Asimov's Science Fiction: March 2014 by Penny Publications
Authors: Penny Publications
Tags: Asimov's #458
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called the son Prahlad last month when she had found Mrs. Banerjee sorting through the Daughertys' garbage at night.
"I am not confused," said Mrs. Banerjee, "and I will never lie in those coffins."
"Nobody wants you to, Emily."
"I watched it on the teevee—just now. Those coffins are small." She spread her palms. "This wide, maybe. And not much longer even." The way her hands shook reminded Remeny of Robby. "They lie awake in the coffin so they can always call other people on the internet but there is no room. Not for everyone. The internet is too small, too, even for an old woman."
Teevee? The internet? Remeny didn't want to laugh because this was sad. But talk about oldschool.
"Don't worry, Emily," said Mom. "Prahlad is coming soon."
"Yeah, it's okay, Mrs. Bannerjee," said Remeny. "You don't have to call people if you don't want."
Mrs. Banerjee glanced up at Remeny. "You're the girl. Rachel's child. Isn't there a brother?" She pointed a finger as if in accusation. "We never see you kids playing anymore."
"Johanna, that's right. We're all grown up now."
"You know in those coffins? The people?" Mrs. Banerjee leaned toward her. "Do you know what they call them?" Her voice was low. "Trash. I swear it, Sadhir was with me, he heard too."
Remeny and Mom exchanged glances.
"You mean stash?" said Remeny.
"Stash?" Mrs. Banerjee rocked back and gazed up at the darkening sky for a moment. "Yes. That was it." She nodded at them. "Stash." Her mouth puckered as if she could taste the word.
The Daughertys gathered their weekly family dinners in softtime because Dad was so often on location and Robby couldn't leave his room, much less sit at table. Besides, her brother's two thousand calorie high-bulk liquid diet looked to Remeny like just-mixed cement. Not appetizing. Mom had paid for a space in the family domain that recreated the actual dining room at 7 Forest Ridge Road. A buffet with a marble top matched a china closet with glass doors. Its dining room table could seat ten comfortably but had just the four upholstered chairs gathered around one end. The furniture was all dark maple in some crazy oldschool style that featured arabesque inlays, fleur-de-lis and Corinthian columns. The meal that nobody was going to eat was straight out of the darkest twentieth century: a platter of roast chicken—with
bones—
bowls of mashed potatoes and green beans with pearl onions, a basket of rolls. Remeny thought the whole show a waste of processing power; in soft-time you were supposed to challenge reality, not just fake it. But this was what Mom wanted and Dad always humored her. Robby and Remeny didn't have a vote.
"The kids were working on their coop today," said Mom.
"They're on the same team?" Dad liked to sit at these meals with a knife in one hand and a fork in the other, even though all they did was stare at the virtual food. The kids could have made their avatars appear to eat, but their parents, Mom especially, had yet to master the tricks of full immersion. "How does that happen?"
"Just lucky, I guess." Remeny's dinner was the leftover smoothie and snap peas out of the bag. She ate in her room.
"So what's it about?"
"It's kind of boring actually." After talking to Robby that afternoon, Remeny had been hoping coop wouldn't come up.
"No, it isn't." Her brother opened their private channel with a.(4) impatience blip.
=We should have this conversation now.=
=They'll want to talk about it all night. I'm going out later.=
"Something to do with the Declaration of Independence?" Apparently Mom had been paying attention after all.
=With Silk?=
=None of your business.=
"Oh, right," said Dad. "We the people blah blah in order to form a more perfect union of whatever." Remeny had been hoping that Dad would take the conversation over, as he usually did. "I've always wondered how you get to be more perfect. I played James Madison once, you know, he was a shrimp, five feet four—what's that in meters?"
"A hundred and
"I am not confused," said Mrs. Banerjee, "and I will never lie in those coffins."
"Nobody wants you to, Emily."
"I watched it on the teevee—just now. Those coffins are small." She spread her palms. "This wide, maybe. And not much longer even." The way her hands shook reminded Remeny of Robby. "They lie awake in the coffin so they can always call other people on the internet but there is no room. Not for everyone. The internet is too small, too, even for an old woman."
Teevee? The internet? Remeny didn't want to laugh because this was sad. But talk about oldschool.
"Don't worry, Emily," said Mom. "Prahlad is coming soon."
"Yeah, it's okay, Mrs. Bannerjee," said Remeny. "You don't have to call people if you don't want."
Mrs. Banerjee glanced up at Remeny. "You're the girl. Rachel's child. Isn't there a brother?" She pointed a finger as if in accusation. "We never see you kids playing anymore."
"Johanna, that's right. We're all grown up now."
"You know in those coffins? The people?" Mrs. Banerjee leaned toward her. "Do you know what they call them?" Her voice was low. "Trash. I swear it, Sadhir was with me, he heard too."
Remeny and Mom exchanged glances.
"You mean stash?" said Remeny.
"Stash?" Mrs. Banerjee rocked back and gazed up at the darkening sky for a moment. "Yes. That was it." She nodded at them. "Stash." Her mouth puckered as if she could taste the word.
The Daughertys gathered their weekly family dinners in softtime because Dad was so often on location and Robby couldn't leave his room, much less sit at table. Besides, her brother's two thousand calorie high-bulk liquid diet looked to Remeny like just-mixed cement. Not appetizing. Mom had paid for a space in the family domain that recreated the actual dining room at 7 Forest Ridge Road. A buffet with a marble top matched a china closet with glass doors. Its dining room table could seat ten comfortably but had just the four upholstered chairs gathered around one end. The furniture was all dark maple in some crazy oldschool style that featured arabesque inlays, fleur-de-lis and Corinthian columns. The meal that nobody was going to eat was straight out of the darkest twentieth century: a platter of roast chicken—with
bones—
bowls of mashed potatoes and green beans with pearl onions, a basket of rolls. Remeny thought the whole show a waste of processing power; in soft-time you were supposed to challenge reality, not just fake it. But this was what Mom wanted and Dad always humored her. Robby and Remeny didn't have a vote.
"The kids were working on their coop today," said Mom.
"They're on the same team?" Dad liked to sit at these meals with a knife in one hand and a fork in the other, even though all they did was stare at the virtual food. The kids could have made their avatars appear to eat, but their parents, Mom especially, had yet to master the tricks of full immersion. "How does that happen?"
"Just lucky, I guess." Remeny's dinner was the leftover smoothie and snap peas out of the bag. She ate in her room.
"So what's it about?"
"It's kind of boring actually." After talking to Robby that afternoon, Remeny had been hoping coop wouldn't come up.
"No, it isn't." Her brother opened their private channel with a.(4) impatience blip.
=We should have this conversation now.=
=They'll want to talk about it all night. I'm going out later.=
"Something to do with the Declaration of Independence?" Apparently Mom had been paying attention after all.
=With Silk?=
=None of your business.=
"Oh, right," said Dad. "We the people blah blah in order to form a more perfect union of whatever." Remeny had been hoping that Dad would take the conversation over, as he usually did. "I've always wondered how you get to be more perfect. I played James Madison once, you know, he was a shrimp, five feet four—what's that in meters?"
"A hundred and
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