Eidola Mater: Mother of Idols

CHAPTER 3: ADA

A delivery drone floated at the open door. It scanned my CypberneticID, and I grabbed the poppy orange bag from that AI fast food joint, Herbi-Burger, and followed my mother upstairs to the mezzanine overlooking her... I wasn't sure it could be called a backyard since she owned a percentile of a state. Palm trees swayed over turquoise waves and the lush green hills of her private island.

Zara sipped her cocktail of supplements, exasperated. "I'm appalled you eat that swill. We rely on contracted security, Ada." Her voice was threaded with a faint Nigerian accent.

I crossed my legs, meeting her gaze. "Ordinarily, yes, we do. But with The Remnant infiltrating your private server on ColonyASR, it's only a matter of time before they escalate their attacks to 207 Elysian Fields."

"I'd like to see them try." Zara laughed. "It's called home turf advantage for a reason."

"Mother." Frustration laced my concerned voice.

"Do me a favor. Tell me, what time is it, Ada-Beta?" she crooned.

"You know I hate that nickname. It's..." I glanced at my mobile device. "A quarter after ten. Why?"

"I'm late. Fashionably. Get dressed—and do something with your hair," she called as she jetted off.

Hours later, we sped across a bustling street in West Menlo Park after brunch. A flock of paparazzi materialized, cameras flashing like lightning. I made a game of trying to guess which snap would sell for the most as an overzealous photographer shouted, "Zara, give us some sugar!"

My mother, ever the epitome of poise and grace, tossed her lustrous hair and bestowed upon them a trillion-dollar smile. Her luminous bronze face belied her sixty-five years, her body, still lithe and elegant. I envied her effortlessness and marveled at her ability to remain composed under the world's relentless scrutiny.

She leaned in close to me and whispered, "Posture."

I straightened my spine, irritated, as the rest of our entourage crossed the intersection. We were traveling with Zara's mousy executive assistant, some of the top brass from the company, her public relations archivist, and her useless second trophy husband. The latter wrapped an arm around her and smiled for the cameras while security personnel herded us past spectators.

We made our way through the doors of an exclusive club and resort. Mother said proudly, "I'm here to be seen with the actress portraying the younger version of me in the dramatization of my life. How's that for a lifetime achievement?"

Her fawning lackeys showered her with praise. I lowered my voice so that only she could hear me. "Mother, you can't keep shelving this. You need advanced security. That means someone who can provide real-world protection, as well as guard you in ASR. Now, I have a potential new hire who's not on anybody's radar, and he's—"

"The trick is to be seen, Ada. Just seen," Zara replied, with a look that said drop it. "In the right places, with the right people, happy-happy."

"I'm happy, Mother," I countered.

"Are you?" She raised a manicured eyebrow before scanning the lobby for her celebrity doppelganger. "And this young lady came highly recommended, but I don't know her. Ella Jane Davis. Have you heard of her? Has anyone?" she asked no one in particular. "It's a shame there aren't many bona fide influencers left in the world. It's like people have lost their appetite for heroes."

"Or maybe they've woken up to the fact that no one is coming to save us," I muttered.

Zara didn't respond. She led her parade past a series of intimate rooms, each one outfitted with state-of-the-art fitness equipment and facilities. Celebrity trainers, adorned in designer sportswear, strutted around with their impeccably toned bodies, exuding confidence and superiority. At the sleek, stylish bar, I noticed a supermodel or two.