She was going to be late for Kawashima’s latest assignment, an oil executive who was partway responsible for the North Sea disaster. But she wanted to admire Laurence’s machine. Laurence showed her the readouts of just how much energy throughput they had gotten into those sleek tubes without anything blowing up.
“That’s sure an impressive machine,” Patricia said. And yeah, there was something both aesthetically pleasing and satisfying about a great piece of engineering. Shiny and sturdy. She felt the same affection for this machine that she did for the old manual typewriters they sold in the hipster gallery on Valencia, or for a nice steam engine. These things were made of hubris, because they always broke down, or worse, broke everything. But maybe Laurence had been right and these devices were what made us unique, as humans. We made machines, the way spiders made silk. Staring at the red wasp-shaped chassis, she thought of how disgusted she had been with Laurence, not long ago. And maybe she shouldn’t judge him—judging was a kind of Aggrandizement—and maybe this device was the culmination of everything she’d always admired about him, from the start. And yes, a sign that they’d both won out, over the Mr. Roses of the world.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
19
LAURENCE AND PATRICIA hashed out their respective relationship problems while smoking an elf-shaped bong on the couch. Laurence infodumped about Serafina, the ongoing “probation,” and then he got embarrassed about monologuing and asked Patricia about the guy she’d been drinking with. Kevin, the webcomics guy.
“Ummm.” Patricia took the bong and filled both lungs before trying to answer. “It’s confusing. I’m still not sure if Kevin and I are dating, or just booty-call friends. Whenever he sleeps over, he tries to steal away in the middle of the night. But nobody can sneak out on me, after all the training I’ve had. So he winds up either having to say goodbye properly or staying until morning. He’s tried both, and neither way quite seems to work for him.”
“Ah.”
“I keep almost having a conversation with Kevin about what it is we’re doing, and then it doesn’t materialize.”
Somehow seeing the wooden Mr. Rose had been a turning point in Laurence and Patricia’s relationship, not just as a bonding thing but also as a reminder that they had known each other as total losers in eighth grade. Patricia might be the hardest person for Laurence to disappoint, because she’d already seen him at his worst. In fact, this was the most at ease Laurence had felt in months, and not just because of the elf bong.
Nobody talked for a while, until Patricia changed the subject: “So how are your parents? Still wanting you to be outdoorsy?”
“I think they are actually pretty happy,” said Laurence. “They got divorced about seven years ago, and my mom found a guy who likes to go bird-watching. My dad quit his awful job and went back to college to become a high-school teacher. I always kind of thought they’d be happier if they split up, even though you never want to root for your parents to do that. How are yours?”
“They’re, uh … okay,” said Patricia. “They actually disowned me for a few years, but this past year they’ve made this big effort to reconnect.” She sighed and sucked in more smoke from the elf’s head, even though her throat was getting scratchy. “It’s all thanks to my sister, sort of. Roberta keeps getting arrested, or winding up in the ER. She was always the one who had it together, of the two of us. Now, all of a sudden, my parents have noticed that I’m holding down a job and don’t have a criminal record, and they’ve decided that I can be the good daughter now. Like Roberta and I could just trade places. I have no idea how to deal.”
Laurence was going to say something else, but Isobel came home. She was soaked, because it was raining and the experimental self-configuring umbrella had gotten stuck in a nonoptimal shape, judging from the complainy servo noises it was making and the fact that the left side of Isobel’s cardigan was drenched while the right side was totally dry. She no longer had the long brown braids she’d sported when he’d first met her as a child and instead wore her graying hair in a bob.
“Oh dear,” Laurence said. “Lord Umber let you down.” This nickname had not caught on with anybody else yet, but he kept trying.
Isobel just snorted and threw Lord Umber at the kitchen sink, where he could drain. Lord Umber groaned and attempted to transform into a shape that would protect the sink from any indoor precipitation. He got stuck again, making loud whining noises.
“Not cool.” Isobel grimaced. “Not cool at all. A regular umbrella would have been way better. Oh, hello.” She had gotten enough rain out of her eyes to see the unfamiliar young woman seated on the couch. “Nice to meet you. I’m Isobel.”