Asimov's SF, February 2010 by Dell Magazine Authors Read Free Book Online Page B

heaven's sake, don't exaggerate. At their age—"
    "Ex agg erate! Watch and learn!” He keyed the virtual board of his homeowatch, fastclicking his children's phones. The holographic privacy display showed an instant red, with the words: NOT AVAILABLE AT THIS TIME. PLEASE LEAVE A MESSAGE, OR TRY AGAIN LATER. He turned his wrist so his former wife could witness his humiliation.
    "Jevon, you're losing your bearings. It's three hours earlier on the left coast. The kids are both at morning class. You know full well they're not allowed to use the access during scholastic hours."
    Deflated, Jive shook his head and reached for the menu. He wasn't hungry; the brat sat in his guts like lead. I will be conciliatory, he decided. Isn't that alleged to be one of my prime work-related skills? Isn't conciliation the doctrine of Sister Grace of Magdalene, pastor of his house of worship, the Wee Baptist Kirk i’ the Glen (Scottish Rite)? To the lovely waitron, he said, “Get me a real Manhattan. And whatever my wife ... the lady is drinking, get her another. What would you like to eat, Delphine?"
    "I ordered en route. You really should eat something if you're going to drink—"
    "Why do you let them watch that crap?” he asked vituperatively. “They should have their heads down to their books."
    "Jive, Angelina is eight and Barack is only five, let them enjoy a bit of childhood before you start cramming—"
    He slammed his fist on the table, making the cut-glass soy dispenser jump. “Watching alleged dead people is enjoying childhood? Christ, you're an intelligent, educated woman, Delphine, you must know it's just a barrage of vicious propaganda beamed down on the cit sats from those goddamned Chinese —"
    Showing her perfect white teeth, Delphine hissed, “Lower your damned voice, you oaf. In case you hadn't noticed—"
    Faces had turned their way, hiding shock behind bland contempt. The waitron stood with their drinks.
    "I didn't mean ... Oh, please, just put them down.” He gestured to the great acrylic patriotic flag above them, pinned to the four corners of the room, fifty white stars on deep skyblue, three more blue stars clinging at the inner edge of the top white stripes: New Zealand, Australia, Taiwan. “I know these Chinese are our loyal allies, our fellow citizens, but it's obvious to anyone with his damned ear to the ground that these ... these fake dead people are a plot to undermine the confidence of our nation. I'm insulted , Delphine. It's our people they are targeting especially, you know that, the Chinese think we're still a damned superstitious bunch of primitive jungle—"
    "Shut up, you fool.” His wife was on her feet, seething yet containing her fury. Holding her handbag against her breast, she said, “You can get the check. I should have known better. And give the kids a call at a time when it suits them, not you."
    His head had started throbbing. He threw back the Manhattan, coughed. To the impassive waitron, he said, “Get me another. And a soluble ginseng antacid."
    * * * *
    His head echoed like a jug kicked by a steel-tipped boot. Ensconced again in the refitted storage room that was his office, Jive Bolen groaned. He was drinking too much. Two Manhattans on a stomach with nothing in it but a brat sliver, it was self-destructive. His tongue rolled again and again against his lips, trying to dispel the over-sweet taste of cherry and burned orange peel. He noticed what he was doing, and recoiled in disgust. This was the tic that had disfigured poor Gran Bolen as she subsided inch by inch toward the grave. Tardive dyskinesia, the medically induced disorder of the nervous system inflicted by early-generation antipsychotic drugs, those barbarously crude neuroleptics such as metoclopramide. Induced supersensitivity to dopamine in the nigrostrial pathway, damaging the D2 dopamine receptor. Or so he'd been told by the apologetic physician who finally had changed the old lady's regimen, but too late, far too