by Mark Souza
“Winfield, Moyer Winfield.”
“Where is your wife Mr. Winfield? I usually deal with couples.”
“She’s at home. She tends to get overly emotional when it comes to babies. I thought it might be better to conduct the initial meetings without her.”
“I see.” Duncan’s lips curved upward knowingly. His eyes darted toward the protesters then back to Moyer. “We should continue this upstairs in my office.”
Inside the elevator, Moyer asked, “Are you broadcasting white noise outside to thwart the net browsers?”
“Yes, the protesters want attention and if you give it to them, they’ll never stop. Did they give you much trouble?”
“No, not much. I hear they bombed your Southgate outlet.”
“Yes, they are a true menace. I wish Security Services would shut them down completely.”
“Why don’t they?”
“The courts. They won’t allow the group to be prosecuted. They say crimes must be attributed to individuals. It’s so shortsighted. If they arrested the lot of them, the bombings would stop. Who doesn’t want that?”
Moyer nodded. “At least no one was hurt.”
“I wouldn’t say that. The blast destroyed over two hundred babies in our incubator pods. All lost. Explain that to parents who have been waiting for months.”
“What happened to them?”
“What?”
“The parents, do they still get babies?”
“Yes, of course. But they have to wait another nine months or more as openings become available.”
The elevator decelerated. Moyer started to rise off the floor and clutched the rail.
“It takes a little getting used to,” Duncan said. When the doors opened, Duncan led the way down the hall and Moyer followed.
Duncan’s office was stark – a desk with a phone and keyboard, three chairs, and a vid screen. A floor to ceiling window dominated one wall overlooking the city. The view made up in grandiosity what the room lacked in furnishings. Duncan pulled up a form on his vid screen. “Let’s examine your options.”
Moyer took a seat. “I was told it’s possible to negotiate these things.”
Duncan grimaced and let his hands settle on his desk. “Mr. Winfield, on occasion negotiation is an option. Regardless, we must fill out the forms to determine the value of the trade.”
Duncan guided Moyer through the form, typing in the responses to his questions. Moyer grew alarmed as Duncan tapped out 80,000 as the base price. “Your ad said the Christmas sale price is sixty thousand credits.”
“First, it's not Christmas. That price isn’t available yet and won’t be for over a month. Second, that’s a very basic price covering fertilization with random cells. It’s a roll of the dice. Your baby might be born defective or prone to genetic disease. You don’t want that, do you? For twenty thousand more we screen the donor cells to create a genetically perfect child. It eliminates the risks. It’s like a guarantee. When you are talking about your child, and this amount of money, you don’t want to take chances, do you?”
“No, of course not.”
Duncan’s fingers danced expertly on his keyboard. “If you don’t mind me asking, why do you use a computer? Couldn’t you get the same information off the net?”
“Privacy is very important here. Other than the lobby, the building is shielded from the net.” Duncan glanced up at the vid screen, “Oh, I see here your mother was a random. She died very young.”
“Huntington’s, I was ten.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“It’s okay. It was a long time ago.” Huntington’s had been filtered out of Moyer’s DNA during precombinate screening. Although he saw the resemblance to his father in the mirror, in the quiet darkness when he felt hollow and alone, he wondered how much of his parents had been filtered out and who he might have been without the screening. He also wondered which parts of him should be eliminated to give his child the best chance at happiness.
“The real tragedy is, such things can be so easily avoided with today’s technology,” Duncan said. Moyer nodded as if he agreed. Duncan flashed a quick smile and returned his eyes to the form. “Getting back to business, how much do you have to put down?”
“Twenty-four thousand credits.”
“Do you have any other equity source or collateral?”
“No.”
Duncan grimaced, tapped figures into his computer and summed the totals. “So you are asking to negotiate 56,000 in trade.” He pursed his lips as if the situation was dire. “This needs approval from upstairs.” Duncan handed a form to Moyer. “Take this up to 140. I’ll call ahead for you.”
“How long is this gong to take? I’m on my lunch break and my company is very strict.”
Duncan offered his hand to Moyer for a handshake. “I can’t help you there. Good luck, Mr. Winfield. I hope everything goes well.”
Inside the elevator, Moyer considered pressing the button for the lobby. One-forty was the top number on the panel. Moyer’s finger hovered over the button while he tried to think of what he could say to convince someone he had anything worth 56,000 credits to trade. He hated these situations. He wasn’t a salesman for a reason. He had no taste for it and lacked the talent and nerve. Then he thought of Robyn bent over Brooke’s carriage, eyes aglow, and thought about facing her if he failed. He drew in a deep breath and pushed the button. The doors closed and the elevator car rocketed upward. Moyer clutched the rail. It was hard to fathom how much such a simple act, the press of an elevator button, could change the course of his life.
Chapter 7
The elevator opened onto a stone hallway which ended at a pair of ornate metal doors. Purple light cast a weird glow off the marble. The clap of his heels echoed in the narrow space. Tall metal doors opened automatically as he approached and a gust of air blew back Moyer’s hair as he struggled against it. Inside stretched a massive room, open and dimly lit. Pools of light extended in a line from the door creating a pathway. At the opposite end, a hairless old man sat at a U-shaped desk surrounded on three sides by video monitors. As Moyer approached, the old man turned from the screens and stood.
“Mr. Winfield, please come in and take a seat.”
Moyer recognized him. It was the old man himself, The Father of Mankind, Viktor Perko. The depiction on the front of the building must have been decades old. The man before him only vaguely resembled the image etched in glass. His face was gaunt and angular, covered in thin, translucent skin stretched tight over bone, as if most of the fat and meat below had melted away. Sparse wisps of hair like a failed crop sown on hard ground covered Perko’s head. His body looked frail, but there was a fire to the man, a stiff wire of passion inside that seemed to hold him upright.
After Moyer sat, his host extended his hand across the desk. His voice was raspy and low. “I’m Viktor Perko.”
Moyer reached for Perko’s hand. The old man snatched it back. Two security agents rushed out of the darkness. Perko held up his hand. The agents stopped.
“Only the form, please,” Perko said. “I’m sorry if there was any confusion. A person doesn’t reach my age without taking precautions against biologics.” Perko grinned as if the transgression had already been forgiven. The agents disappeared into the shadows.
“This office is a marvel of medical engineering. It has likely saved my life many times over.” He glanced at the ceiling. “The ventilation system senses my position and creates a zone of positive pressure around me with filtered air that’s been disinfected by UV radiation and laser. Peripheral vents in the walls create a slight negative pressure so that the bubble of purified air enveloping me is always moving outward, making it impossible for airborne contaminants to reach me. The only biological risk I face is from direct human contact, visitors.”
Moyer set the page on the desk and slid it across. Perko drew the form close with the end of a pen and leaned down, his lips moving as he scanned the figures. “Fifty-six thousand on barter…, programme
r at Digi-Soft for seven years…, no collateral…, hmm.” Perko smiled revealing two rows of stained teeth. “Believe it or not, I’ve seen worse. Do you have something to barter?”
“I can do programming work.”
Perko wagged his head. “No, I’m afraid that won’t do. Our suite of programs is specialized and very mature. We don’t have use for programming skills.” He raised his eyes from the page, and focused on Moyer. “You seem jumpy. Is something wrong?”
“Well sir, I’m worried I may be overextending my lunch break. Digi-Soft has very strict productivity policies.”
Perko smirked, “I think I can take care of your problem. Just concentrate on the business at hand.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What does your wife do?”
“She also has programming skills dealing primarily in encryption algorithms. But she’s been laid off. Currently she works housekeeping at the Capital Arms.”
“Fifty-six thousand, that’s a lot of money Mr. Winfield, and I can’t think of how you would work it off. Is your wife’s heart set on a baby?”
“Yes sir it is. And I would do anything to make her happy.”
Perko’s brows arched and his face broadened into a paternal smile. “That’s what I like to hear. I can understand your situation and would hate to be the roadblock to familial bliss. Something about you reminds me of myself as a young man. Maybe we can work something out. Would you be willing to do a chore for me at some point if the need should arise?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good boy. Who knows, I may not need you for anything. In that case, consider your baby my gift to you both.”
Moyer sat stunned for a moment. Did Viktor Perko just say they had been approved for a baby? Was it really this easy, a person simply had to ask? He wanted to shake Perko’s hand and hug the man, and then remembered Perko’s attitude concerning human contact. “Thank you, sir. You don’t know how much this means to us. We’ll never forget you.”
The old man smiled.
Outside the Hogan-Perko tower, Moyer skirted the protesters and started across the Circle for Digi-Soft. Clouds had darkened the sky and the first raindrops marked the bricks of the Circle, but Moyer barely noticed. The scent of the oncoming storm seemed to have cleansed the air. It smelled crisp and pure. The white noise spilling into the Circle barely registered in Moyer’s ears. Instead, he imagined Robyn’s elation. He was tempted to call, but decided to wait. He wanted to see her reaction in person. Moyer fought the urge to skip all the way to Digi-Soft and couldn’t help but smile. Robyn would be so happy.
There were decisions to make. Boy or girl, and a name. They had months to decide the latter. Still, not all was sunshine and joy. Their savings had just been gutted. They would need to scrimp in order to buy the things a baby needs. He quickly popped onto the net to check the time. Lunch was over and he'd gone red again. He rushed toward the Digi-Soft building.
“You look happy.”
The deep voice caught Moyer’s attention. The giant albino stood in his path. “Yes,” Moyer said absently.
“Congratulations.” The giant shook his hand and pressed a card into his palm. “If it doesn’t work out, visit that site. There is another way to get a baby – God’s way. Peace be with you, brother.”
The clamor of boots hitting stone in staccato unison turned the giant’s head. Security agents in black armor marched from the Security Services building into the Circle double time. The giant disappeared amid curious lunchtime bystanders drawn by the commotion. Moyer froze. He remembered the card in his hand. It was evidence. He jammed it into his jacket pocket, backed away and tried to lose himself in the mob of spectators. Begat members quickly dispersed the protest line and seemed to dissolve into the crowd without a trace. By the time agents pushed through the throng, only picket signs scattered on the ground remained.
No arrests were made. The white noise cascading down from the Hogan-Perko building ceased. Security agents marched out of the Circle toward the dark cubic structure of the SecurityServicesTower adjacent Hogan-Perko. Moyer remembered the time and ran the rest of the way to Digi-Soft.
Moyer was still panting when he reached his cubicle. The clock on the status board confirmed he was fifteen minutes tardy from lunch. When he checked his name, he was at first shocked and then confused. His status light glowed green. Petro gave him a odd look, like what gives. Then Moyer remembered Perko telling him not to be concerned. Did he do this? What connection did Viktor Perko have to Digi-Soft?
Moyer passed Hugh Sasaki on his way to his desk. Hugh was dressed in khakis, a white dress shirt and sweater vest. Someone had replaced his drool cup, and though nothing clever was written on its side, Sasaki’s Swamp was what Moyer thought of every time he walked past. Sasaki had managed to log himself on, though now his fingers hung trembling over the keys without anything to do.
“Write me a sorting routine,” Moyer ordered.
Sasaki glanced at him and Moyer thought he saw of a spark of recognition. To his surprise, Sasaki’s fingers started tapping keys. Moyer was sure it was gibberish, but it didn’t matter since nothing was expected of Sasaki. Sasaki busily hammered at his keyboard and appeared happy to have something to do.
Petro stopped at Moyer’s desk at afternoon break. His eyes flitted side to side nervously as he approached, very unusual for Petro who normally craved attention. His face was wracked with concern. “Hey, how did it go?” Petro said keeping his voice low.
“How did what go?”
“Your trip to HP.”
“Oh, I’d say it went well. Robyn and I have an appointment to donate cells next week.”
“Really? Well good for you.”
“Robyn is going to pee her pants when I tell her.”
“What’s the old man having you do?”
“Huh?”
“Perko. What does he want from you for the barter?”
Moyer shrugged. “Nothing. He was pretty nice about it. He said if he could think of a chore I could do for him, he would ask. But that was it.”
Petro shook his head and grimaced. “Just remember that I tried to warn you.”
“Tried to warn me about what?”
“Nothing.”
“No, you brought it up, so out with it.”
Petro glanced up at the clock on the status board, then around the room to make sure no one was listening. “Perko will ask you to do something to repay your debt. If you don’t, you will lose your baby.”
Moyer’s brows pinched down and tension built inside him as he tried to hold back his anger. “When did you warn me about this?”
“At lunch,” he said, “I tried to warn you, but it appears you didn’t get the message.”
“So is it bad?”
Petro sighed, “I can’t say. I don’t know what he will ask from you, so what’s the point in guessing?”
“What did he have you do?”
Petro looked flustered. His eyes darted around the room. “This isn’t the time or place to go into it. Let me just say that knowing you as I do, I don’t think you’ll fancy doing what he asks, no matter what it is.” Petro checked the status board. “Under a minute left. I’ve got to go.”
When Moyer’s desk phone chimed, he jumped. The thing almost never rang. He lifted the headset, placing the microphone to his mouth. “Who is this?”
“The giant gave you a card,” a hoarse voice said. Moyer recognized it. It was Viktor Perko.
“Yes, sir.”
“Hold on to it. I will contact you later.”
There was a click, and the connection was severed.
Chapter 8
“Again,” Robyn begged, “Say it again.”
“We are going to have a baby.”
Robyn bounced on her toes. “I don’t believe it. I can’t. We’re parents?”
“Believe it,” Moyer assured, beaming with pride. “Mr. Perko said he liked me, that I reminded him of himself as a young man.” He handed Robyn a box wrapped in decorative paper.
She looked up from the gift. “We are so unprepared. We still have a million things to buy.”
“Hold on,” Moyer warned, “We just spent all our savings on the baby. There won’t be anymore buying for a while.”
Robyn was unfazed. “Maybe my mother still has some things.” Her eyes opened wide. “My parents, I forgot, we have to tell them. They are going to be so happy. Christ, they’re about to become grandparents.” Robyn’s excitement flagged when she noticed something in Moyer’s eyes camouflaged behind a smile. “Oh, I’m sorry honey. I wasn’t thinking.”
“No, it’s okay. My parents would have been happy for us, too.” He stared at the box in her hands, “Aren’t you going to open it?”
Robyn eagerly tore at the paper and let it tumble to the floor. She flung the lid off the box and was at first confused. Inside were a gold mesh cap and the book East of Eden. She looked at Moyer, her eyes closed down to slits. “What am I supposed to do with these?”
“Honey, you need to find a source of entertainment that won’t put us in the poor house. We have to start cutting back on the net.”
Wednesday, 19 October
Louis Berman called Moyer and Petro into his office during the morning break. Both were glad they were there together. There was comfort in numbers. It meant a witness would be present, which was preferable to being trapped in a room with Berman alone. They sat side by side opposite Berman at the small table in the middle of his office. Petro jigged his legs nervously.
“I wanted to make it official that Winfield here will be taking over the lead programming position on the Worm,” Berman said.
Petro patted Moyer on the back and Moyer beamed. Berman handed folders to both of them. “Inside, you will find the new project schedule. The deadline is still July 31st. The unfortunate business with Sasaki didn’t change that. I’m bringing Buddy Flynn in to assist, but it will take him a while to come up to speed. In the meantime, the burden to get back on schedule falls on you two. Are you both committed to bring this project back on track?”
