by Mark Souza
“She looked sad to me,” Robyn said.
The girl grinned sheepishly as if she knew she’d said too much. “Can I help you find something?”
“No, I'm just looking.”
The girl gave an understanding smile and returned to the counter. Robyn affected interest in baby accessories as she made her way to the infant mannequins. She picked a doll from a display and held it to her breast as Kelsey had shown her. The shape and weight were right, but the color was a bit off and it felt wrong – stiff and cold. She flipped the price tag, almost two thousand credits. She returned the doll to the shelf.
“We have better models,” the clerk said. “That’s a low end decoy.”
“Two thousand is the low end?”
The clerk smiled, but didn’t answer. She brought another doll from behind the counter, carried it cradled as if it was alive, and placed it in Robyn’s arms. It was warm. Soft blond hair tickled Robyn’s shoulder. Eyes moved under closed lids. Its chest rose and dropped as if it was breathing, and it turned and snuggled against her. A tingle spread through her chest and a stunned numbness. She was surprised at her reaction and the emotions building within her. She bent down; her face nestled into its hair and inhaled through her nose. It smelled chemical and sterile. And just that quickly the spell was broken. She recognized she was holding nothing more than a piece of plastic – a clever trick filled with sensors and motors, but nothing more.
The clerk looked on expectantly. Robyn felt embarrassed. Then she understood the distinction between the two dolls and the implications. The inexpensive doll was a decoy meant to fool baby snatchers. They were intended for people who already had babies – real parents. The model in her arms was a baby substitute. It was as real as it could be made to be, as real as it ever would be. It was meant for those who would never have children — pretenders.
In the girl’s eyes, Robyn was a pretender, as unstable as any woman who had tried to flee the store with a doll. And for those few moments in which she’d succumbed to her emotions over an animated piece of plastic, the girl was right. She felt pathetic. Why had she come? She knew why. She had come to relive the moments she’d held Kelsey’s baby in her arms pretending it was her own. She closed her eyes and let out a long sigh that caught in her throat. She dropped the doll to the floor and strode out of the store into the cold street doing all she could to hold back tears.
On the platform waiting for the tube, Robyn spotted a mother clutching her baby. She moved in behind for a better look and to be on the same car. Once inside, she took a seat facing them. The woman was young, younger than Robyn by a few years, and her clothes bore no advertisements. Money: that was the only explanation. No woman that young could afford a child if her family wasn’t wealthy. If her baby was taken, it could easily be replaced. What was the old saying, no pain for the privileged?
What if at the next stop the child was plucked from its mother’s arms? If timed properly, the doors of the tube would close before anyone reacted and before an image of her face could be picked up on the net. An alert would go out immediately mobilizing Security Services, but Robyn knew the city well. If she went to the nearest building and traveled on the upper floors, crossing from one building to the next by sky bridge, she could walk home without being caught. There were only so many security agents and they couldn’t cover everything.
In her head it was all a daydream, a what-if. But when she thought it over, she realized she had accounted for everything. The only thing keeping her from making the baby hers was nerve, nerve enough to put the plan in action.
The baby stirred, its head arching back as it yawned. Robyn thought it was a girl, though there was no way to be sure. Dark hair, bronze skin, and a full mouth reminded her of Moyer. Small hands reached out and the baby bleated softly. The sound fanned an ember of need within Robyn. Such a large responsibility might be too much for such a young girl. Robyn would be doing her a favor.
Robyn’s eyes drifted up. The baby’s mother was watching, her face tense with concern as if she had been in Robyn’s head the whole time and heard her plotting. Robyn feigned innocence with a smile. The girl stood and moved closer to the door.
As the tube slowed, the young mother rose, joining others in the aisle waiting for the doors to open. Robyn thought of following to see where she lived. At first she chalked it up to harmless curiosity. She was merely confirming her assumptions concerning the girl’s financial status. But she knew there was nothing harmless about it.
An older man seated at the front of the car spotted Robyn. Disapproval registered in his eyes. Robyn didn’t know how long he’d been observing, but perceived from his expression that the old man knew. Shame weakened her resolve. Robyn stayed in her seat and waited for the doors to close. The young mother scurried up the steps to the exit, glancing behind her, scared.
As the tube rumbled toward the next stop, Robyn fought the urge to visit the Hogan-Perko website, and the urge to cry.
Moyer returned home from work whistling a tune as he walked through the doorway. Robyn sat waiting on the sofa, a flock of balled up tissues clustered on the coffee table like geese on a pond. Her eyes still burned despite shedding her last tear an hour before.
Moyer cut the song off mid-note. “What’s wrong?”
In a voice firm and resolute, Robyn said, “You are calling Petro to find out how they got their baby.”
“What?”
“They are the same age as us, and Lord knows you’ve been at Digi-Soft longer than he has. You are calling him to find out how they managed it.”
Moyer floundered for a moment. “I-I-I won’t.”
Robyn glared at him, the withering heat of her anger radiated from her green eyes like argon lasers. Moyer was so gutless; at times she questioned what she ever saw in him. “Why not? He’s your friend,” she said. “Somehow they’ve found a way when we can’t. Get on the net and ask him how they did it.”
“Their finances are none of our business. I won’t. I work with the man.”
Robyn’s face went slack as her mind drifted from the room. The scene inside the apartment receded as she crept onto the net. From what seemed the end of a long hallway, Moyer’s voice called to her. “What are you doing?”
“What you don’t have the balls to do,” she called back. “I’m talking to our friends.”
A window rushed into her consciousness and opened into an apartment similar to hers. She announced herself as she took stock of what she could see. Petro was nowhere in sight. “I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time?”
“No,” Kelsey said. “Petro is still at work and Brooke is taking a nap. I finally have a moment to myself. What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to thank you for coming over for dinner and for bringing Brooke. She’s a jewel. She makes me want a child that much more. I hope this isn’t too personal, but how did you and Petro afford a baby? I mean Petro and Moyer work at the same company doing similar work, and we’re still years away. I was just curious.”
“It’s okay. Petro went to Hogan-Perko and negotiated the price. He told them how much we had, and I believe he did some work for them to make up the difference. Nine months later we had Brooke.”
“Thanks, you were a big help. Give Brooke a kiss for me when she wakes up.”
When Robyn drifted back to the apartment, Moyer was sitting next to her, a mix of disapproval and anticipation on his face. “What did they say?”
“You are going to Hogan-Perko tomorrow to negotiate for our baby.”
Chapter 6
Tuesday, 18 October
Petro’s banter stopped the moment Moyer entered the break room. “Hey, my man,” he called. He left his coffee clutch to join Moyer. “So how are things going? Sorry about the other night, spilling the beans on the lead programming position and all. I didn’t know.”
“It’s okay,” Moyer said. “Robyn lit into me after you guys left. She wants me to apply for it and go to HP to negotiate for a baby.”
; Petro hesitated a moment. “Negotiate?”
“Yeah, like you did. Robyn talked to Kelsey yesterday. I dread doing it, but Robyn has her mind set. I won’t hear the end of it until I at least try.”
Petro nervously glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “About that,” Petro said, “You’ve got to have your eyes open going in. It’s not as easy as it sounds.”
Moyer tapped his wrist to point out the time. “I’d love to talk, but we only have ten minutes until start of shift and there’s something I have to do.”
Moyer stood in the corridor trying to muster some nerve. Less than eight minutes remained on morning break as the status timer counted down. It was now or never. Moyer took the stairs and stood frozen in front of Berman’s door. What courage he’d mustered in the men’s room had evaporated during the short trip to Berman’s office.
This was Petro’s scheme and Petro’s fault. The idea might have died quietly on the vine had nature taken its course, but no, Petro had to bring it up in front of Robyn. Until then, it was only a notion, a what if.
He paced in front of the door whispering what he planned to say, wondering how Berman might respond. Why was he so afraid? The status board ticked under seven minutes. Down on the main floor, Petro waved to get his attention and rolled his hands in a circular motion urging Moyer to get on with it. Moyer drew in a deep breath, let it puff out his cheeks and rush past his lips. He knocked. A gruff, muffled voice from inside said “Come in.”
Louis Berman stood with his back to the door gazing out a window in the rear wall of his office. It looked down over the cubicles in the basement. Moyer wondered how a man like Berman came to be programming supervisor at a software company. He didn’t fit the type.
Berman turned his head toward Moyer, ran his eyes from toe to head and then turned back to the window as the employees wander back to their desks. “Winfield, isn’t it?”
“Y-y-yes sir.” Moyer waited frozen in place, haunted by the feeling that this was a horrible mistake. The rehearsed words fled his mind like cockroaches scurrying from light.
“The board is at five minutes, Winfield. Spit it out or get back to your desk.”
Moyer’s mind was a blank. He tried to recall what he was going to say. He thought back to his conversation with Petro. Then it came to him in a rush. “S-S-Sasaki, sir, I-I-I assume the company will be interviewing to fill his position?”
Berman turned from the window and focused his dark eyes on Moyer. “Go on.”
Moyer caught sight of the long jagged scar running across Berman’s scalp. It looked as if he’d had his head split wide open, which begged the question, how? Had it been some kind of accident, or the result of violence? Moyer bet it was the latter, and an attack from behind. Who on God’s green Earth would risk trying to club such an imposing man face to face?
“Winfield?” Berman urged.
“Sir, sorry. I-I-uh, want to be considered for the opening.”
Berman’s expression changed. He smiled slightly. “I’ll see to it that your name is on the list.” Then under his breath he added, “I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Sir?”
“Nothing Winfield. If you do become lead, you understand the dedication and sacrifice involved? I’d have to know that your top priority is assuring this project comes in on time. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you’ll do whatever it takes?”
“Yes.”
“So how is the program coming?” Berman asked.
“Uh, we’re on schedule. We’re a few months from live testing. We’ll need to find beta subjects.”
“Don’t you worry about that. Just make sure to finish the test routine.” He gazed out the window again opening onto the basement. “The clock is almost at zero, Winfield. Hurry back to your desk before you go red again. Go, go, go. You can’t afford another one.”
It wasn’t until he closed Berman’s door that Moyer was able to process what had happened. His muscles quaked under the influence of all the residual adrenaline in his system. But he’d done it. He’d faced the monster and thrown his hat in the ring. He smiled. He felt like bounding to his desk, but restrained himself to a springy jaunt. He glimpsed over at Petro and broke into a wide grin, giving him the thumbs up sign. Petro nodded with a smile and turned his thumb up in acknowledgement. Moyer managed to log in before the clock hit all zeroes.
Moyer headed for the elevator at lunch break. Petro caught him by the arm. “Moyer, my man, mind if I tag along?” he asked.
“Actually, I’ve got business to take care of.”
“What kind of business?”
“I’m headed to Hogan-Perko.”
“Oh, right.” The smile drifted from Petro’s face.
Moyer was still floating on the elation from the morning’s victory and felt capable of anything. He pulled himself free from Petro and nodded toward the status board, “The clock is ticking. I’ve got to get going.”
Petro called after him as Moyer ran up the stairs, “Be careful, my man. There’s no such thing as free.”
Moyer rushed out of the building without a care.
Over the Circle, a thick layer of clouds threatened rain. The air was still and smelled of ozone the way it does before the sky opens a torrent. Moyer zipped his jacket up to his chin. Viktor Perko’s giant grandfatherly face gazed down on the Circle, infused into the glass façade of the Hogan-Perko tower with some sort of etching process, the phrase “Father of Mankind” emblazoned below his chin. To Moyer, there was a predatory edge to the smile on Perko’s likeness, the lips drawn a little too taut, showing a little too much tooth, the eyes a bit too intense. That was one reason Moyer preferred to keep his eyes pointed at the ground when he crossed the Circle.
On clear days, when the sun was at just the right angle, Perko’s image reflected onto the bricks of the Circle in colorless shadow and light like a faint charcoal rendering. People didn't walk on the image. Any child old enough to speak knew nobody steps on Viktor Perko. It was bad luck. And, it was said, he was always watching.
A knot formed in Moyer’s stomach as he stepped into the shadow of the HP building. He slowed and swallowed hard. The thought of negotiating made him uncomfortable. Operating in gray areas outside the law felt wrong, as if he was doing something he could be arrested for. Black and white was what he preferred. Pay list price, everything on paper and legal, nice and proper. Nothing could go wrong that way. Haggling seemed too much akin to bartering on the black market, which was definitely commerce crime, and made Moyer nervous. What had Petro called him, a straight arrow?
As he approached, the crowd thickened and grew boisterous. Something was going on. He pressed his way through the throng. A line of hooded figures marched in front of the Hogan-Perko building. Amplified white noise blared down from the building’s speakers drowning out Begat chants of Hogan-Perko is not God. A dense crowd had gathered to eat lunch hoping for a show. Moyer sensed their anticipation. They were hoping to witness a confrontation. Would Security Services come crashing in? Would skulls be cracked? It was all entertainment to them. Bloodlust.
What horrid luck. He thought of turning back. To Moyer, this was a sign that perhaps today was not the day to beg for a baby. It was one more thing to stack atop his growing dread. Who would blame him if he swung a 180 on his heel and went back to the safety of his desk? But he couldn't shake the image of Robyn on the sofa, a flock of balled up tissues clustered on the coffee table, her eyes red and swollen at the thought she’d never have a baby.
He also remembered Robyn’s determined face after she’d heard Kelsey and Petro had negotiated for a baby. She had not asked that he go to Hogan-Perko, it had been an ultimatum. How could he face her if he didn't even try? Though it went unsaid, Moyer knew more than a baby was at stake.
He pushed past the line of Begat protesters blocking the door, his hands over his ears to muffle the noise from the chanting protesters and the hiss of the loud speakers. Someone grab
bed his arm. Moyer balled his hand into a fist, tight and hard, and turned prepared to throw a punch. A tall muscular albino dressed in a brown tunic stared down at him. The giant appeared to be soldier-class, bred freakishly strong and athletic for the rigors of the battlefield. Placid blue eyes set against snow-like skin gleamed from beneath his liripipe hood. Moyer’s fist went slack.
“Don’t go to them,” the giant said. “Let God provide. There is another way. His way.”
Moyer jerked free and ran the last few steps into the glass cube of the Hogan-Perko lobby. Once inside, he gazed through the windows. The giant stood watching, his face expressionless.
“May I help you sir?”
Moyer startled at the sound of the woman’s voice. The receptionist tending the front desk repeated, “May I help you, sir?”
Moyer turned from the window. “Yes. I have come to discuss terms for acquiring a baby.”
She smiled. “Of course, sir. Please take a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.”
Four large stuffed chairs near the front of the lobby bracketed a low Lucite table. A sign indicated the lobby was a free net zone so customers in the waiting area could keep entertained while they passed the time.
Moyer sat in a chair facing the Circle. The giant had rejoined the protest line pacing an elongated oval carrying a hand painted sign – “BABIES ARE NOT PRODUCT”.
“How bad does it get?” Moyer asked.
“The Begat protesters?” the receptionist said. “They make our customers nervous, as do the stories on the net about bombings, but I’ve never seen them do anything to anyone other than handing out pamphlets.”
The elevator bell softly chimed behind the reception desk. A small silver-haired man in a navy pinstripe suit stopped briefly at the reception desk and the receptionist directed him to Moyer. His movements were quick and efficient.
“Hello, I’m Fredrick Duncan, a customer representative here at Hogan-Perko. I understand you want to discuss bringing a baby into your life – Mister ...?”
