"I told you, it's fine." He held his hand out and rotated the thumb. "See?"
"Is that where she got you, Dad?" Léon asked.
"Well, it–"
"What was it like?" Gabriel came into Amy's vision. "Did you sense a change at first, or did you notice the traits emerging later? How long was it before they were effective?"
"Did she eat it all in one bite, or did she chew it off?"
"Léon–"
"I'm just asking–"
"Was it Portia who did it, or you?" Gabriel leaned closer. "Our father says that you remain conscious as Amy even when the other partition takes over, but that Portia also maintains an illusion of awareness–"
"It's not an illusion." Amy covered her mouth.
Tell that little bastard I'm as real as he is.
"She's angry." Javier pointed at Gabriel. "Don't provoke her. Not unless you want to meet her in person."
"Actually, I think I'd like to," Gabriel said. "I think she means so much for our evolution as a species–"
"She ate your baby brother," Amy said. "She was the one who did that, not me."
Gabriel tilted his head. "You ate her first, though," he said. "That seems to be how your clade solves problems. By swallowing them whole."
"Junior wasn't a problem. Portia thought he was dead weight, but–"
"Of course he was dead weight." Gabriel nodded over at Junior, who currently stood on Matteo's knees. "That one was of academic interest to me as a bluescreen, and a possible example of what could happen to my own iterations, but if it were any other iteration I wouldn't care." He smiled. "You're so different. Your priorities are so skewed. I really hope Daniel is able to get a good look at your networks and see what's going on in there."
Amy looked up at the blank white sky. It looked like a fine drizzle might start at any moment. Gabriel really was Javier's son. She wondered if either of them would ever understand the similarities they shared, the way their words echoed each other and how their shared principles created such predictable outcomes. All of the Juniors reflected different aspects of their father. If Amy ever iterated, maybe her daughters would be the same.
Who says they'll be anything like you? Portia asked. You can cry and scream and whine all you want, but they'll be my daughters, not yours.
Amy shut her eyes. "Yeah," she said. "I really hope he can figure me out, too."
Ignacio landed beside her in a crouch. He straightened up and handed her a pair of goggles.
"Thanks." She stood and looked off the edge of the building. "You worked really fast."
Ignacio jerked his head at Javier. "I learned from the best. There isn't a human alive this guy can't fuck in under two minutes."
Léon nodded vigorously. "One time in Mexico, we were in this club, and it was like this live show kind of thing, and Dad–"
"Cállate tu boca, Léon," Javier said. "Amy doesn't need to hear all the details."
Ignacio snorted. "Now you develop some pride? Give it a rest, old man."
Amy slid the goggles up her nose and coiled their attached buds up into her ears. "Um, well. I'll just be going, then."
She flung herself downwards, skidding down the side of the opposite building and landing hard on the street. She dusted herself off and headed toward the water. She didn't run, but she flipped up the hood of the sweatshirt the boys had lent her and tried to get away as fast as possible. Above her, she could still hear the boys chattering, and she wanted a distraction. The nearby seagulls' insistent pleas for attention and food helped. The slow clots of shark-eyed tourists didn't.
She lifted the goggles and said "1986," and instantly the landscape changed: the buildings straightened and the streets lengthened and there were street performers and homeless amputees in wheelchairs. People smoked on the street. They bought newspapers from old metal dispensers, and unfolded them with great difficulty. Tinny, crackly music played from blank-faced players with chunky, shining buttons. Everything was right angles: the cars, the machines, the awnings and outdoor chairs, and the discarded plastic boxes with the two little teeth inside that she couldn't determine the purpose of. There were no curved edges anywhere.
When she looked at herself, she almost took the goggles off again: the environment had layered her in rubber-toed sneakers, pink knitted things crawling up her calves, odd ripped leggings with stirrups, a zippered leather skirt, and a giant black T-shirt with the word "Pixies" across the chest and a knot tied in the excess material off to one side. Even her hands were all wrong: they wore stupid lace gloves with the fingers cut off. Around her, the others looked the same: pale streaky denim, big black combat boots, skinny trousers with giant cargo pockets, hair that literally stood on end. The right angles repeated in the clothes, too: the older women all had boxy shoulders and pleated pants.