Specimen Days

by Michael Cunningham

When the small party drew close, Simon said, “Hey, Catareen.”

  “Bochum,” she answered.

  He wanted to tell her something. What could it be? Maybe only this: that he would not see her again. When she came to the park tomorrow she would find a new guy in his place. Would she be able to tell that it wasn’t him? Did humans look alike to them? Would she say bochum to his replacement and believe it was still Simon?

  He wanted her to remember him.

  What the boy held turned out to be a miniature drone: tiny wings that flapped frantically, protruding eyestalk, central opening through which the rays would shoot. The boy aimed it at Simon. He said, “Zzzzap.”

  Catareen turned the drone aside with one taloned finger. “No, Tomcruise,” she said. “No point at people.”

  The boy’s face reddened. She was probably not supposed to discipline him. He probably knew it. He aimed the drone more squarely at Simon’s heart. He said “Zzzzzap” again, louder this time.

  Simon said, “I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the dogs.”

  No. Repress. Concentrate.

  The Nadian, however, did not seem to notice anything unusual about what he’d said. Maybe all sentiments expressed in English were equally strange to her.

  “Child is young,” she said. Was there a hint of exasperation in her voice? The Nadians were hard to read. Their voices were so sibilant, so full of slide and whistle.

  Simon said, “How long have you been here?”

  She had to calculate a moment. Earth years versus Nadian. She said, “Ten year. Little less.”

  “Is it working out okay?”

  “Yes.”

  What else could she say? She was probably telling the truth or close enough to it. It must be better than endless rain. It must be better than kings who read their shit for signs of glory and found them. It must be better than straining as much silt as they could from the drinking water, than listening every minute for the sound of leathery wings overhead. Still. The Nadians must have hoped for more when they migrated to Earth. They must have imagined themselves as something better than servants, nannies, street sweepers. Or maybe not. It was hard to know how far their imaginations were capable of taking them.

  The boy kept his weapon trained on Simon. “Zap zap zap zap zzzzap.”

  “Listen,” Simon said. “It’s been nice. Seeing you every day.”

  She stiffened slightly. “You are leaving?” she said.

  “Oh, well, you never know, do you? Here today, gone tomorrow.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Been nice.”

  The little girl made her move. She grabbed at the coveted toy and received the smack she must have known the boy had ready for her. She went down bawling.

  The Nadian picked her up, held her close to…her breasts? Did they have breasts? No outward evidence, but they fed their young, didn’t they? He knew they lactated. It had been in the papers long ago. When the papers were still interested.

  “Tomcruise,” she said sternly. “No hit Katemoss.”

  Little Tomcruise recovered his focus, trained the drone in the direction of Simon’s crotch. “Zap zap zap zap zap.”

  “I take them home,” she said.

  “Where do you live?”

  She paused. Not a question she was supposed to answer, not when posed by a strange player in the park. She looked to the west. She extended a green finger.

  “There,” she said.

  The San Remo. Venerable address of administrators and CEOs, the favored few who were permitted to live in the park and were spared the commute from the housing tracts and dormitories. She had a good job, relatively speaking.

  Little Tomcruise had apparently tired of killing Simon and of being ignored. He chose that moment to run back in the direction from which they had come.

  “Tomcruise,” Catareen called. He paid no attention. He was on the move. The little girl wailed in the Nadian’s arms.

  “I must get,” she said to Simon.

  “And I,” he answered, “am late for an appointment. Goodbye.”

  “Arday.”

  “Unscrew the locks from the doors!” he said. “Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs!”

  She nodded and went after the boy.

  It was two minutes to seven. If he hurried, Simon could be fewer than five minutes late. He hurried. He cut across Cherry Hill.

  He had reached the fountain when he glanced back. He wanted to see her one more time. What he saw was Catareen standing on the pathway by the lake with a drone whirring over her head, speaking to her. The children huddled at her side. She answered. The drone spoke again. She answered again. Then the drone shot off in the wrong direction, away from Simon, toward Strawberry Field.

  She had done it. Had she done it? Probably she had. She had told the drone that Simon had gone west rather than east.

  Simon processed his options. He reviewed the likelihoods. Something was going on. There must have been an election, then; the laws must have changed. They were exterminating artificials now. This was probably not good news for Nadians, either. A crackdown of any kind usually included the Nadians.

  This was the question: Go now or finish his shift? Failure to show for his seven o’clock would be incriminating. Making his seven o’clock would locate him.

  He thought of Marcus’s titanium core, cooling by the band shell.

  He decided. Go now. It would arouse suspicion if Simon didn’t show after his coworker’s extermination, but the odds were probably better. If he showed up for his seven o’clock, and if he was arrested, he would be counting on clemency from a council that might have been voted out. He might be breaking new laws in unguessable ways.

  There was one other factor. The Nadian.

  Did she know what it meant, giving false information to a drone? It was difficult to tell what the Nadians knew. They were not organized. They were not informed.

  Simon watched Catareen move off with the children.

  The little boy would tell his parents. That seemed certain. Even if Infinidot didn’t check the park vids, determine that Catareen had lied to a drone, and immediately inform the Council, she would without question lose her job for having been someone a drone wanted to speak to. Can’t entrust our children to someone who…There’d be no more work for her. Nothing better than sweeping up. They’d plant a sensor in her. He had essentially ruined her life by talking to her.

  O Christ! My fit is mastering me!

  Concentrate.

  Simon made another decision. Not technically a decision. His wiring told him what he would do. He would try to protect the Nadian from harm, because his actions had exposed her to harm. It was built into him.

  When Catareen arrived at the San Remo, she would be unreachable. Simon’s options: to intercept her now, or to wait until she came to the park again tomorrow. Twenty-four hours was too long to wait.

  He sprinted off toward the San Remo. If he ran the long way, around the lake, he could still get there ahead of her.

  He waited for her at the park’s edge, leaning against the stone wall on the far side of Central Park West.

  He could not enter the lobby. He could not reasonably wait under the awning. The doorman players would tell him to move along. He kept under the tree shadows. It was fifteen minutes after seven. Would the authorities know already that he had taken flight? Would Dangerous Encounters have alerted them? It was hard to figure. The authorities were sometimes cleverer than you expected them to be. They were sometimes surprisingly slipshod.

  Catareen appeared at nineteen minutes after seven. She was still carrying the little girl, who had fallen asleep. The boy jumped around with his drone in an ecstasy of murder. Simon ran across the street. He had to reach her before she got too close to the entrance.

  Twenty yards from the corner, he jumped up in front of her, startled her. She emitted a shrill squeak. Not a pretty sound. Her skin darkened. Her nostrils contracted to pinpoints.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s me.
The guy from the park. Remember?”

  She took a moment to recover. He wondered how difficult it had been for her to refrain from dropping the girl. She said, “Yes.”

  The little boy gaped at Simon, paralyzed by fury.

  Simon said, “I have to ask you. What did you say to the drone back there in the park?”

  She hesitated. She must have been wondering if Simon was working for the authorities, if she had made a fatal mistake. Nadians lived in an endless agony of uncertainty about whom to obey. Most found it easiest to obey everyone. This sometimes got them imprisoned or executed.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “I don’t mean you any harm. Really and truly. I’m afraid you may have gotten yourself in trouble back there. Please. Tell me what you said to the drone.”

  She answered, “I tell it you went differently.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  Mistake. When a Nadian felt accused, it could go catatonic. One theory: they were playing dead in hope that the aggressor would lose interest. Another theory, more widely held: they decided that they were already dead and might as well make it easier for everybody by just hurrying things along.

  She straightened her spine. (She had no shoulders.) She looked directly at him with her bright orange eyes.

  She said, “I try to help you.”

  “Why did you want to help me?”

  “You are kind man.”

  “I’m not a man. I’m programmed to be something that resembles kind. Do you know how much trouble you’re probably in?”

  She answered, “Yes.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not so sure you do.”

  “I am ready to go away,” she said. “I have no joy.”

  Then the little boy reached his limit. He screeched. He knew something was up; it probably didn’t matter what. He was being neglected. His nanny was talking to a strange man. Clutching his drone, the boy ran screaming to the entrance of his building.

  Simon said to Catareen, “Come with me.”

  “Come where?”

  “Just come. You’re fucked here. We don’t have any time.”

  He plucked the little girl out of her arms. Catareen was too surprised to resist. The girl awoke and howled. Simon ran with her to the building’s entrance, got there a second before the boy did.

  He handed the girl off to the doorman. “Here,” he said. “Take care of them.”

  The doorman took the wailing girl, started to speak. Simon was gone already. He grabbed Catareen’s elbow.

  “We have to move very quickly,” he said.

  They took off down Seventy-fifth Street, headed west. She was a good runner. Flight was prominent on the list of Nadian talents.

  They got to the subway stop at West Seventy-second and ran down the stairs. Simon whizzed them in with his card. A handful of players huddled in clumps on the platform. The subways were not popular with tourists. Tourists had their hoverpods for getting from place to place. Only a few sticklers and historical nuts wanted subway rides, and then only for short distances. The overwhelming majority of riders were players going to and from the residential complexes.

  Simon and Catareen stood panting on the platform. He said, “We’re on the uptown side.”

  She said nothing. He implored her silently not to go catatonic.

  “We should go up into the Nineties, I think,” he said. “They keep the cars up there. We’ll need a car.”

  Still nothing from the Nadian. Her lizard eyes stared straight ahead at the empty tracks.

  “We should be able to get across the George Washington Bridge. Once we’re on the Jersey side, we’re out of Infinidot’s jurisdiction.”

  He would be illegal in New Jersey, too, but the Council’s enforcement system didn’t interface well with Infinidot’s. And Catareen might not have committed a New Jersey crime at all. It was impossible to know the variations from state to state.

  The train arrived. Its clatter was always shocking. The doors rumbled open, and Simon nudged Catareen forward. She moved. He was grateful for that.

  The car was mostly empty. There were four other people, all players. Two dreadlocked bicycle messengers; an Orthodox, also dreadlocked; a homeless man in a Mets cap, two sweaters, and flip-flops—all headed home for the night.

  They clustered at the far end of the car. They looked tense. Simon wondered for a moment if they knew, if some kind of instantaneous bulletin about him and Catareen had gone out from Infinidot and reached the citizenry at large. Which was unlikely. Then he remembered. He was with a Nadian.

  “Sit,” he told Catareen. She sat. He sat beside her.

  He said, “We can get off at Ninety-sixth Street. Are you okay?”

  Her nostrils dilated. The orange orbs of her eyes blinked twice.

  “I’m going to assume you’re okay,” he said. “I’m going to assume you’ll tell me if you’re not okay. I’m going to assume that when it’s time to move, you’ll be able to move.”

  From the far end of the car he felt the homeward-bound players not looking at him and Catareen. When the train started up again, the two messengers and the Orthodox got up and changed cars.

  Simon saw the homeless player struggle with a decision. Should he switch cars, too? He half rose, then settled back down again. Nadians were harmless, after all. It was just that they were oily. It was just that they smelled.

  Simon saw a drone flash by the subway window after the train had passed the Seventy-ninth Street station. It was a blur of golden wings.

  They had sent a drone into the tunnels. It would be waiting at the next stop.

  He said to Catareen, “The malformed limbs are tied to the anatomist’s table, what is removed drops horribly in a pail.”

  She blinked. She breathed.

  He tried again. He said, “A drone just went by.”

  “I have see.”

  “It’ll be waiting at Ninety-sixth Street,” he said. “It’ll probably follow the train to the end of the line. We are now probably fucked.”

  She said, “Wait here.”

  She stood. She walked quickly to the opposite end of the car, where the homeless player sat not looking at her.

  She stood before him. He kept his eyes on the floor, hoping she wouldn’t hit him up for a yen, as Nadians sometimes did. She bent forward slightly to get into his line of vision. She opened her mouth and showed two rows of small serrated teeth. She hissed. Simon had never heard a sound like that. It was sharp and urgent—catlike but more guttural.

  She raised both her hands and held them before the player’s face. She extended her talons. Her skin glowed molten green. She seemed to get larger and brighter.

  The player shrieked. She said to him, “Be quiet. Give your clothes.”

  The player looked desperately in Simon’s direction. Simon shrugged. This bit of unappreciated, nonrecreational violence was jerking his circuits a little, even though he wasn’t the assailant. His gut felt numb, and a fizziness started up behind his eyes.

  Catareen took the player’s face in one clawed emerald hand and turned it to look at her.

  She hissed, “Take off clothes and give to me. Now.”

  The player obeyed. He removed his cap and both sweaters. He kicked off his flip-flops.

  She said, “Pants.”

  He rose and struggled out of his greasy work pants. He gave them to her. He stood plumply terrified in his underwear.

  Catareen threw the clothes to Simon. She said, “Put on. Quickly.”

  He did as he was told. As he was pulling one of the sweaters on, she crouched, catlike, and put a lethal-looking finger claw to the quivering player’s throat.

  Simon heard her say, “No move. No speak.”

  The player did not move or speak.

  Queasy but still functional, Simon put the baggy pants on over his own. He mashed the Mets cap down onto his head.

  The train stopped at Ninety-sixth Street.

  “Go,” Catareen called
to Simon. “We not are together.”

  “What about you?” he asked.

  Her eyes glowed furnace-orange. “Do as I say.”

  He did. He got off the train.

  The drone was hovering on the platform, checking the disembarking passengers. Simon slouched along. He pulled the cap brim an inch lower and kept his eyes down. Detrained players and a smattering of Nadians moved toward the exit turnstiles. He moved with them. The drone whirred overhead, maintaining a circumscribed orbit in the vicinity of the exit. It wavered once, smacked up against the tiled wall, righted itself. Everyone looked at the drone with curiosity. Simon did, too. Act like everybody else. Briefly his eyes connected with the drone’s rotating eyestalk. It considered him. It snapped a vid. It flittered on to the next citizen. Simon passed through the turnstile and went up the stairs with the others.

  He emerged among the warehouses and empty stores on Ninety-sixth and Broadway. He hesitated. He knew he should move naturally along, but where was Catareen? He pretended to read an old hologram that advertised a concert. Singing cats. He could plausibly linger for less than a minute.

  She came up the stairs within thirty seconds. She passed close to him but not too close. She said softly, “Not together.”

  Right. He walked on, several paces behind her. She crossed Broadway. He crossed, too. On the far side of Broadway, she went west on Ninety-sixth Street, as did he.

  This neighborhood was just storage, really. Some maintenance shops, some stretches of pure dereliction where extra props sat bleaching and rusting. Sweatshop machinery and horse carts from Five Points (they were thinking of shutting it down; it was too hard getting players to work there), Gatsbymobiles from Midtown in the Twenties, crate upon crate of hippie paraphernalia that had been slowly decaying here since the Council closed down Positively Fourth Street. The attractions didn’t start up again until you reached the soul food parlors and jazz joints of Old Harlem, and then that was the end of the park.

  When they had reached a quiet stretch of West End Avenue, she turned to him.

  “I didn’t know you people could do that,” he said.

  “Can.”

  “How did you get off the train?”

  “I go quick. Man will tell drone next stop. We hurry.”