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valarltdAdina barJonas loved Hanukkah. December was nothing but chill and ice storms and rain, but she loved the holidays with the lights and presents and comfort food. Christmas dominated the stores, but she didn’t mind. Any holiday was just an excuse to see family, eat too much and spend too much.
The UPS box she was balancing as she opened the apartment door only emphasized the last point. She set her briefcase down--the Linzer case could wait a while--and placed the box on the teak coffee table.
She brushed aside the beaded curtain that separated her bedroom from the rest of the apartment. She’d done it in the style of an opium den or vintage hippie pad from the middle twentieth century with red velvet furniture with gold tassels and floor cushions around low exotic wood tables. Candles on every flat surface and incense burners in every room filled the place with atmospheric smoke. She’d once had black-light posters, but they didn’t fit the more upscale image she was trying to project now as a junior partner in Brinkley, Samudrala, Wallace and Nguyen.
Adina moved slowly, drawing out the anticipation. She stepped out of her heels and hung them in their place on the shoe rack. Then she peeled off the silk stockings, rinsing them carefully. She slipped out of her dark designer suit and silk blouse, and drew on a soft cotton tunic and pants. Indian fashion had been stylish for a while and the yoke of the tunic sparkled with beads and little mirrors. She dug her bare toes into the thick Persian carpet her father had given her when she graduated from law school.
She made herself wait for the present. Although she was in regular contact with her father and uncle, she had little enough other social life that even a present and not just a call felt like an event.
The same disquiet that had been growing within her for the last six months seized her as she made coffee. Only her self-discipline let her not hurry as she got the beans from the freezer, ground them twice and made a single cup. She sat on the sofa and sipped it, staring at the box. There was no name and the return address on the box was a post office box in New York. It could be from no one but her father. Papa’s gifts were always expensive, always too much. She loved it.
Adina sipped more coffee, still making herself wait. Since making junior partner at the firm, she was no longer working the ninety to hundred-twenty hour weeks that had consumed her since high-school. She had turned thirty last month, and it occurred to her more and more frequently of late, that she had no friends outside the office and no life beyond work. There were too many hours that were no longer filled with work, but she had no idea how to fill them. Bars and clubs bored her.
She wanted a lover or a husband, someone to come home to, tell about the cases, and just be a warm presence in her little opium-den flat. She didn't know where to start looking. Her eyes drifted back to the present. Papa had very set ideas on who would be an appropriate husband and Adina could recite the list from memory, but her priorities weren't her father's. She wasn't sure what hers were. She loved her Papa dearly, not just for the expensive gifts, but he did have a tendency to be very overwhelming.
Of course, Papa could afford expensive presents. He had once been the highest paid sex worker in the world, and remained in the top five, traveling in style from Rome to London to New York at the beck and call of wealthy women and men. He had always supplemented his income with thievery, more as the years wore on and his long jet curls began to show the first gray. He had money to burn and never hesitated to lavish it on his only child, regardless of her determination to make it on her own.
Adina slit the tape with the tiny, jewel-hilted dagger that he’d sent her from Turkey. Carefully, she opened the flaps and shoved the packing aside. The card was blue and white and showed a menorah done in the ancient style. She opened the card before digging into the packing.
Her father’s beautiful handwriting, almost more calligraphy than script, read, “Happy Hanukkah, Princess. I thought the best lawyer in the family could use this to argue down the best lawyers ever. Love, Papa.”
She swept the packing away and pulled out a simple black cardboard box. “VirtualClone,” the white block letters proclaimed, “A completely integrated sensory experience.” No endorsements, no hyperbole, no exclamation points marred the box, just the clean, simple lettering. Adina felt her stomach lurch. She’d coveted one of these since she’s seen the first advertisement. Her father, with his usual sense of occasion, had placed a “Do not open until Hanukkah” sticker on the flap, over the factory seal.
The holiday itself was five days away. Adina slit the sticker with one short, impeccably manicured scarlet thumbnail, and opened the box anyway.
She took out the VirtualClone generator, a hard plastic case the size of two personal data readers and as tall as her palm, then set it on the table. The instruction manual was small and simple.
VirtualClone offers the first totally integrated sensory experience and is a breakthrough in holographic entertainment technology. Before using, please consult your medical provider. To begin use, simply active the power switch, place the wireless contact sensors on your temples, and think of the experience you wish to have.
There was more, all about how VirtualClone created the experience by drawing on its programming, the internet, planetary databanks and the subject’s own memories. She skimmed, noting only the failsafe feature. VirtualClone reset itself after three hours. It would cease all programming and take an hour to recharge.
She activated the power switch and attached the sensors to her temples. There was no discomfort, but reality seemed to shimmer for a minute and then Mr. Wallace stood in front of her, scowling.
“Jonas!” he snapped, deliberately truncating her surname. “Why isn’t the Linzer case done? I want it on my desk in ten minutes!”
Adina scrambled for the electrodes. No, there would be no arguing with the crusty old senior partner. She breathed hard, her adrenaline rushing almost as if she’d actually been called into Wallace’s office. She tucked the VirtualClone back in its box and started her evening routine.
She felt a warm streak of pain on one temple and saw blood on her face in the mirror. She must have scratched herself in her haste to remove the electrodes. She stopped the bleeding and saw it was barely a scratch, just enough to make a drop or two of blood well up.
In Adina’s bloodstream, the first of the nanobots uncurled and sent the activation signal to the others.
The UPS box she was balancing as she opened the apartment door only emphasized the last point. She set her briefcase down--the Linzer case could wait a while--and placed the box on the teak coffee table.
She brushed aside the beaded curtain that separated her bedroom from the rest of the apartment. She’d done it in the style of an opium den or vintage hippie pad from the middle twentieth century with red velvet furniture with gold tassels and floor cushions around low exotic wood tables. Candles on every flat surface and incense burners in every room filled the place with atmospheric smoke. She’d once had black-light posters, but they didn’t fit the more upscale image she was trying to project now as a junior partner in Brinkley, Samudrala, Wallace and Nguyen.
Adina moved slowly, drawing out the anticipation. She stepped out of her heels and hung them in their place on the shoe rack. Then she peeled off the silk stockings, rinsing them carefully. She slipped out of her dark designer suit and silk blouse, and drew on a soft cotton tunic and pants. Indian fashion had been stylish for a while and the yoke of the tunic sparkled with beads and little mirrors. She dug her bare toes into the thick Persian carpet her father had given her when she graduated from law school.
She made herself wait for the present. Although she was in regular contact with her father and uncle, she had little enough other social life that even a present and not just a call felt like an event.
The same disquiet that had been growing within her for the last six months seized her as she made coffee. Only her self-discipline let her not hurry as she got the beans from the freezer, ground them twice and made a single cup. She sat on the sofa and sipped it, staring at the box. There was no name and the return address on the box was a post office box in New York. It could be from no one but her father. Papa’s gifts were always expensive, always too much. She loved it.
Adina sipped more coffee, still making herself wait. Since making junior partner at the firm, she was no longer working the ninety to hundred-twenty hour weeks that had consumed her since high-school. She had turned thirty last month, and it occurred to her more and more frequently of late, that she had no friends outside the office and no life beyond work. There were too many hours that were no longer filled with work, but she had no idea how to fill them. Bars and clubs bored her.
She wanted a lover or a husband, someone to come home to, tell about the cases, and just be a warm presence in her little opium-den flat. She didn't know where to start looking. Her eyes drifted back to the present. Papa had very set ideas on who would be an appropriate husband and Adina could recite the list from memory, but her priorities weren't her father's. She wasn't sure what hers were. She loved her Papa dearly, not just for the expensive gifts, but he did have a tendency to be very overwhelming.
Of course, Papa could afford expensive presents. He had once been the highest paid sex worker in the world, and remained in the top five, traveling in style from Rome to London to New York at the beck and call of wealthy women and men. He had always supplemented his income with thievery, more as the years wore on and his long jet curls began to show the first gray. He had money to burn and never hesitated to lavish it on his only child, regardless of her determination to make it on her own.
Adina slit the tape with the tiny, jewel-hilted dagger that he’d sent her from Turkey. Carefully, she opened the flaps and shoved the packing aside. The card was blue and white and showed a menorah done in the ancient style. She opened the card before digging into the packing.
Her father’s beautiful handwriting, almost more calligraphy than script, read, “Happy Hanukkah, Princess. I thought the best lawyer in the family could use this to argue down the best lawyers ever. Love, Papa.”
She swept the packing away and pulled out a simple black cardboard box. “VirtualClone,” the white block letters proclaimed, “A completely integrated sensory experience.” No endorsements, no hyperbole, no exclamation points marred the box, just the clean, simple lettering. Adina felt her stomach lurch. She’d coveted one of these since she’s seen the first advertisement. Her father, with his usual sense of occasion, had placed a “Do not open until Hanukkah” sticker on the flap, over the factory seal.
The holiday itself was five days away. Adina slit the sticker with one short, impeccably manicured scarlet thumbnail, and opened the box anyway.
She took out the VirtualClone generator, a hard plastic case the size of two personal data readers and as tall as her palm, then set it on the table. The instruction manual was small and simple.
VirtualClone offers the first totally integrated sensory experience and is a breakthrough in holographic entertainment technology. Before using, please consult your medical provider. To begin use, simply active the power switch, place the wireless contact sensors on your temples, and think of the experience you wish to have.
There was more, all about how VirtualClone created the experience by drawing on its programming, the internet, planetary databanks and the subject’s own memories. She skimmed, noting only the failsafe feature. VirtualClone reset itself after three hours. It would cease all programming and take an hour to recharge.
She activated the power switch and attached the sensors to her temples. There was no discomfort, but reality seemed to shimmer for a minute and then Mr. Wallace stood in front of her, scowling.
“Jonas!” he snapped, deliberately truncating her surname. “Why isn’t the Linzer case done? I want it on my desk in ten minutes!”
Adina scrambled for the electrodes. No, there would be no arguing with the crusty old senior partner. She breathed hard, her adrenaline rushing almost as if she’d actually been called into Wallace’s office. She tucked the VirtualClone back in its box and started her evening routine.
She felt a warm streak of pain on one temple and saw blood on her face in the mirror. She must have scratched herself in her haste to remove the electrodes. She stopped the bleeding and saw it was barely a scratch, just enough to make a drop or two of blood well up.
In Adina’s bloodstream, the first of the nanobots uncurled and sent the activation signal to the others.
