Glasshouse - Charles Stross [42]
BY the end of our lunch, I think I’ve got a handle on them. Angel means well but is too calculatedly fearful for her own good. She’s afraid of stepping out of line, unwilling to jeopardize her score, and worried about what people will think of her. This combination makes her an easy target for Jen, who is flamboyant and aggressively extroverted on the outside, but uses it to conceal an insecure need for approval, which leads her to bully people until they give it to her. She’s as ruthless as anyone I can recall meeting since my memory surgery, and I’ve met some hardcases around the clinic. The surgeon-confessors tend to attract such. (What’s even more disturbing is that I have faint ghost-recollections of knowing similar people before, but with no details attached. Who they were or what they meant to me has sunk into the abyss where memories go when their owners no longer need them.)
The two of them, working by unspoken assent, appoint themselves as my personal shopping assistants for the afternoon. They’re not crude about it, but they’re very persistent and make no real attempt to conceal their desire to modify my behavior along lines compatible with their enhanced scorefiles.
After coffee and cakes (for which Angel pays), they escort me to a series of establishments. In the first of these I am subjected to the attentions of a hairstylist. Angel sits with me and chats interminably about kitchen appliances while Jen goes off somewhere to do something of her own, and the zombie immobilizes me and applies a fearsome array of knives, combs, chemical reagents, and compact machine tools to my head. Once I get out of the chair, I have to admit that my hair’s different—it’s still long, but it’s several shades lighter, and whenever I turn my head it moves like a solid lump of foamed plastic.
“Perhaps we should get you some clothing for tomorrow,” Jen says, smiling broadly. It’s phrased as a suggestion, but the way she says it makes it an order. They lead me through a series of boutiques, where I am induced to present my credit card. She insists that I try on the costume, and while I’m showing her how it looks, Angel gets the store zombies to parcel up my stuff. I end up looking like one of them, the ladies who lunch. “We’re getting there,” Jen says, something almost like approval on her face. “You need a makeover, though.”
“A what?”
They just laugh at me. Probably just as well; if they told me in advance, I’d try to escape. And, as I keep reminding myself (with an increasing sense of dread), I’ll have nearly a hundred tendays—three years—in which to regret any mistakes I make today.
THE lights are turning red and sinking toward the tunnel at the edge of the world when the taxi we’re crammed into stops outside my house, and the door opens. “Go on,” says Angel, pushing my bag at me, “go and surprise him. He’ll have had a long day and will need cheering up.” I realize she’s using the generic he—they don’t care who he is, all they care about is the fact that he’s my husband, and we can earn them points.
“Okay, I’m going, I’m going,” I say, harassed. I take the bag, and as I turn, something bites me on the leg. “Hey!” I look round but the taxi is already pulling away. “Shit,” I mumble. My leg throbs. I reach down and feel something lumpy stuck in it. I pull it out. It’s some sort of lozenge with a needle coming out of one end. “Shit.” I stumble up the path in the new shoes they insisted I buy—the heels are steeper and less comfortable than the first pair—and in through the door. I dump the bags and head for the living room, where the TV is on. Sam is lying in front of it, his eyes closed and his tie loosened, and I feel a stab of compassion for him. The injection point on my leg aches, a cold reminder.
“Sam. Wake up!” I shake his shoulder. “I need your help!”
“Whu—” He