by John Skipp
BuzzCut reached over and flipped down the glove compartment door. Inside was the ugliest looking semi-automatic pistol Paul had ever seen. BuzzCut removed it, closed the door, and laid the weapon in Paul’s lap.
“I think the technical term for it is ‘kidnaping’,” said BuzzCut. “I’d pick up that gun and point it at the floor if I was you, unless you like the idea of them shaky hands of yours blowing your pecker off.”
As BuzzCut pulled the car up to the curb in a fairly generic-looking middle-class neighborhood, Paul’s first instinct was to open the door and run like hell. BuzzCut must have sensed this, because he pressed a button and electronically locked the doors. “Don’t bother trying to unlock them, only the driver can do that.”
Paul lifted the gun. “I could just shoot out the window.”
“I’d like to see you try it. They’re bullet-proof.”
“Oh.”
BuzzCut checked his watch, then removed a pair of small binoculars from a compartment beside the driver’s seat and began focusing on a house about a third of the way down the block.
“Hey,” whispered Paul.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t know your name.”
“And if you sign on with Scylla, I’ll be happy to tell it to you, but not until then. The fewer names you know now, the better.”
“But if—”
“Shh.” BuzzCut leaned forward a little, then offered the binoculars to Paul. “See that grey house down there, the one with the chain-link fence?”
“Yes.”
BuzzCut checked his watch again. “In about a minute a little girl is going to come out of that house and start walking in our direction. Her name’s Jeanne Brooks. She’s six years old. Every morning at 11:30 she leaves this house and walks to a small family market two blocks from here. She buys herself a can of Sprite and then stands around looking at the comic books for about forty-five minutes.”
“Why every morning?”
“In the last eighteen months, Jeanne’s been removed from this house by Childrens’ Services three times, and three times she’s been sent back after her mother and stepfather have completed the bare-ass minimum amount of couples’ therapy required by law.”
“What’s that got to do with—”
“Watch.”
Paul focused on the front door of the house. BuzzCut reached over and pressed a button on the binoculars and with a soft electronic whirrrrr, the lenses extended, allowing Paul a crystal-clear view of the front door and porch. The only way he could be any closer was if he were standing in the front yard.
The door opened and Jeanne Brooks came out. Her clothes were old but appeared to be clean. She looked down as she walked, as if she were afraid the earth might open up at any given second and swallow her whole if she dared look anywhere else.
She was halfway down the steps when the front door opened and a man in his early thirties—the stepfather, Paul assumed—kicked open the screen door, stormed out onto the porch, and threw something at Jeanne. It hit her squarely in the back of the head, knocking her to her knees.
“That piece of shit,” Paul said through clenched teeth.
Jeanne picked herself up, the expression on her face unchanged, and then retrieved the object her stepfather had thrown at her.
A videocassette of 101 Dalmatians.
“Her birthday present,” said BuzzCut. Even he didn’t bother disguising the anger and sadness in his voice. “They didn’t buy it for her, mind you, they gave her two dollars so she could rent it. If I were a betting man, I’d put the farm on her never having gotten to watch it.”
“God …” whispered Paul, because now Jeanne had left the yard and was walking in their direction. Only now—aided by the electronic binoculars—did Paul see why she walked with her face toward the ground.
Scars.
Some were old and greyish-white, others were pink, still healing; all of them were restricted to the left side of her face, but that was enough. In places the scar tissue was so heavy it nearly covered her left eye.
“Grey and pink, right?” asked BuzzCut.
“Huh?”
“The scars.”
“… yes …”
“She leaves here at the same time every morning because her mom and stepfather deal crank out of their garage between 11:45 and 12:30. Neither the police nor Children’s Services have been able to nail them for it, and suspicion alone isn’t enough for permanent action to be taken.”
“Did they … did they do that to her?”
“Not that she’s ever admitted to anyone. But, yes, they did that to her.”
Paul lowered the binoculars. “We’re going to take her?”
“In a way,” said BuzzCut, opening his door. “You stay right in here, got me? Anyone besides me tries to get in this car, flash the gun and odds are they’ll go away. If flashing it doesn’t work, then squeeze the trigger and I guarantee you they’ll go away.” He hit a button and unlocked all the doors, then opened the rear driver’s-side door just a crack. “Keep an eye on me at all times, right? If anything happens, if for some reason anything goes wrong, you scoot over and drive the hell out of here, understand?”
“Yes.” Paul’s heart was pounding hard against his chest.
“This’ll happen fast, so pay attention.” BuzzCut slammed the door and walked across the street at the same time a tan minivan with tinted windows came around the far corner.
Paul swallowed once, then blinked.
Fine, I’m fine. Really.
BuzzCut removed something from his pocket and opened it.
A wallet.
Several bills of various denominations spilled onto the sidewalk.
BuzzCut got down on one knee and began scrambling to pick up the money.
Jeanne saw this and stopped a few feet away, asking something.
She wants to know if he needs any help.
BuzzCut nodded his head and offered an embarrassed smile.
The van pulled to the curb two yards away from both of them. The side door came open but was not slid down the track.
Jeanne came over and started helping BuzzCut pick up the money. They spoke quietly. At one point Jeanne stopped helping and looked to where BuzzCut was pointing.
At the car.
Jeanne saw Paul and smiled.
Paul offered a small, nervous wave.
The side door of the van began to slowly slide the rest of the way open.
BuzzCut stood. Jeanne offered him the money she’d picked up. BuzzCut shook his head. Two other men dressed exactly like BuzzCut climbed out of the van. Both checked their watches.
BuzzCut pointed to them and Jeanne looked over.
The other two men nodded, then turned back into the van and helped someone else climb out.
Paul’s breath caught in his throat.
Because Jeanne Brooks—scars and all—had climbed out of the van. She was dressed exactly like her other self.
BuzzCut took Jeanne’s hand, led her across the street, and put her in the back seat of the car.
“Hello,” she said to Paul.
“Hi, Jeanne.”
“I don’t gotta stay there anymore,” she said.
“That’s good.”
“Yeah, it is.” There was a combination of glee, wistfulness, and genuine sadness in her voice that broke Paul’s heart about ten times over.
One of the men from the van touched something on the other Jeanne’s back and she blinked once, twice, then walked over to pick up the videocassette and go on her original way.
The men climbed back into the van and drove away.
BuzzCut climbed in, released the parking brake, and drove off.
Paul looked at him and started to say something.
“Not now,” said BuzzCut. “Later.”
Paul turned back to Jeanne.
“Did you … uh … did you get to see the movie for your birthday, Jeanne?”
“No. They had headaches.”
“Do you still w
ant to see it?”
Jeanne brightened. “Oh, yes! That would be nice.”
Paul tapped BuzzCut’s shoulder. “There a K-Mart or a Media Play or something like that along the way?”
“Yeah …?”
“We need to stop there.”
“We can’t, we’re supposed to—”
“We’re stopping,” said Paul. “Please? I think Jeanne deserves a birthday present.”
“But they don’t rent movies at K-Mart,” she said.
“I’m not going to rent it, Jeanne. I’m going to buy it for you.”
Her eyes widened. “Buy it? For me?” As if the idea of being given a present was just some myth she’d read about in storybooks.
“Yes, Jeanne, for you. Is that okay?”
“I guess.” She was quiet for a moment. Then: “Will I be able to watch it when we get to my new house?”
Paul looked at BuzzCut, who sighed, gave Paul an irritated glance. “We’ll make it a Best Buy. Pick up a player, as well.”
Paul smiled. “Sounds good to me.”
“I get into trouble with Mr. Smyth or Ms. Brown, I’m dragging your butt down with me.”
In the back seat, Jeanne giggled. “He said ‘butt.’”
Paul looked at her and they both laughed.
. . .
Ninety minutes later Paul found himself sitting in Smyth’s office once again, only this time Smyth was visibly irritated.
“That was a damned foolish thing you did, taking her into a store to go shopping like that.”
“It made her happy. Looked to me like she needed to be made happy.”
“Do I look like I’m arguing over that?” snapped Smyth. “The whole point of this was to get her the hell out of there so she can receive therapy and surgery and be placed in a loving, healthy environment.”
“Will she?”
“Of course she will! From this day on, her life will be safe, and everything will be done to make her happy. It’s what we do.”
“‘Our Fingers Are In Everything,’ eh?”
Smyth glared at him. “Don’t be so smug, Paul. You broke protocol—admittedly, you’ve yet to be fully briefed on what protocol is, but that’s beside the point. You took a kidnapped child into a public place where any one of a hundred people might have recognized her. These operations are carefully planned weeks, sometimes months, in advance, and sticking to the schedule is crucial. Crucial, do you understand? The only reason I haven’t had security show your skinny WASP ass the door is because you demonstrated a very stubborn resolve to do something kind for that little girl.”
“That’s not the only reason,” Paul said in his best Jack Nicholson.
Smyth shook his head. “Everybody does Nicholson, pal.”
“Then I shall endeavor to be more original,” replied Paul in his still-in-progress Chief Dan George.
“That’s very good. The Chief was one of my favorite actors. Should’ve gotten an Oscar for what he did in The Outlaw Josey Wales.”
“Agreed.”
Smyth sat down and released a long, slow breath. “Okay, I’ve chewed you out, I feel better.”
“BuzzCut’s not going to get in trouble, is he?”
“A mild reprimand, nothing more. Push came to shove, once you were out of the immediate situation, he put the child’s happiness first, as well. It’s just damned fortunate that no one who knew Jeanne or her mother and stepfather saw you.”
“Who was she?”
“Who? Jeanne?”
Paul leaned forward. “The other Jeanne. The one who got out of the van.”
“She’s a robot.”
Paul stared at Smyth in silence for a moment. “Say that again.”
“She was a robot, Paul. Outwardly—and going beneath the surface of her skin for about an inch—she has all the appearances of being human. She can bleed, eat, excrete waste, cry, whine, and complain just like the rest of us. The difference is, one inch and one centimeter beneath her skin, she becomes a very complex network of alloys and electronic components. When Jeanne’s mother and stepfather decide to beat her tonight, they’ll be pounding on something that feels no pain but has been programmed to appear it’s feeling pain. Her voice and all the words she—it—will speak have been prerecorded and pre-programmed into her memory, thanks to another of Borgia’s clients—a gifted impressionist, like yourself, who listened to a recording of Jeanne’s voice and then read all the selected passages from my books in Jeanne’s voice, in seven different modes: happy, confused, frightened, excited, sad, terrified, and in shrieking horror—the seven states in which her parents are accustomed to hearing her voice.
“When you start with us, you’ll do the same thing. You will perfect your impression of a voice you hear, and then you will read all the selected passages in that voice, in various emotional states. We’ll take it from there.”
“Is this what you do? Create robots of … of—”
“—of abused and severely at-risk children who, if not removed from their current environments at once, will either die, be killed, or manufactured into monsters. We do what other agencies cannot because of red tape. And for the most part, no one notices.”
“You’re kidding?”
“No. Isn’t that pathetic? The Brooks’s will continue to beat and abuse the robot they think is Jeanne and never notice that child doesn’t bruise any longer. We’ve performed over fifty switches in this city alone in the last three years, and in all but one instance, the abusers have failed to notice. In the one instance they did notice something was amiss, they simply drove the child outside the state and abandoned it. Good thing we have tracing devices installed.”
“So this is the sole purpose behind Scylla having so many diverse business interests?”
“This is an expensive process, Paul. The Jeanne robot you saw today? All in all, she cost about thirty-five million dollars from conception to switch.”
Paul sat in silence for several moments, trying to let it all sink it. “Where were you guys ten years ago?”
“Still in Vienna. I moved the main offices to the States only four years ago. But that’s one of the reasons why you were selected, Paul—not just because of your talent, but because you would understand better than most potential recruits the importance of what we do, and the reasons why we choose to do it in the way we do.”
“I thought that might have something to do with it.”
“Listen to me—if we had been in the States ten years ago and had been made aware of the situation with your sister, we would have done the same for her. In a heartbeat. I know there are probably about a thousand questions running through your mind right now, and we’ll answer all of them as we go along, but first and foremost I need to know: are you with us?”
Paul stared at the floor for a moment, remembering the smile on Jeanne Brooks’ face and wishing he could made his sister smile like that just once.
He shook his head. “Robots.”
“Whether you know it or not, Paul, in the last twenty hours you’ve interacted with at least four robots.”
He snapped his head up. “BuzzCut? Was he a robot?”
“No. He acts like it sometimes. He’s my cousin, flesh and blood as I.”
“Oh.”
Smyth stared at him, drumming fingers on desktop. “I need an answer, Paul. If you say no, then everything stays as explained to you; if you say yes, then there’s a recording of a ten-year-old boy’s voice I need you to listen to right away so we can get started.” He leaned forward. “So tell me, Paul: are you with us or not?”
Paul looked at Smyth and grinned. “Wrong reading. Too melodramatic, too much as if you know I’m not going to say yes.”
“Is that a Yes?”
Paul grinned. “Three guesses.”
WHAT GOES UP
MUST COME DOWN
JANET HARRIETT
My fatigue is getting worse. When the porter sets our luggage down at my usual compartment door, I can’t muster the energy to panic. No one
—not the porters, not the space elevator attendants and certainly not Corey standing beside me—knows I have grieved for twenty-six clones in that compartment.
Corey doesn’t even know I’ve been here before. When I tell him that medical researchers need me for a few weeks of tests, I do go to Brazil. I just don’t I stay there. In all the ethically questionable things I’ve done to help cure Nascimento-Pitanga Disorder, I have never once lied to my husband. If he were to ask whether I enable human cloning on an orbital research platform that answers to no Earth laws or codes of ethics, I would say yes.
“Didn’t you say you reserved an outside cabin, dear?” Corey asks.
The porter looks at me, at the door number and back at me several times. Corey has to have noticed. “Is the lady not staying in her—”
I clear my throat sharply to cut him off, and trigger one of the violent coughing spasms characteristic of Nascimento-Pitanga. I fold to my knees on the deckplate and fight to breathe as my body fights to rid itself of its own hardened alveoli. I’m the only Nas-Pit patient who has ever won the battle against my body even once. To the bafflement of both Dr. Nascimento and Dr. Pitanga, along with every other medical professional on the planet and a few off it, I’ve managed to keep from coughing up my own lungs for close to forty years. Corey drops beside me and extracts my inhaler from my pocket. The gasps for air between coughs aren’t deep enough to suck the medicine in.
My eyes water with the effort of keeping my body from turning itself inside out, and I can just barely make out Corey waving off the porter. I can’t hear if they say anything. I hope not. Everyone here knows things Corey doesn’t need to know, at least not yet.
The shooting intercostal pain feels like a rib breaking again. Fifth left, it feels like. I’ll check when I can breathe, unless this is the time my lungs finally win. I would laugh at the irony of that if my diaphragm weren’t otherwise occupied trying to kill me. The pain from my rib stabs harder with every cough, and I hope it doesn’t puncture anything. My inhaler isn’t helping, and I give up the effort to hold on to it.
It clatters to the deckplate and slides to an open compartment door, stopping against the toe of a pair of trainers. The woman above the shoes is young, with eyes full of three lifetimes of pain, regret and anger. She’s heard this cough before. Recently. From a much smaller set of lungs. I don’t need to look for the cherry pin that the parents wear. I know the look they give me. I am the ghost of what they didn’t get with their own children.
