Holy Fire - Bruce Sterling [68]
“What a strange metaphor,” said Bouboule, thrilled. “I’ve never seen a virtuality this old that is still functional.”
“I wonder where we are,” Maya said. “I mean, I wonder where on earth all this is running.”
“This might not represent real processing,” Benedetta said. “This looks fantastic, but it could be the tripes of one little machine in a closet somewhere in Macau. You must never trust the presentation. Through another interface, this might look very quotidian and bourgeois.”
“Don’t be such a mule, Benedetta,” said Bouboule, excited. “Gerontocrats don’t live that way! No man who owned a place like this would come here just to fool his own eyes. This is an old man’s soulscape. An exclusive resort! A criminal enclave.”
“I wonder if any of these strange places are still inhabited. Maybe they are all dead, and still running on automatic. They are haunted castles in virtual sand.”
“Don’t talk that way,” Maya said tightly.
“Let’s fly!” Benedetta leapt gracefully from the edge of the parapet.
The spex went dark.
Benedetta gasped. “Oh! Pity! That broke the contact.”
They took their spex off, and gazed at one another silently.
“How did you come to own this palace?” Bouboule said at last.
“Don’t ask,” said Benedetta.
“Oh.” Bouboule smiled. “Did the old man leave you money, I hope?”
“If he did, I never found the treasure,” Maya said, folding her spex. “Not yet, anyway.” She tried to give the spex back.
“No, no,” Bouboule insisted, “you keep them. I’ll find you nicer ones. What’s your address?”
“No fixed address. No net address. Really, I’m just passing through.”
“Come and stay with me, if the wanderjahr takes you to Stuttgart. There’s plenty of room at my uncles’.”
“That’s very sweet of you,” said Maya. “You’re both so kind and generous to me—I scarcely know what to say.”
Benedetta and Bouboule exchanged the oddly guileless glances of young sophisticates. “Not at all,” said Benedetta. “We have our own little ways. We can always tell when we discover a sister spirit.”
“In the scene we are modern women,” declared Bouboule somberly, “who have made the decision to live free! We all have desires that don’t accord with the status quo. We are contemporary women! We gaze at the stars all together, or we die one by one in the gutter.”
Bouboule bent over suddenly. “What’s that? Oh, look, Patapouff found a nice mosquito! It’s a lucky sign. Let’s test our blood and do some stickers to celebrate. Something very warm and cozy.”
“I don’t know,” Benedetta demurred, “my lipid levels are so low lately.… Maybe a mineral water.”
“Me, too,” Maya said.
“Let’s get some nice boy to fetch us a drink,” said Bouboule. She plucked up the inert fabric computer and flapped it over her head.
“Who’s that guy that brought you?” Benedetta said to Maya. “Eugene?”
“I didn’t come here with Eugene.”
“Eugene is an idiot, isn’t he? I hate people who confuse algorithms and archetypes. Besides, he’s from Toronto.”
“Est-il Québecois?” said Bouboule, with interest.
“Toronto’s not in Quebec,” Maya said.
“C’est triste.… Oh, ciao Paul.”
“You’ve stolen the party, Benedetta,” said Paul, smiling. “This is Emil, from Praha. He’s a ceramicist. Emil, this is Maya, a model, and Benedetta, a programmer. And this is Bouboule. She’s our industry patroness.”
Emil bowed to Bouboule. “I’m told that we have met.”
“In a way,” said Bouboule, her face clouding. She rose, kissed Emil’s cheek briefly, and walked away. The marmoset ran after her and bounded onto her shoulder.
“They were lovers once,” Benedetta explained, wrinkling her nose.
Emil sat down mournfully. “Was I really that woman’s lover?”
“Don’t talk scandal, Benedetta,” Paul chided. “Let me see the furoshiki.” He set his notebook down. “Emil, this device is fascinating, you should