Her Virtues

Ray Aldridge Her Virtues

I remember the moment I fell in love with Martin Yung’s wife. The moment seized me without warning, and perhaps that was why I was so vulnerable, so ill-prepared.

Long after the end of the business day, I made my way through Yung’s deserted laboratories. I carried a rack of important documents. I needed the most important one, the one that bore Yung’s personal chop. I expected to find him in his office; he was a man with no respect for time, or for any of the other limitations that ordinary men accept.

My mind wasn’t on my work; I was thinking of Dana. „What difference does it make to you what I do?“ my wife had said during last night’s installment of our perpetual argument. „Oh, I know, Thomas, you’re here; yes, there you stand, but you’re not here“

I don’t know how to respond to a statement like that. Would anyone? At Yung’s private suite, the thick steel door was slightly ajar. It swung open at my touch, into darkness.

I hesitated for only a moment before I slipped silently inside, though I knew I was violating PsychDyne protocol. I rehearsed my excuses. Oh, I’d say, you‘re here. The door was open and I was afraid someone had broken in…

Yung sat before his vidphone, speaking in low tones. In profile, his aging face glowed, lit by the screen and by some secretive pleasure.

The happiness in his voice surprised me. He wasn’t a happy man, though I could never understand why. PsychDyne, Inc., exists only to market the fruits of his remarkable mind. His product list reads like a roll call of the major psychocybe advancements of the twenty-first century: the AutAn projective auto-analyzer, the PanDev personamatrix answering device, the emotigogue replicator, and more.

I suppose I should be grateful, not envious. But a hundred ambitious mid-management execs could take my place. There is only one Martin Yung.

Curiosity filled me. What could bring such a tender smile to those cold precise lips? I moved silently behind Yung, and I saw her.

How to describe Joanna Yung? Words seem inadequate, even now. Her oval face laughed from the small screen. Her eyes were huge, pale hazel, tilted up at the corners. Her honey-colored hair fell in shimmering floating waves, so fine that each delicate strand appeared to tremble on the brink of lifting away from her shoulders. Her mouth was small and full, a lovely sweet blossom. Her skin seemed polished, a silky perfect substance not wholly human.

An icepick slipped gently between my ribs, probing for my heart. My envy of Yung hardened into hatred. The combination o f desire and hate was as strong and sudden an emotion as I had ever felt.

A sound escaped me, and Yung jerked about in his chair, glaring.

„Da Cruz! What do you want?“ The softness melted from his face. His eyes were chips of hot black stone.

I hardly reacted. I still watched her; I couldn’t look away. She saw roe, and interest drew her brows together slightly, a delicious expression. My knees weakened. Her smile brought an adolescent blush to my face.

Yung noticed the direction of my gaze, and he moved his narrow body to block my view of the screen. His face trembled with emotion: despair, fear, a sad dark humor, and — strangely — pity. „Get out. Get out, poor bastard…“ he said. His voice carried a strange undertone, a sizzle, the sound o f water dancing on hot iron.

I didn’t turn away until he switched off the screen. Madness, I thought. I’ve Iost my mind. I left silently, my errand forgotten.

I went down to the egress level and boarded my hardcar. I sat staring at my clenched hands, seeing nothing but her face.

Home. I stood for a moment in the foyer, looking at the door to Dana’s rooms. A slow pulse o f red light glowed there, her privacy signal. Relief filled me; I didn’t feel up to another round just then.

Alone in my amusement room, I paced, I played a game of Claque against the housecomp, I popped a haler of Blue Coma. Not even the drug could distract me from an obsessive replaying of the scene in Yung’s office. The woman’s beautiful face burned in my memory. The Coma slowed my thoughts, made each disjointed idea that floated up into my mind seem as inevitable as the rising of the sun.

Eventually, my glance wandered to the AutAn that lay in a tangle of cable on a high shelf. A fine notion occurred to me.

I went over to the AutAn, lifted it down, brushed away the dust from the sensor pads. This particular AutAn was a developmental model discarded from the labs. I had taken it home to augment my collection of toys.

I carried the device to the housecomp station, jacked it into the housecomp's coremem, slaved the comp’s display to the Aut An’s processors. I sat before the screen, lowered the sensor harness over my head, settled the inductor leech at the base of my skull.

I reached out and tapped the reset.

Color swirled, settled into the shape of my face. The eyes were shut, so I saw my face as I had never seen it in a mirror, a hard dark secretive face, the brows heavy and black over deep eye sockets. The cheekbones were sharp, the nose a blade, the mouth a merciless narrow line. A barrio assassin, I thought, without the honest scars of his trade.

The eyes opened, a glittering gray. For an instant the eyes were neutral, unseeing; then the processors in the AutAn began their work, nudging the image with a tiny bit of expression, measuring my response, nudging in another direction, analyzing, correcting, seeking the strongest response. The face began to change, showing me to myself.

The eyes narrowed, the chin lifted, the mouth twitched into an ugly fey smile, and I looked into a face alive with evil arrogance. The lips drew back, exposing unnaturally sharp teeth, and the brows arched into mocking scimitars. The face grew leaner, more vulpine, and glossy black fur flowed down the forehead into a sharp peak.

I could almost feel my flesh and bones melting into a new and more truthful shape. My heart pounded, the blood roared in my cars. I gasped for breath, wet with fear-sweat. I raised my hands to cover my eyes.

A minute later I grew calmer and reached out to the reset.

I thought of the woman, forcing the image into the AutAn with all my will. When finally I looked, she was there.

By the grace of the machine, she was even more beautiful, more perfect. She looked straight at me, with that same tender, sweet, teasing smile.

Her cheeks flushed a delicate rose, her pupils seemed darker and larger, her lips parted to reveal small white teeth. Her eyelids flickered, half-closed. Her eyes seemed to roll back for an instant, then opened wider than before. Moisture glittered above her mouth, which grew softer and fuller.

I became conscious of a painful erection, and I shifted in my scat and tugged at my pants, trying to relieve the discomfort.

When I looked at her again, she was changing.

The taut perfect planes of her face harshened, ever so slightly. The marvelous eyes narrowed just a little, grew cooler, less inviting. Her hair darkened, coarsened. The face thinned, the porcelain skin roughened, showed the marks of living. „No, wait,“ I said. The change accelerated until I was looking into the accusing brown eyes of my wife.

„No,“ I said, making a warding gesture at the screen. But I couldn’t look away.

Dana’s face cooled into misery. Her eyes filled with tears, her mouth trembled, the shadow of some deep sorrow fell over her face.

Even so, she was still a handsome woman, her features strong and clean. My hand stabbed the kill switch.

In the morning, on my way to the hardcar bay, I saw Dana’s note, scrolling endlessly across the housecomp’s display: I`ll be in the garden. Pause. I`ll be in the garden. Pause. I`ll be…

She wasted so much of her time in that folly. She grew — with enormous effort — a few rubbery roots, a handful of stringy seedpods, the occasional mildewed fruit.

When I returned home at the end of a long day, I would find her in her garden, bedraggled and sweaty, hands black to the wrists. Or I would find her in the kitchen, concealed behind a heap of antique cooking manuals, the air thick with stomach-churning smells. She persisted in preparing samples of her harvest for me, but I could never bring myself to eat them.

„Why?“ she would ask me. „It’s good, Thomas. If you’d only try it — doesn’t it smell good?“

„Dana. I’ve eaten good clean synthetics all my life. This — this is unprocessed, not even sterile! Why would you want to put it in your mouth?“

She would look at me and smile, a little sadly. „Because it’s real, Thomas.“ Then she would take the plate away.

She meant well, I knew; she was offering me the pleasures she held dearest. But Dana would not give me what I needed most; she would not act as her station required. We no longer entertained; she might try to force a plate of some disgusting substance upon our quests or lecture them on reality and the fruits thereof. She was never rude, but she was relentless.

More and more I found myself thinking bitter thoughts. My initial rise through the ranks had been swift, but I had reached a plateau, and I suspected it was because my wife was so adamantly eccentric, so different from the wives of the other male execs. Often I envied them those wives, so cool, so perfect, so beautiful — such elegant ornaments to their husbands’ careers. They could discuss politics, fashion, the latest exploits of the great livee actors. They knew the correct way to serve a tray of delight, how to dress, how to hold themselves so as to seem distillations of all that was precious. Impossible to imagine them at the graceless grubbing in the dirt that so fascinated Dana, scratching up vegetables like a gutterwelf with a rooftop turnip patch. I loved her too much to hate her, but I was nearly mad from frustration.

I had planned to leave without speaking to her, but now I turned and went through the lock into her greenspace.

Inside the dome, the air was humid, thick with the stink of vegetation and earth. The brassy psuedosunlight struck my eyes. Dana stood at the far side, scraping bark carefully from a starveling tree. I watched for a moment, both angry and sad.

„Hello, Thomas,“ she said. She gestured at the tree. „See, new growth, here,“ she said, and pointed to a pale green tuft at the tip of one scraggly branch.

What did she expect me to say? The tentative pleasure in her face faded.Her feet were bare and filthy. She wore a grubby coverall, her long black

hair was pinned up in a careless tangle, her face was smudged. She walked toward me, her heavy breasts swinging under the coverall, smooth brown flesh showing where the coverall gapped open.

Against my will, I wanted her. She sensed my mood, as she always did, and she came very close, her mouth softening. Her scent filled my nostrils, her perfume and the sharpness of her sweat. She pushed the straps from her sholders and the coveralls fell to her waist. She took my hands and held them against her breasts; her skin was warm and moist, slippery.

I pushed her away. „Here?“ I asked, incredulous. „Here? This is dirt, Dana; don’t you understand?“ I kicked at the ground, a clod flew across the garden and spattered on the steel.

I turned and left, trembling with outrage and thwarted passion.

I half-expected to be locked out, to see the red flash of a termination notice when I put my eye to the idbox. But security passed me in, and I went up to my floor.

The greetings of my fellow execs seemed unforced; no one regarded me with gloating pity. I wondered why Yung hadn’t reported my behavior. He was not a tolerant man, by all accounts.

I met my immediate superior in the corridor. She nodded pleasantly and would have passed by, but I stopped her.

„Matild, a moment, please.“

Her eyes were mild, guileless, „Yes, Thomas?“

„Gratify my curiosity if you can.“ I fixed a casual expression on my face. „I was by Yung’s office last night. I’d have sworn, ha ha, that he was talking to his wife. I didn’t even know he was married.“

A remarkable change came over Matild's square, open face. For а moment, I could not identify the emotion, but then I saw it was some mixure of sorrow and fierce protectiveness. „Didn’t you?“ Her voice was suddenly cold.

My heart sank; she was Yung’s wife. Still, I wasn’t really surprised. What man could see her face and not wish to keep her close? „I’m surprised. She must be a tolerant woman, to put up with a chilly fish like Yung. Do you know her?“

Matild stepped back, as if from a noxious smell. „You know nothing of Martin Yung. And your interest in Joanna is foolish and dangerous.“ She turned and walked away without another word.

Her name was Joanna. Compared to that lovely information, Matild’s displeasure seemed insignificant.

I restrained myself until midmorning, then I checked to be sure Yung was still in his laboratory. I punched in his home code with trembling fingers, my stomach full of butterflies. Before the code activated, I hurriedly flipped the privacy switch, blanking the video and masking my voice.

In the screen, a still of Martin Yung appeared, a carefully composed portrait. „Yes?“ a neutral, machine-generated voice asked.

„May I speak to Joanna?“

„Joanna is, at the moment, unable to come to the vid. Would you care to leave a message?“

I hesitated. What could I say that would not immediately focus Yung’s wrath on me? „No, no, I’ll try later.“

I reached out to break the connection, but the machine spoke again. „Is this Thomas da Cruz?“

My finger stabbed at the switch, and sweat broke on my forehead. What sort of game was Yung playing? Fear augmented my hatred. But after a bit, a slow anger seeped in and flushed away some of the fear. One thing seemed clear. Yung wanted this kept private, which accorded with my own wishes.

I wondered why Yung didn’t use the personamatrix answering device, one of his most profitable developments. Perhaps he understood that a carefully composed still would represent him more attractively than a replica of his meager personality.

On an impulse, I punched in my own home code. The screen filled with my face. A mask of calm helpfulness covered the harsh features. The eyes were unfocused, almost dreamy. My voice spoke, in well-modulated tones. „Hello,“ it said. „Thomas da Cruz is currently unavailable. This is an artificial personality construct based on Citizen da Cruz. However, no statement or promise made by me can be considered binding on Citizen da Cruz.“

When the legal disclaimer ended, and the persona kicked in, his eyes sharpened, and he frowned. „Oh. It’s us.“

„Is that any way to talk to yourself?“ I asked.

„How else? I have less-complicated access to my feelings about us than you do. What? Shall I call our wife?“

„No,“ I said hastily.

My face looked back at me, a cold half-smile touching the lips. „Oh? It’s always good for my morale to see how much our personalities have diverged since you made me.“

I broke the connection. The screen went black. For some reason I felt a little sick to my stomach.

Eventually, I decided to use my wormhole.

I dug my wormhole when I first came to PsychDyne. At the time, it just seemed the thing to do; every junior analyst built his own backdoor into the system. It was fun, it was challenging, it was educational, it was almost expected. I even had a destructive RAM virus ready to eat holes in the corporation’s vital records. O f course, we were young enough and foolish enough to think we could beat the phagocyte programs that constantly patrolled the system, alert for such pranks.

But the phages weren’t quite as effective at keeping things from leakingout of the system.

I went down to an empty loading bay, activated a terminal, and opened my old backdoor.

It took me fifteen minutes to find the code Yung had called the night before.

The loading bay was silent, dark. The servo-workers had all departed hours before, leaving their mechs standing against the far wall, a squad of dead steel giants.

I did take one precaution. I called Yung’s laboratory, after stepping behind the vid’s pickup, out of sight. After a moment I heard Yung’s thin exasperated voice. „Yes? Yes?“ I tapped the kill switch, satisfied. I wondered how he could bring himself to work such long hours, with a woman like Joanna at home.

My fingers danced over the keypads; it seemed as if my hands had a separate life and knew just what they wanted.

She answered immediately. Her beauty was even more overwhelming, now that I was closer to the screen. She smiled in recognition. „Oh,“ she said. „You’re (he one I saw last night. Let me apologize for Martin. He doesn't mean to be so abrupt.“

I recovered the power of speech. „No, it’s I who should apologize. I startled him.“

Her wonderful smile widened.

I went on hastily. „Now I’m being rude again. My name is Thomas da Cruz. I work with Martin.“

„Joanna Yung,“ she said and nodded, an exquisite gesture. „I’m Martin’s wife. Then you understand, about Martin. You and I — we both have to make allowances for him.“

Her hair shimmered, soft as air. I could imagine the perfume that would cling to that golden cloud; for an instant I could almost smell it, sweet, intense. Her eyes sparkled, and she touched her hair with long tapering fingers.

She's flirting with me, I thought, amazed. The idea reduced me to speechlessness again. In fact I had no real plan for the conversation; I suppose I’d intended to make as charming an apology as possible and see what developed. All I’d really hoped for was another glimpse of her. I felt the beginnings of panic.

„Ah,“ I said. „Well, I’m sure you’re busy. I won’t intrude any longer. “

Her eyes widened, and she leaned close to the pickup so that her face filled the screen. I marveled again at the texture of her skin. „No, I’m not busy at all,“ she said. „I so rarely get a chance to talk to one of Martin’s colleagues. Please, tell me a little about yourself?“

I don’t remember much about what I said over the next hour. She asked about my job, of course, and she drew me out expertly. Something about the way she posed her questions tempted me into enlarging the importance of my job, and I metamorphosed from an acolyte of the machine into a young lion prowling the corridors of power. She seemed willing to see me as I wanted to see myself.

She would say almost nothing about herself. She parried my questions so gracefully that I didn’t truly notice.

At some point, I began to run out of pleasant innocuous things to say. I made some obliquely suggestive remark, something about her beauty, I think. For a moment an uncertain, lost look passed over her face. My heart knotted and I was afraid I had made a mistake. But then she laughed and her eyes sparkled, and she said, „Are you musical, Thomas?“

„I like music, though I ’ve been accused of being a musical barbarian.“

„Do you like InducDance? Would you like to see?“

She rose and moved away from the pickup, and I saw her body for the first time. I was not disappointed. She wore a white caftan, slashed to reveal a glimpse of smooth thigh. She was slender, graceful; she moved across the room with the fluidity of a dancer.

She disappeared, leaving me to look at the empty room. It was blue and silver everywhere; sky-blue floor tiles set in hammered silver grout,

midnight-blue walls lined with tall minors, elegant furniture with powder- blue cushions and spidery silver frames. She returned sheathed in a bodysuit of silver mesh that clung to every contour of her body. Her breasts were small and high, her belly flat, her waist tiny, her legs impossibly long. She was concious o f the effect she had on me. „Do you like it so far“ she said, and laughed.

She pulled on silvery gloves. „Now, when I’m finished, you must tell me what you really think, you must be brutally frank with me.“ She swiveled the pickup to show a different area of the room. An ornate InducDance platform occupied the corner. Golden struts formed an ovoid cage, decorated with sinuous fretwork. Just before she slipped between the struts, she pulled on a head covering and became a silver doll. I could see nothing of her but the flash of her eyes through the holes in the mask.

When the platform sensed her weight, the struts glowed with a soft light. At first she danced slowly, carefully, the movements barely perceptible. The music echoed the dance, quiet tentative trills, low sweet complex chords. Each beautifully controlled gesture drew a corresponding sound from the platform, as it translated the position o f her body into sound. She

was very good. As she developed her theme, the music rose, swelling gradually into a bright rich torrent of notes, until Joanna was a flashing whirling silver glitter in the golden cage.

When she was done and settled in her chair, she pulled off the silver mask. A lock o f her glorious hair tumbled down her cheek. Her eyes were wide with pleasure, and I was transfixed. She looked very much like she had in my AutAn dream, and I wished desperately to be there with her.

„So tell me, Thomas,“ she said.

„Wonderful. I have no words.“

„Really? You liked it?“

„More than I can say. Why aren’t you on the livee, why aren’t you a famous person, why did I have to discover you by accident?“ I was almost incoherent.

She flushed prettily.

„But, surely,“ I said, „it would be even finer to see you perform in person.“

„No,“ she said. Her eyes darkened and she frowned, and even that expression was lovely, on her face. „You can’t, though I would love to invite you. Martin would never permit it.“

„I understand,“ I said, a little stiffly.

The time was late. Yung might soon be home, and how would he react, if he discovered me in intimate conversation with the wife he held so close? Joanna sensed my uneasiness. „You have to go,“ she said sadly.

I looked away. „Yes,“ I muttered.

„But you’ll call me again, won’t you, Thomas?“ Her mouth quivered, and tears welled up in those lovely eyes. I began to understand how lonely she was.

„Of course,“ I said fervently. „Of course.“

She smiled tremulously and brushed at her eyes. „Good. But Thomas. don’t speak to Martin of this, please. It would only make trouble.“

„Certainly, whatever you wish, Joanna. Good-bye, then.“ I sat watching her for a long moment, storing in my memory every detail o f her face, waiting for her to break the connection, until I realized she wasn’t going to. My finger touched the switch.

What son of man could Yung be, to keep such a one as Joanna shut away from life?

I heard a metallic clashing behind me. Turning, I saw Martin Yung swinging himself into the operator cradle of one of the loading bay mechs. He slipped his arms and legs into the sensor sleeves and the mech lurched forward. „Certainly, whatever you wish.. “ he screamed, repeating my words in a shrill hysterical voice. His face was white, distorted. How long had he been listening?

I ran. He lurched in my wake, the mech barely under control, kept erect only by its safety limits. „Come back,“ he shouted, and then he found the mech’s amplifier switch. „COME BACK!“ His voice was loud enough to shake the walls. I ducked through the worker portal just ahead o f my pursuer. „COWARD! COWARD! THIEF!“ he roared.

Did he expect me to stand and be pulped? He reached the portal, which was far too small to pass the mech. I heard him smash the machine’s steel body against the portal, over and over. In the thunder of metal on metal, his amplified sobs were almost inaudible. I went away as swiftly as my trembling legs would сагту me.

I went straight home, certain that I would never see the inside of Psych-Dyne again. I sat in the hardcar bay for a long time, very still, trying not to think.

Inside, Dana waited for me, her face pinched with anger. „Home at last,“ she said. My first thought was that Yung had called her.

But I put on a mask of weary innocence. „Yes, home, Dana. It’s been a long day. Must we do this now?“

She stood by the housecomp. She touched the console, and Joanna’s image filled the screen. Joanna's face changed, grew soft with desire, and I realized I was watching a recording of my AutAn session of the night before. I had forgotten that the record would be kept by the housecomp. Or perhaps I was relying on Dana not to search for it. That wasn’t her way.

Dana watched me as I watched the screen. She saw something in my face that filled her eyes with tears. She turned away and went into her private rooms.

When Joanna began changing into Dana, I turned the screen off.

My rooms seemed too small. I paced back and forth for hours. I indulged in all manner of absurd fantasies. I would leave PsychDyne before Yung had a chance to have me fired, I would persuade Joanna to go with me, I would become a great livee impresario, with Joanna as my first discovery.

But these visions eventually led me to consider an unpleasant consequence. What would Dana do when I was gone? She was a warm, admirable woman, who had always trusted me. And had she done such terrible things that she deserved abandonment? And did I not still love her, in spite o f her odd preoccupations?

I veered away from those thoughts, back to my foolish dreams, which were easier to hold in my muddled head. After a second haler of Blue Coma, those dreams began to seem attainable, and I decided to call Joanna again.

A long time passed before she answered. Perhaps she’s in bed, I thought, and a delicious shiver ran through me. When I saw her, I felt a different sort of shock.

Her skin was like gray wax. The shadows on her face looked more like purple bruises than shadows. Her hair clung lifelessly to her skull. And yet she was the same woman I had felt such desire for. She was still beautiful, even so sadly diminished, so injured.

Her eyes were dull, empty of recognition. T hen her eyes cleared and she smiled, a fragile expression. „Thomas,“ she said. Her voice was still marvelous. She covered her face with her hands. „Don’t look at me, don’t…“ Anger filled me. „What happened? Did Yung do this to you?“

„You don’t understand, Thomas. Yes, he did it, but… “ Her voice was muffled by her hands.

A bar of static crossed the screen; her image broke up momentarily, then reformed. „I’m coming to get you,“ I said. „This is intolerable.“

„No,“ she said. „Please. It won't help.“

I heared no conviction in her voice. I switched off and went out to my hardcar.

The high ferroconcrete walls of Yung’s estate were designed to withstand assaults by mobs of disgruntled gutterwelfs, not the powerful armored body of my hardcar. I burst through into the dark grounds. The manse loomed up in my floodlights, a three-story structure of steel-clad masonry, windowless, grim. Without slackening my speed, I plowed into the manse just to one side of the armored security ingress. The hardcar penetrated easily, but ground to a halt inside, held by the rubble that had collapsed around its treads.

The exterior cameras showed nothing but swirling dust. I cut the car lights and waited. Nothing moved. The car was equipped with an exosuit, in case of a breakdown in some inhospitable quarter of Howlytown. After some struggle, I managed to get into it.

Clumsily armored, wall-eyed with lust, I was venturing into a dark fortress to rescue a storybook princess from the scrawny troll who held her captive. Absurd, absurd, though at the time I was in deadly earnest, and my thoughts were red.

I locked down the helmet and popped open the car’s dorsal hatch. As soon as I cleared the hatch, Yung fired his splinter gun. The spinning wires

knocked me momentarily off-balance, but the hardened composite of the exosuit protected me. I leaped from the car as if scalded, my heart hammering, my head clearing rapidly. But I was still determined.

„Yung!“ I shouted. „Let her go!“

„Go away,“ he screamed. „It’s too late, da Cruz. She doesn’t want to go with you. You can’t have her!“ He fired another burst of wire, but I was behind the car and the wire bounced off harmlessly.

„Let her tell me that,“ I said. „If she tells me she wants to stay, I’ll go away.“

He sobbed, a sudden shocking sound. I t came to me finally that Yung was not angry, had never been angry. The sounds he was making held nothing but desperate sorrow.

I hardly knew how to feel. I began to wish I had not been so impulsive. „Yung,“ I called. „Just let me talk to her. I’m not here to harm you, truly.“

„You can’t.“

„Why not? Isn’t she here?“

I raised my head cautiously over the spine o f the hardcar. My eyes had adjusted to the dimness, and I could see Yung slumped at the bottom of a great staircase, the splinter gun lying beside him. His head was turned to the wall. „Yes,“ he muttered. „I suppose so.“

I eased from the protection of the car, walked tiptoe across the rubble- strewn floor. There was no struggle; I had the gun before he looked up. „This won’t do any good,“ he said. „You can’t talk to her.“

I nudged him with the muzzle of the splinter gun. „Take me to her.“ He looked up at me and, amazingly, managed a weary smile. „Yes, of course.“

I followed him up the stair.

The mirrors were dull with cobwebs and some were shattered, the shards heaped along the walls where they had fallen. The InducDance platform’s golden cage was twisted and broken, as though some maniac had pounded the delicate filigree with a stout club. Dust lay thick over the sky-blue tiles, except for a place along one wall where a large heap of electronic gear was piled on several gurneys. Here the dust had been recently disturbed.

Yung was watching me sadly. „You see?“

„No,“ I said. „No, what is this? Where is she?“

„Oh, I think you do see, da Cruz. I think you do.“

I turned to him and put the splinter gun to his chest. „Tell me.“

He showed no fear. „She's gone, da Cruz. Eight years now. One day I came home and the house was empty.“

„Where..?“

He shrugged. „Beyond the Pale, down into Howlytown. She didn’t want to be found, and I couldn’t find her — though I still have men looking. She was so headstrong — that was one of her virtues.“ He pointed to the tangle of black boxes. „Before she left. That was when I was working on the personamatrix. This is all I have left of her. I was powering her down when you called the last time. I was going to take her to a hiding place. I should have done that years ago.“

I realized why Martin Yung hadn’t acted against me. „Such a powerful construct. Unregistered. Illegal,“ I said.

„Please,“ he said, touching my arm, though he was not a man who touched others easily. „Please, you wouldn’t tell. They’d take her away from me, they’d kill her.“ His face crumpled and tears slid down his withered cheeks. He drew a deep breath. „I know how you feel, da Cruz. I’ll give her to you. Just don’t tell. You don’t want her to die, do you? Did you hear me? I said I’ll give her to you — isn’t that what you want?“

A knot in the center of my chest began to loosen. „No,“ I said. „You’re her husband. I won’t tell anyone.“ For some reason, I was remembering the way Dana’s breasts had felt against my hands, warm, smooth, full of life.

I went down to my hardcar, backed out of the hole I had made in Yung’s manse, and drove home.

Dana’s door was open, and I went inside. The first room was empty and dark, and I went from room to room in growing panic. Empty, all empty.

I pressed my hands to my head, trying to calm myself. I thought of Martin Yung’s face when he had told me about his lost Joanna, that hollowed-out look. One day I came home and the house was empty….

Before I ran out of the house, I thought to look in the garden.

She was there, sitting on the patch of sparse grass, under the artificial moonlight.

Dana, I thought. „Dana?“

She turned at the sound of my voice, her eyes hidden in the moon shadow.

I knelt beside her and put my arms around her. She resisted for a moment, then clung to me.

She is real, and that is only the first of her virtues.