Stones (Data) by Jacob Whaler Page A

him she is reading the message. He waits for a reply, following the usual routine for talking late at night.
    What’s on your mind?
    He taps the jax and switches to a sim of her real voice so he can listen to the warm tones. That’s much better than reading cold words on a holo screen, and it’s always a relaxing way to end the day. With his eyes closed, the fingers of his left hand wrap around the organic cylinder shape of the jax and play replies to her in the dark. On its own, his other hand finds the rock.
    Just thinking about my mom. Did I ever tell you about the last time I saw her?
    Matt hasn’t even shared this with his dad.
    Nope. Tell me.
    His palms feel moist as the scene replays in his mind like it has for the last twelve years, over and over, like a stuck holo. But now he isn’t sure he wants to go over it again. Moving on its own, his hand starts to play it out anyway.
    The last morning I saw Mom, I was mad because she made me part my hair on the side. It was picture day, and she wanted me to look neat. I was in fifth grade, and the neat look wasn’t in style for ten-year-olds.
    He sends the message and waits for Jess to reply. A few seconds later, she does.
    I remember the wild hair we used to have back then. Wing jobs, Flamehawks, Curly-Qs. It’d be hard to come to school looking like a neat freak. Go on.
    His hand trembles just a little.
    I told my mom she was mean, unfair and stupid. I told her I could do whatever I wanted with my hair and to just leave me alone.
    This time, it takes more than a few seconds for Jessica to reply.
    Matt, you were just a kid. You didn’t know what you were saying. You didn’t mean it. Your mom understood.
    Tears well up in the dark. A stream of wetness cascades out of the corner of his eye into an ear and onto the futon.
    But I really did mean it. Do you know what the last thing I said to her was?
    He senses that Jessica does.
    What was it?
    Matt reaches up with his right hand and wipes the moisture from his eyes. The fingers of his left hand flex and move as the words spread out through the Mesh.
    I told her I hated her and I wished she were dead.
    The ball of emotion in his stomach explodes, and Matt’s body convulses with pent-up sobbing. It feels so good to let it flow out, like the purging of a great filthiness. A load of guilt lifts from his shoulders.
    Minutes pass in the dark. Somehow Jessica knows what he’s doing.
    It’s good for you to cry. Let it come out. You need that.
    Matt’s fingers seem to separate from his body, playing out a message from deep in his subconscious.
    I love her so much. But I never told her, Jess. And now she’s gone. She’ll never know. How could I be such a bad son?
    Her reply comes instantly. Not even Jess can play a jax that fast. She must have been waiting to send it.
    She loved you then. She loves you now. She still lives, just in a different place. Tell her. Tell her that you love her. She’ll know your feelings.
    Matt smiles. For a few seconds, he is enveloped in the comfort of belief. But it doesn’t last. It never does.
    I wish I could be like you. You’re so sure. But it doesn’t work for me.
    More seconds pass.
    Someday you’ll understand. Just be patient.
    He reaches up again and wipes the tears from his eyes. Then he opens them, stares up at the ceiling and silently mouths the words.
    Mom, I love you.
    Somehow, he feels better. His fingers fly over the jax again.
    What are you doing right now, Jess?
    He already knows, but wants to hear it from her.
    What I always do just before sleep. Reading the Bible. Talking to God. Thinking about you.
    Jessica comes from a family of Jesus-believers, a religion past its prime, long since out of style and much too demanding.
    He went to church with her once, and all he saw were old people desperately holding on to an old morality, with an almost comical focus on staying chaste.
    No wonder there are so few young people who believe.
    But Jessica is one of them.
    It’s much more