Continued from Part 3…

I tried to look bright-eyed and enthusiastic as one-by-one the sleek black craft settled silently on to the VIP terrace and the board of directors and their exotic escorts emerged. Like Spectra’s piece, they too were from the four corners of the world, and I laboriously managed to recall greetings and compliments in six different tongues. I was bone weary in body and spirit but would not have the luxury of sleep for many hours.

The night got easier as the hours wore on, mainly because the guests generously partook of the free food and drink. I avoided the latter and drank coffee instead. I fumbled through the presentation speech, laughed at the appropriate times, and generally kissed ass until my lips were sore. Considering the circumstances I was surviving quite well.

I knew that I was in the clear when the ribbon was finally cut and the guests surged into the new wing. In some cases the artists attempted to show reality, using contemporary clothing and body art on the subjects. In others they made statements, making figures transparent instead of solid or adding heavenly glows or fiery rings around what the press was quickly dubbing “free stands”. In one particularly vulgar case the body was little more than a faint outline but the highly detailed (and unfortunately functioning) vital organs showed through. Some were seductive, others contemplative, still others tragic. Some were slightly animated, flowing and beckoning the viewer to engage in a dialogue the morphs could never complete.

I had to admit that despite my biases towards the VR body of work they were all fascinating; however, I was far too exhausted to enjoy them and worked on making myself invisible. I stood in the far corner and finally allowed myself to indulge in a scotch on the rocks.

Not used to being studied myself, it took several moments for me to identify the peculiar feeling of eyes on me. I finally located my audience in the opposite corner of the gallery.

I did not remember having met the young woman earlier in the evening. She was young, perhaps early twenties, delicate and supple. She seemed amused by the intensity of my gaze and I idiotically blushed. Her movements were graceful and effortless as she made her way over to me through the maze of shimmering forms.

I hated what I was about to say, but a director’s work is never done I suppose. “Miss, the gallery is closed.”

“No shit,” she replied. “I’m Mr. Topper’s niece, Tyla. And you can drop the ‘miss’ stuff.”

To be continued…