Authors: Mark Souza
Moyer waved to Robyn through the glass as he walked past on his way down the hall to the elevator. The car waited doors open. He stepped in. The doors closed behind him and the car started upward before he could press a button. Motors hummed, ascending in pitch as the car gained momentum. Moyer sensed he was being observed. He swirled his tongue inside his mouth trying to make spit. Petro’s warning played inside his head. Despite the whine of the motors, the popping in his ears, and the pressure planting him to the floor, the elevator seemed to take forever getting to Perko’s office.
Viktor Perko sat behind his U-shaped desk facing away from the door when Moyer entered. Moyer walked through circles of light on the floor laid out like a chain to Perko’s desk. As he neared the old man, he saw a flash of movement at the edge of his vision. They were not alone. Two agents lurked against the wall hidden in the darkness, barely visible in black armor.
A single monitor in Perko’s media wall was lit. On it, Duncan sat beside Robyn in the lobby with an agent positioned at the door.
“Your wife is a lovely woman,” Perko said. Something in his voice seemed lustful, as if watching her had stirred desires long dormant. “She will make a wonderful mother.” He turned toward Moyer and smiled the same disquieting smile etched on the façade of the building. “Let’s not keep her waiting.”
Moyer sat in the boxy chair that had been provided, a mate to those in the lobby.
“I told you that I might need a favor someday,” Perko flashed his yellow teeth at Moyer. “Today is that day. One of the Begat protestors gave you something on your way out after your last visit.”
Moyer nodded, “A card.”
“You are to make contact with him. I want you to join their group and gather information.”
“What kind of information?”
“I want to know what their plans are, their objectives. I want to know how they are organized and where the members reside. And I want names.”
“But, sir, I’m not a spy.”
“Exactly,” Perko grinned. “No one will suspect you.”
“But I won’t know what I’m doing.”
“Just appear receptive and keep your ears open for a while. Make them feel you sympathize and are interested in joining their cause. Gain their trust.” Perko turned his head toward the monitor and watched Robyn for a moment. “Now get along before your wife starts to worry.”
Moyer stood to leave.
“Mr. Winfield,” Perko said, his face stern, “do not mention our arrangement to anyone, not even your lovely wife. Understood?”
Moyer nodded.
Chapter 9
D
uncan lifted himself from his chair when Moyer stepped into the lobby. “Mr. Winfield, I was telling your wife that we will set up an appointment in about six weeks so you can pick your child. We will assemble a profile of the twenty best outcomes, showing how they will look as adults.”
“That will be fine.” Moyer extended his hand to his wife. “Let’s go, honey.”
As they approached the door, Moyer slowed. A security agent blocked the way. After a brief hesitation, the agent stepped aside as if he had just received the order from the top floor. Moyer picked up his pace, pushed the door open, and pulled Robyn through behind him.
It was a quiet night. The air was freezing and the Circle nearly empty. Moyer’s heels clapped against the bricks. He was relieved there were no footfalls behind them. The security agent had been an unwelcome surprise. He wondered if Perko was trying to send a message.
Robyn sighed and clutched his arm tightly. “You were gone for a while. What was all that about?”
“It was nothing. Mr. Perko offered his congratulations and wanted me to fill out more paperwork. He said he thought you will make an excellent mother.”
Robyn held his hand the entire way on the ride home. She talked of the future and began planning for the baby. Her eyes glowed. She pressed into him on the seat, the warmth of her passing through his clothes to his skin.
When Moyer arrived home, he went to the bathroom and locked the door. As he stood before the mirror, the remnants of a smile still lingered on his face. He thought of Viktor Perko’s smile and his own faded. He knew his orders and knew what he must do. With the card the giant gave him in his hand, he studied the address, let his mind go blank and drifted onto the net. In seconds he was connected. His head was flooded with the image of a small room, brightly lit, sparsely appointed with tattered furniture. He announced himself.
The image of the room jerked. “Who the hell is this?” a man barked.
“Moyer Winfield. You gave me your card outside Hogan-Perko.”
“I did what?”
“Is this the albino giant?” Moyer wished he could see his host.
“He’s not here,” the voice said.
“When can I speak with him?”
“Who knows?”
“I need to get in touch with him. Can you pass along a message?”
“I’m not a messenger.”
“Please, it’s important.”
“Call back later and close this connection pronto.”
Moyer’s consciousness drifted back into his bathroom. In the mirror, his reflection bore a stunned expression. A knock at the door sent a jolt through him. “Are you alright?” Robyn called.
“I’ll be right out.”
Chapter 10
Monday, 12 November
R
obyn waited in line with the other mothers-to-be with Moyer behind her for the start of state mandated parenting class. On the walls of the church classroom, catechism students had hung hand painted signs of
Bible
verses. Robyn stood next to a poster reading,
Productivity is next to Godliness
.
Mrs. Wagstaff, their instructor, called roll and issued a doll to each couple. She was an elderly woman, tall, with the figure of an avocado pit, her mouth tight and thin lipped, turned down in a perpetual frown. The broad field of flowers on her dress appeared to sway in a breeze of her own making as she walked.
“What are they doing here?” Robyn whispered.
Moyer glanced to the side without turning his head. At the end of the line huddled a weary couple, the woman still in her factory uniform, her husband in dusty jeans and a dirty tee shirt. They had raised their hands earlier when Mrs. Wagstaff, called out 'Perez'.
“They’re laborers,” he said.
“I know that, idiot. What are they doing
here
? Why don’t they take classes in their own neighborhood, where they belong?”
Moyer’s mouth dropped open though he didn't answer.
When Mrs. Wagstaff reached the end of the line, she passed Robyn a doll brown as coffee, well used with scuff marks across the face and chest. “Maybe they will trade with us,” Robyn said, glancing down the line at the Perezes and their white doll.
“Don’t you dare!” Moyer warned.
“But look at our child, Moyer. Is there something you want to tell me?”
Moyer examined their replica and tried to lighten the mood. “Yeah, my mother was a catcher’s mitt.”
Robyn laughed. Mrs. Wagstaff turned and glared. Her close-set eyes peered menacingly over her narrow, hooked nose. Evidently she had very keen ears and little appreciation of humor. The other mothers seemed displeased as well.
“Knock it off, Moyer,” Robyn whispered. “You got me in trouble. I don't think she likes me.”
The doll convulsed in Robyn’s arms and she nearly dropped it. She cradled it against her chest the same as the other women, so its blank glass eyes gazed at the ceiling. It twitched again. “Mine moves,” she said, a nervous grin trapped on her face. The doll’s plastic skin lost color and began to take on a purplish cast. “Something’s wrong with mine,” she said. “It’s changing color.”
Mrs. Wagstaff smiled smugly. “Your baby is choking. What are you going to do?”
Robyn felt animosity in Mrs. Wagstaff’s tone, and wondered if she had orchestrated this to get even for earlier. What had she done to offend the woman? She examined the doll and turned it over searching for a reset button.
Mrs. Wagstaff said, “You have less than three minutes before she dies. Chop-chop.”
The class surrounded Robyn for a view. A hot flush of blood pushed up her neck and pressed a fine layer of perspiration onto her skin. She hated being scrutinized and judged. She held the doll away from her and shook it. Nothing happened. The doll’s skin was now grape colored. She pivoted toward Moyer and shoved the doll into his arms.
Let it die on his watch
.
Moyer looked at it quizzically, then at Robyn. For a moment she dreaded he’d hand it back in some perverse game of hot potato, but he didn’t. Instead, he stuck a finger in the doll’s mouth. A marble fell and clattered across the floor. The doll’s plastic skin returned to a deep chestnut brown. A smattering of polite applause arose from the surrounding parents. Moyer nodded his head in a diminutive bow.
“You’ve had training?” Mrs. Wagstaff asked.
Moyer shook his head. “It was the only thing I could think to do.”
Mrs. Wagstaff smiled. “Your instincts are good.” She shifted her gaze to Robyn. “Perhaps, Mrs. Winfield, if your husband stayed home, your baby might live to adulthood.”
Robyn wanted to slap the old woman and vomit at the same time. She did neither, and instead began to harbor an irrational grudge toward Moyer.
“In this class you will learn how to care for your baby, and how to cope with a wide variety of hazards threatening your child. As you know, you will not be permitted to take your babies home without successful completion of this class.”
Robyn knew this wasn’t true. She had heard of couples who purchased completion certificates on the black market, but the price was very high. With their savings stripped away, it would mean an attachment on Moyer’s future earnings. Failure was something they couldn’t afford. Her stomach churned hot and uneasy. For now she let Moyer keep the doll, let him bear its weight.
Mrs. Wagstaff pointed out to the class that left unfed; a baby will die within a week. Left without air, and it will die in three minutes. She then demonstrated how to perform infant CPR. The couples practiced on their dolls taking turns. When Robyn attempted it, the doll emitted a loud pop.
“You mustn’t blow so hard,” Mrs. Wagstaff scolded. “You have exploded your baby’s lungs.”
“Its chest didn’t rise like the others. I thought I wasn’t blowing hard enough.”
Mrs. Wagstaff took the doll from Robyn, peeled back the plastic chest sheathing, and resealed the blue lung sacks inside. “Babies are delicate,” she reminded the class. “You can’t be rough with them.” When she finished restoring the doll, Mrs. Wagstaff pushed it into Robyn’s arms. “I can see I have my work cut out with you.”
Chapter 11
Monday, 12 December
B
efore lunch break, a massive form crept into Moyer’s peripheral vision unexpectedly. He jerked with fear and pressed a hand to his chest as if he’d been shot. Louis Berman hovered at the entrance of his cubical, his face stern. Moyer had a right to be afraid. Berman made a come-hither motion with his index finger and led the way upstairs to his office. Programmers who stole glances as Moyer passed wore expressions of worry and sympathy as if they were witnessing a prisoner being led to the executioner.
Berman closed the door and ordered Moyer to sit. Berman pulled a chair up next to Moyer’s and slapped a folder down on the table. He opened it and turned it so Moyer could read it. “What is this, Winfield?”
Moyer studied the page. He had a copy of the same document taped above his desk. “It’s the project schedule, sir.”
Berman nodded. “And when is the deadline?”
The deadline had been engrained in Moyer from the day he joined the project. He didn’t need to consult the schedule. “July 31st.”
“Does that seem a long way off to you?”
“No sir.”
“Then why are we falling behind schedule?”
“I don’t know s-s-s-sir.”
Moyer’s stammer prompted a grin from Berman. He laid a heavy arm across Moyer’s shoulders and squeezed. To Moyer, it didn’t feel friendly. The implication seemed to be
I could crush you like a paper cup
. Moyer’s hands quaked under the table. He clasped them together to make them stop.
“Let’s look a little closer to see if we can figure this out,” Berman said. He flipped the page. “Here are the time sheets for the last two months. Martinez is putting in seventy hours a week. Flynn, the same.” He ran his finger down the list. “Winfield, fifty hours a week. There is the problem right there. Do you remember when you came into my office and begged for the lead programmer position?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I told you then that it would require extreme dedication and long hours.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you said you were up to it. Does this smell of dedication to you?”
Berman lowered his nose to the time sheet and sniffed. “It smells like shit to me. I’ve noticed you slip out of the office early on Mondays. What’s going on? Do you have a little honey on the side?”
“N-n-no sir. I have a personal commitment on Mondays – classes.”
“I’d suggest you drop them.”
Moyer tried to imagine breaking that news to Robyn. “I c-can’t.”
Berman turned his eyes on Moyer and glared.
“I can make up the time on weekends,” Moyer offered.
“See that you do. Are you going to step up to the plate for me, Moyer, and turn this around?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I would hate to be in your shoes if this project doesn’t come in on time.” Berman slapped Moyer on the back and stood. “I’m so glad we had this little chat, aren’t you?”
Moyer nodded.
Berman held the door open for him. The meeting was over. “Enjoy your lunch,” Berman said.
Harsh, amaranthine light flooded the church classroom. Women sat wedged in miniature desks normally occupied by children attending Sunday school.