His favourite job is the library job. He brings the spines of all the books right to the front of each shelf so no dust accumulates there. He alphabetizes, and writes notes to the captains of each unit to tell their people to return things. Sometimes, it even works. Guys who beat the shit out of each other are strangely respectful of books. Some of them have never seen the printed kind, before. One even cried the first time he ripped out a page by accident. Then the whole book fell apart and he just lost it. He howled and sobbed and rocked back and forth on his knees, stubby fingers searching the pages, trying to put them back in order.
“It’s OK,” Javier told him. “It’s OK. It’s OK. It’s just a story. It’s not even real.”
But mostly, his job is to stop fights.
They start in odd places. In the yard, in the library, in the shower. He spots them, goes a bit blind, and jumps in. It’s the surprise that stops the fight, most of the time. How high he can jump. How precisely he can land on someone’s shoulders. Sometimes it’s someone getting raped. Ignacio explained rape the first time someone beat him up for spending too much time with Javier.
“He thought I was a baby-raper,” he said. “I explained that we were just friends.”
“Rape?”
“When you fuck someone without their wanting it,” Ignacio said. “Sex is like a game. It takes two people – or more, I guess, if you want – to play, and both players have to agree to the rules ahead of time. Anything else is cheating.”
When he woke up, the car had stopped. “We’re here.”
“Here” was a house in the middle of the desert. There was nothing else around it, just an expanse of sagebrush and dusty red earth stretching up into mounts flat as molars under a cloudless blue dome. If he looked carefully, he could see white specks that might be houses up in the mountains. But it was mostly nothing. Nothing, with a faint dusting of snow.
“You can see someone coming for miles,” Holberton said. “Which, as you might imagine, is just how I like it.”
Javier helped him with the other luggage. The house was ringed by scrub pine and an iron fence with a burnished copper gate. The gate swung open onto a raked gravel yard, with a flagstone path down the middle. The path led to a glass door set in a jagged glass and concrete wall. From one side of the house, he could see out the other.
“You know, for someone who values his privacy, your house is awfully open.”
“My bedroom’s walls are solid,” Holberton said, thumbing open the door.
The door opened onto an open space broken only by concrete arches. The floor was grey marble. Everything was grey. The dining table, the wall of pressed earth with a fireplace cut out of it, the marble bench beneath it, the shag rug in front of it. Pearl, graphite, charcoal.
“I find it soothing,” Holberton said. “I spend all day looking at swatches. When I’m done, my eyes need a palate cleanser.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
They carried the luggage into Holberton’s bedroom. It was downstairs. As he’d said, the walls were solid – save for one sliding glass door that opened directly onto a pool. The pool curved around the lower level of the house. From the bedroom, you could swim to the downstairs patio and fountain, and walk into another, grander living room and an impeccably clean kitchen with grey marble countertops.
The bedroom was the only room in the house with any colour. This colour was a deep purple like an overripe eggplant. It was on the bedspread. When Javier ran his hand over it, it pushed up under his palm like a cat.
“What the… ?”
“Oh, that,” Holberton said. “It’s just smartcloth. It moulds to your body. I get very cold, at night.”
Javier snorted. “You could try pyjamas.”
“Now, where would the fun be in that?” Holberton’s silvery brows rose. “Do you want a shower, or anything? You seem like you could use one.”
Javier smiled and his eyes flicked to the bed. There was no time like the present. He’d been offered enough opportunities; Holberton’s intentions were clear. “Maybe later.”
Javier took his wrist and tugged gently. They were closer to eye level, that way. Up close, most men looked older. Liver spots, lack of sleep, waistlines gaining ground as hairlines lost it. But Holberton looked younger. His eyes – Amy’s eyes – still held some wonder in them. They were searching Javier, now, flicking back and forth, as though there were a story printed on his skin. And then he was kissing him. It was a solid kiss, firm and warm and tight as a good handshake. Holberton even squeezed Javier’s hands as he did it.
When he pulled away, he said: “I love how direct you people all are. You’re so honest. So free of bullshit.”
Javier grinned. “You have no idea.”
Javier had simulated exactly how this would go. Holberton likely had more than the usual number of sexual tripwires to watch out for; growing up Jonah LeMarque’s son would have ensured that. Javier was prepared to be gentle with him, or rough, or tender, or impersonal, to say filthy things or nothing at all, to speak only in Spanish (it was surprising, the number of English speakers who asked for that), to undress him piece by piece or pop off all his buttons, to get down on his knees immediately or wait to be asked. He could do it all, within the failsafe’s parameters, provided he received the request.
But rather than request anything, Holberton just undressed him and peeled back the furry coverlet from the giant circular bed. “I’m exhausted,” he explained, as he wriggled in beside Javier.
Javier wriggled in turn. “Doesn’t seem like it, to me.”
Holberton chuckled. “You’re too kind.” He inhaled deeply. “You smell good.”
“It’s the carbon.”
Holberton’s hand drifted across Javier’s chest.
“Are you sure you’re OK?” Holberton asked.
Javier turned around. He looked Holberton in the eye. Outside, he heard the children laughing. His hand trailed south. “Would you like me to show you how OK I am?”
Holberton’s breath caught in his throat. His stomach jumped under Javier’s fingers. Then he was in Javier’s hand, and the whites of his eyes rolled up a little. Javier slid down under the covers.
“So it’s true what they say.”
“What’s that?” Holberton asked.
“If there’s smoke in the chimney, there’s fire in the hearth.”
Holberton was laughing when Javier’s mouth closed over him. And then most of what he had to say involved curse words and invocations to God. If Javier was going to con Holberton, he could at least make sure he enjoyed it.
It was calming, in a way. It was calming in the way that doing something he’d done a bunch of times was calming. Like jumping from tree to tree, or counting his sons’ fingers and toes. He was sure other people felt this way about cutting cold butter into pie crust, or knitting scarves, or editing photos, or brushing curls of cedar away from a piece of whittling. A simple process, easily repeated, with an obvious outcome and built-in sense of achievement. Something almost everyone could do, or learn to do, but which one could excel at if given ample opportunity. He knew who he was, when he was doing this.
“You know why humans have to hold onto your head, like that?” Holberton asked, when it was over.
Javier knew how this joke ended, already. He’d heard it before. But he asked why, anyway.
“It’s to keep from applauding,” Holberton answered, clapping his hands together. He checked the time. “Wow. Do you know how late it is? Of course you do. You have an internal clock.”
“That’s not even my best time,” Javier said.
“Your best time?”
“My record.”
“You have a record?”
He did. In both senses of the term. But Holberton didn’t need to know about the other one. “Two hours, forty-two minutes.”
“You’re full of shit.”
“I may be full of smoke, but I am not full of shit.” Javier rested
his hand on his palm. “Seriously. The other guy fell asleep.”
“He fell asleep?” Holberton blinked. “How is that even possible? Was he numb?”
“Drunk.”
“Wow. Unbelievable.” He frowned. “And you were good for that?”
“Why wouldn’t I be? I don’t need to breathe, and my jaw never starts to hurt.” He rubbed his chin. “There were some issues with chafing, though.”
Holberton flopped over onto his back. “Do you do this often?”
Javier army-crawled up to him. “Do you?”
“Not often enough. My cock feels like it should be waving a white flag.” Holberton looked him over. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Do you need looking after?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, would you like me to return the favour?” Holberton sat up, with some difficulty. “It’s not often I have hot guys in my bed who’ve had a rough few days and might need some tender, loving care.”
It was all about him. How had Javier not seen that, earlier? Holberton felt bad for him. Maybe even pitied him. It was about him, about making him feel better. And yes, he was milking this moment for all it was worth, but he was being good. Kind. Not pushy. Asking him at every step. He was so smooth Javier hadn’t even noticed it. Maybe it was some sort of theme park thing, some sort of customer care philosophy, internalized and manifested in every aspect of Holberton’s personality. Or maybe he was just a man who had once been a boy, and that boy had once been Jonah LeMarque’s son. Maybe he knew a thing or two about asking, first.
“Are you crying?” Holberton inched closer. “Can you do that?”
Javier wiped his eyes. “No. I mean, yes. We can. I just don’t. I don’t even think I have the plugin for that. There was a rights issue with it. Development hell. So I’m not even sure if–”
Holberton’s lips closed over his. “It’s OK. You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”
When Holberton’s breathing grew deep and even, Javier pulled back the smart cover and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The coverlet obediently snuggled back up to Holberton. Javier put on his clothes carefully. He might need to run, by the time this was all over. It wouldn’t do to be naked for that.
Exiting the bedroom, he found the living room alight with snow. Real snow, this time, not the like in the Winter Wonderland. Outside, the sky was a mauve pink, and the snowflakes looked like the shavings off quartz chips. It accumulated steadily on the patio furniture and the cacti and the sagebrush. The snow made the house seem quieter than it really was. Javier decided he liked it. He liked that quiet stillness. He was glad there were still places in the world that could still experience it, if only very briefly. Belatedly, he realized that the house had no Christmas tree. Though given Holberton’s history with religion, it made sense not to celebrate.
The tour hadn’t included an office, but Javier guessed it was downstairs. Track lighting illuminated his progress as soon as he set foot on the first step. The first door was another bathroom. It stocked extra towels, probably for the pool outside. The second door led to a room full of light.
The light was rich and golden and antique. It took Javier’s eyes a moment to adjust; the colours kept dithering and he actually couldn’t be sure if certain things were blue or black or grey. The room was lit entirely by lamps and sconces with old-fashioned filament bulbs. He had never seen so many of them in one place. Not even in Las Vegas.
Posters for various Frankenstein films hung on the walls. He recognized The Curse of Frankenstein, having attempted to watch it while on the ship. The other posters looked like they belonged to the same set. The shade of red used in the fonts was the exact same on each.
Holberton’s homescreen was an overexposed shot of a girl at a party. She was dark and slender and wearing too much eye makeup. She’d hiked the skirt of her school uniform up to levels that were probably against regulation. As he watched, she straightened up and appeared to put something down. She walked out of the frame and into the room. He could see through her, but just barely. She wrapped her weightless arms around him for a minute before sitting down on a stool that, Javier now understood, was probably put there for this exact purpose.
“Hi, Dad,” she said.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Javier said. “I need your help.”
“Sure thing,” she said. “What can I help you with?”
It couldn’t possibly be this easy. “I need to know where your uncle Dan’s cache is. There’s something in his files that I’m looking for, and it’s really important.”
She looked deeply apologetic. She bit her lower lip like she was confessing a minor infraction: a broken vase, a broken condom. “Sorry, Dad. I have no idea.”
Javier nodded. He was right. It couldn’t possibly be that easy, after all. “Do you have any idea where I might have put it? Have there been any big files floating around that I’ve missed?”
She shook her head. “None that I’ve seen.” She brightened. “I did find all that stuff on Mitch Powell that you’ve been looking for, though! I wrote up a whole report, and everything!”
Javier smiled. “That’s my girl.”
When you searched “Mitch Powell; New Eden Ministries; missionary,” a lot of what came up was porn. There seemed to be a whole subgenre involving catching your vN at home with a New Eden person. It was mostly about catching your female vN with a female New Eden representative. They would usually be naked already, by the time you got home, and then you got in the middle of it, and then the New Eden lady felt bad, and you punished her with the back of a hairbrush or something while the vN girl begged you not to.
But Pastor Mitch Powell also showed up. He was younger. He had hair. It was a mug shot. Apparently he had a few priors. He’d been through the system just like Javier. The American version, at least. He had a youth record, too, but it was closed. His adult record had mostly to do with assault. He would lose his temper. It was for this reason that he and his wife divorced. That, and he was caught on an indecent exposure charge at the Tallapoosa Welcome Centre, a rest stop off the I-20. The boy he was caught with was eighteen at the time of his arrest, which was after midnight. Powell had fucked him while he was on his way home from his birthday party, but legally, it wasn’t statutory rape. In later interviews, Powell claimed that strange luck was all he needed to convince him that God was indeed watching out for him. He searched for a variety of churches. He had been raised Baptist, but had burned bridges in local congregations. He also tried some Maranatha and Charismatic traditions. None of them held him for long. All that changed after he got involved with New Eden.
New Eden was a lot newer, then. It was before the game was developed that would put Jonah LeMarque in prison. Back then, LeMarque was just a young guy who refused to iron his shirts and thought raising money online in advance of the apocalypse was a good way to go about things. He was also able to accept Powell’s sexuality. He encouraged Powell to date. And he did date, but it didn’t go well. His relationships with men were just as prone to acts of violence as his relationship with his wife had been. The charges against him were all dropped, but he was under at least one restraining order that kept him out of his Atlanta suburb for two years.
During these two years, his role in the church changed from devout parishioner to corporate headhunter. He started visiting colleges and universities and hacklabs and makerspaces. He went to fairs. In other states, he visited high schools with robotics clubs. He spoke in front of church youth groups. He attended seminars and talked about the relationship between science and religion and optimism and hope. Little by little, he brought in the scientists that developed the vN.
His most notorious “get” for the organization was Derek Smythe.
Derek Smythe was the lead supervisor on the engineering team that developed the failsafe.
Derek Smythe had died at home, shortly after developing it. His obituary and the eulogies delivered by his tiny handful
of friends spoke of the combined pressures of brilliance, post-traumatic stress disorder, and overwork. Only one friend mentioned the curious project he was working on, and the robot he lived with. A gynoid. Named Susie.
“Susie looks just like Amy,” Holberton’s daughter said.
“Yes,” Javier said. “She does.” He frowned at the display. “So, Smythe was helping develop the failsafe?”
“Oh, yeah. He was basically the architect of it. He started developing something similar for NASA as part of his dissertation, but the funding fell through.”
“And now he’s dead?”
Holberton’s daughter raised her eyebrows. It pulled the smudges of blue on her eyes that much higher. “Uh… duh? Do you not listen to me at all? Seriously. It’s really annoying.”
“He’s dead,” Holberton said, behind them. He glanced at the avatar. “Go back and have fun with your friends, Violet.”
“OK. See you later!”
She walked back into the frame.
Holberton leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed. He wore a dressing gown that looked suspiciously similar to the brocade and velvet pieces that appeared in the Hammer films. “You know, I really thought we had something special there for a minute, Javier.”
Javier stood. He came very close to Holberton. He slid his hand in between the folds of silk. Holberton pulsed in his hand like a polygraph. “We would have something special,” he whispered, “if you weren’t planning the systematic extinction of my entire species.”
He expected the other man to hit him. Or to run. Or to call for help. He didn’t. Instead, he looked down. “I’m sorry about that. Really sorry. I didn’t want it to go down that way.”
He said it like it was a promotion Javier had been passed over for. Like the wholesale destruction of his entire species was a bad interest rate, or some other unfortunate nitty-gritty detail of life that nobody really liked but everybody had to deal with. Like all the vN were no better than any other failed technology. Like he and his boys were just another Corvair, or Betamax, or exploding lithium-ion battery. Years from now, people – chimps – would talk that way about the vN. They worked just fine, until they didn’t. They were defective. But it’s all fine, now. We got rid of them.
iD Page 19
