Echoes of Another

by Chandra Clarke

Meike Bergholtz, her assistant, was standing nearby, leaning heavily on the upright stretcher they would use to retrieve the macaque. She had a strange, almost severe face, with eyes set just too far apart, and a thin, pinched nose. She wore her hair clipped short at the back and on the sides, keeping it longer on the top; Kel thought it did nothing to soften her appearance. Meike shrugged. “Eh, probably a dominance fight.” She wiped the sweat from her forehead and yawned.

  Kel crouched and suppressed the desire to glare at Meike. “Try looking, will you? I don’t see any bites or gashes.” She swatted away the flies that were already gathering and gently rolled the macaque’s body over. The macaque’s head lolled to the side at an awful angle. She felt under the fur on the back of his head. “Implant’s intact, at least.”

  She looked up to see Meike picking at her fingernails. She sighed. “Leave the stretcher here and go find Dalton. Keep your tranq gun out as he may still be alive and in pain. He’ll bite.”

  Meike let the stretcher fall to the ground and took out a small sidearm. She wandered away.

  Kel reached over Max’s body to pull the stretcher over and then pulled him onto it. She arranged his arms and legs, closed his eyes, and stroked his brow in the way that once would have made him burrow in close for a cuddle. She sniffled a little and stood up to survey the area.

  She was at the edge of a clearing, under an enormous mangosteen tree. Kel inspected the ground where they’d found the body. The soil was hard here, held in place by the network of roots created by the plants covering the forest floor. There was no obvious damage to the surrounding undergrowth that would suggest there had been a fight, or even a trail to indicate there had been a chase. Kel glanced up at the tree. It wasn’t unheard of for a macaque to fall out of a tree, but they were usually surefooted.

  Meike sauntered back. “Found him,” she said.

  Kel waited a moment, but nothing more seemed forthcoming. “And?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Kel bit back an exasperated reply. She pointed at the stretcher handle. “Lead the way.”

  Meike picked up her end and they moved further into the trees.

  The macaque was a crumpled heap. Kel unfolded his body and looked him over, smoothing out his fur. He was still warm, and she couldn’t see any gashes or bite marks. There weren’t any signs of conflict on the ground here, either. He also had a broken neck.

  Kel rubbed a hand up the side of her face, puzzled. Two macaques dead on the same day, both with the same injury. What were the odds?

  They put Dalton on the stretcher before they trudged back to the office, passing through it to get to the lab. Kel wiped her cheeks with the back of a sleeve.

  “Are you alright?” she asked Meike. “Do you feel you could autopsy them?”

  “Of course,” Meike looked at her strangely. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Well, it’s just that you worked with them clo—” Kel began, but stopped when she noticed Meike’s odd, expressionless gaze. “Okay, fine, it’s never been my favourite thing to do. I get too fond of them. Recover the implants and do a forensic DNA analysis.”

  “Obviously.”

  Kel gave up trying to connect with Meike and retreated to the main office. She was reviewing the overnight logs when her boss, Robert McGee, strolled in. A heavy man with a barrel chest, Robert’s clothes were perpetually rumpled, and his hair was never quite in place. He pulled up short when he spotted her, clearly not pleased to discover he was not the first one in.

  “Did you even go home last night?” he muttered, heading straight for the office fabber and ordering a coffee.

  “Morning. Yes.”

  “What time?”

  Kel looked blank. “Good question. I left when I got too tired to see properly.”

  “Hmph.” Robert slurped at his coffee. “What are you doing now?”

  “Uh, checking the overnight summaries.”

  “Well, I’ve got budgeting work to do,” he announced, as though Kel had been holding him up. “So I need to get on with that.”

  He went to find his desk, leaving Kel to wonder why she had hedged with him just now. Best to leave the bad news until she had some answers, she thought. She returned to the logs to see if she could uncover any clue why two of her macaques had died so suddenly.

  MAURA

  Maura’s office was huge.

  Located on the corner of the top floor of a tower on Queen’s Quay, it offered commanding views of Lake Ontario and the ferry terminal on one side, with the city sprawling to the southwest on the other. She kept the furnishings to a minimum here. Her desk sat at the apex of the panoramic windows and faced into the room; two comfortable chairs had been positioned in front of it for private conversations and interviews. There was a medium-sized worktable in the adjacent corner, while the corner opposite to the desk was a large section that could be partitioned off to create a VR demonstration area.

  The walls that weren’t given over to windows were reserved for her favourite works of art: a big print of an orchard by Van Gogh, a beautiful still life by Henriette Knip, another Dutch painter, and a dramatic northern landscape by Lawren Harris. The only other artwork in the room was on her desk, a surrealist sculpture called Bitoro, by Francisco Pereira, which looked like a bull reimagined as a long-legged biped. Maura often stared at it when she was deep in thought; it reminded her of the absurdity of the world and helped her see things from a different perspective.

  At that moment, however, she was watching the screen set in her desk. It displayed the view from the camera in the lift that brought people to her office. The lift was gliding to a halt and the young woman inside it — Pauline McDonald was her name? — touched the control panel twice to change it to ‘doors hold.’ Maura watched as she took a few seconds to take a deep, steadying breath. The woman flicked a quick glance at her reflection. Her dark suit was spotless, her shoes classically styled and tasteful. Her jewellery was simple — accenting rather than overwhelming her outfit. Her long, blonde hair was swept into a basic Gibson tuck. Her expression was calm and resolute. Maura approved.

  Pauline tapped the panel again to open the doors and walked into the room, shoulders back, head held high. She stopped a few feet from Maura’s desk and waited.

  Maura did not glance up from her screen, which now displayed the projections for the next fiscal quarter. A minute stretched into two, and then into five, and then into ten.

  Pauline stayed as still as could be.

  After several more minutes, Maura looked up. “Tea,” she said and went back to reading.

  It was a test, of course. A menial task after being forced to cool your heels for what must have felt like forever. Although her company had a gruelling interview process — three separate sessions, including one in front of a panel — and used all the usual psychometric assessments, Maura still liked to throw things at her prospective assistants to see how they reacted in real time.

  Pauline scanned the room, spotted the food fabber near the window. Briskly, she walked towards it, finding there was a storage cupboard to the right. She opened it to reveal a single, simple place setting. She removed a teacup and saucer, placed them in the fabber, and swiped her hand along the control screen. Her fingers flew across the menu, and a fragrant steam billowed upward. Tea, green, Pi Lo Chun.

  Maura nodded to herself, impressed. The woman had done her research.

  Pauline brought the tea back to Maura’s desk and wordlessly set it down. Without looking, Maura reached for the cup and took a sip. She put it back in the saucer. She made sure her expression betrayed nothing.

  More waiting.

  At last, Maura turned off her screen and gave Pauline her full attention.

  “Have they told you I’m hard on my assistants?”

  Pauline hesitated for only a second. “Actually, the exact phrase was ‘chewed up and spat out her last four.’”

  Maura paused in mid-reach for her tea. She arched an eyebrow. “Oh? Would you care to inform me who sai
d that?”

  “No.”

  Her eyebrow went higher.

  “If I’m to be effective, I have to tell you how things are,” Pauline explained. “But I also have to get along with the other members of your team.”

  “I see,” Maura replied, and returned to drinking her tea. She sipped it pensively. “Why?”

  “Why do I want to work with you?” Pauline ventured.

  “For me,” Maura said sharply and put down her cup. “The hours are ridiculous, I’m particular and demanding, and little of the work would seem meaningful or fulfilling. Much of it, as you must know, is comprised of things a DPA could do. I prefer having a human assistant here at the office. I am always curious why anyone would sign up for this.”

  Pauline nodded. “You’re known for doing what you do very, very well. You personify the pursuit of excellence. You are hard, but fair, because you demand that people are their best selves when around you. And in the absence of the grander purposes our predecessors were once offered, I feel there is much to be learnt from your approach to life.”

  Maura permitted a flicker of surprise to dance across her face.

  “But more than that, by my reckoning, your company is now fifth in the alternate-realities industry worldwide. I’m certain that with the proper personal assistance, EduTain can get to the first position. I’m also sure I can provide you with that support.”

  “Working for me as a higher calling,” Maura said wryly. “That’s a new one.” She considered Pauline for a few more minutes, amused, and again intrigued by the woman’s poise. “See David in HR about integration,” she said and returned to her screen to get back to work.

  SETH

  Seth stepped out of his pod across the flow from Il Contadino and hesitated, feeling slightly hopeful. Maybe it was the wrong day? As much as he adored his family, just the thought of spending the whole evening with all of them at once was draining. Then he saw his cousin Joe — Joseph Bacchi, Queen’s Counsel, as he preferred to be called these days — get out of another pod nearby and head into the restaurant. He smiled ruefully. There would be no escape.

  Inside the restaurant, he groaned at its antiquated setup. They still employed human servers here! He tried very hard not to think about germs and potentially fatal diseases.

  The maître d’, a plump, dark-haired woman, approached. “Hello, I’m Ambra. How can I help you?”

  “I’m with the Bacchi family luncheon,” Seth replied. “We’re in the Ribiero room, I believe.”

  “That’s all one family back there?” she said, forgetting herself momentarily and looking astonished. “I thought it was a business dinner.”

  “Yep,” Seth put on a grin. “I’m one of seven kids. My father’s brother has six children. Italian on one side, African-Canadian on the other. I could go on.”

  “Wow.” Ambra gestured for Seth to follow. “You rarely see that size of family anymore.”

  “No, no, you don’t,” Seth muttered. He had often wondered why all of his relatives seem compelled to have so many children, especially when it seemed like everyone else in the world was doing the opposite — even countries formerly bursting at the seams, like China and India, had seen their populations decline. Some of it was down to Bacchi tradition, to be sure, although no one in his clan had been anything but nominally Catholic in more than two or three generations. He’d asked his mother once why she and his father had signed up for so much childcare, not to mention all the drama that came with a big family. She just laughed and said they loved it.

  Privately, and on his more introverted days, Seth thought it was all just a bit selfish to foist so many kids on the planet.

  Ambra led him to a room at the other end of the restaurant. When she opened the door, the noise rolled out like a tidal wave. He went in and felt, rather than heard, the door close behind him.

  It was a typical faux old-world Italy dining hall. The walls were covered with garish Renaissance-era murals in the style of Mantegna. There were the requisite white pillars, and the chandeliers were built to look like bunches of grapes, which made Seth roll his eyes. He preferred the gatherings that celebrated their African roots, as those establishments seemed so much more authentic, at least in this city.

  The restaurant staff had lined several tables up in rows to accommodate the crowd, and the room was already warm. He found a chair that looked like it wasn’t claimed and slipped into it. Someone came by, filled his wine glass without asking if he wanted any, or even what he wanted. He debated whether he should have some this early in the day —white wine was not his favourite — before he finally gave in and took a sip. He figured he would need the alcohol to get through the afternoon.

  Seth settled back into his chair and into observer mode. There was his Aunt Sandy, the quadcopter adventure guide based in Northern Ontario, who talked not just with her hands but her whole body. She was clearly telling a tale about one of her children. Cousin Jember, who oversaw the city’s waste management program and had a tendency to slouch, stood by his father, hands in his pockets, nodding occasionally. Two youngsters — were those Abele’s kids? — had commandeered some butter knives and were having a sword fight in the middle of the room.

  He had drunk nearly three-quarters of his glass before someone — his mother — finally noticed him and landed on the chair next to him. “Seth!” she exclaimed and kissed him on the cheek. Her eyes sparkled. Family gatherings always buoyed her. “Cucciolo. I didn’t see you come in.”

  “Hello, Mamma,” he replied, setting down his drink so he could take her hands in his. “How are you?”

  “You really need to come by more often,” she said. “What have you been doing that’s keeping you so busy?”

  “Well, I’ve been working on…” He stopped as his view of Mamma was blocked by the hulking mass of his brother Dario, who had swooped down to kiss her.

  “Dario, sweetheart, so glad you could come this time!” She patted his arm and looked at Seth. “Did he tell you he missed our last dinner because he was in Zimbabwe?”

  “No, I hadn’t heard,” Seth replied. “I’ve been—”

  Dario nodded. “Expanded the research facilities there. The technology is moving so fast right now. We’re close to regenerating skin right on the body instead of fabbing it and grafting it.”

  “What? Oh my, how exciting,” Mamma said.

  Dario absentmindedly picked up Seth’s glass and drained it, shaking his head. “We’ve been able to do this kind of tissue engineering for a while, originally using umbilical cord stem cells or even cells from the gums. It’s got hair and functioning sweat glands. But grafting is painful. Controlling skin regeneration has been the big problem to get around. We think we’re close. I’ve been busy trying to poach talent from Tokyo these last couple of weeks.”

  Still holding Dario’s arm, Mamma said, “That’s amazing. Imagine what it could do for burn victims, like those poor souls in the building fire in the District last month. But I would guess no one wants weird, excess skin growth from a treatment.”

  “Exactly,” Dario said. He glanced at Seth. “Life good at Reprint Tech?”

  “Uh, Imprint Tech, I think it’s called,” Seth said. “But I don’t work there —”

  Dario nodded. “Right, right. The medical training company. They produce good stuff. Say, is okay if we drop off the kids on Thursday instead of Saturday? My boss has ramped up my schedule like you wouldn’t believe, and I want to fly out early to get a handle on it.”

  “Well having them for the weekend is still fine, but I’m trying to —”

  But Dario had already turned back to Mamma. “So I hear Joe might have someone new?”

  Seth gave up. It was always like this. It didn’t matter which one of them he was talking to. He started fretting as to how he was going to stretch the two days of activities he’d planned for his nephews into four days.

  “Oh, I couldn’t comment,” Mamma said. “He didn’t bring her tonight, so I can’t tell how serious i
t is.”

  “Sandy expecting again?”

  “You know, she isn’t. She’s thinking that will probably be it for her,” Mamma replied. “Just the four kids.”

  There was a loud crash, and then a wail. Seth turned around. The sword fight had, predictably, gotten out of hand.

  “Oh my,” Mamma said, rising. “I’d better go give out nonna kisses. Dario, be a dear and start shooing people into their seats, won’t you? I expect they’re ready to begin feeding us.”

  “Of course.” Dario thumped Seth on his back, nodding curtly before walking away.

  Moments later, a server approached. “Wine?”

  Seth picked up the empty glass and handed it to her. But before he could say what he wanted, she refilled it with white. He fell back in his chair, wondering if anyone would ever think to ask him first.

  RAY

  Drifting in and out of consciousness. A memory.

  He was four again.

  He was… he was standing on his bed, goggle-eyed with terror. His knees wobbled so much he could barely stay upright.

  In the other room, he heard his mother, screaming, spitting with rage. Ray didn’t know why she was angry this time.

  Warm wetness slid down his leg, pooling at his feet before soaking into the tattered mattress.

  He didn’t want another beating. He would have to hide.

  Now.

  But the thing was back, hissing at him from under the bed. He was sure of it. It wasn’t in his head, like she said. It waited for him, in the dark.

  Hot tears poured down his face, and he gulped and whimpered.

  But there was nothing else in his room. Just the bed, the grimy walls, and a window that always seemed covered with frost on the inside. Nowhere to hide.

  Something smashed against his door. He flung himself backward, landing hard, twisting an ankle. He turned over and crawled headfirst under the bed, swinging his fists in a desperate attempt to fend off the monster. Then he pressed himself into a ball and buried his nose into his sleeve, willing himself not to sniffle and give his hiding place away.