curved like the blade of a sickle, occupies the center of the room. A Clockwork gentleman stands behind it. He wears a bowler on the copper vase of his head, and his torso rides atop six copper legs, giving him the look of a jeweled, metal cricket in a hat.
“Are you here for the Danforth party?” the Clockwork attendant asks in a plummy voice. He presses fingertips of copper pipe together. “Ms. Paget, I presume? Mr. Danforth has checked in below with the others but indicated you would not be joining them this evening.”
“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Iris tells him . . . a lie so smooth that Chip can detect no trace of physiological change, no quickening of breath or alteration in skin temperature.
“Very good. The rest of your party is approaching in the elevator. If you would like to toast the maiden, you will be joined by the birthday girl in twenty seconds.” The Clockwork gestures at a collection of champagne flutes filled with Sparklefroth.
Chip picks up a flute and hands it to Iris just as a hatch slides open in the floor. The elevator rises into the room, a bronze cage containing a flock of twelve-year-old girls in party dresses and new faces, accompanied by a weary man in a nice sweater—the birthday girl’s father, no doubt. The grate opens. Chattering, laughing girls spill out.
“Are you sure you can’t kill people?” Iris asks. “Because they’re wearing about five thousand credits of Hideware on their faces, and I’m feeling murdery.”
“Nothing ruins a birthday party like a multiple homicide.”
“I should probably drink my Sparklefroth before the robowaiter introduces me as Ms. Paget, and they realize I’m crashing their party, and I get charged for a drink I can’t afford.”
“They’re not going to hear him,” Chip promises. “Get ready to shout happy birthday.”
“Sparklefroth, French chocolate cake, and bubble rides, as the sun goes down on the twelfth year of Ms. Abigail Danforth’s life!” cries the Clockwork waiter. “And happy day, your guests are all here, even—” But no one hears the last part of his statement.
Chip’s head spins on his neck, 360 degrees, around and around, and at the same time he emits a piercing bottle-rocket whistle. Red, white, and blue sparks crackle and fly from his ears. A Wurlitzer organ plays the opening chords of “Happy Birthday” from inside his chest at a staggering volume.
Iris lifts her glass like she belongs and shouts, “Happy birthday!”
The kids shriek “Happy birthday!” and rush to collect flutes of Sparklefroth, while the sparks pouring from Chip’s ears turn to cotton-candy clouds of pink and purple smoke. The girls sing. The room echoes with their gay noise. When the song is over, they erupt into gales of laughter and gulp Sparklefroth. Iris drinks with them. Her eyes widen. Her blond hair begins to lift and float around her head with electrical charge.
“Whoa,” she says, and reaches for Chip’s arm to steady herself.
A blue pop of electricity flies from her fingers. She twitches in surprise. Then, experimentally, she snaps her fingers. Another blue spark.
The party girls are zapping each other, provoking screams of hilarity and shock. The room is full of dazzle, flashing lights, loud crackling noises. It looks like Chinese New Year. Iris’s presence has already been forgotten. The Clockwork waiter believes she belongs, while the partygoers accept her as someone who just happened to be there when the celebration began, nothing more.
“I’m electric,” Iris says to Chip, her eyes wondering.
“Welcome to the club,” he tells her.
8.
As the Sparklefroth begins to wear off, Iris turns from the crowd of girls to watch the sun slip out of the sky. The low-voltage drink has left her frizzy-haired and frazzled, keyed up in a way that is not entirely pleasant. It’s the little girls in their Hideware. “Pampered bitches” is the phrase that comes to mind. Who buys thousand-token new faces for children?
The Hideware is a delicate, transparent mask that disappears when it adheres to the skin. New faces have moods, not features, and a person sees his or her own psychological projections. The birthday girl wears Girl-Next-Door. Iris knows it, because at one glimpse of her slightly upturned nose and her wry, knowing eyes, Iris felt almost overwhelmed by a desire to ask her something about sports. There’s a girl in Celebrity, another wearing Copy-My-Homework, a Tell-Me-Anything, a Zen Sunrise. If Celebrity comes over to her, Iris will probably ask her to autograph her boob. The great pleasure of Hideware is the