But she couldn't afford to waste time moping. She had a job to do, so she could rescue Darius and Seqiro.
Even as she came to that conclusion, Provos was letting her go. The woman began to put the shed in order, making room in the center and fashioning a kind of cushion by a wall. She knew she would have to stay here while Colene went out, because there was no way Provos could get by in this reality.
But Colene had to do some organizing of her own. This was afternoon and her folks should not yet be home from their jobs; she had time to get inside and change to local clothing. It would never do to parade around here in a tunic and giant diaper!
She opened the door and looked out. All was clear. Nothing in sight but the house and the little dogwood tree. Was she really in her home reality? To make sure, Colene went out and walked ten feet: nothing changed. But of course it could be a very similar reality. So she picked up a pebble and walked back. The pebble didn't disappear. She might look like an idiot doing this, but she needed to be sure. This was her home, all right.
Everything in the yard looked just about the same as it had been when she had left it. The grass needed mowing, but it always did. Things looked a little browner, but that was because the fall season was another month along.
Provos emerged from the shed. "But you mustn't be seen!" Colene protested.
The woman walked toward the house. Colene realized that Provos' future memory had taken good hold; she remembered that no one was home at this hour, and she wanted to see the house.
Colene ran to catch up. She went to the back door. It was locked, but Provos was already fetching the key from under the mat. She gave it to Colene, who used it to open the door. Then Provos put it back under the mat. Obviously they had done this in the future.
"Well, this is my old house," Colene said, showing off the cluttered kitchen and living room. It didn't seem to have changed an iota. Hadn't her absence made any difference at all? This was weird!
They went upstairs to her room. This too was unchanged. It was as if she had gone out this same morning, and returned routinely this afternoon. As if the entire month she had been away was only a day here, so she hadn't even been missed yet.
Could that be? Could time on the Virtual Mode be different? No, because it had evidently passed in normal fashion for the folk of Darius' reality. Probably for Provos' reality too; the woman had shut up her house for the duration, being well organized, so it didn't much matter.
And there was a signal of her absence: a little pile of letters on the stool near the door. Her parents did not open her mail; they left it in her room for her to handle when she returned from school. None of it was personal; she had learned the hard way not to trust others, and never to put into writing what she did not want widely known. Maresy Doats was her only truly personal correspondent, and those diary entries were kept locked up, and sometimes written in oblique fashion to confuse any possible snooper. So it was all junk mail, both with her name and without, because anything that related to books, records, or novelty catalogs was in her bailiwick.
Provos was looking. "This is mostly Carrot Sort," Colene told her. " 'Cause that's what it looks like: CAR RT SORT. Means they parcel it out to every house on the route. Maresy says maybe they figure there's a big rabbit here. I say that if they drop any more of this junk on me, I'll drop my Bomb of Gilead on them." She touched the little jar of ointment nearby, marked GILEAD. "That's really 'balm,' but I go for the violence."
Provos smiled, but probably not at anything Colene had said, as she wouldn't remember it even if she understood it. The woman was merely curious about Colene's strange residence. She walked here and there, examining without touching, perhaps getting her upcoming memories straight.
"I gotta change," Colene told Provos. She went to her closet and rummaged until she found blue jeans and a dark blouse. Also regular panties and sneakers.
She pulled off her tunic and undid her diaper, while Provos continued to look around, evidently intrigued by this strange house. Colene went to the bathroom and had a quick washcloth and dab cleanup. She got into her home-reality clothes, which fit her perfectly. Somehow she had almost thought they wouldn't. Maybe she had just hoped that her bra would be a little tight, indicating that her breasts had grown. No such luck. It would be a long time, if ever, before she had a tape measurement like Nona's.
Then she had another thought. Provos should change too. Then the woman wouldn't have to hide; she would look like a local visitor. She turned—to find Provos already picking out suitable clothing.
Colene's jeans and blouses didn't fit Provos. Both were too short and loose. When it came to tape measurements, Provos wasn't in it. But a long dress and sleeved shirt adjusted nicely enough.
"But that hat will have to go," Colene said—even as the woman removed it. Provos located a kerchief, and tied that around her graying hair; it seemed that she did not feel comfortable with a naked head. She looked reasonably normal now.
Then Colene heard something. A vehicle—and it was pulling into the drive! It was her mother's car. "We've got to get out of here!" she cried. "Before Mom comes in!"
But Provos refused to be rushed. She seemed unconcerned about discovery. Colene reminded herself again that the woman remembered the future; she must know it was going to be all right.
Still, there was a protocol to honor. "I've got to face Mom first," Colene said firmly, and hurried to the stairs.
Colene was there in the living room, watching the TV, when her mother came in. Just as it always had been. She would simply pretend that nothing had happened, and see how it played. She hadn't thought about this aspect of her return before.
It didn't work. "Colene!" her mother screamed, dropping her packages. Then she swayed, seeming about to faint.
Colene jumped up and got to her before she fell. She got her mother to the couch, where they both collapsed. "I'm okay, Mom," she said consolingly.
Her mother clutched her, crying. She reminded Colene of herself, in Bumshed with her things and their sudden memories. Suddenly her mother seemed ten years older, and frail, and Colene just wanted to hold her and reassure her. But somehow that wasn't what came out.
"You never checked Bumshed," she said reprovingly. "I left a note."
"We did!" her mother sobbed. "Your note—it said you were fine, and had somewhere to go. But it didn't say where or why!"
"But nothing was touched," Colene protested.
Her mother gazed at her with a tear-ravaged face. "We were afraid you—there was a knife—all your things were—we didn't dare—"
"You thought I—" Colene started. She had never even hinted to her folks about her suicidal nature. She thought she had fooled them completely.
"That somebody had come and taken you from the shed," her mother said. "Made you leave a note. That you were raped or dead—oh, thank God it wasn't so!"
They didn't know about the rape scene either. "It wasn't so," Colene agreed. "I just had somewhere to go, Mom. It wasn't as if it would matter much here. You have your beverage and Dad has his social life." She was speaking euphemistically. Her mother got drunk almost every evening, and her father had a mistress who monopolized his free time. As families went, theirs was mostly charade.
"Not matter! Oh, my dear, I haven't had a drink since we lost you! And your father has been home—"
Then, seeing Colene's disbelief, she got up and urged her to the kitchen. She opened the cupboards. There were no bottles there.
"You really—?" Colene asked, almost daring to believe.
"My precious child, we did not have an ideal marriage, but we both loved you. That was the one thing we had in common. Didn't you know?"
Colene felt the tears starting again. "No."
Now it was her mother who held her. "You were always so smart, so good, so well adjusted, despite everything. You were our joy. Only somehow we got distracted by things. When you left, it shocked us to our senses—too late."
Good? Well adjusted? Colene had gon
e through a series of shocks, beginning with the rape, and had sought to kill herself. Her exterior life had become an act, covering her suicidal depression. She had cut her wrists daily and watched them bleed, daring herself to do it, to die. She had been on the verge of it when Darius had made the Virtual Mode and given her a chance to find him.
"But nothing changed!" Colene protested. "You lived the same way without me as you had with me. I didn't make any difference." There was one of the fundamental bitternesses of her existence.
"Everything changed," her mother said. "We—we were so afraid of what might have happened that we denied it. We didn't report you as a runaway, we didn't make any fuss, we just told the school that you had gone to visit relatives in Alaska, that an emergency had come up there and they needed you, and no one questioned it. But between ourselves we denied it. We didn't touch anything of yours. We put the note back and pretended you were still with us. That you were up in your room, or out in your shed, or at school, or visiting a friend down the street. Because if we ever admitted it, then it might become real, and we couldn't face that. We—we pretended to be the family everyone always thought we were, with you included, and neither of us dared to break the spell—in case you did come back—so as not to drive you away again—"
Colene was appalled. Her departure had reformed her parents! They had covered for her, and acted perfectly, just in the hope of having her back. All the rest had disappeared when she went. They really did love her!
"Now you are back," her mother said. "Our prayers have been answered! We will be all the things we never were before, so you can have a family worthy of you. We had to believe that you would return!"
How was she to tell them that she had not come to stay? Colene had just walked into a guilt trip she had never anticipated.
So she avoided the issue. "I—have a friend," she said.
Provos appeared. There was no common language, but Provos had an unerring memory of what was appropriate, and there were no slips. "She—I traveled to a, a strange place," Colene said. "And met several people, and right now I'm traveling with Provos. We have to—to do something here." It was all awkward, but it didn't seem to matter. Provos, an old woman, was a reassuring presence. No one could believe that Provos would ever be involved in anything oddball. In fact, soon Provos was helping to fix supper.
Then the other car pulled in. Soon Colene's father entered the house.
"Baby!" he cried, spying Colene. There was relief and gladness in his face, and tears shone in his eyes.
In a moment it was clear that what her mother had said was true. The family had become normal, cleaning up its act in a hurry. All because she had gone. What was she to make of that?
Try as she might to be cynical, she could not deny it: she did love her parents. Maybe that was what had made her hold back, and never quite actually kill herself Maybe she had known, deep down, that there was after all a foundation, however dilapidated the superstructure.
They had supper together, making a good impression on Provos, and on each other. Colene explained that she would have to go into town tomorrow with Provos, to get something done, and this was not challenged. They didn't want to do anything to drive her away.
The guilt was growing. Colene had given her family no consideration at all, deeming it a lost cause. Now she saw how wrong she had been. But there was still no way she could stay here. Not in this reality.
They watched TV after supper. Provos was fascinated by this too, as she was by the purely mechanical cooking and sanitary facilities.
Provos was satisfied to sleep on a mat on the floor of Colene's room. There just seemed to be no problems with her presence, or Colene's return.
Colene lay awake. All this seemed too good to be true. Had she missed something? Was this some kind of a dream? Should she try to penetrate through to the reality?
Then she remembered the guilt, and was morbidly reassured. It was too good to be true—because she was the fly in the ointment. She was the one who made it untrue.
Damn! She wished it had been otherwise. She felt like a clod of horse manure.
NEXT day they were ready to get down to business. Colene had enough money for a taxi, and called to have one come. It wasn't as if she would have any use for money later. Provos was intrigued by the bills and coins, which were not her type of money.
They went to a sleazy gaming center known to be the hangout of borderline-criminal types. Now Provos' future-memory became invaluable. Colene, knowing that the type of information she wanted was too complicated to research in the local library, had decided to make a deal with Slick. Slick was a chance acquaintance she thought could help. Chance acquaintance was a good description: it was chancy to deal with him. He was called Slick because he cut throats for a living, slick as a razor. A dangerous man—but she believed he would treat her fairly. Maybe her intuition was foolish, but there had been something about him, the way he had treated her, that suggested that there was decency in him as well as murder.
They walked through the center. This was morning, and there were few gamers there. But there were some. Colene made ready to approach the first one she saw.
Provos held her back. For once the woman's composure was frayed; something truly bad would come of that introduction.
Colene bypassed that one and approached the next. Again Provos held her back. But the third one was acceptable.
This was a burly man who looked as if he would like to chop up young girls for breakfast. But his expression changed when he heard the name. "Slick? Yeah, I know him."
"Will you tell him Colene wants to deal?" she asked.
The man glanced at Provos. "You and who else?"
"It doesn't matter."
The man nodded. This type of answer was acceptable, in this type of company. "Wait." He went to a pay phone and dialed a number.
He returned, impressed. "He's on his way. He says to take good care of you. Come on."
Colene glanced at Provos. Provos was already nodding. So they went with the man. Apparently Slick's word counted.
The man bought them milkshakes. This was one more novel experience for Provos, though she seemed to like hers well enough. "It's maybe not my business," the man said gruffly. "But there's a story about a little girl, real cute, went with five men about a month back, and when they came out, not one would say what happened, but she'd never been touched and they said she showed 'em something they'd never seen before."
"I'm the one," Colene agreed. Real cute? She liked that.
"Listen, I said it's not my business, but—" He shrugged, evidently quite curious. "Those guys must've seen everything about any woman who ever opened her—uh, whatever. So how...?"
"I challenged one to a duel," Colene said, enjoying this. "One on one, with knives. I won."
He nodded. "I guess you did. But you know—well, those guys were good with knives. So—"
"It was a bleeding contest. I cut my arm with Slick's razor and let it bleed into a bucket. All the other guy had to do was cut himself and outbleed me. But he forfeited. I guess he had a generous nature."
The man stared at her. Then he shook his head, not saying more.
In due course Slick arrived. He was a dark man of average height, undistinguished, but the others in the center knew him and turned away. He didn't say a word; he handed a bill to the other man, who departed. Such was the oblique communication between criminals: never a paper trail, hardly even a verbal trail. Just tacit understandings.
Provos stood and walked to Slick. She hugged him. The man's mouth fell open. So did Colene's. What did Provos remember?
Then the woman released the man and returned to her seat. Slick shook off his confusion and took the vacated chair. Perhaps he assumed that Provos was trying to make it look like a family meeting instead of business.
He looked at Colene. "You sure, girl?" he asked. Again, no actual statement; they knew they weren't here for tiddlywinks.
"I have to have help," Colene said evenly.
"It's nothing illegal, it's just that I don't have much time and it's sort of technical. Something I have to find out, that maybe a math prof would know. I hope that you know how to get legal things done too."
Slick smiled. He seemed relieved, oddly. "Let's go where we can talk."
He drove them to a surprisingly nice country house. Colene reminded herself that one thing that successful criminals had was money. Slicing throats must pay very well. The funny thing was that Colene sort of liked the man, maybe because she knew something about slicing flesh and making blood flow. She had scratched her wrists rather than cutting throats, but the principle was similar. She had the feeling that Slick liked her too, maybe for the same reason.
Was she fooling herself? She didn't think so, because she was learning to read minds, and even when she couldn't get the words, she got the emotion. The longer she was with this man, the more her conviction grew: not only did he like her, there was something he wanted from her, and it wasn't sex.
"Your friend," Slick said as they sat in easy chairs. "She knows me from somewhere?"
Provos was already moving purposefully to a wall.
"She's from another world," Colene said. "She remembers the future. She doesn't speak our language, but if you signal what you want to know, like maybe a test question, she can show you."
He turned to look at Provos. She put her hands to a framed picture, and pushed it aside to reveal a wall safe behind.
"I was going to ask—" he said, staring.
"Where the safe was," Colene finished. "You open it later in this session, right? While we're here? She remembers. Take my word, Slick—she has nothing to do with this world, and we hope to leave it tomorrow. You can trust her because she'll be gone."
"You're into heavy stuff," he said.
Provos set the picture straight and went to a chair, where she gazed benevolently at Slick. This made him nervous, though he tried not to show it. Colene was an old hand at reading nervousness.
"Look, you don't have to believe me," Colene said. "I've been traveling in other worlds—other realities—and Fm not crazy. My man is trapped on one of those worlds. It's fractal. I need someone who knows how to name the parts of the Mandelbrot set. That's a mathematical construction."