you, Ruth.” Inside, instead of the print molds I had expected, there were eight glistening plaskin finger gloves. Ready to wear. I could get started today. If Spanner would help.
Spanner never got up until after noon. I went home and slept for four hours. I had bad dreams: sweating bodies, moving limbs, blood and plasthene. I woke up just before midday and stared at the angle of green-painted rafters over my bed. The room was long and narrow: bed at one end, under the rafter; matting in the middle, underneath the heavy old couch and spindly card table; larger table with gouged veneer at the other end, under the wide window. A ficus tree in a pot by the table. Beyond, sky.
I had to walk through the tiny kitchenette to get to the bathroom. I almost banged my head on the rafter over the tub. As usual, I felt dislocated. It was odd, to wake up alone and nameless.
Not for much longer.
It was midafternoon by the time I got out to look for Spanner.
Springbank, the road that had once groaned under a thousand rubber tires a minute, was now bobbled with gray vehicle ID sensors and laced with silvery slider rails that glistened like snail tracks in the late-September sunshine. It was the first day in two weeks I had not had to wear a coat. Foot traffic was heavy, and sliders hissed to a stop at almost every pole to pick up or drop off passengers. The occasional smaller, private car hummed and dodged impatiently around the tubelike sliders.
The building, old and massive, was built of sandstone. The sign over the entrance was a picture of a polar bear. Inside, it was the same as all bars.
Spanner was there. I threaded my way through the smell of stale beer and newly washed floors toward the fall of dark gold hair, and slid onto the stool next to her.
Spanner lifted her head. We looked at each other a moment. It was strange to not touch. “It’s been a while.”
“Yes.” It felt like a year, or an hour. It had been just over four months. I beckoned the bartender and nodded at the glass Spanner nursed between her hands. “A beer and. . .”
“Tonic for me.”
There had to be a reason she wasn’t drinking. People changed, but not that much. I tried to keep the tone light. “Waiting for anyone in particular?”
“Just sitting.”
She knew I knew she was lying, but I had gone past the stage of being angry, of facing her with it. It was Spanner’s life, Spanner’s body.
In here, the bright sunshine was filtered by old beveled glass and well-polished mahogany to a rich, dim glow, but it was enough to see the glitter in Spanner’s eyes, the way she kept glancing up at the mirror behind the bar to see who came in the door. Her skin looked bad and she had lost weight. I paid for the drinks.
She sipped at hers. “How have you been?” She sounded as though she did not really care about the answer.
“Well enough.” I hesitated. “Spanner, I’ve found some work, a job I might take. I need your help.”
She finally dragged her attention away from the mirror and looked at me. “What happened to all your noble ideas about an honest living?” There was no mistaking the edge of contempt in her voice.
I had not expected this to be easy. “This is the last time. I want a new ID, a permanent one. I want to work, get an honest job.”
“Ah. You need my dishonest help so you can make an honest living.”
I looked at Spanner’s face, at the hard, grooved lines by mouth and eyes that belonged to all those who had lived on their wits too long, and wanted to take her face between my hands, wanted to make her face her own reflection, and shout, Look, look at yourself! Do you blame me for wanting to earn my living in a way that’s not dangerous? In a way that no one will ever be able to use to make me feel ashamed? But it had never done any good before.
“I’ve found a PIDA that might make a match. I need help with it.”
“Well, as you always said, I’ll do anything for money.”
“Spanner. . .” Even though I had tried to prepare for this, the pain of reopening old wounds was sharp and bright. I took a deep breath. “What’s your price?”