Mira wondered if she would even be able to function in a world like that, if ever she did get out. “Did you get into trouble for doing this?”
“Oh, yes,” said Sunali, sounding nonchalant. “I’ve been slammed with huge fines, a few injury lawsuits, although my foundation paid all medical bills resulting from the event. Prison isn’t out of the question, but I can probably buy out my sentence instead.” She waved it away. “I don’t care. No one was badly injured or killed, so I’m happy.”
Mira wasn’t sure what to say.
“Everyone is talking about it, Mira. There’s a dialogue going on, from micro to macro channels, about bridesicles.” Sunali reached out as if to touch Mira, her fingers brushing close to Mira’s shoulder. “Everyone is talking about you. The whole world knows who you are.”
“You gave them my name?”
Sunali shook her head. “They used your likeness. It matched a photo of you from the US Army archives.”
“Does that mean I might get out of here?”
Sunali ran a hand through her hair, which was clumped into big strands that reminded Mira of Medusa. “It’s hard to say. But it’s possible. It’s possible.” She sounded like she was trying to convince herself. “Anyway, I wanted to show you what we’ve accomplished, you and I.”
Mira had grown sensitive to summing-up words that meant she was about to be dead again. Words like anyway. As far as she could tell, Sunali had no reason to visit again, so it might be years, or decades, before Mira was next revived. The thought of her body lying frozen in this wall, with her not asleep, not unconscious, but simply nonexistent, was intolerable. “Please don’t go yet. Can I have just a few more minutes?”
“Sure. Of course.” Sunali waited, eyebrows raised.
Mira didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want these minutes to talk about her plight, she just wanted to be for a few more minutes. More than that, she wanted to see Jeannette, missed Jeannette so badly it burned. What it would mean to hear her voice, just once.
“I miss her so much,” she said aloud.
“Who?” Sunali asked.
“Jeannette.”
Sunali nodded understanding.
“Please, can you wake her again? Can you tell her I’m thinking about her?” Mira searched Sunali’s eyes, desperate. “You know what it feels like to be where I am. You know what it must mean to me, don’t you?” She still wasn’t used to begging people for things, things as basic as being alive, or seeing the woman she loved.
Sunali nodded. “Yes, I do.” She thought for a moment, then stood, her screen clutched in both hands. “Hold on. I doubt Cryomed is going to like this, but fuck them.” Then she was gone, without ending Mira’s session first.
Mira was elated to have time to be awake, time to think. She wondered why Sunali had left her alive this time, and what Cryomed wasn’t going to like. Surely they didn’t care if she and Jeannette communicated through Sunali. She couldn’t wait to hear what message Jeannette would send to her, wished she’d had time to think of a message more profound to send to Jeannette than “I’m thinking of you.”
A vivid, three-dimensional image sprang to life above Mira: a gray face, looking down at her from inside a crèche like hers.
“Mira?” The voice was a croak, but the face—the face was—
“Jeannette? Oh my God, Jeannette.” She was older, but otherwise hadn’t changed much. She was still so beautiful. Mira wanted to say a thousand things at once; they piled together and left her mute.
Jeannette’s eyes crinkled, her lips forming a stiff smile. “You look awful.”
They laughed and laughed, because what else could they do? Mira understood that these moments, these few, incredibly precious moments, were an utter fluke, more than she could have dared hope for, and she understood that when they were over, she would never see Jeannette again.
“I missed you, when you died,” Jeannette said. “I missed you so much. You were the best part of life.”
“Miss Van Kampen,” a disembodied voice cut in, “facility regulations prohibit the use of communication devices of any kind. Please disable your screen immediately.”
Mira heard Sunali’s shouted response loud and clear through the screen. “Go fuck yourself.”
“Yeah, go fuck yourself!” Jeannette shouted, as loud as the air tube would allow, her eyes never leaving Mira’s.
“Go fuck yourself,” Mira chimed in, then giggled like a child who knows she’s being naughty, but doesn’t care. Male voices, speaking urgently, drifted from below. They were coming to get the screen.
“I love you,” Mira said.
“I love you, too, Speedy.”
Mira opened her mouth to laugh, surprised and delighted to be reminded of the nickname Jeannette had given her the first time they met. Then everything went black.
57
Rob
There was an assertive thump on the floor—the resident below Rob pounding on his or her ceiling. Rob stopped playing, set his lute aside and drew one knee up to his chest.
All he wanted to do was play. It was strange: after killing Winter he hadn’t been able to look at his lute. This new flavor of pain left him unable to do anything but play. The problem was, he didn’t particularly want to play for an audience, although he’d have to get some gigs before too long, or go back to working at the reclamation center. He was burning through what little money was left in his account, after returning that final anonymous donation.
He wondered what Winter was doing at this moment. Was she on the island? Maybe off at some important function with Red? Her note had said, “no more,” but the last thing she wrote was, “I miss you.” Would she get angry if he tried to contact her, if he sent something to tell her he missed her, too?
There was a knock at his door. For a single, irrational second he thought it might be Winter, but beyond all of the other reasons it couldn’t be her, it wasn’t a ping through his system, it was an old-fashioned knock. Someone who didn’t know him, maybe a neighbor looking to bum a beer. He struggled to one knee, then to his feet, crossed his apartment in three strides, and opened the door manually, just a crack.
It was Winter, in a screen.
He yanked the door open. “Hi.” His lungs felt empty; he couldn’t seem to get any air into them.
Winter floated in without a word, eyes downcast.
“Are you all right?” Rob asked.
“I don’t know. Not really, no.”
Rob took a step toward her, then hesitated, irrationally afraid that she’d bolt if he got too close, even though she was nothing but a screen.
Her screen rotated to take in the apartment. “Not much of a place. You must be one of those guys who spends all of his money on irresponsible things.”
“Mostly on women. I went out with this woman who bled me dry.”
She rotated to face him. “You were going out with her, were you?”
Rob shrugged. “It felt like it. After a while.”
“Yes, it did.” She bit her bottom lip, a gesture that had become so endearing to him. “The song is beautiful. You’re going to be famous one day.”
A screen acted much like a crèche, Rob realized. They could speak, but there could be no physical contact. “I wish you were really here.”
“That would be a very bad idea. A terrible idea.”
“I don’t care. I still wish you were here.”
“All right.” The voice came from behind him. Rob spun around: Winter—the real, flesh-and-blood Winter—was standing in his doorway.