FSF, January-February 2010

by Spilogale Authors

  “Okay,” Proctor said, “it's in human trials. That's good. It's injectable. That's good; more expensive. Three doses? Also good; we can charge three times. How long does it last? A week? A month?”

  The singing stopped. Graeber thought back: What had Wang or Sprachmaus said about booster shots? Anything? “We'll know for sure when the trials are finished.”

  “Okay, I won't bring that up this time around. Maybe no one will think to ask.”

  “A detail, Proctor. Merely a detail. This stuff is going to be that big.”

  “The Devil's in the details, Hugh. You know that.”

  Graeber cut the call. Kee-rist! Proctor could suck the joy out of an orgasm. Now there was a guy who needed a round of ReVitalyze®. Or not. The only thing that made Proctor bearable was the hope that he would worry himself to death soon. Sure, he was only doing his job, but still....

  But still, Proctor was right: Graeber should have thought about booster shots himself. A daily regimen, that was how you made money. Hook ‘em for life. It should have been the first thing he thought of. If he hadn't been so damned distracted by the potential. And, he had to admit, by pale, lovely Liliac. She had some fatal attraction that clouded his judgment.

  “What is it about women, Carlos?” he said. “You think you know just what you like when, bam, along comes a new one that doesn't fit a single expectation, and suddenly you're a gormless teenaged geek again. You know what I mean, Carlos? Carlos?”

  Arturo snapped back to the present. “Si, señor. I mean, yes, sir.” He hoped it was the right answer.

  He had hardly slept the last two nights. No, three. First, the night of worry. Then, the meeting with the midwife. She was, as Esperanza had said, a wise woman. She saw deeply. She had touched and listened, pressing her bone-white ear to Esperanza's belly. Touching with those pale fingers. But she had also used a stethoscope and a thermometer and a blood-pressure cuff. And she had taken a blood sample even. Arturo had winced when the needle pierced his dear wife's flesh, when her red blood had run into the slender tube, though Esperanza had said it was painless. They had lain awake together afterward, wondering what the test would reveal. The midwife had promised nothing, and her silence had been loud as a curse.

  The next night, another visit with the healer. Midwife no longer. There was no baby, they knew that now. Instead, there was sickness. There was cancer. There was death. Esperanza had cried. Arturo had almost cried. But he held her instead. He had to be strong for her. And the healer was strong for him. She put her pale, strong hand on his shoulder, held his gaze in her deep, black, ageless eyes.

  “Do not worry,” she had said. “There are ways to treat this. New ways.”

  “We have no money,” he'd told her. “Not that much.”

  “There are ways,” she repeated. “We can make arrangements.”

  Maybe, but there had been no sleep after that.

  And now he had almost fallen asleep at the wheel. The morning's coffee had worn off hours ago. Ay! Where were the idiot cab drivers when you needed them? He scanned the lanes to either side, checked the rearview mirrors, looking for yellow cabs and turbans. A little race would wake him up. A duel. Someone to fight, to take his mind off Esperanza, off the lump growing in her belly, the curse he could do nothing about. He swung the big car into the fast lane, cutting off a pale blue Honda Civic, and giving two fingers to the driver when the cabrón dared honk at him. There, up ahead: a red Hummer. Arturo floored the limo. Trumpets pealed in his mind.

  “Kee-rist, Carlos!” Graeber exclaimed. “Have you gone loco?”

  “Yes, sir,” Arturo muttered. This whole damn world is loco.

  * * * *

  “What are you doing to him?” Diana Graeber moaned. “I ache. I'm exhausted. I'm hung over. You're supposed to wring him out, not fire him up!”

  “Golly, Ms. G.,” Vanessa replied, “I'm hurting, myself. A few more evenings like that, and I'm gonna have to hire a stand-in.”

  “A few more evenings? Dear God, don't even say it. Just two and already it feels like a dozen. And I can't even remember the first one.” The aftermath had been bad enough. Diana took a sip of her Bloody Mary. She was on her second, but it wasn't helping the two-day hangover or the memory. “It wouldn't be so bad if his technique had improved a little, too.”

  “Well, you know, I always thought it was pretty amazing how he could get so much out of so little.”

  “Amen, sister.”

  “Did you know when you married him just how—?”

  “I knew, I knew.” Diana moaned again. “What can I say? He was young and handsome; I was young and sexy, believe it or not.”

  “Golly, that sounds almost romantic.”

  If it had been one of her spa clique, Diana might have been insulted. But this was Vanessa, and there wasn't a sarcastic bone in her bountiful body. Which was not fulfilling its intended purpose!

  “He was also rich, and I was way too smart for my own good. God help me, Vanessa, this was not part of the plan. What's gotten into him?”

  “Maybe it's those new nano things he's been trying,” Vanessa replied.

  “Nano things? He told you about those?” Diana was shocked. Hugh might brag about his mistress, but he was a fanatic about company security.

  “Well, not outright,” Vanessa admitted. “I mean, he did say he was trying something new that he thought I might like, but, you see, when he, um....”

  “Got it off?”

  “Yeah, that's pretty much how it felt. Right then, he started singing, kind of: ‘Nanomeds, nanomeds, nanomeds.’ Kind of in rhythm, you know?”

  “Yeah. I can remember a few of those serenades.” But that had been years ago. Diana put down the drink and rubbed her temples. “Vanessa, this is not good. These nanomeds are like a youth serum, and he's got an unlimited supply. They aren't going to wear off.”

  “Golly! I'm gonna wear out!”

  “You and me both, honey.”

  “Maybe we should get some for ourselves.”

  “It's not even on the market yet. And, to tell you the truth, I wouldn't want to waste my second youth on him.” Diana pounded the table. From what Hugh had told her, the nanomeds would remove old cells, cancers, cholesterol, the works. She couldn't even hope he'd have a heart attack in the midst of the next serenade. “Vanessa, we've got to do something. We have got to find some antidote, some counter drug, some way to get those blessed little nanobuggers out of his system. If he starts singing to me again, I swear I'll kill him with my own bare hands!”

  “Gosh, you don't want to do that, Ms. G. I'm sure we'll think of something else. Look, why don't you go visit your mother or cousin or someone. Meanwhile, I'll check with this friend of mine, this herbal practitioner I go to? She's got remedies for everything!”

  * * * *

  Graeber strode into the lab. “Wang, Sprachmaus, come along.”

  They came in a hurry, worried expressions marring their otherwise unlined faces. No hint of any negative reactions at least.

  “Booster shots,” Graeber said, making his way through the lab to Liliac's narrow box of a room. “How soon? How often?”

  “Booster shot?” Wang stopped, and Sprachmaus ran into him. They disentangled and ran to catch up.

  “Ja, ja, booster shots.” Sprachmaus had claimed the lead. “Well, you see.... You...You von't need any.”

  Graeber stopped in the doorway, a stake through his sinking heart. They piled up behind him. He turned slowly. “Ever?” he demanded. “My whole life?”

  “Ja. Tree infusions is enough, as long as you lif.”

  “Live much longer, too,” Wang added. “Even old people like y—”

  Sprachmaus clamped his hand over Wang's mouth. “Unless you are mazzively injured and require a transfusion,” he said quickly. “Othervise, the hemobots make more of themselves, chust like real blood. Da enchineering is perfect.”

  Wang nodded enthusiastically.

  “Idiots!” Graeber snapped. “Did I ask for perfect?
Did I ever once use the word ‘perfect'? Dammit, it wasn't supposed to be perfect! The plan called for regular doses! What went wrong?”

  “Myidefct!” Wang cried from behind Sprachmaus's hand.

  “What did you say?” Graeber snarled.

  Sprachmaus snatched his hand away.

  “Side effect,” Wang squeaked.

  “Ja, you remember, ve said dere vere two side effects?” Sprachmaus shrugged. “Dis vas da second. Da hemobots, dey learned how to reproduce.”

  “Just like mice,” Wang explained.

  Graeber reached into his pocket and squeezed his phone. He took a deep breath, and the phone case cracked. He felt a little better. He ran his other hand over the growing fuzz on his scalp. Even better. His heart began to rise. No need to panic. These guys looked stupid, but they were smart in their own field.

  “Right,” he said. “We're shutting down all the trials, immediately. You're going back to the drawing board. You're going to redesign these little buggers so that they die off after a month. No repair service, no vein-side garage, no reproduction, no nanosex. One month, they're all dead and gone, through the piss pipe and down the toilet. You want more, you get another injection, simple as that. A booster shot. An expensive booster shot. Get it?”

  “Got it!” they chorused.

  “Good. Now get to work. I want it by next Tuesday.”

  “Next Tuesday?” Wang gasped. “Not poss—”

  Sprachmaus grabbed him by the collar and jerked him halfway across the lab. Graeber watched them scurry off. He exhaled and stretched his neck joints, feeling much, much better. He turned and stepped into the narrow room.

  Liliac was watching him, one dark eyebrow arched. “You have shut down the lab,” she said. Her voice was even more unreadable than ever.

  “Just the trials,” he said, “and only until we have the new design.”

  “A design that dies.”

  “It's safer that way,” he said. The idea popped into his head, full blown and brilliant. The FDA would love it. “If they can repair and reproduce, they can go wrong, just like real blood. This way, we control its life cycle. Completely. It's for the user's own good.”

  Her eyebrow dropped, but there was a glint that didn't leave her eyes. “I see,” she said. “Then I guess I will put things away. Good evening.”

  “Wait a minute,” he said, “I've still got a third injection coming. No sense wasting the little buggers, right? In fact...” Another idea popped in, even better than the first. “...since we know how to make the original design, I could arrange to reward certain members of the team. Important members. Team players. Exceptional performers. If you see what I mean.” He gave her his best quid pro quo smile.

  “That would be some reward,” she remarked, “but who would define ‘exceptional'? You?” She opened the drawer and pulled out the little drug gun and the big syringe. “Please roll up your sleeve.”

  He closed the door, took off his jacket, loosened his tie, never once dropping her deep, dark gaze. He sat.

  She stepped past him and opened the door.

  “If you do not mind, I find it very stuffy in here with two people. Like a coffin, don't you think?”

  Then she gave him the injection and sent him on his way.

  * * * *

  Arturo drove very carefully. He was worried, and frightened, and very angry. The night before, on the way home from the big laboratory, Señor Graeber had told him they must leave next Sunday, he and Esperanza. They could not stay if she was pregnant. Arturo had told him she wasn't pregnant. She was sick, and needed much treatment. Then even better you go home, Graeber had said, to be with your family. We cannot get that kind of treatment in Chiapas, Arturo had said.

  “Well,” Graeber had said. “It sure sucks to be you, doesn't it.”

  Arturo wanted to speed. He wanted to duel another Hummer, to ram a cabbie. But he didn't dare do anything out of the ordinary, anything that would draw attention from the police.

  The gun was heavy in his coat pocket.

  He took Exit 13 for the “spa,” but turned the other way. Señor Graeber didn't notice. It was twilight, and he was on his damned cell phone again. Soon, Arturo was driving them through a dark neighborhood of abandoned factories. Graeber hung up, looked out the window.

  “What the—? Where are we, Carlos?” he asked.

  “I don't know, sir,” Arturo replied. “There was road work, a detour. I must have turned the wrong way.”

  “Well turn back, idiot! I told Vanessa we'd be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Yes, sir.” Arturo made a careful three-point turn, then took the first side street, and the next, winding deeper into the dark neighborhood. The twilight deepened.

  “Kee-rist, Carlos! This isn't the right way. You should have gone left back there!”

  “Yes, sir.” Arturo reversed again, then took a quick right.

  “I said left!” Graeber leaned forward and pointed across Arturo's face. “That way!”

  Arturo swerved hard. “Ay! What was that?” He slammed the brakes hard. The big car squealed to a stop.

  Graeber thudded into the seat back. “Ow! What was what?”

  “There was a person!” Arturo cried. He turned and pointed out the rear window. “Look!”

  Graeber turned. “What? Where?” He peered out the window.

  Arturo drew the gun from his coat pocket. His hand was shaking.

  “I don't see a bloody thing,” Graeber said.

  “Yes, there! A person! See! On the road.” Arturo pointed the gun at Graeber's neck. His palm was wet with sweat. He didn't think he could pull the trigger.

  “Where? There's nothing there, you dumb wetba—”

  Actually, it was easy.

  Whap!

  Graeber gave a cry. His hand flew to his neck. He half-turned, eyes bulging as he spotted the drug gun. Then they rolled back and he slumped sideways onto the seat.

  “Madre de Dios!” Arturo muttered. He was trembling all over now. “I hope she knows what she is doing.” He slid the gun back into his pocket and put the car into gear.

  * * * *

  Graeber's head swam. Clouds of black and white foamed across his vision. He wondered what they were. But not too much. Mostly he admired them. They were misty, and pretty, and pretty misty. Did fog blow in? On little cat's feet? Who said that? Who cares?

  Something pricked his arm.

  “Ow,” he said. “You prick.” He chuckled. “That's a joke.”

  “He's waking up!”

  Carlos? Hey, Carlos. My little wetback buddy. Is that you? Did I say that? Out loud?

  “Do not worry. He is completely incapable of gross motor movement.”

  Liliac? With Carlos? What the hey?

  Graeber rubbed his eyes. Nothing happened. He tried to lift his hands. Still nothing. He blinked, and that worked. His vision did seem a little more clear. The black mist began to look a little like Carlos. And not so black. The white mist...actually, it was black and white. Yeah, that was Liliac.

  “Hey, Lil babes,” he said. “Did you know they filmed you in black and white?”

  “Are you sure he can't move?”

  “Nothing that matters. Here, the first pint is full. Esperanza, are you ready?”

  “Yes, doctor.”

  Another woman? That Carlos. This could get interesting. Liliac's mist drifted out of sight, followed by the brown cloud of Carlos. Graeber tried to turn his head.

  “Save one for me, Carlos,” he mumbled. He drifted into a four-way fantasy.

  Liliac's voice woke him. She was back in front of him. “Now the second pint. That is for you, Arturo.”

  Who?

  “How can we repay you, Doctor Sångera?”

  “That is simple. When you are back in Mexico, donate blood. Once a month, if they will let you. But not any more often than that. Remember that the artificial blood will need time to grow. If you can, convince the others, those who receive your blood, to donate too. But do not let Espe
ranza give blood until at least a year has passed.”

  “It will take that long to cure the cancer?”

  “Probably not, but just to be sure.”

  Give blood? Once a month? Graeber gave an involuntary shudder. Poor sucker. No way you'd get me to give blood.

  “Thank you,” Carlos said. “I will travel all of Mexico to give blood. Adios.”

  “Yes, go with God,” Liliac answered.

  The other woman said something in Mexican. She has a pretty voice, Graeber thought. I wonder who she is?

  The dim shapes moved away, except for the black-and-white ghost that was Liliac. He heard a door close. A few moments later...or was it an hour?...he heard another door open on the opposite side of the room.

  “Hey, Doctor S., how's it going? Golly, look at all that blood!”

  Vanessa! Now we'll really get some action! Graeber tried to say something, but he couldn't seem to get his mouth to move. Couldn't think of anything to say. Oh, well. He knew what he meant.

  “Yes, Van. Just two pints left. Are you ready for yours?”

  “You betcha! Say, how about one for Ms. G? I think it'd cheer her up.”

  “No, we must be gone before dawn. Do not worry, she will get one eventually, I am sure. Her kind look after themselves.”

  One what? Graeber wondered. Can I have one? But he couldn't seem to say it. His vision was fading, narrowing, until all he could see was a pair of pitch-black eyes in a white face framed by hair the color of night. Something sparkled for an instant, two tiny glints of light. He remembered a smile. Whose? Oh, well. Who cares? He smiled at the pitch-black eyes as they grew and merged, and swallowed his final thoughts.

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  * * *

  Novelet: CITY OF THE DOG

  by John Langan

  Six of John Langan's short stories have recently been collected in Mr. Gaunt and Other Uneasy Encounters. Searching for it on the internet has turned up the fact that another man named John Langan has written a series of college texts on writing over the past two decades. Those of you who remember the story “Tutorial” from our Aug. 2003 issue might think this coincidence of names falls in the category of “Cruel Irony.”