Chapter Thirteen
It's a boy. Or a rabbit. Or a hydroelectric self-filtering mechanism designed to cut down on that extra five minutes you just can't afford to waste of your morning routine.
Cries of strenuous pain echoed throughout the acoustically-superior walls of Generik University hospital. I sat in a stainless steel chair and whistled while I waited, watching short people fat people beautiful people plain people walk back and forth, back and forth, all of them anxious for a few ambiguous words from anyone dressed in red scrubs. I'd wanted to be in the delivery room with Mari, but was told that my presence would be distracting and not at all useful.
Once it was over, they allowed me in to see her and my new son, D.E.F., for half an hour, then he would be taken for his first post-natal training. When not in training he would live with Mari due to overcrowding in G.P.B. instructional facilities. I figured I'd probably go see them about once a week, and bring him a new toy bi-monthly.
Mari lay back against the sterilized pillows, sweat sticking her spun sugar hair to her forehead in spiderweb patterns. Her eyes smiled when she saw me and she nodded at the baby, displaying his little head, arms, hands, and feet to me as if he were a newly discovered artifact. I would feel more sentimental about this moment if I had spent more hours watching movies-of-the-week on the redscreen. She asked me if I wanted to hold him. My instincts said no, but I reached out anyway.
Mari sat up a little higher in her hospital bunk. What do you think they'll make of him? Blue words on a convex surface.
"Hard to say. He looks like a Chief Technicians Officer. Or maybe a medal-winning G.P.B. Games athlete." He didn't look like much really, scrunched up features inside a squirming mass of pink. But I had high hopes; Mari and I were both from decent greenhouse sectors, and I'd heard that G.P.B.'s educational facilities had improved as of late. Not that they'd been too shabby when I attended—I knew how to spout just enough about art, history, and science that most of the girls and a fair share of the guys I met thought I knew what I was talking about.
Mari gazed at us fondly, although I was pretty sure I was holding him wrong. It felt a little like juggling, I couldn't figure out which end of him was supposed to weigh more.
I think he'll be a trumpet player. Look at those full little lips, the tablet on the hill said, glowing a soft blue. She reached up for him and I passed the ball.
#
Weeks later I was at Mari's greenhouse with my first gift for D.E.F.—a pair of designer kicks, motorbreath black with cobalt blue stripes, size 8 cm. I fastened them onto his tiny feet and he squirmed and blew a spit bubble. I took that to mean he liked them.
Mari sat against the wool-and-wire basinet, spun sugar auburn crushed against the pattern of fast automotos and dainty stripes, busily sketching against the tablet on her fast-shrinking belly, her index finger hovering in the air a short distance above it as thick and thin lines appeared on the surface, manifesting themselves in a familiar shape.
"Is that me?" I asked, pointing at her new creation.
After a few finishing touches, she turned to show me the sketch she'd made. She switched the screen to a text panel and wrote, For you. The picture was all sharp angles, vacant eyes and forgotten tension that had unnaturally woven its way into my spine and seeded itself there.
D.E.F. slept soundly in his basinet, soft music automatically streaming from it during nap intervals—music box rainbows and candy—its sugary taste pure and sweet before the inevitable tainting of it with some hallucinogen.
Mari pressed a button on her side and printed a copy of my portrait—a sheet of paper slid out just above her belly button. It had been reproduced as a charcoal sketch on parchment. The girl's big purple eyes shone at me with knowing sadness. She switched back to sketch mode and began to draw the baby. He was all soft angles, translucent eyelids and round, buttery goo. Underneath the picture she wrote,
Our son. D.E.F. G.P.B. A.B.C.
Chapter Fourteen
Out of your medication? Try "Parisian Skull Therapy". The passing of time won't matter anymore...not with all the wine and brie and electroshock you can eat.
Generik's five-star love machines were fascinating, pliable innovations of the 4X century. The ones nearest me were found in a semi-hidden establishment across the street and two blocks down from the Hypocrite Wedding NightChapel.
The girl at the front desk gave me a wink and a wave as I headed to one of the booths in back. I stepped behind a solid steel door with blacklight painted pseudo street art—"Undersea Murder" was the theme; it changes seasonally. Inside was a short twin bed with 1200-thread count sheets and pillows, turquoise blue and blood red. An octopus holding eight machetes shimmered in hologrammed mosaic glass to my right. A shiny white kiosk sat in a pink plastic seashell on the nightstand.
When I tossed my jacket on the bed, the kiosk came to life. "Welcome, Jonah Von Edinbarrow. Please insert credit to begin," it instructed.
I inserted the correct amount for the Deluxe Package. It was the second Friday of the month, payday. I bet half of Generik's individs were in lovehouses and the other half were at NightChapels, depending on their intro/extraversion levels.
"Please fasten the electrodes securely in the locations shown on the diagram," the kiosk intoned as the screen image changed. It showed a blank-faced mannequin with an electrode disc attached to each of its temples, and three strategically placed across its pelvis.
"Please select from the following to begin customization of your Virtual Pleasure Participant: Male, Female, or Combo."
I considered what I was in the mood for. If I wanted a male, I could just go across the street to Hypocrite Wedding and find a willing flesh-and-blood one in ten minutes or less, but females required a bit more song and dance. I was still experiencing the occasional paranoid aftershock from my night with Berlin Ben, putting me off Combo for the time being. I selected Female.
"Please choose from the following color options: White, Black, Yellow, Brown, Orange, or Blue."
Sometimes your V.P.P. setup doesn't work out quite the way you want—even with the expanse of customizations it's still the luck of the draw to some extent. But at least you know what you're in for when you put your money down. I love the way it feels when you make eye contact with a new person in a club—validation, apprehension, anticipation, and cheap lust. But in the end the women are fickle and the men are selfish. Here there's no second-guessing and no idle chit-chat.
I tried to customize my V.P.P. so that she didn't remind me of Mari—no pale skin or violet eyes tonight. I'd been seeing too much of her lately and she kept turning up when I closed my eyes, the variety of memories I was able to pick from on my own consisting too largely of her, and scaring me into thinking I wouldn't remember the others at all outside of watching their reruns on the redscreen. Pressing buttons half at random and half by mystical superstition, my participant for tonight formed in front of me as a petite but curvy, brown-skinned, blue-eyed redhead with perfect teeth. When I kissed her, I felt it in my spine and the back of my eyes—it was bright blue and sounded like a mezzo-soprano's death scene. This V.P.P. was submissive and let me do whatever I wanted to her—I attempted to position us in a variety of kama sutra positions but the booth was too small. The sounds she made were better ego affirmation than a corner office and the tension I'd been holding in my back for decades dissipated within a few long seconds as I let go.
When the program ended, she went through the pretense of giving me her phone number, even though I'll never see her again. Just like a real woman.
# #
Ernest was the toughest and the easiest person to get an appointment with in all of Generik, both always available and always on holiday. Today when I entered the Mystical Magical Momentary Musical Museum at noon he was out, but I was allowed entrance nonetheless.
"The Professor will see you now," his Mechanical Mini-man twanged in his vidscreen game voice. "Right this way." He shifted into drive and led me down a tube-shaped corridor, my shoes tap-tap-tapping across the surface of translucent blue glass, past Picasso puzzles partially assembled on children's game tables, past groups of exercising globats, past the blocks of complex sheet music roughly etched in the oceanic glass, and into the room marked Pressurized Chamber.
The room was white, tall, and circular. I kneeled in response to a force field, eyes straight forward and arms raised up above my head in a compulsory salute. In front of me was a large screen—a mirror, a portal, a piece of see-through polymer. Ernest the Hologram, or Ernest the solid reality appeared in the screen, pale blue eyes sparkling and long blonde beard billowing in the air conditioning.
"Jonah, Jonah. Why have you come? Why have you come?" His image hovered in front of green countryside hills full of sheep and horses, space Hubble telescope skyscapes just beyond them in the distance, blue-black-purple-green, stars and stripes forever.
"I wanted to talk to you about my son. He was born just a few months ago." My arms lowered themselves to a 90-degree angle. "His name is D.E.F. Every time I see him, he looks more like me."
Ernest tutted a bit as his image wavered left and right, left and right. "Do you love him? Do you love him?"
"I don't watch many films about love," I said. "Those are for women."
"He is yours though, he is yours," said Ernest the shifter. "If nothing else, you should care for something which you possess."
"He doesn't come with an owner's manual, sir. Besides, before he's even old enough to get to know, he'll be gone, off to the training facilities."
"It is a shame, a shame." He flipped a switch and turned me round to face the exit. "But they must keep the machine going. Keep it going."
I sighed, no more or less resolute than when I'd entered. "Just tell me this before I leave. Knowing he'll be gone one day, should I still go to visit him?"
"Indeed," he said. "While you can, while you can."
Outside, the purple star night indicators pierced through the black, as the doors to the Mystical Magical Momentary Museum swished shut.
#
I was headed over to Mari's, with gifts for both her and D.E.F. in hand, when scrolling ads on the pavement for the NightChapel's Gelatinous Bisexuals event caught my eye. Wavering with indecision, I checked the karma clock function on my acu-tank. Time to enjoy yourself, it said. So I went home to prepare, arriving at the NightChapel hours later decked out in cellophane and fire-orange vines. I vowed to meet the man of my dreams that night and paid extra to the TaxiDermy to get me there on time. Space-age Fusion Midnight Madness was in full swing and I could not resist the tempting forbidden fruits which were offered to me. I took a handful of PsycheUp! Gummy Tummies and let "Gesticulating and Gyrating" mode on my acu-tank do the talking for me. It wasn't long before I met Paranoid Phil Harmonic, a teckie waif who played the nose-flute beautifully, could hit notes with it that cooked live fish dead on the spot. His slight build of one-and-a-half meters did not in any way diminish his appetite for artificially created aestheticism. He was very polite, if a bit manic, and complimented my eyes, my technology, and my protruding ribcage like they all do. He reminded me of simpler times—when corporations were green, women were liberated, and cameras followed you wherever you went.
Our Ceremony was lavish—lilacs and laser shows, silk and leather dressings, a full-course banquet with black truffle hydrogen mousse for dessert. I ordered the purest candy injections and C-17 vapors since it was his first time at the Chapel. The C-17 vapors were a bit much for Paranoid Phil to handle—he lived in a block on the East side and had grown up on the C-12 varietal.
"I've never done this before," he said. "Not the 'going out type'."
"It's okay," I told him, wrapping one of my orange vines around his neck like a scarf and pulling him close. "Just do what I do. Repeat after me. That's how we say our vows."
Phil was still nervous, even with the vapors, and our Ceremony was over too soon. I didn't mind though. He'd looked at me like we were two adolescent boys making eyes at each other on the football field, and for the moment I felt young, guiltless, and free.
Chapter Fifteen
Attention all Generik residual-earning residents. Sleep is now a thing of the past. Why would you want to go through half your life with your eyes closed?
D.E.F. played with the neon green remote that controlled his mini-redscreen, dressed in a little blue and grey outfit that said "Save Me" across the front. We sat in the main room, while in the kitchen Mari busied herself making pancakes and sectioning the vita-meds that G.P.B. had prescribed for him—Monday, Thuesday, Wednesday. Tursday. Friday, Saturday and Sunday. I tried to swipe the remote from him to switch the channel to anything that was showing in prismascreen but he bit my finger.
"You shouldn't do that," I scolded lightly. "I'm your dad."
He just blinked at me with his two enormous green eyes and banged the remote against the table. I hated to say it, but he definitely had some of the old man in him.
"Can't we watch something else?" I asked him. It was tuned to a 5D cartoon about adorable rodents who exterminate humans upon visual contact.
"Eyah," he said. His face said don't change the channel or I will bite you again.
I figured he was unlikely to warm up to me until after I had purchased him a Young Person's Hover Car for ages 9 months to 12+ years, and he had been taking his new vita-meds for at least a few weeks. He got bigger every time I saw him—I wondered whether it was because kids these days grew up faster, because I didn't come to visit that often, or because I had trouble remembering a fair number of the visits. Now he had a full head of light brown hair with bangs that needed to be trimmed, and some obvious yet dubious motor skills, I noticed as he attempted to jam the small remote into a non-fitting slot in my acu-tank. When he was old enough to have his own tank fitted to him, I imagined buying a little stylish one for him about half the size of mine, with all the right upgrades for his age demographic.
Mari's tablet beeped from the kitchen, then took over the display on the redscreen D.E.F. and I were watching.
Dinner's ready, it said.
Fruit-flavored Gummy Tummies and vita-meds for D.E.F. Antifreeze fish and veggie Gummy Tummies for me and Mari. Regulator and relaxation meds for me.
# #
Dressed in a fresh, nearly transparent black-blue hospital gown, I was prepped and ready for maintenance. Doctor Marc's grin was wider than usual today, his teeth impossibly whiter and straighter, a walking advert for his colleague's dentistry. He pranced about the spic n' span office while whistling some show tune, giving me a thumbs up every time he successfully strapped something into place.
My body was in good working condition, I was in today for a routine mental evaluation/brain scan, my fingers and forehead hooked to electrodes which transmitted their findings wirelessly to Main Computer—the all-knowing collected and analyzed, matching my results against algorithms and spitting me out wherever I would be most useful. For the past few years, junior-to-mid level management at Infrastratos had come back as YES, so there I remained.
"You're all set there, Jonah," the doctor said, slapping me a bit too hard on the back. "Just let the machines run their course, and we'll have you on your way in no time."
He left me to it and I settled back into the pinpricks, the matching shapes, the rudimentary math problems and the scenes from famous movies which were relayed into my thoughts. My mind's gut response to these images would inform M.C. whether or not I was on the right track.
When I got the results back, it had been determined that yes, I was employed in the correct position. Doctor Marc handed me a second plastic info slip, thinner, longer, and with a gold star at the top.
"A little something extra," he said.
--------------------------------------------
NAME: Jonah Von Edinbarrow
EYES: Green
HAIR: Black
HEIGHT: 5′ 6″ / 5′ 10″ with surgical alteration
BUILD: Slender/Athletic
CONCLUSION:
--------------------------
NOT BAD LOOKING
PURCHASES THE LATEST FASHION TRENDS
FRIVOLOUS WITH ALLOWANCE
INDISCRIMINATE WITH BED PARTNERS
CONGRATULATIONS, YOU'VE BEEN SELECTED AS RECIPIENT OF THIS YEAR'S MODEL CITIZEN AWARD
--------------------------
--------------------------------------------
I tucked it into the carry slot on my acu-tank, now in standby mode, recharging and breathing quietly. I figured this meant I would get a bonus, maybe a gift card. The time on my tank reads 6:72 p.m.
Chapter Sixteen
Vampires Beware: Sunlight appears beyond the horizon.
On D.E.F.'s 1st birthday we held a theme party: Toddler's Spring Break with Zombies – Extra Gore Included. The tykes just loved it as the living dead chased them around the main floor of Hypocrite Wedding, which converted to a kids' Funtime Arcade during the day. Friends I didn't recognize made small talk with one another as their offspring screeched and squealed, running in circles across the dancefloor. Mari was wearing a pale green gauzy dress with rubber ducks on it, demonstrating her taste for absurdist whimsy. D.E.F. was dressed as a zombie victim; the party organizers had painted on fake wounds and dusted his skin a pale powder green color, many remarking on what a realistic job they'd done.
For now, the birthday victim sat on my lap. He'd had enough of being chased by zombies for the time being.
Here, give him his birthday Gummy Tummies, Mari's tablet read. Our fingers brushed as I took the offered aqua blue glass jar with sticky sharks and whales inside.
"Open up, son." I made the spoon fly around like a pixie-marine starship in wartime. He gulped them down in one go, the eager little tyke. Springing off me with a small thud, he ran screaming and giggling, arms and legs flailing, laughing as zombies followed him at a deceptively slow pace, always careful to let him believe he was one step beyond their reach.
"We've gotcha! Arrrgh!" A friendly zombie attacked, unleashing a deadly tickling. D.E.F.'s peal of laughter pierced through the walls of the NightChapel, perhaps beyond to the stars that were supposedly above.
#
I was cold and hot at the same time—cold from the tips of my fingers to the soles of my feet, and hot from the inside out. It seemed Generik was having lo-power days more frequently, or maybe my ability to regulate my own body temperature was suffering due to a conflict with some other modification. I would need to get an update. I'd heard about a new thermo-plasma skin transplant—proven, affordable, and with a money back guarantee to boot. I needed to do something before my hands turned blue and my fingers fell off. Sometimes during a lo-power interval people became so frozen to the core that they just stared off into the distance, long and floating, barely there for the next couple of days or weeks, words falling from their lips in nonsense rhyme or trailing off in mid-sentence. Nobody questioned it, we were all used to it and knew it just took a little while for them to thaw out.
I hope D.E.F. hadn't inherited my poor circulation. He was at PlayPark today with Matthew Abbott. Matthew Abbott was my twin and someone had cut out his tongue. He was, however, able to communicate through a series of clicks and hisses, like someone coming in through a wire, S.O.S. signal through the digital phonograph. Matthew was lost without me and I without him but we never saw each other. When daylight came, we both wanted to go home and did so. His most redeeming qualities manifested themselves in a twisted version of my own forsaken ideals, and so once a week, Matthew would stop by to spend time with D.E.F. By the time he was five, Matthew had taught him how to play vidscreen games, flirt with girls, and be a connoisseur of all the popular Gummy Tummies flavors that his age group liked—chocolate peanut butter was his favorite. I was proud. Matthew was a great teacher and D.E.F. sure did catch on to things fast.
I was alone with Mari in her greenhouse and it felt somehow empty and awkward without the kid around. She didn't want UpMeds and she didn't want Ceremony so we talked about our jobs. I thought she deserved better; janitorial work wasn't the right fit for her. She was obviously smart based on the vocabulary which appeared on her tablet, and she was pretty enough to be a model—they don't need to speak; neither do actors since they all use voice over talent. I considered getting her a position at my office, but didn't want to lose my affection for her by seeing her every day. But when I asked her about a career change she just shrugged a little, and said, Credits are arbitrary. I might as well do a bit of cleaning. The girl obviously didn't understand the way the system worked. Still, part of me had to admire her—she did a tough job for crappy pay and never once complained. I didn't think I'd ever have the guts to do something like that. You probably have to be a woman to be able to stand that type of thing.
"My job might change soon. I've been elected Model Citizen," I told her.
You are indeed a Model Citizen, the tablet said.
"Not sure what it means, I think a promotion maybe."
You should hope it doesn't mean anything, the tablet said.
"Why is that?"
If you are Model Citizen, you shouldn't have to do anything.
"Well I hope it means I get to do something. I'm bored at work. I've crawled through everyone's stats a billion times and there's no one new and interesting left." She looked at me quizzically. "I mean, there's only so many statistical variations one can have," I said.
It's not the stats that make someone interesting, the tablet said.
"Well, of course not," I said. "...but then, what does?"
This. She placed her hand over her heart.
"Oh. I have mine replaced at least every six months. So I'm always new and interesting." I grinned and leaned in to kiss her. She removed her hand from above her heart and placed it against mine. It beat erratically. I should probably get that checked.
It's always the same, no matter how many times you replace it, the tablet said.
I switched it to standby, covering her pliable body with my own and leading her in Ceremony, now that we had done the talking first.
Chapter Seventeen
Advice to fools on a dying sun—rent whatever you can get your hands on. Just try and return it in the condition it was in when you signed the lease.
Matilda Maria Scandinavia Jones was everything you could ever want in a woman and nothing you would ever want in a wife. A Nordic princess who lived the AmeriKant dream, she had brass knuckles the size of shark's teeth, and wore neon-colored mesh jumpsuits that matched her ever-changing hair and mood. When I was around her, I narrated my own death in my head and put guilty notions in the minds of others. She was nothing like Mari. Mari had never installed any modifications; she didn't need them. When the day came that she started to decay visibly she would go naturally and without fight, eyes shining brightly through etched lines, roadmaps depicting the cruelty of gravity.
I ran into Miss Jones in the park one day while I was out walking D.E.F., took one look at her and immediately enrolled him in LyteBot On-the-Go daycare, the affordable and practical solution for the man or woman of today when one must conveniently dispose of one's child. Then it was off to Hypocrite Wedding, where they kept a special room just for her, decorated in navy velveteen, freshly panned gold nuggets and Reynolds plastic wrap. We entered as V.I.I.'s into her private chambers.
"Madame Scandinavia, I am at your service." I curtsied and did a little soft shoe.
She looked me over as if I were some sort of archaic Eastern European vermin—cold, dead, crystal-blue eyes gazed judgmentally into my bloodshot green ones. Then, never taking her eyes from me, she unzipped the silver leather three-piece bodysuit she was wearing in one swift move.
When I saw what was underneath, I ran from the room in holy terror. Never trust a woman who operates without a label.
When I got home that night, there was a note from Mari written on the redscreen:
Jonah,
Thought you would be home tonight. D.E.F. wanted to say goodbye, G.P.B. came by for him this afternoon to take him to their facilities. His official training begins.
I know I should feel proud that they've chosen our son "to learn the skills and doctrine he will need to attain his highest potential", but I can't help feeling some loss and regret. Maybe I'm just a silly woman. I suppose I can count on you to provide the logical words of comfort that only men are capable of, and that will put everything into perspective.
I just wish he could have stayed with us a little longer.
There is some leftover joy juice in the fridge if you want it.
- Mari
The next night she stopped by the greenhouse, spending most of the time talking about the schooling D.E.F. would receive while I nodded and half-listened, sucking on some homemade chutney Gummy Tummies she had brought over. She also said she'd been notified that the number of minutes we spent on G.P.B.'s monitor watch had gone up —they were impressed with our involvement in ProProject and wanted to keep us handy for future reference. I waved the information off in the same way one treats random memories of childhood trauma. I got out my soldering iron and offered her Ceremony, but she refused and insisted I eat more Gummy Tummies instead; I was too skinny. I didn't know why she bothered, I had an aluminum can for a heart and had let the government take away her only son without so much as a whistle of protest. In her glassy violet eyes I could see that the poor waif loved me unconditionally for no reason I could discern. It was all I could do not to take advantage of her completely or refuse to ever see her again.
Chapter Eighteen
That was the year the Berlin wall went up, the stock market went down, and my boyfriend traded in his 9 to 5 job for a gun.
I figured about two months had gone by since D.E.F. left for school. I thought I wouldn't much care, but I hadn't left my greenhouse in days or slept in as many nights. The robo-animals were starting to look vaguely concerned, or maybe it was just my imagination. Too much and not enough time had passed. Mari was gone as well, on vacation at a three-week spa retreat. Typically one goes there for service—a new acu-tank, plasticine mammary replacement, an extra nostril for superior smelling abilities—but she had decided against any of these procedures and had made it clear that she was going simply to "take her mind off things". When she hugged me goodbye I thought I might have actually felt something, but decided it was probably just indigestion and I needed to up my meds. With her gone, I was more than likely to make poor decisions and let my health go to pot.
#
I woke up to the familiar beeping sound of the redscreen. But something was wrong. The greenhouse's fluorescent lights were on as they always were at this time, but only at half-wattage. My coffee grower/grinder/maker flickered on and off and the time display read 7:77. Groggily, I stumbled out of bed and poured the gooey mixture into my "Generik's #1 Surfer" mug. Rooibos tea, not coffee. I went to the wall remote panel and quickbrowsed redscreen channels, thinking some celebrity would surely mention something about broken coffee machines before going on to discuss the latest fashion trends amongst the Hermit District. Static noise, no picture. I looked out of my window-square that faced East, and saw red.
I watched in chilly complacency as a laser, .000001 mm thick and 500 yards wide, sliced Generik colony into two halves—West Generik and East Generik, or WestGen and EastGen, as they would come to be known as.
After eight more days of static, a morose balding man in a neon-green tuxedo appeared on the redscreen. His name was Mr. Citation, and he informed us all that the split was for our own good—to conserve resources, to increase productivity, and well, he was getting money out of the whole deal—mass-scale redistricting meant just about everyone in the colony had been issued a parking ticket. I could care less as long as my coffee g/g/m started working again soon. Then I remembered.
G.P.B. Accredited University, where D.E.F. was being trained, and Mari's spa were on the other side.
#
If loneliness was a medical condition, then it was obvious what my course of action should be. I thought about calling Doctor Marc, but then the truth struck me. There was no better scientist than Ernest Emeritus. If anyone could invent a cure, it would be him.
Sometimes the Mystical Magical Momentary Museum is a crowded party at 4 a.m., but thankfully not today. I had the professor all to myself, had as much of his full attention as any one person has at any time.
No globats today, just me, him, a bottle of wine, and a bag of brightly-colored rock candy. A picnic for two on the polished iridescent marble floor.
"A peach? A peach?" He held out a round piece of rock candy with a light orange hue.
"Thanks." The candy was a little salty—I expected only sweet. "Professor, I have a bit of a problem."
"What is it? What is it?" He crunched down hard on a piece of grey rock candy, sparks igniting between his teeth.
"It's my mother, I'm afraid she's been reconstituted. But that was years ago. Months, at least. Also, my girlfriend's left town and my toast-o-matic is broken."
"That's too bad, too bad. You know, back in the old days, mothers couldn't be reconstituted." He popped a pair of candies, blue and pink, into his nearly full wine goblet. They sizzled, turning the pale wine purple. "Girlfriends still left ya though. Girlfriends still left ya."
"I need to get to East Generik, but I'm not districted for it. And I don't know where to find it; everything's been moved around."
"I see, I see." Ernest whistled twice—two sharp, staccato noises. A cluster of globats appeared carrying various items and tools—screwdrivers, cupcakes, needle threaders, micro chips. Ernest surveyed the spoils, stroking his beard and communicating silently with them. He'd raise an eyebrow, and a globat holding a stapler would scuttle away. Frown, and two carrying a sombrero left the room. The day signal lights outside rose steadily while the procession continued.
Finally, he appeared to have made some decision. He'd selected a handful of his brightly-colored assistants and nestled them in his beard; they chattered excitedly as they dove in and out of different sections, organizing and repositioning—with crashes and bangs—whatever it was they found in there. Soon, scattered at his feet were a 3D periodic table, a box of clementines, and a Van Halen record. Globats kept throwing more junk out of the beard, adding to the pile.
"Come back in a week, my boy, I'll have something ready," he said. "Have something ready."
I left in the heart of the morning, according to the lights, deciding not to let anything spoil my day, or my night.