“He kept it.” Javier smiled tightly. "We're both dads, right? We both know he kept it."
Holberton said nothing to that. Instead, he pulled the rest of the tarp free. Doing so revealed a motorbike. A big, red motorbike. It had a chopper-style reclining seat with plush black leather cushions, and a long, narrow windscreen curved against the wind. The rear wheel was a lot bigger than the front. Neither wheel had any rims, just giant half-spheres the same red as the rest of the bike. The decals strewn across the front wheel and main body were for companies Javier didn’t recognize: Canon, Citizen, Shoei.
“Do you know what this is?” Holberton asked.
“It’s a great way to get a ticket.”
Holberton laughed his big “Hah!” laugh. It was the first time Javier had heard it in a few hours. Strange, how he’d really only known Holberton for a little while. It seemed like much longer. Then again, he was only four years old. Each day was a significant portion of his lifespan.
“It’s a replica bike. It’s from a movie. It’ll still work, and everything, but don’t expect it to be too rugged.”
Javier blinked. “Everything you own is copied from something else, isn’t it?”
Holberton shrugged. “It’s the one thing my father and I have in common. He copied humans; I copy artifacts.” He cleared his throat. “It’ll take you a couple of days to get up there, at least. It’s not like California or something, where you can just hop on one highway and keep going. You’ll have to go through Utah, Idaho, and a little bit of Oregon. I’d lay in the course, but I’m guessing you don’t want a GPS knowing where you’re headed.”
Javier had to think about that. Rory and Portia seemed not to need any help finding him. Then again, they had way more processing power to devote to the problem than any one police officer or department. In the end, it probably didn’t matter. They’d tracked him this far, and he’d made out OK.
“Lay it in,” Javier said.
An hour later, he’d packed up everything he could. Clothes, electrolytes, and a week’s supply of vN food. He would need to get to Walla Walla before Tuesday, Holberton reminded him. The new food was rolling out then, and unless Javier felt like contacting him about which grocery stores were stocking the poisoned material, he’d have to eat only the safe stuff he’d packed himself.
“It’s OK,” Javier told him. “There’s always garbage.”
Holberton winced, but he said nothing. It was almost dawn. Javier planned to take his shirt off as soon as he got on the road; the sunlight would be his best help. He’d look a little silly wearing the helmet, but it would also help him avoid recognition. And with a bike that gaudy, he needed all the help he could get in that department.
“This is my favourite time of day,” Holberton said. “Come over here.”
They left the bedroom, and Holberton brought him into the living room. In the pre-dawn light, the house looked especially grey. Holberton offered him a chair facing east, and Javier sat. He heard Holberton start making coffee behind him in the kitchen. Then the sky began to go pink. And with it, so did the house.
Every surface and every object reflected the sky. Without any blinds to filter the view, the colours of the sunrise slanted across the concrete floor and infused the house. Tables, counters, glossy vases and the pressed-earth fireplace. All of them went pink. Then orange. Their greyness was a perfect reflector for the sky’s colours.
As the sun rose higher, Javier’s skin tingled pleasantly. It had been a while since he last savoured the dawn. The last time it happened, he’d been on the island with Amy.
He got up out of the chair. Holberton stood in the arch of the kitchen door, leaning against it and holding his steaming coffee.
“One more try,” Holberton said. “Come on.”
Javier shook his head. “Any other time, I would say yes. In a heartbeat.” He quirked his lips. “I mean, if I had a heartbeat.”
“It’s dangerous out there. You’re safer, here.”
Javier could have told Holberton that he’d never been truly safe. That he’d had isolated periods of relative safety with the gnawing awareness of iteration or poverty eating him up from the inside out, and that this period was really only another one of those.
“You’d get tired of me, eventually,” Javier said. And because he wanted to make it easier, he added: “Everyone always does.”
Holberton looked stricken. He examined his coffee in its cup. “I would not.”
“Would too.” Javier strode up to him. He tipped Holberton’s face up, held it, and kissed him. The man was still a good kisser. He did surprisingly well with such thin lips. He tasted of coffee and agave syrup and some sort of vegan creamer. It had a chemical tang that lingered in Javier’s mouth.
“Switch to cream,” Javier said. “My body thinks that substitute stuff is food, and I’m a fucking robot.”