Authors: Mark Souza
The agent raised his visor. Moyer staggered back. “I know you,” Moyer said. Icy blue eyes, pale translucent skin, it was the albino giant who had stopped him outside Hogan-Perko. “You’re a security agent?”
The giant shook his head. “Uniforms are surprisingly easy to come by.” He stepped forward and reached under his breastplate. Moyer stumbled back. “What’s the matter?” the giant asked.
“Why did your men attack me in the church?” Moyer asked.
The giant’s expression softened. “Because they knew you came to spy for Viktor Perko.” He pulled his hand from beneath his armor and withdrew a pair of books. “Anna wanted you to have these.”
The giant extended the books forward and Moyer took them. He tipped the covers toward the jaundiced glow from a streetlight —–
1984
, and
The Winter of Our Discontent
.
“Anna thought George Orwell was a prophet,” the giant said.
A stunned laugh escaped Moyer’s mouth. Shame washed over him and he used the books to hide his face. “She’s dead,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”
“I know. It’s why I’m here.” The giant sat on the steps and tapped a spot next to him for Moyer. After Moyer sat, the giant gazed down at him, his pale blue eyes brimming with sorrow. It reminded Moyer of his father’s sadness, and the times when, as a child, his father would sit him down to explain things, to explain why his mother wasn’t ever coming back and how life wasn’t fair.
“You must destroy the Worm project,” the giant said. “Not shut down, not delay, but destroy, along with any documentation that might allow someone to rebuild it. It represents the end of free will.
“Four corporations are warring for dominance, and ultimately, control of the planet. Hogan-Perko is on the verge of merging with NNI, which, with possession of the Worm, will seal the outcome.
“They may be promoting the Worm as an advertising tool, and they may initially use it that way, but its primary function is mind control. Once in place, there will be no dissent, no free thought, no hope for change, only the freedom that death brings. You saw what it did to Anna.”
“How do you know what happened to Anna, or about the Worm? How do you know about any of it?”
“I have sources.”
Moyer nodded as if he understood, though he really didn’t. He had no idea how the giant was getting his information. “Were you two close?”
The giant nodded and turned away. The giant’s shoulders convulse as he silently cried. When he spoke again, his voice was thick and choked. “We knew from the start one or both of us would probably die for the cause. But I was sure I would be first. I never considered a life without her.” He pressed himself to his feet and lowered his visor. “I must ask one thing. Did you know before implanting the Worm that Anna would be hurt?”
The giant balled his hand into a fist. Moyer knew if the giant had hold of his neck at that moment, it would have snapped like a celery stalk.
“No, I didn’t know. I only knew it was designed to implant information. I had no idea it would do this.”
The giant nodded. “Go. You know what you must do. Please, don’t let Anna’s death mean nothing.”
Chapter 19
E
ven through the gold mesh cap, Moyer sensed uneasiness in Robyn as she approached their door on her return from work. He prayed whatever troubled her could wait as he had taken on his limit of bad news for one day. He moved his book higher to avoid eye contact. Robyn sighed when she entered and disappeared into the kitchen without a word. A moment later she gagged and coughed.
Something heavy thudded against the sofa and a stench stung Moyer’s nose. He lowered his book. Robyn stood in the kitchen doorway; teeth gritted, and flung something white at his head. The diaper bounced off his chin and landed on his lap. “You’ve been here all afternoon. It’s not fair to ignore a dirty diaper and leave it for me. It’s your turn,” she said.
The brown doll lay splayed upside down next to Moyer, ripe as month-old garbage. “I picked it up from your mother’s. This is the fourth time today,” he said. “I’ve changed it twice, your mother once. It’s your turn with the
Plastic Pooper
.”
Robyn’s posture sagged. “I’m tired and sore and can’t deal with it right now.”
“This was your idea. Do you want a baby or not? Because if you do, this is what it will be like — every day.”
“You take it. I’m having a bad day,” she said.
Anger churned inside Moyer. Raw emotion threatened to spew from his mouth, and for a moment, fear made him hold the words behind gritted teeth. How many times had he swallowed anger to maintain the fragile fabric of their relationship, accepted inequity to keep the peace? But there was something different this time, something that demanded honesty regardless of the risks.
“Everyday is a bad day with you lately. Has it ever occurred to you that I might have bad days too?”
Robyn rolled her eyes. “What? Did you have a spat with your girlfriend?”
She acted as if she was inured of his constant whining though he rarely ever complained. “You remember the other day when I said I thought I killed her?” he said. “Well today it’s official. She died. No, that’s not right. She was killed. Yes — killed implies action by another.”
“And you feel you are responsible?” Robyn’s face was skeptical.
Moyer met her gaze and a bitter smile spread across his face. “Yes, honey. Me. I killed her, and over a dozen others.”
“You?”
He nodded. “With a simple flip of a switch. I screwed with their brains just to show I could, that I was clever, that I was the best at it. And within days they started dropping like flies.”
He was quiet a moment as he tried to harness the courage to ask the question that eventually had to be asked, despite the risk of shattering the quiet comfort of the status quo. When the words sprang from his mouth, he was as surprised as Robyn. “Do you honestly love me? Or am I merely a means of getting a baby and a nice apartment in a good part of town?”
He waited. Robyn said nothing. She looked too dazed to speak. “Though I don’t remember much about my mother,” Moyer said, “I do remember how her death broke my father. Like glass. I don’t quite get that impression from you. It feels to me as if my absence would mean little more to you than having to put up a message on an on-line bulletin board for a roommate who can pick up half the rent.”
An expression of stunned shock was frozen on Robyn’s face. She floundered for words like a beached fish gasps for the ocean. She seemed awash with conflicting emotions, just none she could articulate. She appeared close to panic. Confused and hurt, she fled the apartment and scurried down the hall. Moyer knew she’d go straight to her parents. He wondered if he’d ever see her again.
Moyer plucked the brown doll off the sofa. In the heat of the moment he had forgotten the stench, but it was back again. The whites of the dolls eyes pulsed red. Sensors inside the doll registered that it had been thrown, and because of the size of Robyn’s hands, the doll knew who had done the throwing. His wife had officially failed parent training.
He set the doll down and went to the kitchen for wipes. Ironically, tonight was the last day of class and dolls had to be returned. Robyn had been mere hours and one diaper change away from passing.
Later that night inside TrinityTemple 709, Moyer found Robyn huddled with Eve Ganz at the back of the classroom. Eve gave Moyer a concerned glance when he arrived. Robyn’s nose and eyes were red and swollen, a clear indication she had told Eve of their spat, if that’s what it was.
After Robyn charged out, the apartment became quiet as a grave, and Moyer realized that not all silence is the same. Since meeting Robyn, quiet had acquired a comforting background din that was nearly imperceptible until it was gone. There was warmth to it. The silence that filled the apartment after she left was heavy and cold.
Mrs. Wagstaff entered and quieted the class with her raptor-like stare. In her hand, she held a stack of completion certificates. Students fixed their eyes on the stack to ascertain whether the number of certificates matched the number of parents. It was clear they didn’t. The stench of anxiety flooded the room. He wondered how many would lose babies to adoption if they failed. Maybe it would be a good day and no one would. Most still had time to retake.
Mrs. Wagstaff started calling out names in no particular order: Wilson, Everett, Monroe, and so it went. Initially no one celebrated, because until the other spouse’s name was also called, no one was guaranteed a baby. Moyer’s name was announced and it caught him by surprise. Apprehension tightened Robyn’s lips into a thin line and Moyer saw worry in her eyes.
As the stack of completion certificates thinned, names began to pair. The Monroes were first. Relief gave way to smiles, which in turn faded when they recognized the drama wasn’t over for some, people who through the class had become friends. Eve Ganz jumped when her name was called. She hugged Robyn, who stiffened and barely reacted.
The Perezes started crying before the last two names were called. They knew. They were laborers and theirs was a lottery baby. It was clear they were out of time for a retake and didn’t have the money for a black market certificate. The last certificate went to the Everetts. Robyn cast her eyes to the floor.
Mrs. Wagstaff announced that couples who had successfully completed the course could leave, and that she wanted a word with those who had not passed. Eve Ganz waved to Robyn on her way out, a guarded smile on her face. She more than most knew what Robyn was going through. Robyn still appeared to be in shock.
“All is not lost because you failed this class,” Mrs. Wagstaff said. “There will be other opportunities. Some of you have enough time to re-enroll. A few of you are out of time and will lose your children to adoption. To you I would still say retake the class. Once you pass, your name can be added to the adoption waiting list. Children become available every day.”
“Why did we fail?” Jimmy Perez asked. His wife was still sniffling.
Mrs. Wagstaff’s tone took on a note of compassion. “Sensors in your replica regularly recorded periods of up to ten hours where a dirty diaper wasn’t changed.”
“But both of us work. I brought the doll on the job with me a couple of times and my boss put me on report. What were we supposed to do?”
“That is exactly the issue. You both work and have no one to care for your child. How could that possibly succeed?” Wagstaff waited a couple beats for a protest that didn’t come. “Retake the class when you have a workable child care strategy. When you pass, you’ll be eligible for the adoption list.”
The Perezes left.
The rest had enough time for a retake. The Monroes, an older couple, seemed unconcerned. They looked to have credits to burn. Mr. Monroe’s expression said he’d had enough, and Mrs. Wagstaff’s encouragement to retake was a waste of breath. Moyer figured a black market certificate was Monroe’s preference. To Monroe, the certainty and lack of hassle were probably worth the 20,000.
Everyone started to leave. Mrs. Wagstaff stopped Robyn and told her to wait. Moyer waited with her while the classroom emptied. “Mrs. Winfield,” Mrs. Wagstaff said, brows furrowed and nostrils flared. “Sensors in your doll detected abuse earlier today. I have placed a marker on your file. You will be required to seek counseling and pass a psych eval before being permitted to retake. Good luck to you.” From Mrs. Wagstaff’s tone it was clear that if left to her, Robyn would never qualify for a baby.
“Please, you can’t. My baby is already under way,” Robyn begged.
“It wasn’t her fault,” Moyer said.
“The reason doesn’t matter. When the sensors detect abuse, I have no choice in the matter.”
Robyn walked with Moyer to the tube in a near stupor. Moyer was surprised when his wife didn’t take the Beech Avenue line to her parents. They sat together quietly on the same seat. Robyn was inconsolable. They were still similarly charged particles held apart from one another by some invisible force, but the fact that she was with him was a sign. It meant something. Moyer didn’t press. As they approached Washington Street Station, Moyer wiped away her tears and stroked her hair.
Wednesday, 21 March
The formal notice for a retake of baby classes arrived via the net. It contained a warning that a signed psych eval was required to attend the next session. A net address was provided for scheduling an appointment.
Robyn pulled the sheet off the printer and reread it. It was Mrs. Wagstaff’s final prod. The more Robyn thought of the old bat intruding into her life, even beyond the classroom, the angrier she got. Robyn’s fuse was lit.
She crumpled the page in her hands and hurled it across the room. It didn’t fly as far as she’d hoped and landed a few meters away, mid way to the garbage can. She went to pick it up but her temper was still simmering so she kicked it instead. It spun in an arc and came to rest on the coffee table.
Robyn plopped onto the sofa and stared at the wadded up flyer. She was tempted to kick it again. When the bile in her stomach settled, she snatched the flyer off the table and flattened it out the best she could. She contacted the net address of Dr. Jay Mackie’s office and made an appointment for after work. A long day would become even longer. At least she wouldn’t have to fetch the doll from her mother’s.
Friday, 23 March
Robyn rode to Dr. Mackie’s office straight from work. He was only a couple stops east of Freedom Circle and a short walk. The directory in the lobby listed Dr. Mackie as a Prenatal Psychiatric Specialist. It meant he was the gate keeper who decided whether couples who had transgressed in some way would be permitted to raise children. His office was on the fifth floor.
Women and couples crowded the windowless waiting area. Bright yellow paint and floral wallpaper couldn’t put a sunny face on the oppressive atmosphere. It was warm and fetid. The scent of dread hung in the air. Robyn’s skin went clammy.