__
Justine glanced across the room, just to make sure Lisa was still there. Lisa's short figure was partially eclipsed by the MFP in front of her. She glanced up and caught Justine's eye, raising a brow. Justine shook her head. She was fine, it was only the silence in the room and the rows upon rows of MFPs, ignoring her as she studiously ignored them. Justine's blood throbbed against her temples, and its dull drumming was the only sound.
"I can't take this," she muttered as she pushed her cart forward. "I can't go on pretending they're statues. How do I do good if I ignore them?"
She paused in front of the next MFP. She swallowed hard and picked up the scanner and without looking at the MFP or at his extended arm, whispered, "Good morning."
The MFP flinched. Justine glanced up at him, but his face was impassive and he stared straight past her. She went through the check and moved on to the next.
“Good morning," she said, a little louder. She got the same reaction. Justine glanced at Lisa as she stowed the morning blood sample in its labeled bag. Lisa was at the door, talking to another operator. A thrill of defiance went down Justine's spine.
"Good morning," she said to the next MFP, this time in a normal tone.
There was a brief pause, and then, "Good morning."
Justine looked up at the soft, raspy reply. He met her eyes just for a second, and then his long, dark lashes dropped over his sky-blue eyes. She felt a rush of euphoria. Under her breath she said, “How are you this morning?” She watched his face closely and saw him glance across the room at Lisa. Lisa was tinkering with her tablet computer and paying no attention.
“Fine,” he said.
You’ve been paying attention to us, Justine thought, I knew it. Tentative as it was, it was such a human, normal thing to say. No one had taught him that, though. He’d been watching the exchanges between the operators.
Justine wrote down the number from the blood pressure monitor and removed it. As she set down her clipboard, A67 looked up again as if he was going to say something. But he stopped and dropped his head again.
Justine bent near. “Were you going to ask something?”
But the MFP kept silent. They both knew that they weren’t supposed to make conversation. Justine finished the checks in silence, and continued down the aisle with a quick glance back at him. A67 still stared at his hands.
“Justine,” Lisa said, across the room. “Come see this. I want to teach you something.”
Justine left the cart and wound among the beds to Lisa’s side. As she walked, she could feel eyes on her back. She could imagine the blue-eyed MFP watching her and she shivered. What did MFPs think about?
Lisa tipped her clipboard toward Justine and tapped one of the columns with her blue pen. “See this?”
Justine narrowed her eyes and read the list of numbers. “They’re going down.”
“Yes. For the past week A134 has been losing weight. It looks like his nutrition mix isn’t good enough any more. If you read the notes from the past month, you’ll see that they’re training him harder to try to catch his strength levels up. But obviously they haven’t compensated by giving him more food. You see?”
Justine nodded. “So the poor guy is starving?”
Lisa started, then laughed and her eyes flickered between Justine and the impassive MFP. “Gosh, Justine. Empties don't starve. But if he keeps losing weight he’ll fall out of spec, and if that continues he might be rejected.”
Justine pressed her lips together. “So then what?”
“So, in this case, we’ll speak to the supervisor and recommend that they modify his nutrition plan. But—“ She shrugged and her mouth quirked into a wry smile. “I have my ways to circumvent the system. I’ll make sure he gets more food.”
“Like...?”
“I’ll show you.”
At precisely eight, the doors at the end of the room swung open, and two operators rolled a rack of rattling, metal trays into the room. Justine pulled the rack to the first row and pulled the first tray off its shelf. Each tray was numbered by MFP, and together she and Lisa distributed them to the waiting MFPs. When they’d received their meals, the MFPs put the tray on the shelf by their bed, sat down, and began eating. When Lisa reached the MFP who’d been losing weight, she grabbed the nutrition shake off the next tray and plopped it down on his tray.
“Now we’ll just get the other MP another.”
When they’d distributed all the breakfasts, Lisa led Justine down to the kitchen.
The kitchen was far too cold to be a kitchen. The stainless-steel counters gleamed like no food ever touched them. Lisa approached the operator, whose green hairnet denoted him as the senior operator there.
“I’m missing a shake.”
He frowned. “Okay. I’ll get you one.”
Two minutes later, Lisa was carrying a lidded cup filled with thick, pink smoothie. Justine laughed under her breath as she hurried along behind her. “Don’t people ever take them for themselves? I mean, if it’s so easy...”
“No doubt,” Lisa said. “I’m telling you, Justine. Empties eat far, far better than we do.”
“Well they have that, at least,” Justine said.
The next morning she approached A67 with her clipboard and cart, and when Lisa had gone to the other end of the room, she said, “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” he said, his voice raspy as if from disuse.
“Did you sleep well?”
He reached out his arm, and Justine scanned it. A67 cleared his throat and said, “Yes.”
“Your blood pressure is a little bit high,” Justine said, “Just sit back and relax a little bit and I’ll take it again.” That was another trick Lisa had taught her to evade being out of spec limits.
A67 nodded and sat down on the bed. He looked up at her with his big, blue eyes—eyes that Justine knew now made him out of limits in some way. No MFP should have blue eyes. In those depths Justine read despair.
Oh God!
Justine dropped her eyes so she wouldn’t have to look at him. “I’ll come back to you after the next exam,” she said.
As she ran through the morning checks with A68, she saw Lisa plunk an extra shake down on A134’s tray.
“Is he...?” she called.
“His plan hasn’t been changed yet,” Lisa said.
“But why wouldn’t they—“
Lisa made a cutting motion across her neck and frowned. Not now.
Justine gulped and turned back to A67. His blood pressure was just above limits still. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’ll make a comment on the sheet. It’ll be better tomorrow.”
A67’s blue eyes were still haunting Justine when she got home. Casey wasn’t there, but Justine didn’t realize it until she had the water on for the potatoes and was pulling venison from the freezer.
She put down the wooden spoon and pushed aside the faded, red curtains as if Casey would be stomping his boots on the doorstep, about to come up the stairs. The street was empty, lit by the dim, greenish streetlights. Two MP guards walked north down the block. They were going to close the gates.
Justine flipped the element off and grabbed her jacket. He had to be in the neighborhood. If he was outside the neighborhood he wouldn’t be coming home tonight.
But as her boots hit the bottom step on ground level, the rickety glass and steel door crashed open and Casey fell in with a gust of arctic air.
“Case!”
“Yeah,” he gasped. His face was red and blotchy. Snot and ice were frozen into the scruff around his mouth.
She grabbed his stiff, frozen gloves. “Case, did you—“
“Yeah, I missed the bus. Let’s go upstairs. I think... I think that my hands are frozen.”
In the kitchen, Justine pulled the pot of potatoes off the element and pushed the kettle on instead. She turned around to see Casey kick off his second boot.
“Ahh.” He squeezed his eyes shut, then blinked. “My feet aren’t frozen, thank God. But le
t’s see about my hands.”
Justine grabbed his right hand and eased it out of the glove. His fingers were as cold as the venison she’d just taken from the freezer. Tears sprang to her eyes. His hands—his beautiful hands. She began rubbing it, because she had no idea what else to do. Casey flexed the other hand and shook the glove off. She grabbed that hand too.
“I think they’d look worse if they were actually frozen.” Casey was still gasping for air, and he shivered violently.
“Did you walk back?” No, that was impossible. He’d still be out there if he had walked.
“I caught a truck to the industrial quarter. The rest I walked, or ran. Ahh...” his blotchy face screwed up and he sucked in a breath between his teeth. “Just... just my feet coming back to life. Ahh!” He grimaced, then laughed.
Justine looked up from her ministrations.
“Josh always calls me ‘old man’, and I sure feel like it when I try to run.” He blinked furiously and tears ran from the corners of his eyes. “Feeling’s starting to come into my fingers. Ah, dear Jesus!”
Justine ceased her furious massaging and looked up at his contorted face. Her own tears flowed over.
“Ah, Justine, don’t cry. I’m okay.” He grinned at her, a weird, twisted smile through the pain. “I’ve had worse.”
“When?” she asked sharply.
“W-when I was still single.” He took his hands out of hers and began rubbing them together himself. “Your kettle is boiling, and I c-could sure use some coffee.”
Justine grabbed the grinds from the cupboard and scooped them into the filter. “I don’t think I want to know,” she said as she poured the steaming water over the coffee grinds.
“That’s why I never t-told you.”
Justine looked back. Casey squeezed his hands into fists and then flexed his fingers. Then he turned one of the kitchen chairs toward her and sat down. His eyes still watered, and he swiped at his nose with his jacket sleeve.
“Case!” she said.
“Oops. Um...” He fumbled at his pocket, but his fingers were still too clumsy.
Justine pulled the hanky out for him and helped him blow his nose. She giggled, and Casey grinned even though his teeth chattered.
She brought two cups of coffee to the table, but before she could take her own chair, Casey pulled her toward him, almost spilling the coffee. Justine set the cups down and settled down on his lap. Casey wrapped his arms around her and laid his cool, scratchy cheek against hers. His whole body still quivered with cold.
“Y-you’re shaking,” he said.
“No, you’re shaking.” But as she said it, Justine’s lip began to tremble and a fat tear spilled over onto her cheek. “Casey, you almost...”
“Not really. I’ve had worse.”
“Don’t tell me that!”
“Okay, I won’t.” He lifted his coffee with a hand that shook the cup so he could barely reach his lips. “Tell me about your day.”
Justine sighed.
"So bad?"
“Case...”
He tipped back the mug and drank the last of his coffee. Justine thrust her cup into his hands, and he didn’t protest.
“There’s an MFP there that I talk to sometimes. We’re not supposed to talk to them, but I just say hello to him. His eyes are blue—that means he’s out of specifications, but I guess no one noticed because we aren't supposed to look them in the eyes. But when they do their final inspections before shipping...”
“He’s no good, in other words.”
Justine nodded and settled back against him. “He looks so sad. I mean, he’s straight-faced. They all are. But his eyes are just... heartbreaking, Case. And there’s this other one. He’s losing weight, but so far no one will change his nutrition plan. Lisa’s been stealing food for him.”
“Lisa? Straight-lace Lisa?”
“Yeah. I don’t know why they won’t change his plan. It’s so stupid. But he’ll be fine. We’ll make sure he’s fine. But even so, fine for what? He’ll be sold and then what, die in five or ten years on a battlefield? I mean, Lisa says they never want for food, or clothes or shelter but...” she turned and saw Casey’s face. His jaw was tight, eyes averted.
“So what’s so terrible for them?” he said softly. “I ask myself that sometimes. Justine, they’re better provided for than you are.”
“Don’t say that!”
Casey shrugged and looked down.
Justine slid off his knee and knelt in front of him so she could meet his green eyes. “Case, they’re alone and friendless. It isn’t the rejection that bothers me—though it does really, really bother me. They never know love, Case! God knows I have that in abundance!”
Casey leaned forward and cupped her face. His hands were cool, but no longer icy. He said nothing, just stroked her jaw with his thumb and stared past her.
Casey curled up on the couch under the afghan while she started dinner. But even after he'd filled his belly with hot potatoes, venison and onion gravy Casey was still cold. He took his Bible and volume of Plato to the bed and sat with the covers over his legs, making notes for Sunday’s sermon. Justine washed the dishes, rinsed out the sink, and then did the laundry in the stainless steel kitchen sink so that she wouldn’t have to go to the clunking coin-op machines downstairs. She had quarters, but she didn’t want Casey to be out of sight. She strung up an old skipping rope across the kitchen and hung up their jeans, Casey’s flannel shirts, and her t-shirts. Then she made coffee and settled on the bed beside Casey.
“Coffee?” She held out the mug to him.
He scribbled furiously on his notepad and didn’t answer. Justine peeked over his arm to see what he was writing, but his scrabbly handwriting was completely unintelligible to her.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“Hmm? Oh! Thank you.” He took the coffee from her and smiled at her. His eyes were peaceful again, and twinkling.
Justine grinned at him over her coffee cup. “Are you preaching from the Scriptures or from Plato this Sunday?”
“I can’t do both?” He flipped back a few pages in The Republic and laughed. “But no, I am preaching from the Psalms, not The Republic. I can’t make heads or tails of this book. Not enough to preach from it.” He straightened up, pulling the blanket out from under his stack of books so he could throw it over her legs. “But here is a question.”
Justine rested her chin on his shoulder. “Okay.”
“How do we know what is just?”
“What is just? You mean, what is justice?”
“Yes. How do we know? If we attempt to perform justice, but our actions affect the object in a negative fashion, have we not performed injustice?”
Justine immediately thought of cups with thick, pink smoothies, and A67’s beautiful, despairing blue eyes. “Oh goodness.”
“But how do we know that we do will have a positive effect?” Casey rubbed his chin and sipped his coffee. His eyes focused on the book at his knees. “How far ahead can we possibly see?”
“Which makes me ask,” Justine began, her head still on his shoulder. “Should this keep us from attempting justice at all?”
“Surely not,” Casey said. He leaned his cheek against her hair. His voice was faint and distant as he said again, “Surely not.”
CHAPTER 3
Khalia shut off the car and pulled out her wallet. She slipped an ID card out of a nearly unused pocket. Khalia Lemoine, it said, with her picture, a few years younger, beside it. She'd dropped Jeremy's name within weeks of his death, but the date on it still said it was valid. Until it 'expired', Jeremy's name still got her discounted Oxy.
The attendant was an Empty, one of three indistinguishable workers at that pharmacy. He smiled at her, and his eyes focused on the bridge of her nose as he took her prescription.
"I'll have it for you in a few moments, Mrs. Lemoine," he said mildly.
She sat down on one of the three plastic chairs against the wall and set her purse on her lap. Her f
ingers twitched at her sides. Once she'd paid, there would be just enough money left to buy groceries. She'd make it this month.
Jeremy would turn over in his unmarked grave if he knew she'd pawned his father's pocket watch. But Khalia had no sentimental attachment to it, and she'd felt cold satisfaction as she'd walked out of the pawnshop. It was one last way to stick it to the deadbeat. A girl had to eat.
And there were some appetites that were never quite assuaged. That was his fault, too. If he'd stayed out of trouble and stayed alive, she might have had the strength to leave the medication behind.
Khalia leaned her head back against the wall. There might be time to get better, once the MFP2 project was over.
"Mrs. Lemoine?" The pharmacist called.
Khalia stuffed the paper bag in her purse and scurried out of the pharmacy. For now, she was left hoping she could get by with her fake ID and Jeremy's knick-knacks.
__
Dominic hunched his back against the wet cold and pressed his back against the concrete retaining wall. Above him the skytrain whooshed by on its monorail. The pale blue streetlights glanced off its shiny metal sides, but didn’t reach into his corner. Dominic shoved his icy fingers deep into the recesses of his pockets.
Chassange was late. But that was like Chassagne.
I’ll write it all down and leave it under a stone for you. See if I don’t. You haven't paid me, so I don't owe you anything.
The hum of a large engine echoed down the concrete-walled street. Dominic turned his head, and the LED headlights of Chassagne’s car shone just past his hiding spot, illuminating the train station beside him.
Dominic waited until the car stopped before he stepped out of the shadow. Chassagne's assistant stepped out, walked around, and opened the door for him, and Dominic got in.
“Good evening.” Chassagne lounged against the corner of the seat, his head tilted back, one hand resting on his ample stomach.
“Good evening.” Dominic settled into the leather seat and relished the blast of hot air emanating from the vent. The car eased into gear and pulled away. The lights of the train station faded, and then the only light was the intermittent blue glare of the streetlights. They made Chassagne’s pointy face look craggy, older.
Sons of Earth Page 4
