Permutation City

Maria tried to let it wash over her. She couldn't feel simple compassion -- she was too tainted, too culpable -- so she tried to feel nothing at all. Durham had systematically pursued his beliefs as far as they could take him; he'd either be cured by that, or ready for another round of nanosurgery. Nothing she could do now would make any difference. She started to tell herself that by helping with the project -- without ever conceding its premise -- she might have helped him exorcize his delusions . . . but that wasn't the point. She'd done it all for the money. For Francesca. And for herself. To spare herself the pain of Francesca dying. How dare the woman think of refusing? Copies, like funerals, were for the benefit of the survivors.

Durham suddenly went quiet. He sat down beside her, disheveled and contrite; she wasn't sure if he'd become sober, or just moved on to a new phase. It was half past two; the opera had finished playing hours ago, the flat was silent.

He said, "I've been ranting. I'm sorry."

The two swivel chairs they'd been sitting on all day were the only furniture in the room besides the table; there was no sofa she could sleep on, and the floor looked cold and hard. Maria thought about heading home; she could catch a train, and collect her cycle later.

She stood; then, barely thinking about it, leaned down and kissed him on the forehead.

She said, "Goodbye."

Before she could straighten up, he put a hand on her cheek. His fingers were cool. She hesitated, then kissed him on the mouth -- then almost recoiled, angry with herself. I feel guilty, I feel sorry for him, I only want to make up for that somehow. Then he met her eyes. He wasn't drunk any more. She believed he understood everything she was feeling -- the whole knot of confusion and shame -- and all he wanted to do was smooth it away.

They kissed again. She was sure.

They undressed each other on the way to the bedroom. He said, "Tell me what you want, tell me what you like. I haven't done this for a long time."

"How long?"

"Several lives ago."

He was skilled with his tongue, and persistent. She almost came -- but before it could happen, everything broke down into isolated sensations: pleasant but meaningless, faintly absurd. She closed her eyes and willed it, but it was like trying to cry for no reason. When she pushed him gently away, he didn't complain, or apologize, or ask stupid questions; she appreciated that.

They rested, and she explored his body. He was probably the oldest man she'd ever seen naked; certainly the oldest she'd ever touched. Fifty. He was . . . loose, rather than flabby; muscle had wasted rather than turned to fat. It was almost impossible to imagine Aden -- twenty-four years old, and hard as a statue -- ever succumbing to the same process. But he would. And her own body had already begun.

She slithered around and took his penis in her mouth, trying to psych herself past the comic strangeness of the act, trying to grow drunk on the stench of it, working with her tongue and teeth until he begged her to stop. They rearranged their bodies clumsily so they were side by side; he entered her and came at once. He cried out, bellowing in obvious pain, not histrionic delight. He gritted his teeth and turned ashen as he withdrew; she held his shoulders until he could explain. "My . . . left testicle went into spasm. It just . . . happens sometimes. It feels like it's being crushed in a vise." He laughed and blinked away the tears. She kissed him and ran a finger around his groin.

"That's awful. Does it still hurt?"

"Yes. Don't stop."

Afterward, she found she didn't want to touch him; his skin turned clammy as their sweat dried, and when he seemed to fall asleep, she disentangled herself from his embrace and shifted to the edge of the bed.

She didn't know what she'd done: complicated everything, set herself up for yet another stage in their convoluted relationship -- or simply marked the end of it, bidden him farewell? An hour of disastrous sex hadn't resolved anything: she still felt guilty for taking the money, "taking advantage" of him.

What would she do, if he wanted to see her again? She couldn't face the prospect of spending the next six months listening to him fantasize about the grand future which lay ahead for his homemade universe. She'd taken some pride in the fact that she'd never once humored him, never pretended for a moment to have accepted his theories -- and she'd never met a nominally sane person who could disagree with her so graciously. But there'd be something dishonest about trying to forge a lasting friendship between them, in the face of her skepticism. And if she ever succeeded in disillusioning him . . . she'd probably feel guilty about that, as well.