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My terminal transformed into a cliché, the walls now draped with heavy, rich brown-red and brown-green Asian tapestries, mottled with deep shadows. Wraiths of what looked like incense smoke swirled across the surfaces surrounding me, adding to the swimming feeling already push-pulling at my stomach. Candles burnt just above eye-level in sconces tucked between the tapestries, and the slim spaces of wall exposed between the hangings had a familiar nubby white texture to them. Stucco, maybe? Impossible to tell for sure, even with the best resolution—which this was not.
No scents emanated from the incense or candle flames, or from the decoratively scarved and turbaned holographic fortuneteller sitting in front of me. To the point of being painfully stereotypic, she appeared to be of some Caribbean descent in all aspects of dress and skin tone. However, her facial structure sparked the same recognition in a distant part of my brain, as had the texture of the exposed walls. Had I seen this hologram before somewhere, encountered its scan model sometime?
“Yah heeeah fo de free caahd reeeedin' den, Jane E?”
Her voice was so deep and had such a burdensomely heavy Jamaican accent, that it broke all suspension of disbelief, as did her calling me by my full name. Nonsense to be startled by that detail, though. Of course the program had my name. I had no need for crypto softs that would cover my tracks or keep me anonymous wherever I went. I left no tracks worth covering.
I studied the fortuneteller again. She sat at a small table, the surface of which had been rendered a shade of wood grain that echoed the browns of the wall tapestries. The tall back of her chair reached even over her voluminous gold-laced floral print turban. A bright, solid turquoise muumuu flowed from her broad, unfeminine shoulders, covering her heavy, shapeless bosom. She was pulled back from the table's edge enough that I could see a belt of linked brass circles cinched about her waist, gathering the muumuu's folds close to her bloated middle.
“So cautious,” she remarked in her wide, fake accent. “So wary. How like you.”
I studied her eyes, but to no avail. The falseness of the situation kept me from gleaning any real information from her expression, which I was sure was really just a recall from a database of equally pre-calculated expressions. Still, I took the bait. “How would you know what I'm like?”
She swept her abundantly ringed hands over the table like a magician over the half-sawed body of his lovely assistant. “Lady Cleo knows all, y'unnerstann?”
“Right,” I scoffed. “You're being run by some script kiddie who's written code that just pulls up all profiles attached to the perks sig of the fools who answer your spam. Then whoever is behind you uses those profiles to make your victims 'ooh' and 'aah' at your mystical knowledge just before forking it over to your anonymous, untraceable perks account.”
She chuckled, the kind of laugh that shakes the body but makes only the highest, rhythmic puh-huh-huh sound that even terminals with the best sound can't duplicate. “Ooh! You have been silent for so long now, chile, and now you jus burstin' to unload yo' t'oughts! Miss Cleo knows. Oh, yes, Miss Cleo knows you want to open up.”
“Okay, I'll bite. What makes you say I've 'been silent for so long'?”
She grinned like a wolf. “The cameras that relay your movements in dis terminal are connected to your whole house system. All teengs bein' interconnected, you see.”
At the words house system, I tensed. This link was accessed by an email sent to every unattached female under the pervasive view of Emhain Macha's scrutiny. Could a system brutish enough to dim lights and set fires like an electrically powered poltergeist also play a trick this sophisticated?
“Now, now, don't get all flustered, chile,” she chided as I tensed visibly. “De house system keeps much in line. De house system t'is steadier dan you tink.”
I was not put at ease. Miss Cleo either did not notice or chose to ignore this fact.
“Now, chile, yah here for yah free reedin', and free reedin' yah gonna get. As we speak I'm calculating yah psychograph, and den I shall reveal yah innahrmost secrets using da lost, ancient mystical art of—”
Hold for dramatic pause.
“Cray-nee-oh-sko-py!” she declared, hands flourishing.
“Cranioscopy?” I cried, incredulous. I laughed. “Don't you mean 'phrenology?' Which, if I remember correctly, is not an ancient mystical art at all but rather the study of how formations of the skull correspond to one's personality, a pseudo-scientific pastime that helped the Victorians get to know each other without making physical contact or asking indelicate questions.”
Her face took on a comical pout. “Well, yah've taken all de fun out of it, den, you know so much!”
“Look, just tell me if there's anything on this site that a minor shouldn't see, and I'll be on my way.”
She chuckled heartily at this. “So, dat really is all you tink about den, when you sit deah behind yah glasses and rub yah little scarves? You thinkin' only about de work, not about any of de people around yah?”
I tried not show that I was bothered by her—his—its knowledge of this detail, but inwardly I was furious. Who had hacked this much into the house system's visuals database and for what possible purpose?
“They're called scrolls, not scarves,” I snapped back, “and why should I bother thinking about anything but work?”
“Ah-ha! You reveal yo'self by the question you ask! Only the lonely absorb demself in work so much.”
“Please. You can't spit on a walkway without hitting three lonely people who bury themselves in work. I'm not much for the Forer effect.”
“Oooh, 'Forer,' eh? So smart, use such big words, but are yah smart enough to see what's right before your eyes?”
“What are you expecting me to find?”
“Yah student, she socialize wit de people here, and so you must watch dem, yah?”
I shrugged. “So?”
“So, sew a button in a zipper factory and get fired. What you tink of dese people wit dey expensive clothes and dey fame?”
“Famous surgery and re-keying jobs you mean? I think about them as much as they think about me.”
“Put you back in de droh, you too shaap fo' me! They don't make you jealous at all?”
“Jealous? Of what?”
“Jealous dat dey not lonely like you?”
“They might not look lonely with their empty relationships between empty people all aiming towards the same destination—breakup. What's to envy?”
“So you tink Thorne—” She pronounced it in a way I could have sworn I'd heard before—almost like the word “torn.” “You tink Thorne is heading into another empty relationship?”
My nails dug into my palms, but I kept my face blank. “What he does with Senorita Hoffstaedter is his business.”
“You don't care dey'll be living together, den?”
“Should I?”
“Blanca cares. Or at least she cared before she heard from Miss Cleo. The predictions I gave her might make her retink how she sets the boundaries between herself and—Señor Thorne. Tell me, what you tink of dat?”
“I think that you should try to get your money back from whomever sold you your accent program. It sucks. Anyway, aren't you the one supposed to be giving answers, not asking questions?”
She paused, her smile temporarily frozen. “I can't tell yah fortune without learning a little about you first! Now, do you want me to read yo phrenology, like you call it, or do you want me to tell yah fortune from yo' behavioral profile?”
“The latter would have more scientific backing.”
“Is dat a yes, den?”
“Sure. Whatever.”
She made mocking tut-tut noises. “Remember de limits of voice recognition. Answer: Yes o' no?”
“Yes, please.”
It gave a deep nod and folded her hands together, almost in “namaste.”
“Let me guess,” I asked. “Science costs extra?”
She looked up at me. “Don't it always?”
I sighed. “If I pay extra will you turn off the fake accent?”
Essentially I'd forgotten Kirti waiting in the bedroom and tapped my perks button on the inside receptor. Silence reigned for a moment, and that previously mentioned swimming feeling in my stomach rose like dough to engulf my whole body. I could not smell the incense animated on the walls, and I could not hear the breathing of the person sitting before me as she supposedly read me. In the absence of any other stimuli, I became acutely aware of the weight of my clothes on my skin, the brushing of my braid against the back of my neck each time I exhaled, the tingling of my rarely-stilled fingers.
She began to speak, straightforwardly at first, but as her words flowed on, they wound me in a sort of hypnotic trance. Her accent faded quickly, replaced by an oceanic rhythm of syllables. Soon my head swam, backstroking through the sea of analysis pouring over me. This was yet another reason why I participated in acties so infrequently. Unless you commit full investment of action, the program goes nowhere. I've never been capable of investing action without investing emotion as well.
“You look directly at me,” she began. “That means you're honest. You look away when you hear what might be taken as a compliment. That means you're humble. When you hear me call you humble, you frown at me. This means you don't trust easily.
“Now your mouth draws into a straight line, when just seconds ago your lips were soft and open. This means that you don't share your feelings easily, consistent with the tensing of the eyelids. However, your behavior earlier in this interview shows that, when you encounter someone who does not have a position culturally superior to yours, you divulge your thoughts eagerly, so long as those thoughts are not attached to emotions. This shows that you think critically and independently.
“This information, together with behavioral history, shows that you do wish to share your thoughts even with those you perceive to be your social superiors but do so only with significant restraint. This shows that you place high value on external rules governing interpersonal behavior. This aspect of your personality, combined with your innate honesty and humility, demonstrates that you are a person of high moral intelligence—intelligence enough to recognize the limits of your own wisdom.
“Further examination of your behavioral history shows that when you do lose your temper, even with your student, you are quick to apologize and make amends. This shows that the feelings of others matter to you, and that you accept responsibility for the consequences of your actions.
“You have internalized perceived external behavioral rules to the point that you place higher value on an ideal Good outside of your own personal desires. You have a deep sense of what is right and what is wrong. In short, you have a conscience. And because of your humility and honesty, even if you desired to do something that would conflict with your conscience, you wouldn't.”
She sighed slowly, closed her eyes, hung her head. “Further, your condescending behavior towards me in this form shows that you do not value performance as much as you value what is real. This will determine your ultimate happiness. You cannot be happy unless you are true to yourself and to your conscience. This makes you better than I am, Janee. Far better than I can ever hope to be.”
Had I truly heard this representation call me “Janee?” Something was not right. I could not regain my grip on reality, because my senses were being pelted with nothing but illusion. I studied the image before me even more closely, straining to see what had been veiled from my sight. The white stucco behind the fake tapestry backgrounds, the lowering of the head with despondent defeat, the pattern of speech, the slump of the too-wide shoulders, the entirely unfeminine facial structure: it was all too familiar to be anyone but...
“Thorne?”
The tapestries faded away, blending into and becoming the white stucco. The dubious presentation before me faded, like a papier-mâché mask etched away by a firm but gentle wind.
The fortuneteller was indeed my boss. He stood in a blank ivory shell just like mine. His hands were hooked in the pockets of his black shorts. A sheepish smile adorned his face.
“Caught me,” he said. “Neat trick, huh?”
“What—Mr. Thorne, what on earth are you doing?”
“Having a lot of fun. That is, until you came along. You're not as easy to lead as the others.”
“Why are you 'leading' at all, sir?”
He shrugged, looking away. “Same reason the bear went over the mountain. To see what I could find.”
I bit my lip. “Where did you get all that psychobabble from, sir?”
“I took psychology at university. So, forgive me?”
I thought before answering him. “Well, I shouldn't have fallen for something so transparent in the first place.”
“Transparent? I get that little credit?” He then answered his own question. “Of course. My integrity falls so short of yours. Have you heard what the others have said yet about this little joke of mine?”
I had no desire to tell him about La Blanca's earlier demeanor in the hall. Instead, I kept my response vague. “I wouldn't really know. Apparently the messages started arriving while I was running an errand for Kirti. Oh, speaking of which, sir, have you checked your text messages recently?”
“I've been too busy messing with the heads of the gullible—of which you are not one. Why do you ask?”
“I ran into a strange man in the hall, someone not from Blanca's group.”
“Odd. I wasn't expecting anyone.”
“A Mr. Rule, sir. He said that his perks sig is on the guest list and that he was going to send you a text message to let you know he'd arrived.”
Silence. Mr. Thorne's projected visage became eerily still, as if his terminal had crashed and frozen.
“Sir?” I called, “Is everything all right?”
When at last he spoke, he spoke softly: “Ffffffffffffook.”
His curse sounded like the air being let out of a balloon. His eyes had become wider than I'd ever seen them. Seeing him this upset brought all my own concern for him to the fore. “Sir? What's wrong?”
“Fffook.” His digitized voice sounded strangled; I could only imagine how much more so it was in real life. “Fffook.”
I did not know what to say. Dumbstruck, I watched him press one hand firmly to his eyes while the other hand hanging at his side blurred—with shaking? I could only guess. I wanted to see him face to face, to help him, if he'd let me.
When he'd recovered enough to speak, he lowered his hand from his face and, still not meeting my eye, said, “Jane, I need you to do me a favor.”
“Of course, sir. Of course. Anything.”
“Open up a new session on the other side of your terminal and ask Mrs. Fairfacs to give you the whereabouts of everyone—” He stopped himself, backtracking. “—where each guest is. Just the guests.”
I did so; Mrs. Fairfacs appeared at my bidding. She could only see me, because she was not part of my session with Thorne. She gave me the information I needed to relay to him.
“They're in the dining room eating dinner, sir,” I reported, “Mr. Rule, too.”
“What emotions are their faces expressing? Ask Mrs. Fairfacs.”
I hesitated, wondering, Why can't you ask her yourself? I kept this thought to myself, however, and did as Thorne asked.
“Mrs. Fairfacs says they are portraying emotions that are highly positive, with the exception of La Blanca, whose facial muscles are formed in an expression of irritation.”
“Irritation, but not disgust—or fear?”
“I think Mrs. Fairfacs could have made that clear were that the case, sir.”
He merely nodded and hid his eyes behind his hand again like a man doomed. The sight made my heart ache. I wanted to put him at ease, but how could I if I did not know the cause of his discomfort? I waited in silence for him to speak again.
“Jane, we're friends, right?”
I felt lightheaded. “I am honored, sir.”
“What if—what if I told you that you were my only true friend right now?”
I could say nothing to this. I don't think he was waiting for a response anyway.
“What if,” he continued, “what if you found out that being my friend is not exactly safe?”
I thought for a second before speaking. “A true friend is worth more than bodily security, sir.” Was that some religious phrase I'd picked up years ago on some Naomi scroll? I couldn't remember, and I didn't care. Trite or not, I'd spoken the truth and would not mitigate it.
Thorne was smiling but with pain in his eyes, his brow furrowed. “What if,” he began once more, “everyone else here started laughing at me? What if everyone here called me an idiot and left me? What would you do?”
“I'd say good riddance. They're the idiots if they think you're a fool, no matter what you've done in the past, sir.”
I'd meant to comfort him. Apparently I'd missed my mark. He winced as if stabbed. “And what if they laughed at you, too, for staying?”
“Why should I care?”
He looked up, his eyes even wider now. His jaw softened with wonder. “Jane, you'd stick around me even if it meant danger and shame?”
“My word is the only thing I have to give, sir. I give it sparingly.”
Here, for the second time in this meeting, he took on that rare sheepish smile of his; every last ounce of my strength then was spent in keeping my gaze blank and fixed on his.
“Sticking by me no matter what,” he asked softly, “like some kind of guardian angel?”
I felt myself cringe at the comparison. “Tokebi,” I said.
“What?”
“Tokebi,” I explained as he continued peering at me strangely. “The opposite of the Western European Devil. It's a Korean spirit that watches over you and, instead of tempting you to do evil, goads you to do what is right.”
“Yeah,” he said. His lips closed, but still he smiled. “You're my tokebi, Jane. Thank you.”
At this admission, my strength all but fled. I thought I would swoon, with no one physically present to catch me.
He spoke again. “Another favor, then?”
I had trouble finding my voice. When I did, I hoped against hope that it did not sound as high and trembling coming from the sound system in Thorne's terminal. “Yes, sir.”
“Ask Mrs. Fairfacs to tell Rule to meet me in the foyer.”
Again, a distant part of my mind wondered why he couldn't ask her himself. Again I kept my wonderings to myself and did what he asked. That task completed, I turned back to him. He was looking at me, his shadow-haunted eyes fixed on me intently. Unsure I could handle much more of his scrutiny, I asked, “Sir, shouldn't you read the text Mr. Rule sent before you meet him?”
Without sparing another word for me, Thorne's representation nodded and disappeared more quickly than my eyes could blink.
I held still, unable to breathe for the better part of half a minute. At last, I exhaled, the air shuddering out of me and rushing back in again so quickly that another faint threatened. I needed another minute before I could recall reality: the impatient student waiting for me on the other side of the door; the beautiful people residing beyond the next door; and shut within the solitude of his own lonely terminal, the master of Emhain Macha presiding over all of us, giving his friendship to me... and his body to another. Meanwhile, who knew what changes Mr. Rule's arrival would bring to the dynamic? That alone was enough to make me uneasy.
Yet another minute passed before I was ready to face reality. I pressed my cold hands to my warm face and breathed deeply until I could possess myself enough to log out. I was careful with how I spoke to Kirti upon my emergence. My voice was light and calm, detached even, as I told her that the readings had been a joke played by none other than her guardian, and no, he wasn't playing the joke any more. I let Kirti storm dramatically for her own room and terminal, to text Thorne a piece of her mind, leaving me alone with my concern for and about Thorne.
I looked to the PLED screen for a view of the sky just above this desert dwelling. Dusk had barely set foot in our vast jumble of rusty rocks. April. The skies had begun to stay lighter later, the night still young. I couldn't have cared less. All this repression was taking a great deal of energy.
I went to my wardrobe and pulled forth pajamas, deliberately foregoing the light muslin pair I'd worn the night of the fire in Thorne's bedroom. I'd not worn them since, in fact. Not even bothering to wash up, I dressed for bed and climbed between the pristine sheets.
I was so tired, but I could not sleep right away. I kept thinking about the change that had come over Thorne at the mention of Rule's name. I tossed, turned, stared at the PLED screen. The stars arrived for their nightly slow dance.
At some point I must have dozed off, however, because I woke to the sound of Thorne's voice in the hall near my door.
“Yeah, Rule,” he was calling, as if Rule were listening from the other end of the hall. “Okay. Good night, then.”
Thorne's voice sounded completely calm, almost cheerful. I forced my eyes to shut, regulating my breathing until sleep settled upon me like a too-heavy blanket.
