Pat Cadigan
Synners
Published bv HarperCollins Publishers 1991
First published in the USA by Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. 1991
Copyright © 1991 Pat Cadigan
The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBNO 246 13755 X
Set in Caledonia
Printed in Great Britain by Hartnolls Ltd. Bodmin,Cornwall
All rights reserved. No part of this publication mav be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in anv form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
This one is for Gardner Dozois and Susan Casper, who got me going on the original idea.
For fifteen years of late nights, wild parties, talking dirty, and all the other stuff that makes life worth living (I've got your dedication right here)
I could not have gotten through this project without the support of Mike and Rosa Banks. Besides sharing the broad range of his technical knowledge of computers and nets, Mike dropped everything to recover thirty pages of text that a failing disk drive had chomped into garbage, while Rosa dosed me with sanity, wisdom, and several jokes I'd never heard before. You had to be there – I'm grateful they were.
I am also grateful to Ralph Roberts for graciously allowing me an advance look at his book Computer Viruses (Compute!) at the very moment I needed it most.
A thank-you to Pat LoBrutto for his patience and care as an editor; to Shawna McCarthy for believing in the first place; and to Betsy Mitchell for getting me home in one piece. Also to Lou Aronica for consideration and good advice.
And many, many thanks to: Ellen Datlow (for Manhattan after dark, among other things), my agent Merrilee Heifetz, Bruce and Nancy Sterling, Lew and Edie Shiner, Barb Loots, Howard "Uncle Chowder" Waldrop, Sherry Gershon Gottlieb, Jim Loehr, Fred Duarte and Karen Meschke, Michael Swanwick and Marianne Porter and Sean, Lisa Tallarico (for the pump), Jeannie Hund (for knowing), Ed Graham, Barry Malzberg (for the fun part), Kathy McAndrew Griffin (for phrasing the coin), Suzanne Heins (for sushi lunches), The Nova Expressions, Robert Haas, Mark Ziesing, Andy "Sahib" Watson, Tom Abellera (for Godel), Eileen Gunn and John Berry and Angela (for tower accommodations), Patricia "Spike" Parsons, Alan Wexelblat and Jennie Faries, the Delphi Wednesday-Nighters, the Rochester, NY Creative FIST, Malcolm Edwards, James Gunn, Paul Novitski (for food and ferryboats), Gary Knight and Kim Fairchild (for letting me play with their toys), my inlaws George and Marguerite Fenner, my mother Helen S. Kearney, and my husband Arnie Fenner and our son Bobby (for everything).
1
"I'm going to die," said Jones.
The statuesque tattoo artist paused between the lotuses she was applying to the arm of the space case lolling half-conscious in the chair. "What, again?"
"Don't laugh at me, Gator." Jones ran a skeletal hand through his nervous-breakdown hair.
"Who's laughing? Do you see me laughing?" She shifted on her high stool and held her subject's arm closer to the lamp. The lotus job was especially difficult, as it had to merge into a preexisting design, and her eyes were already strained from a full night's work. "I don't laugh at anyone who dies as often as you do. You know, someday your adrenal system is gonna tell you to fuck off, and you won't be back. Maybe someday real soon."
"Just as well." Jones turned from the skull-and-roses design he'd been looking at pinned to the wall of the tent. "Keely's gone."
Gator lifted the needle and dabbed at the decorated flesh, frowning. The cases on the Mimosa generally had terrible skin, but they were docile enough to make a good filing system, considering you could usually find them wherever you left them-they didn't move around much on their own, and unlike other kinds of hardcopy, they seldom got stolen. "What did you expect? Living with someone who keeps dying on you is bound to strain any relationship." She looked at him with large green eyes. "Get help, Jones. You're an addict."
His bitter smile made her look down at the lotuses again quickly. "Jones and his jones? Yah, I know. I don't care. I got no complaints about that, not one. If I'd had to go one more day with that depression, I'd have killed myself anyway. One time, for good."
"I hate to point out the obvious, but you're depressed now."
"That's why I'm going to die. And Keely didn't leave me. He's gone."
The tattoo artist paused again, resting the flabby arm on her knee while she reinked the needle. "Is there a difference?"
"He left a note." Jones fished a scrap of paper out of his back pocket, uncrumpled it, and held it out to her.
"Bring it over here and put it under the light for me, I've got my hands full."
He did so, and she studied it for several long moments. "Well?" he demanded.
She pushed his hand aside and bent over her subject's arm again. "Shut up for a minute. I'm thinking."
There was a sudden blast of music from outside as the jammers who had been thrashing all night went at it again. Jones jumped like an electrified chicken. "Shit, how can you think with all that?"
"Can't hear you over the music." Nodding her head to the beat, she finished the lotus and set the needle on the tray. One more flower, and then she could stick the case back under the pier he'd come out from. She straightened up, pushing at the small of her back. "If you're really going to die on me, you could at least rub my neck before you go."
He began kneading her shoulders. The music outside lessened in volume, receding up the boardwalk. Someone was mounting a hit-and-run; have fun, kids, call if you make bail.
A tall man in an ankle-length cape burst through the tent flap, startling Jones again.
"Ow!" Gator slapped Jones's hand off her shoulder. "Jesus, what are you, a Vulcan?"
Even if Jones had understood the old reference, he wasn't paying attention. He was staring at the black patterns writhing on the white material of the cape, strange intricate waves dividing and subdividing almost too fast for the eye to follow, seeming to implode as they swept along the surface.
"Nice," said Gator, wincing as she rubbed the spot Jones had pinched. "Who's your tailor? Mandelbrot?"
The man turned his back and spread the cape wide. "Could you just die for this, or what?"
"Bad choice of words," Gator said darkly. "And if you're here on my account, forget it. I don't do skin animations."
"Actually, I was looking for someone." He swept over to the case slumped in the chair and bent to peer at his face. "Nope. Oh, well." He straightened up, giving the cape another swirl.
It was pulsing with moires now. "Hit-and-run in Fairfax, if you're interested."
"Fairfax is a hole," Gator said.
"That's why it needs a party." The man grinned expectantly.
"Yes, I do know who you are," she added, as if in answer. "And I'm charmed as all get-out, but as you can see, I'm booked."
He looked from the case to Jones, who was still transfixed by the cape. "You Mimosa people are a strange bunch."
"You should know," she said.
"Last call. You sure?" He leaned in a little. "Kiss me goodbye?"
She smiled. "Dream about it."
"I will. I'll put you in my next video."
"Valjean!" someone yelled from outside. "Are you coming?"
"Just breathing heavily," he called back, and swept out in swirling clusters of slithering paisleys.
"Keep rubbing. Nobody gave you the night off yet."
Obediently Jones went back to massaging her neck and shoulders. The music had faded away, leaving them in relative quiet. Somewhere farther down the strip, someone began improvising something in a high minor key on a synthesizer.