Longer

–SEVEN–

Face-to-face with it, Dash thought that Cav was pulling his leg. That he’d gotten him up under false pretenses, for a different, as-yet-unannounced purpose.

“You’re saying that’s alive?”

“Working hypothesis.”

“Is it even organic?”

“Best guess: yes.”

“It looks like puke.”

“So I’ve been told.”

They were suited, helmeted, and gloved. Cav extended a hand and draped it lightly atop the Ooi, as he had done previously. All living things on Earth had a pulse of some kind. It varied enormously, and in the long, fruitful history of describing and categorizing life on Earth had often been missed, and a living thing had been taken for nonliving, or possibly once living, now dead. Human perception was limited. Human imagination was also limited: perceptions went unrecognized simply because they had nowhere to go. Add to this the hugeness of the universe, where a creature might exist without a pulse, or with a pulse that beat once every million years. You just never knew.

“You try,” he said, removing his hand.

Dash started with a finger, then two, then all five. He felt more glove than anything at first, and pressed slightly harder. Suddenly the Ooi sprang to life with contour and dimensionality: he felt peaks, valleys, ridges, draws, craters. He felt hardness, too, and roughness in spots, smoothness in other spots. All very rocklike. No softness, no give, no inner plasticity or suppleness.

He glanced at Cav, gave a shrug.

“Try closing your eyes. Empty your mind of preconceptions.”

He did this, stilled his breathing, and alerted himself to the faintest, weakest signal.

He waited.

And waited.

At length he felt something.

Or almost something. An incipient something, like a secret about to be spoken, a feint followed by a gradual retreat, an impending sneeze, or rather the suggestion of a sneeze, a sneeze that fizzles. Like that. Present for the briefest time, then gone.

“What?” asked Cav. “What is it?”

“It disappeared.”

“What disappeared?”

He tried to describe it.

“Movement? A pulse of some kind?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Probably nothing. Probably me, not it. I need to touch it with my bare skin. Without gloves.”

“Yes. Me, too. And smell it. And taste it.”

Dash gave him a look. “Your tongue? Really?”

“Or yours.”

A joke, from anyone else.

“Is it more sensitive, too?”

“My tongue?”

Cav nodded. “To touch.”

He hadn’t noticed. Taste was such a dominant sense. “Leave it to you to ask.”

Cav was thinking about hair on the tongue, baboon or otherwise, and how it might be put to use.

Dash pressed the tip of his against his teeth. “And the risk of contamination?”

“Use a condom.”

“On my tongue? Wouldn’t that defeat the purpose?”

“We’ll leave taste for last. How’s that?”

While the HUBIES were thawing, and the men were manning around, Gunjita was in the cupola, debating with herself. They’d been on the station nearly a month, had less than a week remaining, but she wanted to leave at once.

It wasn’t because of Dash. It wasn’t the HUBIES. It wasn’t Cav’s craziness around the Ooi. The craziness was a veil.

It was what was going to happen when the veil came off.

He was planning to end his life. She’d seen the drugs he’d brought and tried to hide. She knew what was going through his mind.

The idea was awful in too many ways to count.

What she didn’t understand: if there was anything Cav hated more than deceit, it was self-deceit. Honesty-Whatever-the-Cost was his nom de guerre. So why was he acting this way? He seemed to be lying to her and to himself. Was he undecided? Did he need more time?

Did it matter? Either way, she was a hostage.

She felt trapped. The tension onboard was like a cage, and she longed to break free of it.

Earth was dark beneath her. Beads and blotches and smears of light glittered the globe. Then sunrise came, and the globe turned blue and white.

Blue for the Indian Ocean, which spooled into view. White for the clouds, which hung like shreds of paper over it. Also over the landmass of southern India, half hiding its parched brown interior, and the fringe of green along the Kerala coast. Sri Lanka, a recent powerhouse in the global economy, appeared to be nosing its way toward the mainland, with the intention of taking a bite.

And now the Himalayas, a long, curved fold in the Earth’s pie crust, sprinkled with powdered sugar. The Ganges snaking south. Rishikesh, her birthplace, in the foothills, on the great river’s shore.

She thought of her parents, both of them deceased. Her father, a happy, soft-spoken teacher. Her mother, a successful businesswoman, energetic and ambitious. Gunjita took after her mother. Had headed a lab for the better part of two lifetimes. Had shaped and commanded battalions of scientists. Had created a stronghold of research, which had not only withstood the steady assault on science but had become iconic in the field. A safe, protected place. A haven for free but disciplined thinkers. A refuge for the best and the brightest, where failures, by definition, rarely occurred.

She was on leave, could return at any time. Hard to think of anything to rival it, though she could do without the money part. The funding, the begging, the paperwork, the courtship. It was a constant struggle to survive.

But the life of the mind. Of discovery. What could be better? What exercise could come close to the exercise of logic?

She made a fist of her hand. Opened it, closed it. Hardened her abs, and ran her fingers down the ladder.

There wasn’t much of one. The runs were soft and ill-defined. She’d never had the inclination or the time to make them otherwise. Now she thought, why not? Nothing wrong with definition. Might be nice for a change.

She could take one of the shuttles and escape. Become a gym rat instead of a lab rat, or in addition. Widen the scope of her life. Embrace the physical. Add muscle strength and flexibility to what she already mentally possessed.

She could be an athlete.

A dancer.

A reforester. A firefighter. Plenty of work on Earth for both of those.

A cop.

A tunneler. The trans-Pac tube was always looking for muscle and brawn.

Her father had practiced yoga. She could do that, but seriously this time.

Her very first memory was yoga-related. A harsh, irritating smell: smoke, she was told later. Her father had let something burn on the stove. Lost in his head, the story went. Or on his head. Salamba Sirsana. So maybe not that pose.

But there was another smell along with the harsh one, perfumey and sweet. It might have occurred later, or possibly at the same time. The two were interwoven in her mind, indelibly linked: harshness and sweetness. She never asked herself why. But when she got older, she started asking other questions, like what, where, and how.

What made a smell? How was smell recognized? What did the brain do with it, and how did it decide which smells to funnel where, which to network, and which to disregard? Was there truly such a thing as odorless? A human being had six million smell receptors, compared to a dog’s two hundred and twenty mil. Would we be better off with a few more? A few less? Was there really a difference between women and men in smelling ability, and if so, how could this be exploited?

So much to learn. Such a core sensation. So primitive, and resistant to time’s corrosive effect.

She would never forget her father’s smell. He was the family cook. His fingertips were stained with turmeric and cumin. But stronger than that smell, more deeply ingrained in her, was the scent of his oiled hair, which made her forever partial to roses.

When it came to smell, everybody had a story.

But not everybody cared to unravel the story as much as Gunjita did. She had helped develop the OE vaccine, was at the forefront of OSN transplantation. There’d be no Watchdog Council without her, no ORA. No HUBIES, either.

She’d blamed Dash at first. Then herself, for training and mentoring him. Reasonable targets, but ridiculous. She might as well have blamed the Swiss for Swiss cheese. Or Albert, for the explosion.

He was a scientist, same as her. He took what he learned and ran with it. Not only that, he responded to a call. A loyal citizen of Earth. What better justification?

If only they looked different. Stranger, more alien, less human. If only they didn’t resemble young children so much.

How did he wrap his head around that?

She was glad that he’d come, despite herself. Of course it was awkward, but they were adults. They’d get past it. He was good for Cav, which meant good for her. Maybe he could talk him out of his madness.

She checked the time. The moment of truth was approaching. Mentally, she’d been preparing herself. She was looking forward to doing without her helmet and cumbersome suit. Had to be grateful to them for that. Gratitude was better than much of what she felt. It would be good to put a face on her nightmare at last.

A HUBIE was far superior to a canary: more sensitive, more reliable, more specific to humans. More humane to canaries, too, or would have been if floater panic hadn’t driven canaries to the brink of extinction. With more smell receptors than a dog, more smell genes than an elephant, a HUBIE responded to airborne toxins in one of two ways: swiftly, in the case of toxins originating from nonorganic material; marginally less swiftly in the case of toxins originating from organic material, such as living-or recently living things. Death in minutes as compared to hours, occasionally a full day. A bell-shaped curve.

They’d been functional and in place for nearly a full day.

Cav was champing at the bit.

“Let’s do this right,” Dash cautioned.

“We’re ten minutes shy. I say twenty-three hours, fifty minutes is enough. Help me out here, Gunjita.”

“I’m with Dash.”

“Dash’s being nitpicky.”

“Dash’s acting like a grown-up. He wouldn’t have to, if you weren’t being such a child.”

“You’re despots. Both of you.”

“Poor baby. Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. Repeat these words silently to yourself: time is an illusion. Time does not exist.”

“Eight,” said Dash. “Now less.”

Cav was the first one in. Gunjita followed him, with Dash taking up the rear. The three HUBIES were spaced equidistantly in a triangle around the asteroid and the Ooi, harnessed to the floor to keep them from drifting.

Pop-dolls, some people called them. Raggedy-Anns.

Cav went to each in turn, bowed his head, clasped his hands, and mouthed a prayer. To Gunjita, an empty gesture. To Dash, melodramatic and purposeless. But Cav was Cav.

The HUBIES, naturally, paid no attention. Their eyes protruded from their sockets, and appeared frozen in place: they looked too big for their faces, which looked too big for their heads. Silky brown hair fell over their narrow foreheads and partially hid the awful backward anencephalic slope of their skulls. Their noses were fleshy and free-moving, the nostrils hooded by a short, tubular fold of skin. Their lips were pink as peonies. Their arms dangled lifelessly by their sides. Their legs, also lifeless. They looked, on the whole, like bizarre, inflatable dolls.

Gunjita approached the nearest one. Her heart was hammering in her chest. It didn’t appear to notice her at first. A HUBIE had eyes but nowhere to put sight, no visual cortex, and was effectively blind. Had nowhere to put sound, either. But its nose was all-seeing, all-knowing, and was quick to respond.

It swept the air from side to side, sniffing, sampling, as though she were a cone of smell. Rapidly, it honed in on its target, and the tubular cowl of skin retracted to reveal two large, moist, saucer-shaped nostrils that looked like black moss. They quivered with activity. Moments later, the HUBIE’s eyes swiveled in unison until they were centered on her face.

It was purely reflexive. A HUBIE was blind. Not that it mattered: she felt transparent.

She’d seen photos, but this was her first face-to-face. Save for the repulsion, the pity and the guilt, it wasn’t that bad.

Actually, it was that bad.

She gagged, and nearly lost her lunch. It was like being poisoned, seeing it there, staring her in the face.

Noiselessly, Dash materialized beside her. The HUBIE’s nose twitched, as it picked up the new scent.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“How are you doing?”

“How do you think?”

“Shocked?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

Not a good beginning. The HUBIE was burning a hole in her brain, but then it broke contact, and transferred its blind stare to Dash. She felt as if a weight had been lifted.

“They take some getting used to,” he said.

“I doubt that’s going to happen. I hope it won’t.”

She knew it would.

He glanced at her, looking concerned.

After a while she said, “I suppose it was inevitable. Once we started making better humans, we’d make lesser ones.”

“They’re not really human.”

“Human enough.”

“They’re not unhappy, Gunjita. They’re doing what they were meant to do. If anything, they’re happy for that. They’re certainly not uncomfortable. They don’t hurt. They feel no pain.”

She knew the song and dance. Had her own opinion.

“They have brains, don’t they?”

“Primitive. Extremely. No cortex. No awareness. If there is pain, they don’t know it. If they know it, they don’t care. It doesn’t bother them. They don’t suffer.”

“So you say.”

“It’s a fact.”

“We suffer,” she said.

He looked pained. “Do you? Really? Is that true?”

“Humanity suffers.”

“But you? Do you?”

“Why? Do you think I shouldn’t? I should be made of sterner stuff?”

“I thought you were.”

“I am.”

“Well then.”

“They were ill-conceived. They should never have been made. You could have designed something else. Anything else.”

He studied the HUBIE, considering this, searching for flaws. Blind, limp, imbecilic. Unable to speak. Unable to hear. Unable to think.

His creation.

He reached up and touched it, laid his hand on its chest, as he would a patient. Felt its lively, cheerful pulse.

“We could have done better,” he confessed. “If there’s ever a next time, we will.”

“You were pressured, no doubt.”

“Yes. Of course. But in the end we called the shots.”

“The team.”

“Yes.”

“You played a significant role?”

Not the time to boast. “I was there.”

“Inner circle?”

He nodded, remembering the buzz. The excitement. The camaraderie.

He’d never thanked her. “I wouldn’t have been there if it weren’t for you.”

“A dubious honor.”

“You could have hung me out to dry.”

“I was doing my job. You deserved to be in a lab. A good one. Tell me something. Their design. Was that aimed at me?”

“At you?”

“Out of spite. For revenge.” It felt good to finally get it off her chest. His response barely mattered.

“No,” he said. “I didn’t have time to be angry. We were too busy. I licked my wounds and moved on.”

She remembered things differently. A superficial licking maybe, but no healing. A chill whenever they were in the same room, which happened periodically over the years.

She felt it less now. “You vowed to get back at me.”

“Heat of the moment. Shoot from the hip.”

“I always wondered.”

“You can stop. I would never do something like that.”

True or false? Was it even important? People changed.

“They look like children,” she said.

“They’re tools, Gunjita. Instruments.”

“Damaged.”

“No. Not damaged. Preventers of damage. Shields. Don’t think of them as children, but as soldiers.”

“Protecting us.”

“Yes.”

“Sacrificing themselves.”

“If necessary.”

She tried to see it. Appreciated different perspectives, theoretically at least.

“They’re both,” she said.

“If you wish.”

“Either way, they’re ours. Yours and mine.”

“I’m proud of what they are.”

“I pity them.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

He wasn’t a bad man. Nothing like that. Better, in fact, than she expected. But better had limited appeal.

“I’m sorry you don’t.”

Cav, meanwhile, was bent over the Ooi, sucking in air, breathing audibly through his nose. In and out, in and out, sampling, just as the HUBIES did. Lacking a free-moving noodle, he moved his head side to side, up and down, a technique used by animals and taught to him by Gunjita, the expert. He closed his eyes and willed himself to take everything in.

Recognition could come and go in an instant. Alternately, it could take hours, weeks, years. This was the book on unknown forms of life, and seemed reasonable, though of course no one knew.

What he could say so far: the Ooi had a clean, faintly metallic scent. He sniffed several times in rapid succession, then inhaled deeply, filling his nostrils and lungs. Nearly impossible to distinguish it from the asteroid. Was this purposeful, a kind of camouflage? An adaptation?

Interesting.

He leaned in closer, until he was nearly touching it, breathed on it, moved his head back and forth, giving it the opportunity to smell him.

He was playing with fire, and he knew it. Gunjita thought he was crazy. Dash probably, too. Maybe he was. But maybe not. Plenty of people, if they knew, would have been in his corner, cheering him on. Crazy? Hardly. More like sanity itself. Just tell us when and where. We’re with you 100 percent.

Plenty believed it had already happened. A fait accompli. They were among us, and had been for years.

Some people said they were very nice.

Others, not so nice.

Some, that sex with one was the very best thing. Some said the worst. One man had reliable information that they had no genitals. He was met by a chorus of jeers: everyone knew they had sex organs everywhere. What was he, a prude?

Cav kept half an ear out for these people. They had their ideas. They weren’t scientific ideas. Most were predictably ridiculous. But every so often one would stand out.

A recent favorite: the One Alien Theory, which posited an enormous, invisible, oyster-shaped entity, embracing and nurturing the Earth as it would its own pearl. A sentient bivalve, it was dismayed to see what was happening to its precious creation. Dismayed and angry.

This explained the outbreaks of planetary fear, suspicion, and anxiety that happened now and again. Oysters weren’t known to lash out, but neither were they known to be especially forgiving. And this was a big one. No one knew what to expect.

Cav felt the same about the Ooi. No problem so far, but how would it react to being cut?

Which, having run out of options, was up next.

But first, a last chance. Dash had taken off his gloves.

Cav already had his hand on the Ooi, feeling its cool, hard surface. He moved aside, letting Dash take his place.

Dash repeated what he’d done before, resting his fingertips lightly at first, then pressing them down more firmly. Cav and Gunjita watched as the tension slowly built.

It wasn’t the sole source of tension. Cav was aware of the strain between him and Gunjita. He was responsible for it, and wished it didn’t exist. He would talk to her, try to smooth things out, though he wasn’t optimistic.

“I can’t be sure,” Dash said at last.

“You feel something?”

“Yes and no.”

“Which is it?”

“Movement. Maybe. Maybe a vibration. Very faint. It comes and goes. Maybe nothing.”

“Color?” asked Cav.

Dash threw up his hands.

“I smell roses,” said Gunjita.

She might have screamed “Fire!” at the top of her lungs the way the two of them looked at her.

“For real?” asked Dash.

She rolled her eyes. “It’s time to stop fooling around. We need a piece.”

Cav nodded, inhaling deeply through his nose. “Maybe it knows. Maybe roses is its SOS. The precatastrophe alarm you’ve been looking for. Forgive us,” he told the Ooi. Then to Dash, “Start with its edge. See if you can peel it back.”

They’d brought their instruments. Dash tried the spatulated knife first. Couldn’t separate the Ooi from the rock cleanly, in one piece. Looked to Cav for guidance.

Cav told him to proceed.

Using a scalpel this time, and not just any scalpel but one forged in the legendary foundry of Bethlehem, Brokkr & Doome, with a laser spine, an intercalated hypercrystalline edge, and oscillating nano-teeth. A tool preferred by professionals. Dash loved how it felt: alert, alive, like an extension of his own hand. He neatly shaved off the tip of one of the Ooi’s arms, continuing the cut into the underlying rock, removing both as a unit.

Cav winced, but bore witness. He was spellbound. The exposed surface did not ooze or bleed.

“Self-healing?” he wondered aloud. An attribute basic to all life. He glanced at Dash, who shook his head.

“Too fast.”

“To us,” said Cav.

“I’ve never seen it so rapidly.”

“No. Yes. That’s what makes it exciting.”

“Maybe it’s thicker-shelled than we thought.”

“It doesn’t have a shell,” said Gunjita.

“Or it wasn’t bothered. The amount you shaved off didn’t matter. It was like paring a fingernail.”

“I could make a bigger cut.”

“No, no. This is enough. More than enough.” He cradled the slender, crescent-shaped specimen in his palm, feeling like a guardian of the universe. It was weighty but weightless.

Carefully, he returned it to Dash, who sealed it in a bottle in preparation for microtomal slicing, fixation, and staining. Each a separate procedure, none of which, given Dash’s experience, or rather lack thereof, was guaranteed to succeed.

“Wish me luck,” he said.

“How about a helping hand?” Gunjita offered.

“Yes. Please. By all means.”

Cav felt a stab of jealousy. A stab of sadness. A stab of relief.

“Coming?” she asked.

“No. You go. I’ll stay for a while. I’m good.”

Once in the lab, Gunjita took charge. She knew where everything was, and Dash tried to stay out of her way. It brought back memories.

“Feels like old times,” he said.

She wasn’t interested in reminiscing. “So what do you think?”

“About Cav?”

“First the Ooi. Truthfully.”

“Truthfully? It looks like puke.”

“Is it alive? Could it have ever been?”

“Ever?”

“Forget ever. Living or not?”

“Cav thinks so.”

“Forget Cav.”

“I can’t. You shouldn’t, either.”

“What does that mean?”

“He’s the reason I’m here. I couldn’t not come. He wants to die. The Ooi is keeping him alive.”

“You underestimate him, Dash. He’s keeping himself alive until he makes up his mind. So far he hasn’t decided. Our Ooi is a pretext. A placeholder. A sham.”

“Convenient that it arrived when it did.”

“Purely coincidence. If it hadn’t been this, it would have been something else.”

“He wants to live.”

“He doesn’t know what he wants.”

Uncharted territory for Dash. He felt as if he were being forced to watch something he shouldn’t have to. He felt paralyzed, hamstrung.

“I don’t understand. What’s so wrong about living? What’s so difficult? Is he sick? Is he hiding something?”

“He feels guilty.”

“Cav?” He swallowed a laugh.

“No joke. He’s been privileged all his life. That includes the privilege of being open-minded. The privilege of believing in fairness, and justice for all. Now it’s caught up with him. He sees the hypocrisy. If everyone can’t juve—and everyone can’t—then no one should.”

“Never going to happen.”

“Of course not. But he’s doing his part. Making his point. Staking the high ground.”

“Martyring himself,” said Dash.

“It eases his conscience.”

She was angry. And hurt. It helped to talk.

“I sound harsh.”

Dash was sympathetic. “He’s a handful.”

“A handful and a half. I love him very much. I’m proud that he has principles. I’m proud that he doesn’t settle for the easy way out, that he stands up for what he believes is right. In a way I’m proud of what he’s doing. Or what he’s thinking about doing. He makes it hard not to be.”

She pulled out jars, canisters, various tools, and instruments, slamming them down on the bench, then compulsively arranging them. Making things neat and tidy was a tic that came out when she was stressed. Work was her love and joy, but also how she dealt with strong emotions. Dash remembered this about her. Like after their crash and burn. How businesslike she became. How completely she shut him out.

He wanted to say something to her now. Do something. Put the past to bed. Be a friend. Comfort her.

He had a strong urge to take her in his arms, give her a warm and reassuring hug, but fortunately the urge was short-circuited by the voice of reason, which stayed his hand. He went with words instead, sidestepping almost certain disaster.

“You have every right to be proud. He’s a great man. One of a kind. He sets the bar high, though. Tough living up to his standards.”

“He puts himself on a pedestal.”

“Interesting,” said Dash. “I thought that was me, putting him there. I know I do. Warts and all. He deserves to be there.”

“I wish he’d come down.” She felt tied in knots. “Now I sound like a hypocrite.”

“You don’t.”

“It’s his specialty. Making us doubt and second-guess ourselves.”

“It’s his gift. We don’t have to accept it. I haven’t, not this time. There’s no doubt in my mind what he should do.”

“He does have a point.”

“About what? Unfairness? Inequality? There’s less and less every day.”

“Less is still too much.”

“Any is too much,” said Dash. “But the tables are turning. The scales are evening out. It won’t be this way forever.”

“Won’t that be nice? But what about now? What about the world we’re building now? People living longer and longer. Overpopulation. Overcrowding. Resources stretched to the limit. Mental and physical stress. There’re so many of us. Privilege or no privilege, it’s not healthy. Not for us, and not for Momma.”

“Cav says this?”

“I say this. But yes. Of course. Not only him. It’s there for anyone to see.”

“We’ll find a way,” said Dash. “Always have.”

“You think so?”

“I do.”

“You’re optimistic.”

“I am. Science and technology are powerful tools. I have faith.”

She was feeling wicked. “Here’s an idea. How about another invasion? A real one this time. Followed by mass extermination. Lightening the load on … well, everything.”

“Hopefully, we’ll find a better solution than that.”

“Maybe our Ooi is an advance scout.”

He gave her a look. This wasn’t the Gunjita he remembered. That Gunjita didn’t have a cynical bone in her body. That Gunjita was earnest and sincere. She wouldn’t have known sarcasm if it bit her in the face.

This one had an edge.

“You’re not serious,” he said.

“He has a point is all I’m saying. He could stick around and try to sell it. Work to solve the problem. Instead he comes here and contemplates suicide.” She felt at the end of her rope. “I wish our Ooi were alive. Cav might juve if it were. No guarantee, but the hook would be that much harder to get out.”

“It could be.”

“Alive? I don’t believe it.”

“I felt something.”

“I’m sure you did, but what?”

“Movement.”

“That no one else can feel.”

“I wish you could,” he said.

“Your own pulse maybe.”

“Possibly.”

“The point being—”

He cut her off. “I know the point. It’s no proof. Let’s do an experiment.”

“What kind of experiment?”

“I’ll feel your pulse.”

“I can do that myself.”

“Not just your heartbeat. All your pulses.”

She eyed him. “Meaning what?”

“Your ebb and flow. Your waves and vibrations. Your internal flux.”

“My flux? No, thanks.”

“I’ll interpret them,” he said, gaining momentum. “You tell me what you’ve been thinking and feeling, and I’ll tell you what I found. We’ll see how closely the two match.”

“You’ll confirm my thoughts and feelings?”

“Scientifically. Not only the ones you’re aware of.”

“My secrets? My private life? My precious, highly personal, highly confidential flux?” She could barely keep from laughing in his face.

“Everything. You can’t believe how sensitive I’ve become.”

“Oh, I believe it.”

“Just give it a try.”

“Close your mouth,” she said. “You’re salivating.”

He reached for her hand.

“No, you don’t.”

She refused to give it to him, wanting to be neither guinea pig, object of desire, nor inspiration for his stale, pale fantasy life. As a come-on, it was lamer than a broken-down horse.

Though she couldn’t help being curious. Not to mention, she could use a break from Mr. I - Want - To - Kill - Myself. He was an albatross around her neck. A little fun and games, a little goofiness, would be a breath of fresh air.

“Very lightly,” she agreed, extending her wrist.

He held his hand just above her. His expression turned inward and intensified, as though he were entering a new state of mind or consciousness, leaving their world for another. His fingertips seemed to have a life of their own, slowly drifting downward until they brushed her skin.

His touch was gentle and feather light. She felt a tingle, which was nice, though nothing like the electric shock she’d once experienced. And it didn’t last.

A short time later, she ended the experiment, pulling her hand back, breaking contact.

“So?” she asked. “Pick the lock? Crack the safe? Find what you were looking for?”

“Blew the door right off.”

“Ouch. Explosive.”

“Let’s compare notes. What are you thinking and feeling?”

“You tell me.”

There were a number of things he wanted to say. Almost all were in the realm of guesses, hopes, and dreams. He knew enough to tread lightly.

“I think you’re interested.”

“In you?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what you’re thinking.”

“You’re not?”

“Among many other things. Many other.”

“So yes.”

Was he kidding? “It’s not going to happen, Dash. So drop it.”

“What’s not? I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m not going to sleep with you.”

“Sleep with me?” He looked shocked.

She didn’t buy it. “Let’s change the subject. How’s your mother?”

“Sleep with you?”

“Your mother, Dash. How’s she doing?”

“That’s not what I was thinking.”

“Has she seen you lately?” Not, have you seen her?

“She’s old.”

“But not blind. What was her reaction?”

“Ask her.”

“Don’t pout.”

“Don’t presume,” he shot back.

She and Ruby hadn’t spoken in nearly sixty years. Unlikely that was going to change. Juving was a miracle, but to friends and families it created havoc. Or it could. Parents younger than their kids, and acting like kids. Grown-ups transformed into twenty-year-olds with something to prove. Taboos questioned. Traditions turned on their heads.

Ruby had not taken kindly to Gunjita sleeping with her son. Gunjita had not taken kindly to it herself, once she came to her senses.

Professionally, the fallout was severe. Sleeping with a student was wrong in so many ways. Changing mores had not changed this essential fact. Not yet. Dash hadn’t made things any easier for her. She nearly lost her lab, not to mention her career.

Eventually, she recovered. The incident receded into the past. She got back on her feet. Professionally, it was pretty much smooth sailing after that. Personally, there was no point in continuing to beat herself up.

Ruby, unfortunately, didn’t share that opinion. There was one particularly ugly shouting match, at a restaurant no less. Ruby did the shouting. Frozen to her chair, Gunjita sat and listened, mouth agape, then excused herself from the table. She went to the restroom, took a number of deep breaths, then left. Walked right out of the restaurant, and kept walking. Hadn’t laid eyes on Ruby since.

“She can’t have been happy.”

“She’s my mother,” said Dash, as though no further explanation were needed. He picked up a small, stainless-steel tray, studying his reflection in it.

“There’s a black that eats lasers,” he said. “You know the one I’m talking about? Absorbs all light.”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“They’ve invented something even blacker. Blackest black ever. A black hole black.”

Gunjita recalled Ruby’s search for something like that. “Grabs your attention, I’m guessing.”

“Swallows it. If she could, she’d be that. She painted herself once for a performance. Freaked people out.”

“Kleptomania had a reputation for that.”

He nodded. “The Stealer of Hearts and Souls. The Robber of Self-Righteousness.”

“The Thief of Hypocrisy,” she added.

“All that. Happiest day of her life.”

“Is she still performing?”

“She killed herself.”

Gunjita was stunned. “Who did? You said … Oh my god!”

He heaved a sigh, drawing the moment out, being something of a performer himself. The bearer of postsurgical good or bad news more times than he could count. He knew what suspense could do, and on principle avoided it.

But this was payback.

Gunjita was reeling. “Your mother killed herself? You said she was fine. I can’t believe it.”

He let her hang a bit longer before coming clean.

“She retired. Onstage. A kite, a knish, and a good-bye kiss. Her final bow. You didn’t hear?”

Her relief was immediate and immense. She slumped like a rag, then picked herself up, and shoved him in the chest.

They flew apart. Several pieces of lab equipment flew with them. Gunjita couldn’t have cared less.

“You know something, Dash?”

“What’s that?”

“You’re an asshole.”

At last, a little warmth. A little affection.

“And you do want to sleep with me. It’s the truth. You shouldn’t protest. I don’t mind that you do. But I’m curious. Is it coming from you? Or did Cav put you up to it?”