After much searching, Swan found his guide at the Temple of the Purple Loon. She’d been sitting on the steps waiting for him “all along,” she said. Or maybe the creative brain of the Cloudscape, detecting his lack of progress, formulated her at a critical moment. Her name was Ting Ting and she was a rascally sort of girl with eyes that reacted to everything. Her golden silk pajamas were embroidered with dragonflies. She wore her abundant hair in two enormous pigtails. All of these facets appealed to Swan and he knew they’d be perfect for each other.
The city itself was ancient, still under construction, and Swan was the first to visit. She tugged him by his sleeve as they dodged people and carts on their way to visit the most illustrious sights: the camel races, the parade of the Eunuch Army, the Tower of Li, the Bangzis Symphony, the Giant Head of Chow. Then, having reached the district where all the buildings were painted with blossoms and deer, they climbed to the top of a high arched footbridge. Varicolored houses shimmered all around them. Iron dragons snarled from the curled-up eves. Side by side they stood, hands close on the rail, staring down at the mist that hovered above the river like a long white beard.
“The waters blanch with paleness,” she said.
“You’re funny.”
“The mists obscure the river the way thoughts obscure my feelings.”
“You sound like somebody in a love story.”
“A love story?”
Her tone surprised him. “I’m really into love stories,” he whispered as he glanced down at the swirling vapor.
When he looked up again, Ting Ting’s eyes seemed to flicker. She laid her hand on top of his. He turned his palm upwards to meet her grasp, pulled her lightly around as she fell into his arms.
Her nose brushed his cheek as they came together. Her lips corresponded perfectly to his own. Syntheromones surged into Swan’s nostrils. From the corner of his eye, a cloud of chrome-colored canaries burst across the sky and, as if this were a signal, Ting Ting’s tongue slipped into his mouth. They took turns probing one another as the mist rose all around them.
Everything was perfect.
By touching the Quickloop button embedded in his glove, Swan was able to replay the kiss over and over, and a sensation of sweetness and longing flowed into his heart like the rush of an intoxicating drug.
In the real world—the inferior one—he was alone, or more precisely, wedged between the toilet and the wall, illuminated by his Immerzo’s pulsing cover. As his tongue stroked the interior surface of the Orfak, he stood in the posture of cuddling the girl, bent forward, face tilted, arms encircling empty air, while his FeelgoodSuit mirror-mapped her body.
Swan did his traveling in the bathroom for practical reasons. He stockpiled dieCo and buns there and could relieve himself without decoupling. He was able to stay in Bang Fan, or anyplace else, for as long as he wanted.
But now, as the kiss wore on, he’d become bored with the ecstasy. He felt tired. He was very hungry, and he wondered if Ting Ting would mind if he just lay down on the damp planks for a while. How many hours had they passed here on this bridge? How many days? Absorbed in the kiss, he’d completely forgotten to eat.
Still probing her mouth with his tongue, he stretched his fingers across continents and centuries to skim his bathroom counter for food. His gloves had openings at the second segment of every finger, but all he could feel was the coolness of the palladium countertop, the edges of the console, and the scattering of empty wrappers.
By pressing a button on his glove he could let the action move forward. He pulled his body away from Ting Ting a little as he fumbled for the shut off switch under his belt. Her face with its puzzled expression faded. The resistance of her body melted away. Ting Ting and Bang Fan dematerialized into ether and emptiness though he felt the alarm in her heart linger a little longer. He pulled away his sensMask and uncoupled the flow tubes. As he tugged off his gloves his jacket depressurized. The propriositors detached one by one. He thought how he’d abandoned Ting Ting and embraced her at the same moment. Tears welled up in his eyes and he smeared them away with his palms. It was hunger that made him act like this, and of course he knew he could resurrect Ting Ting later. Right now—the important thing—he really had to eat.
Swan’s knee banged against the door frame as he careened into his kitchen, a narrow space behind a chest-high counter that divided it from the bigger room. Like every other kitchen in his building, it was made from a single piece of molded polyoxymethylene, complete with cabinets and numerous cubbyholes. He stored an extra bag of buns here for just this type of emergency. But which compartment was it…? At last he felt the crumpled package behind a wad of doll things. As he pulled it out, little swords and guns and bras and panties fell to the counter and the floor. The label on the bag depicted a tree that sprouted bright blue buns. Saliva poured into Swan’s mouth.
Thermoplastic packaging was difficult to open. As he struggled, he glanced up at the reflecto on the surface of his cupboard. He couldn’t recognize himself. Swan would be nineteen in another week but appeared much older. Long strands of damp hair were glued to his face. The whiskers on his chin were bent to one side. There were welts from the sensMask and dark crescents under his eyes. His collar bones, which showed through the open neck of his FeelgoodSuit, stood out like shelves.
He managed to tear a wrapper from a bun and stuff it in his mouth. It was too big. He spit half of it back into his hand.
He hated this! He hated coming here. He hated to see this pasty-faced person in the dreary apartment piled high with clutter. He hated the ugliness. He hated himself.
And yet, he was aware, if this miserable person in the reflecto were to die, the other, better Swan would die along with him. Ting Ting would not be resurrected. The ancient city of Bang Fan, its people and glorious culture, would be left as a random possibility for some other, less worthy traveler.
He tottered around the counter into his room with the bag of remaining buns in his hand. An image of gently swirling clouds rippled across the walls and ceiling, casting a silvery pall over every object. His arrival caused this vaporous image to brighten. The slowly churning clouds were meant to calm him though he felt anything but calm. The rest of his surroundings—the bed, the desktop, the floor—were littered with a variety of objects coated in the dust of his own dead skin. Clothing was heaped everywhere. Shoes and childish toys lay scattered. Old VR consoles—the EconoFox, the Luvtek, the Gnub, all obsolete—were piled up along with their accessories. There was a pornEgg, a Transmitto, eight or nine Orgs, his wooly lamb. His surviving dollies were standing aloof on the countertop, isolated from the rubbish. They wiggled playfully whenever he looked at them. Sen was the only one he still cared about. Today she wore a translucent skirt with vinylite straps, her chromelace stockings didn’t quite reach the hem. Sen had been with Swan since the beginning—practically. Now she held her vaporizing pistol with one hand while the other was raised in a victory fist. Sen winked at him as he waved his sweaty palm. She’d be jealous of Ting Ting if she knew. Swan’s legs wobbled. He steadied himself with the folding chair which leaned against the wall. It clicked open and he shoved it to a place he’d cleared with his foot. The seat creaked as he devoured his buns while all his dollies watched him.
Wires woven into the fabric of his FeelgoodSuit pressed into his ass. Crumbs tumbled into his collar. Algae powder dusted his concave chest. Discarded wrappers fell all around him. Now that he’d finally eaten something, he felt even hungrier. He had to go to the store; the one thing he felt least capable of doing.
Using his fingernails, he scraped powder mixed with sweat from his skin and licked it off his fingertips. Could he stand up…? Yes. He kicked at the bric-a-brac as he crossed the room. His door opened inwards and he paused at its threshold and leaned into the hall…. Nobody seemed to be around. The coast was clear.
I finally got around to replacing the Ting Ting close up picture with a variation of the Ting Ting image I did originally. Ting Ting is supposed to be Swan's "ideal type." I'm still not a huge fan of the wider shot but I guess I agree that she looks less "demented." Hope the commenters below a chance to look at this again. -Rb
The drawing reminds me of an aphex twin album cover