Fictions

by Nancy Kress

  Incidentally, I checked again with Records over at Research. They have no documentation on any visit from a Jonathan J. Meese on any date whatsoever.

  Marty

  From the Desk of Robert Ballston

  Kegelman-Ballston Corporation

  To: Martin Blake, Legal

  Re: J. Meese

  Marty—

  Brilliant! Do it. Can we get a sympathetic judge? One who understands business? Maybe O’Connor can help.

  Bob

  The New York Times

  HALITEX BLACK MARKET CASE TO BEGIN TODAY

  This morning the circuit court of Manhattan County is scheduled to begin hearing the case of Kegelman-Ballston v. Meese. This case, heavily publicized during recent months, is expected to set important precedents in the controversial areas of gene patents and patent infringement of biological properties. Protesters from the group FOR US: CANCEL KIDNAPPED-GENE PATENTS, which is often referred to by its initials, have been in place on the court steps since last night.

  The case is being heard by Judge Latham P. Farmingham III, a Republican who is widely perceived as sympathetic to the concerns of big business. This case began when Jonathan J. Meese, an accountant with The Pet Supply Catalog Store . . .

  Catherine Owen, Attorney at Law

  Dear Mr. Blake,

  Just a reminder that Jon Meese and I are still open to a settlement.

  Sincerely,

  Catherine Owen

  Martin Blake, Attorney at Law,

  Chief Legal Counsel, Kegelman-Ballston Corporation

  Martin Blake, Attorney at Law

  Chief Legal Counsel, Kegelman-Ballston Corporation

  Cathy—

  Don’t they teach you at that law school you went to (I never can remember the name) that you don’t settle when you’re sure to win?

  You’re a nice girl; better luck next time.

  Martin Blake

  The New York Times

  MEESE CONVICTED

  PLAINTIFF GUILTY OF “HARBORING” DISEASE-FIGHTING

  GENES WITHOUT COMPENSATING DEVELOPER KEGELMAN-BALLSTON

  From the Desk of Robert Ballston

  Kegelman-Ballston Corporation

  To: Martin Blake, Legal

  Re: Kegelman-Ballston v Meese

  Marty—

  I always said you were a genius! My God, the free publicity we got out of this thing, not to mention the future edge . . . How about a victory celebration this weekend? Are you and Elaine free to fly to Aruba on the Lear, Friday night?

  Bob

  The New York Times

  BLUE GENES FOR DRUG THIEF

  JONATHAN J. MEESE SENTENCED TO SIX MONTHS FOR

  PATENT INFRINGEMENT

  From the Desk of Robert Ballston

  Kegelman-Ballston Corporation

  To: Martin Blake, Legal

  Re: Halitex

  Marty! I just had a brilliant idea I want to run by you. We got Meese, but now that he’s at Ossining the publicity has died down. Well, my daughter read this squib the other day in some science magazine, how the Ulbarton’s virus has in it some of the genes that Research combined with Meese’s to create Halitex. I didn’t understand all the egghead science, but apparently Halitex used some of the flu genes to build its immune properties. And we own the patent on Halitex. As I see it, that means that Dr. Ulbarton was working with OUR genes when he identified Ulbarton’s flu and published his work. Now, if we could go after Ulbarton in court, the publicity would be tremendous, as well as strengthening our proprietorship position . . .

  THE MOST FAMOUS LITTLE GIRL IN THE WORLD

  The most famous little girl in the world stuck out her tongue at me. “These are all my Barbie dolls and you can’t use them!”

  I ran to Mommy. “Kyra won’t share!”

  “Kyra, dear,” Aunt Julie said in that funny tight voice she had ever since IT happened, “share your new dolls with Amy.”

  “No, they’re mine!” Kyra said. “The news people gave them all to me!” She tried to hold all the Barbie dolls, nine or ten, in her arms all at once, and then she started to cry.

  She does that a lot now.

  “Julie,” Mommy said, real quiet, “she doesn’t have to share.”

  “Yes, she does. Just because she’s now some sort of . . . oh, God, I wish none of this had happened!” Then Aunt Julie was crying, too.

  Grown-ups aren’t supposed to cry. I looked at Aunt Julie, and then at stupid Kyra, still bawling, and then at Aunt Julie again. Nothing was right.

  Mommy took me by the hand, led me into the kitchen, and sat me on her lap. The kitchen was all warm and there were chocolate-chip cookies baking, so that was good. “Amy,” Mommy said, “I want to talk to you.”

  “I’m too big to sit on your lap,” I said.

  “No, you’re not,” Mommy said, and held me closer, and I felt better. “But you are big enough to understand what happened to Kyra.”

  “Kyra says she doesn’t understand it!”

  “Well, in one sense that’s true,” Mommy said. “But you understand some of it, anyway. You know that Kyra and you were in the cow field, and a big spaceship came down.”

  “Can I have a cookie?”

  “They’re not done yet. Sit still and listen, Amy.”

  I said, “I know all this! The ship came down, and the door opened, and Kyra went in and I was far away and I didn’t.” And then I called Mommy on the cell phone and she called 911 and people came running. Not Aunt Julie—Mommy was baby-sitting Kyra at Kyra’s house. But police cars and firemen and ambulances. The cars drove right into the cow field, right through cow poop. If the cows hadn’t been all bunched together way over by the fence, I bet the cars would have driven through the cows, too. That would have been kind of cool.

  Kyra was in there a long time. The police shouted at the little spaceship, but it didn’t open up or anything. I was watching from an upstairs window, where Mommy made me go, through Uncle John’s binoculars. A helicopter came but before it could do anything, the spaceship door opened and Kyra walked out and policemen rushed forward and grabbed her. And then the spaceship just rose up and went away, passing the helicopter, and ever since everybody thinks Kyra is the coolest thing in the world. Well, I don’t.

  “I hate her, Mommy.”

  “No, you don’t. But Kyra is getting all the attention and—” She sighed and held me tighter. It was nice, even though I’m too big to be held tight like that.

  “Is Kyra going to go on TV?”

  No. Aunt Julie and I agreed to keep both of you off TV and magazines and whatever.”

  “Kyra’s been on lots of magazines.”

  “Not by choice.”

  “Mommy,” I said, because it was safe sitting there on her lap and the cookies smelled good, “what did Kyra do in the spaceship?”

  Her chest got stiff. “We don’t know. Kyra can’t remember. Unless . . . unless she told you something, Amy?”

  “She says she can’t remember.”

  I twisted to look at Mommy’s face. “So how come they still send presents? It was last year!”

  I know.” Mommy put me on the floor and opened the oven to poke at the cookies. They smelled wonderful.

  “And,” I demanded, “how come Uncle John doesn’t come home anymore?”

  Mommy bit her lip. “Would you like a cookie, Amy?”

  “Yes. How come?”

  “Sometimes people just—”

  “Are Aunt Julie and Uncle John getting a divorce? Because of Kyra?”

  “No. Kyra is not responsible here, and you just remember that, young lady! I don’t want you making her feel, more confused than she is!”

  I ate my cookie. Kyra wasn’t confused. She was a cry-baby and a Barbie hog and I hated her. I didn’t want her to be my cousin anymore.

  What was so great about going into some stupid spaceship, anyway? Nothing. She couldn’t even remember anything about it!

  Mommy put her hands over her face.

  2008<
br />
  Whispers broke out all over the cafeteria. “That’s her . . . her . . . her!”

  Oh, shit. I bent my head over my milk. Last year the cafeteria used to serve fizzies and Coke and there were vending machines with candy and chips, but the new principal took all that out. He’s a real bastard. Part of the “Clean Up America” campaign our new president is forcing down our throats, Dad said. Only he didn’t say “forcing” because he thinks it’s cool, like all the Carter Falls High parents do. Supervision for kids. School uniforms. Silent prayer. A mandatory class in citizenship. Getting expelled for everything short of breathing. It all sucks.

  “It is her,” Jack said. “I saw her picture online.”

  Hannah said, “What do you suppose they really did to her in that ship when she was a little kid?”

  Angie giggled and licked her lips. She has a really dirty mind. Carter, who’s sort of a goody-goody even though he’s on the football team, said, “It’s none of our business. And she was just a little kid.”

  “So?” Angie smirked. “You never heard of pedophiles?”

  Hannah said, “Pedophile aliens? Grow up, Angie.”

  Jack said, “She’s kind of cute.”

  “I thought you wanted a virgin, Jack,” Angie said, still smirking.

  Carter said, “Oh, give her a break. She just moved here, after all.”

  I watched Kyra walk uncertainly toward the cafeteria tables. The monitors were keeping a close eye on everybody. We have monitors everywhere, just like the street has National Guard everywhere. Clean up America, my ass. Kyra squinted; she’s near-sighted and doesn’t like to wear her contacts because she says they itch. I ducked lower over my milk.

  Angie said, “Somebody told me Kyra Lunden is your cousin.”

  Everybody’s head jerked to look at me. Damn that bitch Angie! Where had she heard that? Mom had promised me that nobody in school would know and Kyra wouldn’t say anything! She and Aunt Julie had to move, Mom and Dad said, because Aunt Julie was having a rough time since the divorce and she needed to be close to her sister, and I should understand that. Well, I did, I guess, but not if Kyra blasted in and ruined everything for me. This was my school, not hers, I spent a lot of time getting into the good groups, the ones I was never part of in junior high, and no pathetic famous cousin was going to wreck that. She couldn’t even dance.

  Jack said, “Kyra Lunden is your cousin, Amy? Really?”

  “No,” I said. “Of course not.”

  Angie said, “That’s not what I heard.”

  Carter said, “So it’s just gossip? You can hurt people that way, Angie.”

  “God, Carter, don’t you ever let up? Holier-than-thou!”

  Carter mottled red. Hannah, who likes him even though Carter doesn’t know it, said, “It’s nice that some people at least try to be kind to others.”

  “Spit it in your soup, Hannah,” Angie said.

  Jack and Hannah exchanged a look. They really make the decisions for the group, and for a bunch of other groups, too. Angie’s too stupid to realize that, or to realize that she’s going to be oozed out. I don’t feel sorry for her. She deserves it, even if being oozed is really horrible. You walk through the halls alone, and nobody looks directly at you, and people laugh at you behind your back because you can’t even keep your own friends. Still, Angie deserves it.

  Hannah looked at me straight, with that look Jack calls her “police interrogation gaze.”

  “Amy . . . is Kyra Lunden your cousin?”

  Kyra sat alone at one end of a table. A bunch of kids, the really cobra ones that run the V-R lab, sat at the other end, kind of laughing at her without laughing. I saw Eleanor Murphy, who was elected Queen of V-R Gala even though she’s only a junior, give Kyra a long cool level look and then turn disdainfully away.

  “No,” I said, “I already told you. She’s not my cousin. In fact, I never even met her.”

  2018

  I stared at the villa with disbelief. Not at the guards—everywhere rich is guarded now, we’re a nation of paranoids, perhaps not without reason. There seems no containing the lunatic terrorists, home-grown patriotic militias, White Supremacists and Black Equalizers, not to mention the run-of-the-mill gangs and petty drug lords and black-market smugglers. Plus, of course, the government’s response to these, which sometimes seems to involve putting every single nineteen-year-old in the country out on the streets in camouflage—except, of course, those nineteen-year-olds who are already bespoken as lunatic terrorists, home-grown militia, White Supremacists, et al. The rest of us get on with our normal lives.

  So the guards didn’t surprise me—the villa did. It was a miniaturized replica of a Forbidden City palace—in Minnesota.

  The chief guard caught me gaping at the swooping curved roof, the gilded archways, the octagonal pagoda. “Papers, please?”

  I pulled myself together and looked professional, which is to say, not desperate. I was desperate, of course. But not even Kyra was going to know that.

  “I am Madame Lunden’s cousin,” I said formally, “Amy Parker. Madame Lunden is expecting me.”

  Forget inscrutable Chinese—the guard looked as suspicious as if I’d said I was a Muslim Turkic Uighur. He examined me, he examined my identity card, he ran the computer match on my retina scan. I walked through metal detectors, explosive residue detectors, detector detectors. I was patted down thoroughly but not obscenely. Finally he let me through the inner gate, watching me all the way through the arch carved with incongruous peacocks and dragons.

  Kyra waited in the courtyard beyond the arch. She wore an aggressively fashionable blue jumpsuit with a double row of tiny mirrors sewn down the front. Her hair was dyed bright blonde and cut in the sharp asymmetrical cut popularized by that Dutch on-line model, Brigitte. In the traditional Chinese courtyard, set with flowering plum trees in porcelain pots and a pool with golden carp, she looked either ridiculous or exotic, depending on your point of view. Point of view was why I was here. We hadn’t seen each other in eight years.

  “Hello, Amy,” Kyra said in her low, husky voice.

  “Hello, Kyra. Thank you for seeing me.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Was there mockery in her tone? Probably. If so, I’d earned it. “How is Aunt Julie?”

  “I have no idea. She refuses to have any contact with me.”

  My eyes widened; I hadn’t known that. I should have known that. A good journalist does her homework. Kyra smiled at me, and this time there was no mistaking the mockery. I had stepped in it, and oh God, I couldn’t afford to ruin this interview. My job depended on it. Staff was being cut, and Paul had not axed me only because I said, with the desperation of fear, Kyra Lunden is my cousin. I know she’s refused all other interviews, but maybe . . .

  Kyra said, “Sit down, Amy. Shall we start? Which service do you write for, again?”

  “Times online.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, what do you want to know?”

  “I thought we’d start with some background. How did you and General Chou meet?”

  “At a party.”

  “Oh. Where was the party held?” She wasn’t going to help me at all.

  Kyra crossed her legs. The expensive blue fabric of the jumpsuit draped becomingly. She looked fabulous; I wondered if she’d had any body work done. But, then, she’d always been pretty, even when she’d been ten and the most famous little girl in the world, blinking bewildered into the clunky TV equipment of sixteen years ago. My robocam drifted beside me, automatically recording us from the most flattering angles.

  “The party was at Carol Perez’s,” Kyra said, naming a Washington hostess I’d only seen in the society programs. “I’d met Carol at Yale, of course. I met a lot of people at Yale.”

  Yes, she did. By college, Kyra had lost her shyness about what had happened to her when we were ten. She’d developed what sounded like a superb act—we had mutual friends—composed of mystery combined with notoriety. Subtly she reminded people that she had had an
experience unique to all of mankind, never duplicated since, and that although she was reluctant to talk about it, yes, it was true that she was undergoing deep hypnosis and it was possible she might remember what actually happened . . .

  By her junior year, she’d “remembered.” Tastefully, shyly, nothing to make people label her a lunatic. The aliens were small and bipedal, they’d put a sort of helmet on her head and she’d watched holograms while, presumably, they recorded her reactions. . . . No, she couldn’t remember any specifics. Not yet, anyway.

  Yale ate it up. Intellectuals, especially political types, debated the aliens’ intentions in terms of future United States policy. Artsy preppies’ imaginations were stirred. Socialites decided that Kyra Lunden was an interesting addition to their parties. She was in.

  “Carol’s party was at their Virginia home,” Kyra continued. “Diplomats, horse people, the usual. Ch’un-fu and I were introduced, and we both knew right away this could be something special.”

  I peered at her. Could she really be that naive? Chou Ch’un-fu had already had two American mistresses. The Han Chinese, Chou’s party, and the United States were now allies, united in their actions against terrorists from the western part of China, the Muslim Turkic Uighurs, who were destabilizing China with their desperate war for independence. The Uighurs would lose. Everyone knew this, probably even the Uighurs. But until they did, they were blowing up things in Peking and Shanghai and San Francisco and London, sometimes in frantic negotiation for money, sometimes with arrogant political manifestos, sometimes, it seemed, out of sheer frustration. The carnage, even in a century used to it, could make a diplomat pale. General Chou was experienced in all this. Press drudges like me don’t get insider data, but rumor linked him with some brutal actions. He maintained a home in Minnesota because it was easy to reach on the rocket flights over the pole.