Eidola Mater: Mother of Idols

CHAPTER 1: WREN

The makeup artist frowned as she traced the deep groove between my eyebrows with her brush. "You need to relax your face muscles, honey," she said mildly. "You don't want to look pissed off on camera, do you?"

I tried to smile. Surveying the rest of the Makeup and Wardrobe Department of America's most popular news channel, the other guests seemed confident—politicians, celebrities, and experts, all. I blended in, with my power suit and textured blond hair, my doctorates in technosociology and cliodynamics providing the perfect accessories.

"Am I pale? Am I too pale?" I whinced.

The makeup artist tossed her head, bemused.

I was about to go on live global broadcast for the first time. How could I relax? I had spent months writing The Psychomechanics of Horde Behavior, and now it came down to this—a few minutes of stream time to convince millions of viewers that they needed to read my book. My publisher had given me a list of notable phrases to use to talk up my work, but I could barely remember my talking points. I shook my clammy hands.

"Five more minutes until you're on," a young man with a headset and intelligence-enhanced glasses pointed at me. He glanced through his specs, scanning my CyberneticID tag, and smiled. "You're going to do great, Ms. Kennoway. Follow me, please."

I nodded nervously. "It's Doctor, by the way," I corrected as I trailed him to the door that led to the studio. I could hear the host's cheerful voice and the audience's laughter. I took a deep breath and tried to steady my racing heart. This was it. My chance to make my book a bestseller.

"Hold up, I'm sorry." The young man stopped abruptly with a pout. "Just got word, your segment was scrapped for time."

"What happened?" I felt a surge of panic.

He shrugged apologetically. "Some bigger story must be breaking news. They cut the rest of the segments short, too."

"What–Well, what am I supposed to do?" I asked in a wave of disappointment.

"Um, I'll get someone to lead you off the set," he said, avoiding eye contact. "Sorry about that. Maybe next time." He turned and walked away, leaving me standing there, holding my book, feeling like an idiot.

The command center wall near my front door had art prints and monthly and weekly calendars–two separate digital whiteboards–as well as the chore schedule I had drawn up years ago, with its rigid boxes and bullet points dictating my routine. Walking into my house, I paused before this homage to order, torn between admiration and resentment.

It looked like I had my life together. I had status. Status came with the house, or maybe the neighborhood, a place where polite bungalows kept primly to their half-acre lots. Lawns of obsequious grass grew no taller than a civilized half-inch. I had lived here five years and still didn't know my neighbors. They were too well-bred to intrude. Or I was. I would call it a miracle if anyone had noticed my husband's car no longer around.

I thunked a small convenience store bag on the kitchen counter, shut the door behind me, and pulled down a glass coated in a thin layer of neglect. Rinsing it and filling it with water, I tore into the pack of relaxant gummies I had picked up on the drive home.

"Yeah, yeah. No," I said on a call with my agent hours later. "Of course, I didn't overreact. Nobody regulates their emotions better than me." I chuckled wryly.

Standing in the living room, I glowered out the window at dusk-muted rows of clapboard houses. I opened my mouth in a soundless scream. "Mm-hmm." I blotted my lips, nodding as if my agent could see me. "I know. Yes." I cleared my throat. "The important thing is to revamp and nab another prominent public relations opportunity like that one."