by Mark Souza
When the tube eased to a halt at the next stop, the two men stood and left the car. Moyer tried to read the route map to find out what line he was on, which stop, and how to get home. His eyes still didn’t work properly. He didn’t know what time it was and tried to check the net, but was too weak to interface with it.
With the two men gone, Moyer’s proximity to the agent made him nervous. He recalled the scene at the church, being pinned down on the pew – helpless, being electrocuted – the painful flash of light before all went dark. He remembered the wand – a security agent’s wand. Was this agent the same man who had rendered him unconscious in the church? Moyer slid down the seat away from the agent.
He had thought when Begat attacked and had him helpless that that was the end, that they would kill him for spying. Why had they let him live? Why, if this agent was one of the men who had attacked him at the church, was he protecting him now?
Moyer pressed himself up on shaky legs and clutched an overhead rail to keep from falling over. He eased closer to the route map. He was on the Michigan Street line, three stops from home. He sat back down and waited. Moyer sensed the agent watching. Though the agent didn’t move a muscle, his full attention was on Moyer. Moyer tried not to fidget. His strength started returning. When the tube slowed for the Washington St. Station, Moyer moved toward the doors.
“You are to remain seated,” the agent said.
Moyer froze, scared and unsure. “But this is my stop.” The doors opened. Cold air rushed in and embraced his skin. He saw the landing, and against the far wall, the elevator into his building.
“Mr. Perko wishes to see you.”
Moyer slumped back into the seat and the doors hiss closed.
Chapter 14
The security agent wedged his arm under Moyer’s and escorted him across Freedom Circle and into Hogan-Perko headquarters. He stood guard beside him on the elevator ride to the top floor, but remained in the car when Moyer got off.
A sterile breeze wafted down the hallway. When the large automated door opened for Moyer, the rush of air pushed his hair back, and in his weakened condition, nearly knocked him over.
Inside, it seemed twilight had fallen in Perko’s office. The vid screens surrounding the horseshoe shaped desk were dark. Beyond, a blue glow radiated against the far wall. Moyer approached; an assumption on his part that where there was light, there was life.
Viktor Perko lay on a bed. A tangle of tubes, a factory made umbilicus, connected him to a machine. Perko was a skeleton draped in a loose layer of sallow leather. Bones and cord-like muscle were clearly defined beneath the folds and wrinkles of translucent skin. Perko turned his head and smiled, though Moyer was sure he couldn’t be seen in the darkness. Somehow the old man knew he was there. An empty chair sat ready next to Perko’s bed.
“Are you all right, Mr. Perko?” Moyer tried to sound sincere. He didn’t want to appear to be asking merely because of the deal between them, a deal that HP might not honor if Perko died.
Perko’s grin faded. “There are limits to how long the body can work on its own. And I need this one to last a little while longer. This machine performs the functions my organs are failing to do. The primary obstacle to greatness is mediocrity. It blocks the way like a boulder in a stream. Over time, obstacles can be worn away, but it’s a slow process and I’m running out of time and patience. Considering my condition, it might be time to resort to a little dynamite.”
The machine whirred and wheezed beside the bed. Dark maroon fluid flowed from one of Perko’s arms through a clear tube into the machine, and pulsed out the other bright red into a tube inserted into Perko’s other arm.
“Step into the light where I can see you, boy.” Perko scrutinized Moyer and his expression soured. “You look like hell. From how Security Services found you, I take it things didn’t go very well with Begat tonight. What happened?”
Moyer’s lungs felt buoyant as a pair of helium balloons bouncing against the top of his ribcage. He swallowed hard. “Th-they knew I was working for you.”
“H-h-how did they know that?” Perko said. He grinned at his imitation of Moyer’s stammer. Anger heated Moyer’s face. “Did you spill the beans the second things got uncomfortable?”
“They said they have s-s-spies, too. They already knew.”
The machine churned and squished behind Perko as the pumps and filters did their work. The tubes bounced with each gush of revitalized blood. Perko glared at Moyer, clicking his teeth, assessing. “I suspected as much,” he said. “Now what am I going to do about you? You are still on the hook for 56,000 and you have accomplished nothing toward paying it off. You and your wife have come so far. It would be a tragedy if you lost your daughter now.”
Moyer’s eyes fluttered and his heart sank. How could he ever face Robyn if he failed? “There must be something I can do?”
Perko smiled. “Go home. I’ll let you know if I think of something.”
Robyn pounced from the sofa the moment Moyer opened the door. He hadn’t detected her presence from the hallway and hoped it was a sign she’d gone to bed. But luck had evaded him all day, so why should things be any different at home?
“Where have you been? I called everyone,” she said. She stopped, hesitant; an odd expression on her face. “You’re staggering. Were you with Petro?”
Moyer’s heart nearly skipped a beat. He thought she’d said Perko. How could she know? When he realized what she’d actually said, he was so relieved the truth slipped out. “I met some people at a church in Labor Housing and someone stunned me with and agent’s wand.” He knew as soon as he said it, it was a mistake.
“An agent’s wand? What were you doing in a church and who stunned you?” she asked.
“Begat. They agreed to meet me then they jumped me.”
Robyn staggered back. “Why would you meet with Begat? Why would you do something so stupid? If anyone found out, we could lose our child. Is that what you want?”
“There was never a risk of that. Perko sent me.”
Robyn stared at him incredulously. “Why?”
“It’s part of the payment for our child. He wanted me to learn how Begat is organized and where they live. And I screwed it up.”
“Don’t tell him. We’ll find a way to make this right before he knows.”
“He already knows.”
“So what happens to our baby?”
Moyer looked into her eyes and shrugged.
Monday, 9 January
Mrs. Wagstaff waited before a long countertop arranged with shiny metal wash basins, one for each couple in the class. Obviously they were going to learn how to bathe their babies. Robyn wondered if they would be taught the secret of how to remove the lingering stench of artificial baby excrement infused in the plastic hide of her doll, on her hands, and permeating the walls of their apartment. Nothing she tried seemed capable of completely removing the stink and she was tired of it. If Hell had an odor, Robyn was quite sure this was it.
As Mrs. Wagstaff spoke, Robyn’s mind was kilometers away, adrift, and she couldn’t say where. Moyer was attentive and taking notes so what did it matter? He would catch her up on the parts she missed.
She thought about her mother and all the other women she’d known who had raised children without complaint, of how easy they’d made it seem. Their silence had set a trap. Robyn had taken the bait and no longer felt capable of escaping.
Rearing children was not easy and she was quite sure she wouldn’t enjoy it or be any good at it. But what could she do now? All their savings were invested and for all intents, gone. Their baby was underway at Hogan-Perko and there was no going back. Changing her mind now would be a huge embarrassment, to her, to her parents who had already told friends, and to Moyer. The jaws of the trap were made of shame and had snapped tight, chaining Robyn in place for the rest of her life. Why hadn’t anyone warned her?
When Mrs. Wagstaff gave the order for the class to begin bathing their babies, Robyn, lost in thought, d
idn’t hear the command. She blindly followed Moyer as he stepped toward the counter. Robyn unstrapped the doll from the papoose carrier as if in a trance and lowered it into the basin. Mrs. Wagstaff barked. Robyn didn’t hear what she said, but was sure it was directed at her. It usually was whenever Mrs. Wagstaff’s voice took on that derisory tone. She froze, her doll mere centimeters above the water.
“What is Mrs. Winfield doing wrong?” she asked the class, chin held high. The class remained silent. Maybe they had tired of picking on her. Perhaps it had happened so often it was no longer sport. Perhaps they pitied her. Despite lacking Moyer’s empathic or telepathic abilities, Robyn was sure she had hit on the truth. The class pitied her.
Even the lack of class participation wouldn’t slow Mrs. Wagstaff. “How do you know how hot the water is, Mrs. Winfield?”
“I wasn’t supplied a thermometer,” Robyn said.
“Might there be a way of determining the temperature without a thermometer?”
Moyer stuck his hands into the basin up to his wrists.
“Very good thinking, Mr. Winfield.”
“It’s cold,” Moyer said.
Mrs. Wagstaff nodded her approval. “Then draw some fresh water,” she said.
Moyer carried the basin to the sink. Robyn stood there with the baby hovering in midair, frozen where it had been when Mrs. Wagstaff first admonished her. Robyn felt numb, too weary to feel the full sting of Wagstaff’s verbal lashing.
She waited for Moyer to return and handed him the baby. She would pretend to observe and care. Was that her destiny, to stagger through life numb, to fake happiness, pretending to care?
How did Moyer do it? For years he resisted the thought of children. It had all been her idea. Where did his reserves of patience come from? He appeared to possess all the motherly instincts she lacked. He was Mrs. Wagstaff’s darling. Thank God for it. But at the same time she resented him for it more than she could put into words.
Wednesday, 18 January
The car was packed full when Robyn climbed on the Beech Avenue Line. It was nice that her mother had agreed to care for the replica while she worked, but her mother lived out of the way, and getting up early and getting home late, with all the extra travelling, was taking its toll. An older woman saw her lugging the replica and offered up her seat. Robyn smiled and bowed her head in thanks. As she settled into the seat, the pain of scrubbing floors all day oozed from her knees, shoulders, and back.
More women took notice of the replica and she saw the longing on their faces. They didn’t long for the replica, but what it represented. These would likely be the same women she’d have to defend her baby against after her daughter was born.
The trundling motion of the tube combined with the rigors of the day to lull Robyn into a stupor. Without realizing, she had drifted off to sleep. Her grip on the replica relaxed and it drifted lower in her lap.
She didn’t know how long she had been out when someone shook her awake. She snapped her head from side to side to catch her bearings and located the route map above the door. She had plenty of time before her stop. The man who shook her still had his hand on her shoulder. He was large, a laborer thickly built with wide hands and rough skin. She had no idea who he was.
“Ma’am, your doll is putting out quite a stink.” His voice was soft and compassionate. He was making an effort to be nice.
Other passengers stared at her, noses crinkled, faces radiating disapproval. She wondered how long they had endured it, and whether the man who woke her had done so on his own, or had been appointed by the others. She scrambled through her purse for wipes and a diaper.
When she opened the dirty diaper, passengers cringed. Some turned away and tried to move deeper into the car. Some glared. Their impatience weighed on her as heavy as sand. She wiped up the mess as quickly as she could and sealed the dirty wipes and diaper in a bag. The replica was clean again.
“For everyone’s sake, tell me you are getting off at the next stop,” a man called.
Another said, “Someone forget to rinse the test tube before they made your baby?”
She looked down at her brown replica, drew it into her chest protectively and covered it with a blanket. The man who woke her shoved the man who had insulted her replica. “Knock it off,” he warned. And that’s when she realized she was starting to think of the replica as real.
When the train pulled into Belmont Station, she got off though it wasn’t her stop. Before stepping onto the landing, she thanked the woman who gave up her seat and the big man who had defended her. She took a seat on a bench on the landing and waited for the next tube. She stared at the doll and thought about the snide remark. Would her baby be as dark? How often would her daughter hear the same insult? How often would she come home crying? She wondered if she had made a mistake selecting their child. She wanted the best of both of she and Moyer, but was what she considered best actually the best for her daughter?
Friday, 2 February
At Digi-Soft, sixty test subjects filed into a conference room while Moyer and Petro watched from behind a pane of one-way glass. Louis Berman stood behind them, his face reflected in the window, his hungry wolf eyes surveying the scene as if it was a caribou migration. The subjects were an even mix of men and women, all wearing loose, blue, short-sleeved, pullover tops with matching pants and slippers, which seemed odd to Moyer. Was it some sort of uniform?
“Are the subjects volunteers?” Moyer asked.
“Of a sort,” Berman replied.
“What’s that mean?”
Berman beamed. “They’re prisoners. They get the remaining years of their sentences commuted for volunteering.”
The idea was Berman’s and he thought himself clever to have come up with it. To Moyer, Berman’s cleverness meant more work. It meant he and Petro would have to be far more diligent in the pretest interviews to assure the subjects weren’t mentally ill. With such a small sample size, a few flawed subjects could seriously skew results.
Moyer looked the subjects over. They all seemed so normal. When Moyer thought of prisoners, he assumed violence. His expectation was that many would be aggressive and muscular to cope with the threats and rigors of prison life. Instead, the group appeared to have walked in from a social club. Only unadorned ill-fitted blue prison uniforms hinted that it wasn’t so.
They entered through the door in an orderly line, found seats, and sat quietly. Moyer turned to Petro. “Let’s get on with this.” Berman took the signal as his chance to leave and headed back to his office.
The low murmur in the room hushed as Moyer and Petro entered. Moyer placed his electronic tablet on a small desk and faced the subjects. His eyes caught on an attractive woman in the front row and he lost all sense of what he planned to say. She sat defiantly, legs crossed, arms folded over her chest, cynical eyes sizing him up. Her beauty was startling. Fair skin, jet black hair cut in a bob, square jaw, high full cheeks and cleft chin. But it was the intensity in her dark eyes that froze Moyer.
Petro nudged him with an elbow, and Moyer began his introduction. “Uh, I’m Moyer Winfield. This is my colleague Petro Martinez.” Petro bowed. “We will be questioning you one at a time. It will be a long, boring day for everyone. Please be patient.” A central aisle between sections of seats split the room from front to back. “I will interview those on the right half of the room, Mr. Martinez the left.”
“Bastard!” Petro whispered, “You did that on purpose. Couldn’t we have thumb wrestled for her?”
Moyer tried to suppress a grin. “Maybe next time,” he muttered.
He pointed at the woman in the front row. “You first. Bring your file.”
Moyer led the way to a small unadorned room intended for side meetings. Inside, a pair of plastic chairs sat tucked under a small table. Moyer tapped his tablet and opened her file. “Anna Bonderenko. Is that Miss or Mrs.?”
“It’s Anna. If you are hunting for a date, I’m single, though it could be a while before I'm available.”
Moyer felt heat rise from his chest to his cheeks and knew he was blushing. It had been years since someone flirted with him.
“It says here you’re thirty-two and a college professor.”
“I’m thirty-one. My birthday isn’t until next month.”
“That seems young for a professor.”
Her wistful smile expressed a mix of pride and weariness at perhaps having heard it too often. “What did you teach?” Moyer asked.
“English literature.”
Moyer flipped through the pages of the file. “Why are you in prison?”
Her dark eyes went glacier cold. She eased back in the chair and folded her arms. “I taught unapproved curriculum.”
“What does that mean?”
“I taught from banned books.”
“Really, which ones?”
“1984, by George Orwell, for one. Have you read it?”
“No,” Moyer admitted. Not all banned books were treated equally. Some were considered little more than an annoyance. Others, 1984 among them, carried stiff prison terms for those who possessed them.
“What a pity.”
“Have you ever read Steinbeck?”
Anna rolled her eyes. “A superbly gifted author who rarely took on bigger issues, with one exception. Have you ever read The Winter of Our Discontent?”
“No, I can’t say I have.”
“You should before it gets banned too.”
Moyer flipped Anna’s file to the questionnaire and typed in Anna Bonderenko’s name at the top. “Are you in good health?”
“Yes.”
“Have you or a family member ever been treated for mental illness?”
“No, not that I know of.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means not that I know of. No one was ill that I remember, but then I wasn’t in everyone’s business, and mental illness isn’t something you spout off about at family get-togethers.”
