The Caryatids

you.”

“Oh my God,” said Herbert, “please don’t tell her that!”

“Herbert, you are a genius,” Djordje told him. “Every one of those girls has got a genius on the hook, someplace! The caryatids pick men up like carpet tacks. They are like a magnetic field.”

Djordje emptied his glass. “Do you know what makes me so happy, tonight? I have both of you here, on my old boat. At last, I am saving you. It’s like I dug you two out of a coffin. No skull helmets on you, no skeleton bones on you! We’re all free! I took you offshore! We are far outside the limits of the Mljet everyware!”

Djordje wildly waved his arms at the cloud-streaked twilight. “So: Go ahead! Access your mediation! Boot an augment! There’s nothing out here! We’re free and out at sea! I haven’t been this happy since I stole this boat ten years ago.”

“Can I have more of that wine?” said Vera. The two men clashed as they grabbed for the bottle. Herbert hastily topped up her glass.

“My children love this boat,” said Djordje.

“I would imagine,” said Herbert.

“They love life aboard here, nothing but wind and sea,” said Djordje. “Because kids are kids! Kids are the ultimate check on reality! You can’t have a posthuman, brain-mapped toddler.”

“There’s a lot to what this man says,” Herbert offered. He found a wheel of soft cheese inside the picnic basket. “When I was a kid, my granddad had a sheep station. We didn’t even have television out there. Life was life.”

The sun was fading over distant Italy, and the evening breeze grew sharper. The little yacht held its course across the Adriatic, leaning, jumping the chop.

“I stole this boat because it is a simple boat,” said Djordje. “I could have stolen a fancy boat. The harbor was so full of them. The boats of rich idiots. All hooked up to their maps and global satellites.” He laughed. “I cut that chip out of my arm—they never found me. This boat was just wood and water. Nothing else! The web ran out of ways to spy.”

Vera found her voice. It was raw, but it was her own. “Do you spy on me with your web, Djordje?”

“A little, Vera. I have to look after you a little. You’re a danger to yourself and others.”

“How is your wife, Djordje?”

“Call me George,” he said. “My dear wife, Inke, is just fine.”

“Inke doesn’t get a little bored with you? With her church, and her kids, and her kitchen?”

“That’s right, Your Highness,” said Djordje, with a level stare. “My Inke is a boring woman. She is nothing like you. My Inke believes in God, she’s a mother, she’s a housewife. She’s a real human being, and she’s worth about a thousand of you.”

Vera shrank back in her deck chair, hissing through her teeth.

“Don’t hurt Vera’s feelings,” said Herbert.

Djordje shrugged. “As long as we have the facts confirmed.”

“The fact is that Vera is a very fine Acquis officer.”

Djordje wasn’t having any of this. “Look, we’re all family now, so spare me your politics. Me, the wife, the kids: We are not political peo­ple. We’re the real people in the real world. Okay? You fanatics and po­liticals and geeks and crusading communists… You say you want to save the world? Well, we are the world you’re trying to save. We’re the normal people.”

Herbert emptied his glass. “I can sympathize.”

“I am normal, I live decently. I have shareholders and eighteen hun­dred employees in Vienna. I’m into import-export and arbitrage, logistics, shipping-and-packaging. Industrial everyware: That’s me, George Zweig.”

“I do understand that, George. Please calm down.”

A ghastly moment passed. Djordje was not getting calmer. “I’m okay, Herbert. I’m fine with life, I’m fine with all of it. It’s a family thing, you understand? It’s not too easy for me to be with your little bride here. I’m the rational one among our group. Really.”

“This world is so full of trouble,” said Herbert.

“Just keep Vera out of jails and camps,” said Djordje. “Vera is the sweet one. Sonja is a soldier. Sonja is killing people. They should arrest Sonja. They should arrest Biserka. They should try to arrest my mother.”

“I hate you,” said Vera. She spat over the side of the boat.

“Shut up,” Djordje explained.

“I want you to die, Djordje. To hell with you and your precious chil­dren and your stinking little wife. If I had my boneware on, I’d break you into bloody pieces.”

“Well, you can’t break me, you little whore! You never could, you never can, and you never will.”

She lashed out. “I’m not going to marry him!”

Djordje was stunned. “You love him. You said you would marry him.”

“I never said yes to him. You didn’t hear me say yes.”

Djordje looked at Herbert. He offered a sickening smile. “Women.”

“I’m not marrying anybody. Never.”

“You’re a virgin,” said Djordje, like a curse. “You’re not human. You’re a robot. You’re a walking corpse.”

“Look, don’t do this to each other,” Herbert told them. “This is really bad.”

“No, this is good,” said Djordje. “I want to hear this little bitch spit out what she wants! You want to sell this guy out? You want to go for the big money! At the end of the day, our home belongs to you, doesn’t it? It’s all about you, Vera, you, you, you!”

Vera jumped to her feet. “I’m going to kill you now.”

Djordje was out of his chair in an instant. With a roundhouse swing. of his right hand, he knocked her to the deck. With a roar, Herbert rose. He threw his brawny arms around Djordje. His bear hug lifted Djordje from his feet.

“You little slut!” Djordje howled, kicking his legs in a frenzy. “I owe you a lot more than that!”

Vera watched the two men struggle. She touched her flaming, bat­tered cheek, and lifted her gaze. Overhead, uncaring stars dotted the troubled skies.

She took one deep sobbing breath, and flung herself into the sea.

Part Two RADMILA Los Angeles

RADMILA CLIMBED DOWN THE THROAT of the rehearsal pit. Her skirt floated around her kneecaps, a jeweled mass of air-tecture, bro­cade, and electric chiffon.

Glyn spoke up in her earpiece. “Mila, get back up here.”

“I need one last run-through for my chair stunt. Just to test this cos­tume.”

“You are perfect,” Glyn pronounced. “You were perfect when you left makeup.”

“This is for Toddy. Tonight I’ve got to be superperfect.”

“Roger that,” said Glyn, a little sourly.

Radmila found her footing in the blackness. Sensing her presence, the rehearsal space woke around her. Wireframe exploded from the darkness. Prop sticks tumbled loose from their racks and flew like flung batons. The sticks clanged together, joining end-to-end.

The pit suddenly held the skeletal frame of a theater set: couches, a chair.

“Okay,” Glyn told her, “you are a go.”

Radmila dug her reactive slippers into the memory foam. “This pit is good. This place is so state-of-the-art. This is, totally, the hottest re­hearsal pit that the Family-Firm has ever built.”

“Just watch your hat,” said Glyn patiently.