I don’t take chances anymore,” Jonathan says. He feels a knot of anger in his belly. “Never again will I or anyone I care about be a victim, you can count on that.”

“
Oh, dearest Jonathan, what’s made you such an angry boy? You can tell me anything; I want to help.” She slips her hands beneath his shirt, one along his hard, skinny abdomen and the other on his back.

“
I. . . .
First, let’s make sure we’re safe here.” He swallows, remembering the ritual he has to go through every night in order to be able to sleep. “What’s Fritz’s last name?”

Charity exhales a little sharply. “Please, I don’t want to worry about that right now—”

“
Charity, I can’t sit out here—” he looks out across the grass alive with insects and blackbirds and wind swirling the seedy tops, at the stream winding back and forth toward a cluster of buildings “—in the middle of nowhere
. . .
anyone could see us, and Fritz certainly could track you by your card if he manufactures blackcards, for sure.”

“
Jonathan, please respect my feelings on this.” Her face looks so sad, he agrees.

Careful to make his meat show nothing, Jonathan 3-verds Nooa. “Hey, Nooa, are you listening? Don’t let Charity know you’re there.”

A few seconds later, the girl’s 3VRD appears. “Hello, Jonathan. What can I do for you?”

“
Well, thanks. Could you check on a guy named Fritz, owns a regional card reprogramming center. He’s involved in black dealings. He was the mannequin who caused last year’s neural-burn epidemic.”

The construct-girl stands before where Charity and Jonathan sit, grass waving in the breeze behind her. Jonathan inhales the dusty scent of the grass, the musky sweetness of Charity’s hair, and catches a whiff of his own, unwashed body. He feels embarrassed; Charity is so clean. . . .
But she’s not complaining
, he tells himself.

“
I’m sorry Jonathan,” Nooa says, “but I find no reference to a ‘Fritz’ in any upgrade center administrative file. Perhaps that is not his real name? The local center is owned by an investment group named ‘Fiddle,’ which has 1347 individual investors in addition to a 10% direct ownership by Feedcontrol—”

“
Never mind,” Jonathan says. “Could you just let me know if anyone’s looking for us?”

“
Certainly.” Nooa is silent for a moment, her face concerned. “Charity has not been employed by any firm since last April. In fact, I cannot verify anything she has told you this morning. However, if someone is threatening this woman, it would be best if you were not with her—”

“
Not an option,” Jonathan says. “And don’t you dare say ‘if.’ She wouldn’t lie to me.”

“
All right. I’ll keep watch.” Nooa vanishes.

Jonathan feels Charity’s hands moving again. A vague irritation keeps him from completely enjoying the moment.

“
Jonathan,” she says, “don’t you want to touch me?”

That washes away his worry. Blood pounds in his throat. “Oh, yes.”

In response, Charity lays back. Jonathan moves with her as she keeps her fingertips on him, and he slips his hands beneath the loose folds of her layered dress. They begin to kiss, less innocently this time, tasting each other’s mouth. Their touching becomes more fevered until Jonathan feels Charity reach past his waistband.

She seems to sense his tension. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m protected. I’ve got an implant lining.”

“
That’s not it. . .”

“
Oh, my sweet Jonathan,” she says. “Sweet boy. Don’t be afraid.” She moves so that the two are lying apart on their sides, facing one another. One of her hands keeps in contact with his skin.

“
You’ve been hurt,” she says. “Tell me about it.”

No
, he says silently. “Tell me something.”
Oh, shit
, he thinks.
Here it comes
. But he can’t stop himself; the past two days have changed him. He has lost his fears and gained a feeling of indestructibility. “Were you on the official payroll of Fritz’s company?”

Charity’s hand drops to the blanket. Anger crosses her face. “Please, that doesn’t come until later. Now is when we have the tender, sensual time together.”

“
What are you talking about? I don’t live by schedules.”

“
Dammit,” she says. Again, she reveals an effort to return to calm. “Please, Jonathan, let this be right.”

“
I’m just worried.” He hesitates a moment before continuing, plucking a tiny purple flower near his head where blanket meets wilderness. “I couldn’t find you on the payroll of any upgrade center—”

“
You were checking up on me?” She sits up, and Jonathan follows. “Don’t you trust me?” she asks.

“
Listen, Charity, I’m sorry. I just want to make sure no one can hurt you. Bad things
. . .
have happened before, you see—”

“
Tell me about them,” she says, leaning close and lifting Jonathan’s hands to her breasts. “Tell me about your fears and pain.”

Jonathan’s breathing speeds as his fingers work their way past linen and silk to the flesh beneath, stirring his sex, making his pants tight. He closes his eyes and begins kissing her neck. But dissonant images impinge, gross things flash to life around him; érase falls to a cement alleyway, Lucas shark-swims around him, hard things and sharp things hit and cut him, a fat man in a satin apartment. . . .

Fucking blackcard
, he thinks, and shuts it down.

“
Stop it,” he says to Charity. He stands and brushes himself hard. Out of a drive he can’t quite understand, Jonathan flicks on the net overlay and seeks more info on Charity. He digs deeper than a simple ID, diving through ice and datablocks as if they’re only smokescreens, and enters the icon-field of EarthCo’s Citizenship database. He inputs Charity’s ID and digs for her full bio, text-only. Selections pop up around him, dull brown buttons that read SCHOOL, WORK, PURCHASING, LEGAL, and so on.

In a few seconds, Jonathan discovers she’s 38 years old, has been married five times, has never held a steady job but has done well from every divorce except the first, and is currently subscribed to a interactive novel entitled
Dangerous Affairs
.

He shuts down the feed, shuts down his card. Knowing it is rude to do so, he even cuts off his feed receiver and 3VRD projection.

Jonathan stares at Charity for a moment, seeing her true face. Lined and pale—though still pretty—it reveals a big lie. He turns his back on the woman and looks at her aircar. Its gleaming red hull is as flawless as it looked before, though the canopy is scratched. Then again, so is every other one in the world; it’s just that he thought this one was something special. He had clung to the idea of Charity during the Lucas thing, the surgery and what came later. . . .

“
You lied to me,” he says, looking at the aircar. His eyes burn. He feels like a fool. Everything Charity said to him so far suddenly sounds ridiculous.
Like a romance subscription
, he thinks. Exactly like one, from the perspective his new information provides. Guilt rises in him—guilt for feeling he could have fallen in love with someone again.

“
Fuck,” he says, barely loud enough to hear over the wind hushing across the tall grass.

“
Jonathan.” Her voice sounds stronger now. “You must know I didn’t intend to hurt you. It’s the last thing in the world that I wanted—”

“
Can it and feed it to someone else!” he shouts. He takes a deep breath. “I met a girl like you in feedrapture treatment,” he says, watching a blackbird swoop down across the grass. “They called her a ‘passion addict.’ That would make me your ‘love-character overlay.’ That’s real nice. Fuck.”

He walks toward a lone elm tree, its gnarled branches naked of leaves. He notices that the grass all around isn’t green but pale brown, and the stream is dry.

“
Oh, Jonathan,” she says. He hears her rise and move toward him. “I’m so sorry. I
. . .
I know I have a
. . .
problem. The last thing I wanted was to hurt you, believe me. I just don’t know any other way to
. . .
to make a relationship. This time was going to be
different. It still can be!” She steps in front of him and holds his arms at her full reach. “Let’s make this something beautiful and real.”

“
You mean as real as Fritz?” he says. Charity’s face falls, and she looks old again. Her eyes hold a vacantness much like Jonathan’s mother’s.

“
You’re hurting my feelings, dear Jonathan.”

“
Don’t call me that!”

He feels the slumbering anger in his gut reawaken, only this time it roars to life like a dragon renewed with ten times its previous power. The horrible pressure of that knot within him, that monster, that boil, that disease trembling and tearing between his lungs must be released.
I’ll die if I can’t get rid of this feeling
. But he doesn’t know how to release it safely. He can’t hold it in much longer or—he knows—he’ll go back to the crazy life he had before, or a crazier one. Or it’ll explode, spreading the disease, killing him and everyone around.

“
Jonathan, I’m so sorry to have added to your pain.”

“
Yeah, right,” he says. He powers up his commcard. “Nooa, send me an aircar of my own, will you? I’ve got to get out of here right away.” The girl simply nods and tells him it’s on the way.

He takes a few steps away from Charity, toward her aircar, and stares at the pitted canopy. His attention wanders to the sideview mirror. The edges are tarnished and the glass smeared with grime. But who’d give a shit enough to clean an aircar mirror when you only use it for meat-flying? He trembles.

“
What do you see?” Charity asks.

“
Huh?” Then he realizes what she’s asking. He hasn’t looked into a mirror in as long as he can remember. Why would he?

Now his eyes focus not on the grime but instead on the image of a boy. He looks seamed, lined deeply around eyes so narrow and doubting, tight; the mouth has its own set of lines that look sort of like a clown-frown.

Look at that kid
, he thinks. Sorrow has etched him at sixteen to look like an old man. Another old face moves in behind, that of Charity’s.

“
The face of a loner,” she says, her voice trembling a little. “You don’t need to be alone—”

“
Yeah. Or of a dog kicked once too often,” he says.

Charity’s worn, sad face falls lax for a moment, then turns lovely again. For a moment, he’s unsure if this is a 3VRD or if her expression changes so quickly. She doesn’t look the same as she had an hour ago; Jonathan imagines her flesh as melting plastic, and servos beneath move and reshape her into something she isn’t. Or something she is.