Mary thought back to when she had first met Ernest.
“There’s light,” he said, swinging open a hall door. “And so much space.”
Two years ago. She had just been promoted. Had gone to a North Comb One party to relax in company of a male transform less extreme than she whom she had met at a temp career seminar. Mary had heard Ernest from across the room throwing barbs into a conversation of well dressed comb artists and their longsuited managers. He had been harsher then, aware of his own brilliance and acid with frustration. Witty, pushing, charmingly rude; the artists and managers had enjoyed him, exhibiting the calm and often irritating demeanor of the therapied. Mary listening had not liked him much at all, but when they crossed paths in the partygoer’s random walk later he had accepted her with nary an eyeflicker or leer as a transform, had said some enlightening things about the shadows art communities, had shown her with boyish pride a projection that turned his suitsleeve into a caravan of clowns, and a nanobox that sculpted portrait likenesses from beach pebbles. Had given her a likeness of herself in slate made at that moment from a rock in his pocket. Had then expressed admiration and a wish to speak with her beyond the confines of the party. She had turned him down, attracted more now but still put off by his prior brashness. He had persisted.
Ernest spoke and the studio door opened. Mary entered as the lights began coming on around the broad circular room. Dazzling spots limned a high broad shadow. In an alcove above them and behind the door a bank of additional lights glowed.
At the back of the huge space reclined the shape of a nude woman perhaps ten meters long and six high, elongated arm raised reaching for a suspended cube, hips exaggerated, alternating segments chrome and brilliant fresh bronze, knee a silver disk on bronze, elbow a golden disk, eyes buried in deep shadow. For a dizzy moment she wondered if the sculpture was so heavy it would fall through the floor and drop them all in angry prochine paste.
“It’s not solid. It’s not metal,” he said. He danced a quick step in delight. “Most of it’s not even there. And that’s the only clue I’ll give you. Go on. Discover.”
“It’s finished?” she asked, hesitating.
“A few more weeks. Some refinements. It’s meant to be appreciated by any individual for ten or twenty years, always something new. Go on. Touch.”
Mary reluctantly approached the creation, face downcast eyes upturned lips pressed together. Who could know what to expect? She had seen enough of Ernest’s work to know that the apparent form was a very small part of the work. She looked quickly left right up and down to catch glimpse of projectors, glimmer of lased light, some clue. Mary did not appreciate surprises even aesthetic ones.
“No teeth. Move up,” Ernest encouraged. She turned toward him sighing irritated turned back fixed on the creation’s heavylidded eyes, pupils silver rimmed gold in ancient green bronze, following her, lips forming giantess’s brazen Mona Lisa smile, boulder sized head inclining averting peering to left and above at something not there not of interest at least to an ancient goddess a black curved wall. Against her will Mary looked. Black shining lacquer waves rolled along the wall sky matte gray behind them decorative spume rising in precise patterns, a black lacquer mermaid issuing from the waves in bas relief combing moontouched hair.
A silver moon hovered over the reclining figure’s midsection, moon shadow tarnished, moon limb polished brilliant. Mary and the figure stood in a mercury sea quick metal waves lapping around her feet. Something tickled the back of her thoughts and Mary’s eyes widened. She closed her eyes and saw parallel scan lines crossing her visual field. Where had she
The figure stood in the vastness of the studio ceiling rising over her like a canopy and spread her arms wide sex glowing lava slit in bronze, saying in brazen hollowness, “These are the expected forms. These are the ones we love, daughters all, makers of sons.”
Mary saw a line of women around the giantess’s feet mother and aunts sister school friends women from books female legends: Helen of Troy Margaret Sanger Marilyn Monroe Betty Friedan Ann Dietering; all somehow hooked into what she thought of as the essence of human femaleness like a chorus line early to late left to right ending in the transform she had met in the upper reaches of pd Central, Sandra Auchouch. Mary jerked back to look again at her mother, saw the face severe and disapproving and then softening, juvenating, Mother as she might have first seen her idealized her when Mother was all before the long years of disapproval and finally hatred and casting aside. Her throat caught and eyes filled but she did not blame Ernest for she was fully into the experience now, as in a dream. She closed her eyes and saw more red scan lines. What are they
Saw herself pretransform as if in a mirror dressed in long gown hitched high left side showing short legs skin almond brown face flatter nose wide eyes upslanted quizzical, Mother’s face with Father’s mouth. Ernest knew nothing about these times and surely did not have a picture of her mother. Red scan lines she had seen before
In police training
The chorus line faded and the central figure glowed with warm orange sunrise light raised both arms was fledged with feathers of silver, lava line of vagina concealed now beneath a gown like night mist, eyes closing face elongating Madonna wings expanding stretching behind arms
In police training with a modified Selector hellcrown These are the warning signs of being scanned for dreamstate replication torture by a clamp
“Ernest!” ‘she screamed. “What are you doing?”
The figure collapsed into its first state reclining nude, and Ernest stood beside her trying to hold her hand which she kept jerking from his grasp, backing away from it from him. “Where did you get it?” she asked voice rich gravel furious.
“What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”
“Where did you get the hellcrown?”
“It’s not a. How did you know?”
“My God, you bought a hellcrown!”
“It’s not a hellcrown. It’s altered, it can’t hurt anybody. It just scans and allows my psychotrope to select memory images. It’s tuned for pleasant but significant recollections.”
“It’s illegal, Ernest, for God’s sake. It’s got to be blackscore, an old model, but it’s illegal as hell.”
“It’s just the frame, technically speaking. It’s an old model, that’s absolutely right. It mimics regular dreamstate revival. It’s no worse than what you can buy in a toy store.”
“Scan lines in my limbic system and visual cortex, Ernest! Jesus. Where did you get it?”
“It’s for art, it’s harmless—”
“Have you had a therapist certify it, Ernest?”
He flinched from her sarcasm and squinted. “No, Christ no, of course not. But I’ve researched and tried it on myself for months.”
“You bought it from Selectors?”
“Ex Selectors. Defectors.”
“More contacts?” Her tone had become bitter honey. The nonneutral flaw her innate urge to overcaution had blossomed and now she wanted to slap him. He did not help by breaking into a sweat and stammering, beautiful brown face shining in the multiple spots and glimmering lasers. The figure reclined impassive uncaring.
“You cannot tell, Mary. I would never have shown it to you if I’d known—”
“Possession of hellcrowns is a federal felony, Ernest. What does my promise mean to you when I could lose my high natural, be forcibly therapied and removed from pd, just by associating? What kind of idiot are you to put me in this position?”
Ernest stopped trying to explain, shoulders slumping. He shook his head. “I did not know,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.”