by Mark Souza
Moyer and Petro nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Glad to hear it. Now get back to work and make sure to keep those folders under lock and key.”
As Petro and Moyer headed back to their cubicles, Petro asked, “Moyer my man, do you honestly think we have a shot in hell of making that deadline?”
“I guess it’s my job now to say yes.”
Joy radiated from Robyn like warmth from the sun. And as the kilometers slipped away toward Robyn’s parent’s apartment, Moyer’s dread escalated. Robyn’s mother Jane was a sweet woman, but even she couldn’t buffer the caustic personality of Robyn’s father, Jack. His aggressive, confrontational nature grated on Moyer like tin against pavement. Jack had made it plain from the first day they’d met that he didn’t think Moyer was good enough for his little girl. And it didn’t let up after their marriage. Jack couldn’t help sniping at Moyer at any opportunity.
The Labenzes were the only relatives Moyer had left, even if only by law. Moyer’s mother died so long ago he no longer remembered her face. He wondered if the images he held in his mind were real, or merely reflections of the few holograms of her that remained. In his memories his mother had a melodious voice he was sure actually belonged to the woman who narrated Vita-Boom cereal commercials.
Moyer’s father died a mere month before Moyer’s wedding. Robyn had met him once, and though on his best behavior, Moyer’s father had become a shut-in by then, consumed with the idea that the government was trying to control his thoughts. His father’s affliction proved every bit as fatal as his mother’s, a fact Moyer blamed on his mother’s death.
His father had trouble dealing with distractions. The net was overwhelming to him. In Moyer, as in most, the net was a background hum when not engaged with it. For his father, the hum was a cacophony of voices crying for attention. His father’s solution for years had been the mesh cap, or sucking down Smirnoff until he was pickled and incapable of sensing anything.
When his mother was alive, it never seemed to be an issue. But afterward, it was all about the voices and the bottle. The fact that he had a son didn’t weigh into the equation. Everything was fine until his mother died. She was the buffer that kept them all safe. With her around, he was happy and distracted. Without her, he was a wreck with a son he barely acknowledged and responsibilities he couldn’t bear. If she hadn’t died, everything would have been all right. Moyer resented her for leaving them alone – the pretty young woman in the holograms with the Vita-Boom announcer’s voice.
While growing up, witnessing his father’s slow disintegration, Moyer wondered if his father’s affliction was genetic in nature, and if it was something that could be filtered out in genetic screening for his child. The prospect of heading down the same road as his father haunted him. Moyer was not oblivious to the amount of time he spent reading with a gold mesh cap on his head, and how, like his father, it had become increasingly hard for him to concentrate without it. Despite his fears and reluctance to acknowledge his condition, he was getting worse. Day by day he shared more in common with his father. Was he doomed to the same sorry fate?
“It was cloudy again today,” Robyn said.
Moyer surfaced from his thoughts, “Hmm?”
“The weather, it’s been cloudy for a couple days now. The city storage cells are bound to be low. If the street lights and security cameras go down again, looters and punk gangs will come in from Labor Housing. I don’t want to be out when that happens. Let’s keep the visit with my parents short. I want to be on the tube for home well before dark.”
Moyer nodded as if this was unfortunate, but inside, he was relieved. Thank goodness for cloudy days, roving punk gangs, and looters. The less time he had to bear up under Jack’s backhanded comments and slights, the happier he’d be. Only a train derailment would be better news.
Jane LaBenz greeted her daughter with a smile and a hug. Moyer was next and the smile just as broad. “I’m so happy for both of you,” she whispered.
Moyer extended his hand to Jack who took it and pulled him forward into an embrace. “You made my week, son,” Jack said as he patted Moyer’s back. Jack popped a bottle of Global Brands Premium Champagne. Moyer didn’t usually drink; afraid he might possess some of the same addictive propensities as his father. But tonight was special and he felt every bit as effervescent as the bubbles rising in his flute. He savored the tart sweetness and succumbed to the relaxing buzz of alcohol. The rest of the evening was consumed with stories of Robyn’s baby years and humorous anecdotes of her growing up. Robyn begged off early as she promised, citing power shortages. Moyer had never had a better time with the LaBenzes.
On the way home on the tube, Robyn lay out on the seat and rested her head on Moyer’s lap. Moyer stroked her fine, blond hair, letting it slide through his fingers as he raked it back past her ears. He had never been happier or more relaxed.
“It’s really happening, isn’t it,” Robyn said.
Moyer nodded. They had struggled so long it felt as though, now that they had reached their goal, that the anchor line had been cut. At first it felt good that the pressure was off. There was a sense of accomplishment. But now it seemed as though they were adrift, directionless with no goal, no next step. Days before, a baby was such a remote possibility, it had never occurred to him to plan for what lay beyond.
When it was a distant dream, he thought of a child composed from the best of them both. Now that it was at hand, he contemplated the chance that their child would be burdened with the worst parts of them, the embodiment of their flaws; his stubbornness, his laziness, Robyn’s temper, her elitism.
Gazing into Robyn’s placid eyes, Moyer knew she hadn’t reached that point yet. Everything was still hope and possibility with her. In her mind, perfection was the only possible outcome.
In Moyer’s job, he dealt with probabilities on a daily basis. The shape of the Bell Curve was well engrained in his head. He knew how unlikely it was to land in the skinny portion on the right tip of the curve, the best possible outcome, and how much more frequent it was to get results in the middle. He also knew how seemingly little things could pull results left of center — into the below expectations region. There were times he hated being an engineer, knowing the odds of probable outcomes. How he wished he could be more like Robyn, convinced of perfection and oblivious to anything else.
Tuesday, 25 October
Moyer sat on a bench near the Hogan-Perko building waiting for Robyn to finish her shift. An hour didn’t sound so long to wait when he suggested it. But now, with daylight fading, and a frigid late October wind swirling through the manmade canyon of Freedom Circle, finding its way down his collar and under his coat, time stretched out slow and cold as a glacier.
Neon lights flickered on in the windows and facades of the nightclubs and sex shops bordering the Circle. Images hundreds of meters tall flowed across the glass facades of skyscrapers, commercials for various products, designed to visually convey a message without the use of sound. Moyer looked northeast, observing as people approached and passed, the optic microfiber woven into their clothes glowing corporate logos and slogans.
The shadowy form of a woman drew near, tall, gliding on long purposeful strides, shoulder length hair bobbing in time with her gate, an Oshun Services logo radiating from the front of her work uniform. Moyer knew it was Robyn before he saw her face. She was smiling. Robyn hadn’t been this happy in a very long time, since well before she’d lost her programming job. He stood and held his arm bent away from his side. Robyn slid hers underneath and they walked into Hogan-Perko arm in arm.
Fredrick Duncan waited in the lobby, sitting in one of the low chairs near the front windows. He held an electronic clipboard in his hand and motioned for them to take a seat. Moyer wondered how long he’d been sitting there, and whether he’d occupied his time watching Moyer freeze on the bench.
“Mrs. Winfield, so glad to finally meet you,” he said, extending his arm forward. Robyn shook his hand with a guarded expression
. She was nervous, unsure perhaps of what Moyer might have said to Duncan about her in their previous meeting.
“This shouldn’t take long,” Duncan said. “Before we collect donor cells, I must ask some questions so that we might achieve the best result.”
Moyer and Robyn exchanged glances. She smiled a little. He knew what she was thinking. She couldn’t believe it was actually happening; they were having a baby. She clutched her purse close in her lap and nodded.
“First, boy or girl?”
Again they exchanged glances. It was a topic that hadn’t come up in a very long time, not since they were first married. Moyer wondered if the answer was still the same. “A girl,” he ventured. Robyn grinned and nodded. Her eyes had grown glossy.
“Very good,” Duncan said. “Are there any specific traits you prefer to see passed along?”
“Robyn’s green eyes,” Moyer said.
Robyn blushed. “I want her to have Moyer’s dark hair and olive skin,” she said.
“Anything else?”
“Tall and slender, the same as us,” Moyer said.
“Okay, that shouldn’t be an issue considering both of you carry those traits. Are there any traits you want screened out?”
A sheepish expression crossed Robyn’s face. “Uh, Moyer’s father was a sensitive. Moyer is also, to a lesser extent. Can you screen for that?”
Though he wanted the same for their child, Moyer was hurt. No matter how it was couched, Robyn was pointing out a part of him she could barely tolerate, something she wouldn’t want to see repeated in her daughter. If given the chance, Moyer would have chosen to eliminate that trait as well, but hearing it from Robyn was painful.
“We can. Many times it’s missed because it might not display in the parent until after they have a child and the trait has already been passed. It’s good you have a family history.”
“Huntington’s disease,” Moyer said, “I mentioned it before. It was screened out of me, but my mother had it and I want to be sure.”
“Of course,” Duncan said. “It should have been eliminated from your genetic profile during your screening, but we can double check both of you to be sure. Is there anything else?”
Moyer waited for a cue from Robyn. When she shook her head, he shook his.
“Fine. Then, please, come along with me.” Duncan stood, and Moyer and Robyn followed him to the elevator. Duncan pressed 17 and the car shot upward. When Robyn grabbed for the rail, Duncan smirked. After a few seconds, the car slowed.
Duncan led the way out after the doors opened. A dimly lit corridor of smoked glass curved away from the elevator in a long arc. Moyer peered into empty offices through transparent walls. The opposing walls were also glass, making the offices appear as though platforms floating in space. Beyond them, a circular atrium extended through the core of the building upward out of his field of vision, and downward as well, he assumed, to ground level. A dark cylinder several meters across and standing on end bisected the atrium. An eerie red glow emanated from the cylinder outlining large, protruding, plastic nubs arranged in a spiral pattern similar to that of an immature pinecone.
“What is that?” Moyer said, pointing toward the atrium.
“That, Mr. Winfield, is the cradle of life. It’s the incubator chamber. Your baby will be reared there. People here call it the hive. Those bumps along the outside are synthetic uterine pods, each one holding a baby. Hogan-Perko developed them. It’s what made human cloning possible and what saved mankind.” There was an expression of pride on Duncan’s face. “It takes nine months for a pod to spiral its way from top to bottom into the waiting arms of its parents.”
Duncan led them into an office. Inside, a wood desk and three deep leather chairs were arranged near an interior window overlooking the hive. It was a different office from the one Moyer saw on his earlier visit. This office was tastefully appointed. The desk was hewn from some exotic wood Moyer didn’t recognize. The carpet was thick and plush. Moyer couldn’t take his eyes off the hive, the product, the symbol of Hogan-Perko success. It was a view intended to impress, to seal the deal.
Duncan sat and placed the digital clipboard on a scanning plate. An intense beam of green light passed down the screen. A moment later, two labels emerged from a slot in the desktop. Duncan opened a drawer, withdrew a pair of glass test tubes, and tapped them on the desk. “I’m going to need blood samples. Are either of you squeamish?”
“Not me,” Moyer said. Robyn shook her head.
“Sorry,” Duncan grinned. “I have to ask. Occasionally we’ll get someone who faints dead away at the sight of blood. Regardless, I’ll have to ask you to be seated, just in case.”
Moyer and Robyn sat. Moyer pushed up his sleeve and extended his arm to Duncan. The stopper on the tube was coated with white fuzz. Duncan pressed the stopper against Moyer’s arm. It tickled. Fine glass filaments penetrated his skin, and the vacuum inside drew in a current of scarlet. Duncan pulled the tube away after it filled a third of the way. “That’s much more than we’ll need.”
When Robyn was done, Duncan placed labels onto the tubes and banded them together. A phone on the desk chimed. Surprise registered on Duncan’s face. He picked up on the second ring.
“Hello? Yes sir, right away.” Duncan placed the receiver down carefully. His mouth was drawn tight. “Mr. Perko has asked to see you, Mr. Winfield. Mrs. Winfield and I will be in the lobby when you are through.”
Moyer waved to Robyn through the glass as he walked past on his way down the hall to the elevator. The car waited doors open. He stepped in. The doors closed behind him and the car started upward before he could press a button. Motors hummed, ascending in pitch as the car gained momentum. Moyer sensed he was being observed. He swirled his tongue inside his mouth trying to make spit. Petro’s warning played inside his head. Despite the whine of the motors, the popping in his ears, and the pressure planting him to the floor, the elevator seemed to take forever getting to Perko’s office.
Viktor Perko sat behind his U-shaped desk facing away from the door when Moyer entered. Moyer walked through circles of light on the floor laid out like a chain to Perko’s desk. As he neared the old man, he saw a flash of movement at the edge of his vision. They were not alone. Two agents lurked against the wall hidden in the darkness, barely visible in black armor.
A single monitor in Perko’s media wall was lit. On it, Duncan sat beside Robyn in the lobby with an agent positioned at the door.
“Your wife is a lovely woman,” Perko said. Something in his voice seemed lustful, as if watching her had stirred desires long dormant. “She will make a wonderful mother.” He turned toward Moyer and smiled the same disquieting smile etched on the façade of the building. “Let’s not keep her waiting.”
Moyer sat in the boxy chair that had been provided, a mate to those in the lobby.
“I told you that I might need a favor someday,” Perko flashed his yellow teeth at Moyer. “Today is that day. One of the Begat protestors gave you something on your way out after your last visit.”
Moyer nodded, “A card.”
“You are to make contact with him. I want you to join their group and gather information.”
“What kind of information?”
“I want to know what their plans are, their objectives. I want to know how they are organized and where the members reside. And I want names.”
“But, sir, I’m not a spy.”
“Exactly,” Perko grinned. “No one will suspect you.”
“But I won’t know what I’m doing.”
“Just appear receptive and keep your ears open for a while. Make them feel you sympathize and are interested in joining their cause. Gain their trust.” Perko turned his head toward the monitor and watched Robyn for a moment. “Now get along before your wife starts to worry.”
Moyer stood to leave.
“Mr. Winfield,” Perko said, his face stern, “do not mention our arrangement to anyone, not even your lovely wife. Understood?”
Chapter 9
Duncan lifted himself from his chair when Moyer stepped into the lobby. “Mr. Winfield, I was telling your wife that we will set up an appointment in about six weeks so you can pick your child. We will assemble a profile of the twenty best outcomes, showing how they will look as adults.”
“That will be fine.” Moyer extended his hand to his wife. “Let’s go, honey.”
As they approached the door, Moyer slowed. A security agent blocked the way. After a brief hesitation, the agent stepped aside as if he had just received the order from the top floor. Moyer picked up his pace, pushed the door open, and pulled Robyn through behind him.
It was a quiet night. The air was freezing and the Circle nearly empty. Moyer’s heels clapped against the bricks. He was relieved there were no footfalls behind them. The security agent had been an unwelcome surprise. He wondered if Perko was trying to send a message.
Robyn sighed and clutched his arm tightly. “You were gone for a while. What was all that about?”
“It was nothing. Mr. Perko offered his congratulations and wanted me to fill out more paperwork. He said he thought you will make an excellent mother.”
Robyn held his hand the entire way on the ride home. She talked of the future and began planning for the baby. Her eyes glowed. She pressed into him on the seat, the warmth of her passing through his clothes to his skin.
When Moyer arrived home, he went to the bathroom and locked the door. As he stood before the mirror, the remnants of a smile still lingered on his face. He thought of Viktor Perko’s smile and his own faded. He knew his orders and knew what he must do. With the card the giant gave him in his hand, he studied the address, let his mind go blank and drifted onto the net. In seconds he was connected. His head was flooded with the image of a small room, brightly lit, sparsely appointed with tattered furniture. He announced himself.
