Subcutis (Bona Dea Book 1) Page 4

  And now she was looking at me, and my heart seized itself violently at the sight of those green eyes, and I knew she was feeling what I was feeling as she shimmered aloft to her feet.

  I reached for her – not as a woman reaches for her lover, but as one who stands in awe of that which is divine, as our ape-like ancestors spread their hands before the dawn, as Leda reached for Zeus in awe and wonder – and grabbed her ass.

  “Urgh,” said Flora, snapping the book shut. “I assume that rest of the ‘novel’ is one long sex scene.”

  “Oh come on, give me some credit. I stuck a big fight with ninjas in the middle somewhere.”

  “Well, you make me feel better about my lame attempts at poetry, anyway. I appreciate that.”

  “Glad I could help.”

  Flora gave the cards a riffle shuffle, enjoying the rhythmic sound.

  “Annie, are you okay? Seriously.”

  Her cellmate sighed. “Yeah, just a little stir crazy, I guess. And I know I shouldn’t have hit Barbara. Even if she was asking for it. But there’s always gonna be tensions. Three years of practically living in each other’s asses, y’know?”

  “Delightful metaphor. You should put that one in your next book.”

  “I’ll apologize to her when I get out. Not very sincerely, perhaps, but …”

  “That’s good; I don’t want you stuck in here. Partly because you’re the best friend I’ve got, mostly because I’d have to do more work.” She crossed to the bed. “Budge up, then.”

  Lying beside Annie, she surveyed the ceiling. Unadorned metal sheets with many a rivet around their edges.

  “If you get really bored, you could always count the -”

  “One thousand three hundred and eighty-four rivets. Plus another ninety-seven in the bathroom. Counted them last time I was in here.”

  They enjoyed some quality ceiling-staring time. Flora’s thoughts turned to Charlie. Her beautiful illusion.

  “Say, Boss?”

  “Mm hmm?”

  “I’m sorry. That they’re wiping your boyfriend, I mean. I know how much -”

  “That may be premature.”

  Annie glanced across at her, first in puzzlement then realization. “Oh. Gotcha.” She winked and returned her attention to the rivets.

  IV

  I will not let anyone walk through my mind with their dirty feet.

  – Mahatma Gandhi

  “Let’s talk a bit about your marriage.”

  When Bala had released Flora from the cell, it had been with the news that Hunter wanted her to see Wanda Little at the earliest opportunity. She’d gone almost straight there, pausing only to visit the garden and confirm that there was nothing amiss with the gravity.

  Dr. Little was the Bona Dea’s senior doctor, and doubled as ship’s psychiatrist. Flora rated her at a perfect 10 for the former role but a generous 3 for the latter. It wasn’t that she lacked the qualifications, but simply that her manner was off. She often seemed like an actress playing a role, more interested in acting like a psychiatrist than being one. The result was a series of safe, superficial questions.

  “My marriage? I’d have thought that you could get the whole story from my file.”

  The doctor, petite and always impeccably tailored, leaned forward and affected an expression of concerned interest. “I’d like to hear about it from you, in your own words.” Pencil and paper were poised to take notes.

  “Okay, let’s see. I met Steve at University when I was 18. I didn’t get much attention from boys, for obvious reasons ...” she ran a hand over the angry red blotches of her birthmark. “He was handsome, popular … very clever, an aspiring politician; I could hardly believe that he was interested in me. I was totally lovestruck, it’s quite embarrassing to look back on now.”

  “And after three months he asked you to marry him … ?”

  “Yes.” Flora’s voice was icy cool. The memories no longer stung; she’d come that far. “Shotgun wedding, my parents were furious. I took his name – Smith – and worshipped at his altar, living in his shadow as he shot to fame. I’d do things differently if I had another chance, but I don’t.”

  “How did you feel at the time?”

  “Good at first, but then increasingly discontented as the years went by. I came to realize that he was indifferent to my career, my dreams … indifferent to me, full stop. Thinking back, I wondered whether he’d ever shown me real love, and the truth was that he hadn’t. He enjoyed me worshipping him, loved the feeling of superiority that it gave him. And it did his career no harm. You know how politicians hate to look superficial. Having an ugly wife showed the voters that he was a man who looked beyond the surface, a man of substance.” She saw Little making notes. “I don’t think I’m ugly. I’m talking about the public perception.”

  “That’s a good attitude. Did you feel that way at the time?”

  “No, my self-confidence was zero. I just told myself I was lucky to have him. He wasn’t having an affair – as far as I know – and he never abused me physically; divorce didn’t even enter my mind.”

  “Until …”

  “Miriam Hunter to the rescue. I read her book on a whim: life-changing. She showed me the dangers of settling for less. And when I read the chapters about her plans to go into space, that gave me something to shoot for. And here I am.”

  “How did Steve take the news when you asked him for a divorce?”

  “About how I’d expected. His only concern was the potential political damage, but he needn’t have worried. He married again; last I checked he was the senator for Western Europe. Wouldn’t shock me if he’s running the planet when we get back. But I don’t lose any sleep over the idea.”

  Little lowered her pencil and paper, and selected a sincere expression from her armoury. “You know, a romance gone wrong is one of the hardest things to get over. The hurt can lurk beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to come out again.”

  “Yes, I understand that. No offence, but I’ve been in therapy before; I know what to look out for. And the fact is that there’s been no relapse into bad habits. I’m happy in my own skin, doing my dream job. No problems.”

  “Have you seen any men since your divorce?”

  “None. All my focus was on getting a post on this ship. When you’re studying for 15 hours a day that’s the last thing you need, a romantic entanglement. And then we set off and left every man in the galaxy light years behind.”

  Little was making notes again. “Or any human man, at any rate …” she said casually.

  “Oh.” Flora crossed her arms. “Getting to the nitty-gritty now, are we?”

  The doctor fashioned a laugh. “Well, I’m afraid that we do really need to go into this, Flora. Miriam’s right to be concerned about you. Scarabelli syndrome can have lasting emotional effects if left untreated. This may actually wind up hurting you worse than your time with Steve.”

  “Charlie wouldn’t hurt me.”

  “Not deliberately, no. That would go against his programming. The hurt will come, though. Maybe years down the line, when you have to accept the truth: that there’s nobody there. ‘He’ is really an ‘it.’ Inputs are fed into the data cells in the, erm ...” she sneaked a glance at a handpad by her elbow, “... the Central Processing Unit, and set algorithms determine a suitable output. Output which yields a favourable response will be prioritized in future, creating the illusion of an evolving personality.”

  “I know all this. I’m a pretty decent programmer, you know.”

  “Yes you are, but … well, I’ve been reading up on Scarabelli syndrome.” She brought up a page of statistics on the handpad and proffered it to Flora. “As you can see, a high percentage of diagnoses are of men and women with qualifications relating to robotics and programming. It’s even happened that inventors will fall in love with robots that they’ve made themselves, pretty much from scratch.”

  “I see. But perhaps we’re uniquely well placed to realize that there can be life be
yond the biological, and to see when a robot has ceased to be a collection of mechanical parts and become a conscious whole … is it really such a far fetched idea? Are they really so different from us in the way they think?”

  “There are similarities, true, but for all those amazing feats of calculation that artificial minds are capable of, I can assure you that the construction of the human brain is much, much more complex. Billions of neurons, billions of glial cells. For all our discoveries, we still don’t fully understand it.” She rose and walked to the computer behind the desk in her small and glassy office. “Flora, the argument that we’re having is nothing new. All this has been covered before. Now, I’ve found an excellent self-help book in our archive; I’m sending the details to your personal computer right about … now.” She tapped the screen with a flourish, and returned to her chair. “Will you take a look at it? Just give it a try, that’s all I ask.”

  “Okay, fine. I’ll have a flip through.”

  “Good. And also … you know, the ACMs aren’t only option on the ship when it comes to satisfying natural urges. Quite a few hetero crew members have been experimenting: it’s perfectly healthy, psychologically speaking.”

  “Is that a proposition, Doctor?”

  “No!” Little looked shocked. “I just meant, there are human alternatives. Annie, for instance. I get the distinct impression she might be interested …”

  Yet another string to her bow? Doctor, psychiatrist ...now she’s a matchmaker too.

  “Yes, I noticed. She’s not exactly subtle about it when she wants something. But I’m not going to risk a good friendship for an ‘experiment.’ I’m afraid that I only like men. I don’t think there’s a cure for that in the archive. Now I’m getting a trifle tired so if there’s nothing more … ?” She rose with finality.

  “Just one thing,” said Little, unperturbed. “As your physician, I have to point out that you’ve gained a little weight around the hips recently. A session or two in the gym wouldn’t go amiss.”

  Flora gritted her teeth, but resisted the urge to say anything she’d regret later. “Fine.”

  “Oh, and Miriam wants you to check Gypsy’s calculations for our next leap, if you’ve got time.”

  “Fine.”

  “Please remember, you can talk to me any time. I hope that you’ve found this session helpful?”

  No, thought Flora.

  “Yes,” said Flora.

  * * *

  After quick meal, sitting alone in the large and nearly deserted lounge, Flora paid a visit to the ship’s navigator. She did her best thinking on a full stomach, not that she really needed to; Gypsy Cumberland didn’t make mistakes. Or if she did, Flora was highly unlikely to spot them.

  She rang the chime of the Cumberland quarters. The woman who answered the door was not Gypsy, but her mother Alice. Stocky and large-bosomed, her grey-streaked hair cut short save for a long plait at the back, she was an intimidating woman at first glance, but wouldn’t hurt a fly … unless that fly was foolish enough to threaten her daughter. While Alice informally served as the Bona Dea’s cook, her ties with Gypsy were the reason for her presence aboard.

  They exchanged greeting smiles. “Good evening, Mrs. Cumberland.”

  A deep laugh. “Call me Alice, love. Never been a Mrs. … never will be either. Come on in.”

  “Sorry!” Flora blushed. Somehow she always thought of Alice as Mrs. Cumberland. Perhaps because the older woman often seemed to have an air of amused indulgence about her: as if Flora and Gypsy were 8-year-olds playing at being space explorers, not grown women doing the real thing.

  Alice knocked twice on the door to her daughter’s personal room. “Gypsy? Your friend’s here to see you.”

  “Right, just let me find … one moment,” came the faint reply.

  “That’s assuming you’ve come to see her and not me,” said Alice with a grin.

  “Yes, sorry, just the usual check before we leap.”

  “I’m of no help there then.” Alice ran her fingers over the bulky, heart-shaped medallion she always wore around her neck. She smiled faintly. “Gypsy got her maths brain off of her father. Thankfully not too much else.”

  Flora was curious but decided not to press for info. She knew that the age gap between mother and daughter was only 16 years. It wasn’t too hard to guess the rest.

  She noticed something new in the room: a painting. It was a work in progress, but was already recognizable as a garden dominated by white flowers. Baby’s Breath, she realized. Of course.

  “I didn’t know that you painted.”

  “One of my hobbies. When your whole life revolves around one person, you’ve got to be careful – you oughtn’t ever lose sight of yourself. I always make sure I’ve got something going on. Remember that if you have children.” She looked searchingly at Flora. “Anyone waiting for you back home?”

  Flora was saved from answering by a call from the other room. “Okay, ready! I was just putting my earphones on.”

  She entered Gypsy’s room. The first striking feature was the door itself, being of the traditional design, hinged and wooden. The room within had creaking floorboards mostly covered by a light purple rug, beige wallpaper and a white painted ceiling. A bed, again wooden, stood in one corner, with a fluffy bear, white save for his red bow tie, carefully tucked beneath the duvet.

  Seated in a black swivel chair in the centre of her domain was Gypsy, or Gypsophila Paniculata Cumberland to give her her full name. Fields Medal winner, Abel Prize winner, she was the first woman to explore the galaxy without having to leave the security of her bedroom, it having been dismantled in its entirety and painstakingly reassembled aboard ship. Flora had never seen the original, but Hunter had told her that the move had been near flawless, the only noticeable difference being that the floorboards creaked a little less now.

  The crowning touch was the window, a three-dimensional hologram showing the suburban street in northern England where Gypsy had lived her whole life. The hologram played on a seven day loop; glancing at it now, Flora saw two figures walking on the pavement below, both huddled beneath a battered umbrella, slightly too small for them. The rain was steady and audible. Thursday weather, she thought.

  She turned her attention to Gypsy. As always, the mathematician’s attire was the first thing to catch the eye, as she never wore more than one colour at a time. Today, that colour was green – a deep, leafy shade. Green slippers, green socks, green shirt over a green T-shirt. Half an inch of green underwear visible above the waistband of a green cotton dress.

  Tomorrow would see different versions of the same garments. Gypsy had seven outfits, one for each colour of the rainbow, selecting her choice for the day according to her mood when she woke up. Green, Flora recalled, represented peace and calm.

  Unlike her mother, she was short and thin, composed of straight lines. Her bony shoulders were always slightly hunched, as if she were bracing herself against a physical blow. Troubled grey eyes and untidy brown hair completed the picture; a 32-year-old who could pass for half that age at first glance. Flora always felt the urge to hug her and tell her everything would be all right, but knew better. Physical touching was out of the question.

  The navigator smiled at a point twelve inches to the left of Flora’s waist and greeted her in stilted tones that bore only a trace of her mother’s northern accent. “Oh hi, Flora. Is it, I mean, you’re wanting to check my calculations?”

  “Yes, I’ll give them a quick once-over if that’s okay.”

  “Uh-huh, that’s fine,” said Gypsy with a slight grimace. She reached up and adjusted her headphones. The sturdy pads – coloured green today, naturally – were not for listening to music, or anything else. Rather, they deadened high-pitched noises without making them inaudible: a godsend for Gypsy, whose ears were painfully sensitive. Flora knew that her own voice was fairly high, and tried her best not to be offended.

  The navigator brought up her latest handiwork on her wall-mounted computer, a
nd Flora seated herself awkwardly in front of it; the chairs in this room were all a bit on the small side. Alice excused herself and returned to her own room, pausing only to produce a small pair of scissors and snip off a lock of her daughter’s fringe where it was hanging over her eyes. Gypsy, now solving puzzles on her handpad, appeared not to notice.

  Flora studied the calculations before her with a familiar sense of awe. She and four other women would have to take over the task of plotting the Bona Dea’s long-distance leaps across space should anything happen to Gypsy; between the five of them, she thought, they might work five times as long to get one fifth of the accuracy. The woman sitting beside her, frowning and quietly muttering to herself, was one of a kind, well worth every concession Hunter had made to get her aboard. It wasn’t just a matter of mathematical expertise: Gypsy seemed able to make leaps of intuition, predicting the future flow of space based on recent patterns in the local ephemeral particle field.

  After studying the equations – beautifully laid out and colour-coded – for half an hour, learning as much as she could from their construction, Flora thanked her friend.

  “Flawless as always. It looks kind of ambitious, though, covering such a long distance in a single leap. Will the KSD take it?”

  “Oh, it should. The weather looks promising.”

  “Weather?”

  “Yeah, you know … the ephemeral wave fluctuations. I was thinking earlier, they sort of act like the weather for sailors? We can go further when it’s a clear day.”

  “I’d never thought of it like that. But then, you do seem to see things no-one else can through those quantum goggles of yours. Can I have a quick peek with them?”

  “Sure.” Gypsy pointed to her bedside table, where the goggles in question were resting. Flora rose and collected them. They were dark, flexible and deceptively simplistic in appearance; high-tech equipment which wouldn’t have looked out of place in a swimming pool.