"They look like contraptions made out of garbage, don't they?" I ask of the art.
"What? No, Andrea. It's art. Found objects, you know."
The opening is for the hottest new artistic talent New Rome has to offer. Even though Austin warned me it was a formal event, when we arrive I'm surprised to find that it's a gala affair packed with the artist's many wealthy patrons and admirers.
Good thing we wear our best. Austin is in black tie and I'm wearing a bot-made dress. Even though it's completely machine-made, I'm pleased with the gown.
It's a shimmering gold that falls to the floor, and is embedded with yellow diamonds and tiny light emitting diodes clustered around my heart. They pulse in time with my heartbeat. Wearing it makes me feel as if perhaps I haven't spent the last week lying in bed, pitying myself.
The artist's name is Gatsha Feldmann. As Austin and I wander the halls of Deimos, looking at his art, I read that he's a conceptual street artist celebrated for his "salvage panache."
He was plucked from obscurity in what had been, a few years ago, South Africa. He's only lately arrived in New Rome and has been groomed for this, his debut.
Austin is impressed by the pomp of the affair and the ingenuity of the art.
"It's very unique, isn't it?" He asks of the works. "Beautiful in all its ugliness."
"I suppose so." I have more than a little bit of skepticism in my tone.
Austin turns to me. "Oh, come on, Andrea! You have to admit that it's better than those 'from-photograph' paintings you so loathed in Toronto. Or any of the robotic 'art' we've seen since we've been here."
"They look like rain catchers and animal trappers to me," I counter. "And look, these 'street art' tags? It looks like he was scrawling his name on his property. That's all."
Austin scowls at my suggestion and turns back to contemplating the art.
"Oh, come on, Austin. We saw this sort of thing all the time back on Earth. We both know what this actually is."
"No, Andrea. I don't," he snaps. "I'm here to look at the art, not relive the past." He lets out an exasperated sigh.
"Listen," he says in a whisper as he pulls me gently away from the exhibits. "You told me once, down there, that there was no point dwelling on the past. It's gone. You said that about our good memories, about our life before the machines came. So why can't you do the same for me now? Why can't you forget the bad memories?"
"It's not the same, Austin. What about our friends? What about everyone we use to know? We don't know anyone here. Everyone we've ever known is down there -- suffering."
He straightens.
"I just don't want to talk about it here."
I separate from Austin as we begin to mingle. We join the growing crush of people in the round central foyer with its mosaic floor.
Austin is more interested in commandeering the attention of the artist himself than in anyone else. And so he, along with a once infamous and now aging blonde heiress named Aurora, question Feldmann about his artistic sensibilities. Meanwhile, I seek elsewhere for conversation.
#
"But don't you think," I risk asking, "that without any other classes, there's no measure against which to contrast your wealth? And doesn't that make it meaningless? How can there be class in a classless society?"
Dana Worth purses her lips. She's beginning to look sour. She examines my face very carefully for a moment and I begin to feel the weight of my misstep.
Here, Earth is dead and they don't want to be reminded of the place. But just as I fear I'll would be kicked off the planet completely, a low whir becomes audible. It emanates from just behind me.
"Ah!" says Barry, Dana's husband. "But you see, my dear, that there is an underclass. And far more pleasant since they do not whine about the state of minimum wage."
I look back. It's a machine. A simplistic automated cart that sweeps about the room on concealed wheels. Its AI commands it to stop at small clusters of people to offer glasses of champagne and tiny bits of food.
Barry Worth was once a hedge fund investor in New York City. He was one of the lucky ones. When his profession became obsolete, he already possessed enough of a fortune to buy himself a new life in New Rome.
I've been debating the finer points of interplanetary socioecomomics while wondering whether I can crack through his practiced veneer. He's got a phony smile on his olive face, lifeless brown eyes, and an over-pronunciation of words that gives him a perfectly regionless accent.
He grabs a flute of champagne to punctuate his point. Dana lets out a loud guffaw.
"Take my wife's hair, for instance," Barry gestures with his glass. "It wouldn't have mattered how well-paid a human hairstylist is. They could never produce that."
I have to admit that her hair is magnificent. It seems that every woman in this room sports a variation of a similar style that could only be described as coiffed sculptures. But Dana's is one of the most spectacular: an up-do shaped into a basket weave.
"Yes. What's next, fractal hairdos?" I laugh at my own joke.
Dana gives me a look that makes me think she's wondering whether or not it's a possibility.
"Now," says Barry. "Have I explained to you how they made this lovely paradise? Terraforming is a remarkable process. Do you know anything about it?"
I shake my head and try a smile. But I can feel that it's unconvincing. Nevertheless, he begins to drone on about the history of the New Rome Project.
I scan the room as furtively as I can for Austin. Finally, I spot the back of his head. He's still locked in what appears to be a heated debate with Aurora while pointing at one of the pieces, while Gatsha stands back from the interlocutors, looking bored.
Just as I wonder whether I should save the besieged artist by taking my husband home and putting him to bed, I see a familiar face approach me. It's Emma Murphy.
"Dana, Barry." She greets the two beside me. "Andrea, can I steal you a minute? Sorry, folks." She addresses them as she slips her arm through mine. "Important iTronics business."
As she leads me away, I feel myself panicking. I'm not ready for this. I don't know why I didn't expect anyone from iTronics to be here. It seems foolish now, but I thought I was insulated here. I thought I'd be safe from my professional reckoning.
"Look, Emma," I say once we're out of earshot. "About what happened at the budget meeting --"
"Andrea, hush. We can talk about all that later. Right now there's something more important we need to discuss. The competition is here."
"Who -- what? What competition?"
"iTronics' competition. Seriously, Andrea, where is your head? Newhouse sent his son." She points towards the crowd.
"What does that matter?" I turn around and strain to see where Emma gestured.
"Part of the agreement Donald had with Newhouse was that they keep their social lives separate. They weren't to be seen taking an interest in the same things. His son's not supposed to be here. Did you know he was attending?"
"I didn't know I was attending until..." I stop, shocked from speech. There's someone staring at me from across the room.
(To be continued in Chapter 80...)