was on the second floor. But I shook my head. “Nope.”
*
Her name was Anca. Romanian born. She was fluent in three languages—four if you counted an obscure source code imbedded in a thousand or so of the early DAT model implants. The tech in those old implants was so clunky that you couldn’t remove them from the host brain without risking serious tissue damage. I knew these facts because I knew Anca, slightly. My partner at NanOptions, Dario Crow, had one of the old implants. Dario was old, that’s why he had one. He and my father had been partners. Until dad’s single-minded pursuit of a workable neuro-stim device collapsed under the weight of his misconceived approach and bankrupted the first incarnation of NanOptions. Twenty years or so later I came along, little Jackie all grown up and twice as clever as his old man. Or so I thought.
Anyway, Dario introduced me to Anca who was helping correct a glitch that had occurred between his DAT and his more contemporary retinal repeater. That was weeks ago.
“Hey, I know you,” I said when she opened the door to her apartment. She smiled shyly and didn’t meet my eyes.
“And I know you too, Jack Porter.”
“Ah, here’s your Flirt.” I handed it to her.
“Thanks. It’s not really mine. I borrowed it. How can I afford such silliness? And I asked Dario for your People Finder number, for the little Fairy to know where to go. So you see it’s a grand conspiracy.”
“You think it’s grand, huh?”
She giggled, quirking her lips as if the giggle were a bug that wanted to get out—a bug that she was fond of keeping in .
“Would you—?” She opened the door wider.
I stepped past her into the room. I’m no giant at five ten, but Anca was boyishly small, almost frail and no taller than a twelve year old. She looked starved but cooking smells wafted from the efficiency kitchen. Something boily with cabbage. Her apartment was like the rest of the building. Old, run down, reasonably clean, and too dark. It was the brown carpet and all that stained wood. Lamp light absorbed into it. The overall effect was a little depressing. I resisted transmitting.
“Some wine?” she said.
“Sure.”
When she handed me the glass she met my eyes briefly then looked away again.
“That Flirt. I’m not for fads, I mean I would never—”
“It’s okay,” I said.
“Do you want to watch the review?”
“Absolutely.”
It was one of those cheap liquid screens. It rippled like wind over a puddle, then a jerky image appeared. Me waving a magazine, being dive-bombed, etc. Anca suddenly turned it off.
“Oh, well,” she said.
“What?”
“It’s so silly. I liked you, you know. So—”
I touched her hand.
*
She clung to me in the dark of the bedroom, her boyish chest crushed against me. I could feel her bones. Her fingers were cold. Rain popped on a fabric awning outside her window. Don’t go , she’d whispered before falling asleep, as though she knew me.
I caused endorphins to occur and eventually slept.
*
She caught me at it over orange juice the next morning. Caught me adjusting brain chemistry.
“What are you doing when you close your eyes like that?”
“It’s a neuro stimulation device.” I tapped my forehead with two fingers.
“Oh. Dario told me about that. You’re going to make millions, yes?”
“Maybe. We’re at the experimental stage. I’m the guinea pig. Just like your old DATS, only this thing can be easily removed. NanoBotz lay a gossamer web over the brain, attaching to axon fibers. Consciously directed electrical microbursts release chemical molecules from the neuron sacks at the end of the fibers, transmitting them to receiving neurons. It’s great tech.”
“Hmm.” She bit into an apple slice and chewed slowly.
“What?”
“How do you know what you really feel?”
“It’s not that dramatic. It just allows you to have more of what you already possess.”
“It sounds a little terrible, though.”
“God I
*
Her name was Anca. Romanian born. She was fluent in three languages—four if you counted an obscure source code imbedded in a thousand or so of the early DAT model implants. The tech in those old implants was so clunky that you couldn’t remove them from the host brain without risking serious tissue damage. I knew these facts because I knew Anca, slightly. My partner at NanOptions, Dario Crow, had one of the old implants. Dario was old, that’s why he had one. He and my father had been partners. Until dad’s single-minded pursuit of a workable neuro-stim device collapsed under the weight of his misconceived approach and bankrupted the first incarnation of NanOptions. Twenty years or so later I came along, little Jackie all grown up and twice as clever as his old man. Or so I thought.
Anyway, Dario introduced me to Anca who was helping correct a glitch that had occurred between his DAT and his more contemporary retinal repeater. That was weeks ago.
“Hey, I know you,” I said when she opened the door to her apartment. She smiled shyly and didn’t meet my eyes.
“And I know you too, Jack Porter.”
“Ah, here’s your Flirt.” I handed it to her.
“Thanks. It’s not really mine. I borrowed it. How can I afford such silliness? And I asked Dario for your People Finder number, for the little Fairy to know where to go. So you see it’s a grand conspiracy.”
“You think it’s grand, huh?”
She giggled, quirking her lips as if the giggle were a bug that wanted to get out—a bug that she was fond of keeping in .
“Would you—?” She opened the door wider.
I stepped past her into the room. I’m no giant at five ten, but Anca was boyishly small, almost frail and no taller than a twelve year old. She looked starved but cooking smells wafted from the efficiency kitchen. Something boily with cabbage. Her apartment was like the rest of the building. Old, run down, reasonably clean, and too dark. It was the brown carpet and all that stained wood. Lamp light absorbed into it. The overall effect was a little depressing. I resisted transmitting.
“Some wine?” she said.
“Sure.”
When she handed me the glass she met my eyes briefly then looked away again.
“That Flirt. I’m not for fads, I mean I would never—”
“It’s okay,” I said.
“Do you want to watch the review?”
“Absolutely.”
It was one of those cheap liquid screens. It rippled like wind over a puddle, then a jerky image appeared. Me waving a magazine, being dive-bombed, etc. Anca suddenly turned it off.
“Oh, well,” she said.
“What?”
“It’s so silly. I liked you, you know. So—”
I touched her hand.
*
She clung to me in the dark of the bedroom, her boyish chest crushed against me. I could feel her bones. Her fingers were cold. Rain popped on a fabric awning outside her window. Don’t go , she’d whispered before falling asleep, as though she knew me.
I caused endorphins to occur and eventually slept.
*
She caught me at it over orange juice the next morning. Caught me adjusting brain chemistry.
“What are you doing when you close your eyes like that?”
“It’s a neuro stimulation device.” I tapped my forehead with two fingers.
“Oh. Dario told me about that. You’re going to make millions, yes?”
“Maybe. We’re at the experimental stage. I’m the guinea pig. Just like your old DATS, only this thing can be easily removed. NanoBotz lay a gossamer web over the brain, attaching to axon fibers. Consciously directed electrical microbursts release chemical molecules from the neuron sacks at the end of the fibers, transmitting them to receiving neurons. It’s great tech.”
“Hmm.” She bit into an apple slice and chewed slowly.
“What?”
“How do you know what you really feel?”
“It’s not that dramatic. It just allows you to have more of what you already possess.”
“It sounds a little terrible, though.”
“God I
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