by Mark Souza
“That’s your child,” Duncan said. “Do you have a name picked out?”
“Jessica,” Robyn said, “after Moyer’s mother.”
“What a beautiful name. I invite you to go in and spend some time with your daughter. Feel free to talk to her so she recognizes your voices, and introduce her to her new name. I will remain here to avoid any chance for a patterning error. Please,” Duncan said motioning toward the door.
Robyn glanced at Moyer, a wary smile timidly played on her lips, as if she’d been caught doing something wrong. “I can’t believe this,” she said. “It’s really happening.”
Moyer pushed the door open, then put an arm around Robyn’s waist and swept her into the room. They huddled close to the egg and peered inside. “Moyer, look. She’s sucking her thumb. She’s so beautiful. Hello, Jessica.”
The tiny baby lay curled on its side, knees tucked to elbows, its features distorted by the curvature of the egg’s top surface and the fluid inside. Even so, it was evident the child was perfect. Translucent skin revealed pulsing veins and arteries. Robyn’s features were replicated in the shape of the baby’s chin and nose.
“Wow it’s really ours,” he said. “She looks so much like you.” Robyn smiled. In the red glow of the overhead light, he saw tears forming in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said, “I’m so happy.”
And then he understood. Months of wanting and hope had been throttled back by the fear of disappointment. It was real now, as real as the tiny squirming bundle sucking its thumb inside the egg. It was theirs, and it was more, it was them — a melding of two, the embodiment of their love.
A rap on the window broke Moyer’s revelry. Duncan was pointing and making a come-hither motion. Moyer went to the door and left Robyn with the baby.
“Mr. Perko asked to meet with you, alone.”
Moyer turned his eyes toward Robyn.
“Don’t worry,” Duncan said, “you won’t be long, and your wife can spend the time bonding with the baby.”
Perko bared his yellow teeth in a smile as Moyer approached. He sat waiting behind his desk. The bank of monitors all glowed red, each tuned to the same image — Robyn crouched over their daughter, cooing through the polymer of her gestation pod.
“It is so good to see you again, Mr. Winfield. You remember our last conversation? I told you at some point a job might come up where I could use your help, a job that would square the barter.”
Moyer had a sinking feeling in his gut. Perko’s requests seemed endless, and each more perilous than the last. At least with his daughter’s decanting a week away, there was an end in sight, a day when Viktor Perko no longer had any power over him. “Yes, I remember,” Moyer said.
Perko’s smile broadened. “Good. I have something for you.” He reached below his desk and set a small metallic cube between them.
“What’s that?”
“That,” Perko said, “is a bomb.”
“What?”
“A bomb,” he repeated nonchalantly, as if the word bomb had no more gravity than the word pencil. “I need you to deliver it.” Perko considered Moyer for a moment, sensing his distress. “Oh, you needn’t be concerned. It’s well constructed and perfectly safe. You can drop it, kick it, do whatever you wish and it won’t go off accidently. It’s set to trigger Wednesday night. Independence Day. You have almost a week.”
“A week? To do what?”
“There are two parts to it. You will need to borrow your wife’s passkey to the Capital Arms and plant this in apartment 1501, someplace where it won’t be found. But before that, you need to get a biological sample containing the DNA of this man.” Perko set a photo down on the desk.
“The giant?”
Perko’s grin broadened, deepening the leathery creases in his pale face. “His name is Drago Nastasi. He is the leader of the Begat movement, and quite a dangerous man. You need to contaminate the bomb with his DNA before you plant it.”
“Why?”
“There is a bigger picture you can’t see. Trust me,” Perko assured. “These are changes that must occur, and would happen naturally given time. Unfortunately I no longer have time to wait. Patience is a young man’s game. You see, I have a dream, Mr. Winfield; that the world will be unified under one strong voice, and that it will be efficient, clean, and orderly enough that I might one day walk outside again. You will be my instrument of change. You are the key.”
“I won’t do it.”
Perko leaned back in his chair. “Oh, but you will. Remember, we had a deal.” The old man swiveled in his chair to face the bank of video displays. He grinned at the sight of Robyn huddled over the egg, talking in a low voice to their baby.
“The bond between mother and child is an amazing thing. I’ve spent my life studying it. So powerful. She will make a wonderful mother, don’t you think?” Perko smiled. “It would be tragic if something were to happen to your daughter. The two of you would have to start from scratch, wouldn’t you? And you have expended all your savings on baby Jessica – correct?”
Moyer nodded.
“I suggest you take the bomb home in this.” Perko pushed a satchel across the desk. “If your wife asks, tell her it’s more paperwork to fill out for the baby.”
Moyer was waiting at the elevators when Duncan led Robyn from the viewing room. Robyn gabbed with Duncan about how tiny Jessica’s fingers were. She caught sight of Moyer and flashed him a grin as she approached. Duncan listened patiently, the corners of his mouth turned up a smidge. He must have heard all this thousands of times before.
What seemed a hallucination while painting the baby’s room now made perfect sense. It had been a premonition, a warning. How do I tell her there will be no baby, Moyer wondered.
Moyer’s soul withered at the prospect of crushing Robyn’s dreams. He couldn’t do it, not now, not with Robyn happier than he’d ever seen her, not with their daughter a mere twenty meters away. It would have to wait for another time when the mood was more subdued.
Duncan swiped his wrist across the call button to summon the elevator. He gave Moyer a knowing look. “In a few more days you will be bringing your daughter home. Are you excited?”
“Sure,” Moyer replied, his thoughts elsewhere.
Duncan arched his brows. “You could have fooled me. You look as if your taxes are being audited.”
Robyn piped up. “Don’t you know by now that Moyer has no emotions?” Moyer clenched his jaw and said nothing. If they’d paid attention they would have realized he was certainly capable of feeling anger.
When the elevator car arrived, Duncan stayed behind. As they plummeted through the dark shaft toward the ground floor, Moyer notice the dim overhead light reflecting off Robyn’s eyes. They were glossy with tears again. “She’s so tiny,” Robyn said, “and… perfect. Did you see her little nose and the tiny blood vessels under her skin?”
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
Robyn nodded and silently cried. Moyer set down the satchel and held her in his arms. She wasn’t sad this time, she was overwhelmed with joy. “I’ve never been so happy,” she sputtered.
When the elevator stopped and Robyn pulled away, she noticed the briefcase. “What is that?” she asked.
“It’s additional paperwork I need to fill out for our baby,” he said, taking his cue from Perko.
On the way home on the tube, Robyn chattered on about plans to be made and Moyer pretended to listen. While the sound of Robyn’s happy banter droned in his ears, Moyer wondered how he would dispose of a live bomb, and how he would break the bad news to his wife. He had been a mere layer of plastic from his daughter, the reflection of himself and Robyn. His hand had rested on her pod, and as close as he had been, their daughter might as well be a galaxy away. Moyer saw no way of bringing their baby home safely.
Chapter 23
Saturday, 30 June
At home the next day, Moyer grew frantic trying to find the card the giant had given him in th
e Circle months before. He feared Robyn had destroyed it in the laundry or thrown it away. Then he remembered his coat. The last time he recalled having the card, he’d put it in his coat pocket. When he checked, it was still there.
Not wanting to risk having to explain, Moyer took the card with him into the bathroom to make the connection. The scene inside his bathroom faded from view as he drifted onto the net. He emerged in an apartment, small and Spartan, somewhere in Labor Housing.
“Yes,” a raspy voice answered. The man’s head and shoulders were reflected in a mirror on the wall. He wore a Begat monk’s robe and was old and weathered, his head shaved clean.
“I was given this card outside the Hogan-Perko headquarters building a few months ago and told if things went wrong to contact you, that there was alternative, a natural way. I’m ready to listen to what you have to say.”
Robyn pounded on the bathroom door. “Moyer we need to talk.”
“Give me a moment please,” he yelled back.
“Who is that?” the monk asked.
“That’s my wife. She can’t hear us. How do I make contact?”
“Next Tuesday, take the last Michigan Street tube to the end and wait near the turnstile. Come alone.”
“No, I can’t wait. I don’t have that long. Is there any way we might meet sooner?”
His host was quiet for a moment. “Why is this so urgent?”
“Because I may not have that long, and that’s all I can say.”
“Fine. Tomorrow then, take the Michigan Street tube as before. Be at the turnstile by 4:30 a.m.”
“Four-thirty? But I have work.”
“Is this urgent or not?” the voice growled.
Moyer had promised Berman he would work overtime on Sunday to help get the project back on track. He wondered if Perko would square that little issue as he had late lunches spent in Perko’s office. He was after all missing work at Perko’s behest. In the end it wouldn’t matter. Perko’s deadline was looming and time was running out. He could make up the overtime another day.
“I’ll be there,” Moyer said.
A knock rattled the door again shortly after the connection was broken. Moyer opened it. Robyn waited outside looking impatient. “Who were you talking to?”
“No one important.”
“Then why did you take the call in the bathroom with the door locked?”
“I was there for the usual reasons and a call came in. Why are you so suspicious?”
“Who was it?”
“Just work. They had questions about the project. Is that all you wanted?”
“No. You mentioned some additional paperwork Mr. Perko wanted you to complete for our baby. Did you get it done?”
Moyer felt sheepish. A rush of blood warmed his face. “No, I forgot. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Get it done. I will not lose my daughter because of a paperwork glitch. If it’s not done by tomorrow, I’ll take care of it myself,” she said.
Sunday, 1 July
Moyer crawled out of bed silently at 3:00 a.m. He’d found it difficult to sleep in the wake of Perko’s order. He dressed in the living room and went to the kitchen to stock up on supplies for the trip. In the cupboard he found protein energy bars — the same type taken on the Mars expedition, the packaging boasted. His eyes caught on the knife block on the counter. A weapon for protection might be a good idea. His first encounter with Begat was still fresh in his mind and he didn’t want to be caught defenseless again. Who knew what awaited him this time? He chose a boning knife with a ten centimeter blade and fashioned a sheath for it from a toilet paper roll, inserting the blade inside and folding the cardboard over. Moyer tucked it behind his back under his belt and adjusted his shirt to make sure nothing showed before he quietly slipped out of the apartment.
The 4:00 a.m. train stopped at the Washington Station empty. Professionals were still asleep, and if they’d been awake at that ungodly hour, they’d have no interest in going into Labor Housing in the wee hours. It was a recipe for a mugging, or worse.
Moyer was exhausted from the long hours at work, battling Berman over the Worm, dealing with Perko’s latest demands, and hiding the truth from Robyn. He feared he’d fall asleep on the train if he wasn’t careful. He needn’t have worried. During the trip, he was consumed by thoughts of how Robyn would react should he fail to carry out Perko’s request. If they lost their baby now, it would be Moyer’s fault.
He took the tube to the end of the line, arriving in the station at 4:25 a.m. He fought his way out of the car against the flow of laborers rushing in.
After the cars filled and the train pulled away, the station filled again with commuters. Moyer waited by the turnstile as instructed and kept an eye on the time. Four-thirty came and went. Ten minutes later, three men dressed as laborers in blue jeans and chambray shirts approached. A tall, broad-shouldered man flanked by two smaller but imposing friends called out, “Winfield?”
When Moyer turned his head, they knew they had their man. As they approached, the broad shouldered man let the smile drop from his face. He shoved Moyer hard into the wall and spun him around. “Hands on the wall, and spread your feet,” he ordered.
He frisked Moyer bottom to top. His hand stopped at the small of Moyer’s back. “What do we have here?” He roughly tugged Moyer’s shirt up and jerked the knife from his waistband. “What were you planning to do with this?”
“I didn’t know what I might run into so I thought it wise to bring some protection.”
“Of course you did,” the big man said. He took the knife and dropped it into his pants pocket. The other two men snickered.
“Come with us,” the big man ordered.
They led him out of the terminal and up to ground level. They crossed Michigan Street and entered a local market. The big man cut to the front of the line and dragged Moyer with him. He grabbed a pack of gum and tossed it to the woman running the checkout. “Ring that up, Maggie.” He twisted Moyer’s arm and turned it wrist up. “He’s buying,” he said. Maggie scanned Moyer’s hologram. “Who is he?” the man asked.
The woman’s eyes darted to her terminal. “It says he’s Moyer Winfield.”
“Thanks, Mags.”
“Give my best to your mother, Daryl,” Maggie replied.
The men escorted Moyer outside and through Labor Housing, to the outskirts of the city. Concrete apartment blocks formed part of a barrier blocking access to the vast solar collector fields that powered the city. Chain-link fencing closed off the gaps between structures.
They walked single file in a tight corridor bordered by a pair of buildings. Daryl pried back the fencing and held it back while Moyer and the other men squeezed through. Moyer laughed when he noticed a yellow and black warning sign on the chain-link depicting a running man with flames sprouting from his head and back.
The fence marked the edge of the habitable world. On the other side, tall apartment buildings packed close together formed a long curved barrier separating the city from kilometers of scorched earth. Umbrella-like solar panels set two meters above blackened grass were arranged in even rows stretching away from the city for what seemed to be infinity. A trail along the outer wall led to an old rail terminal at the edge of the collector field.
Labor Housing buildings bordering the collector fields were known as The Ring of Fire. Laborers were moved further and further from the city center as their productivity declined with age. Retirees got the kiln-like apartments adjacent to the collectors. It was rare if retirement lasted more than two summers.
Moyer had heard stories from his father of laborers who wandered the fields in the days after the panels were installed to collect cooked rabbits. His stories were to impress upon Moyer how unsafe it was to be near the collector field anytime the sun was out.
When they arrived at the old station house, the top edge of the sun crested the horizon. Daryl gave Moyer instructions. “The train will come in ten minutes.” He held Moyer’s hand and slapped the k
nife handle into Moyer’s palm. “I don’t think this will provide the kind of protection you will need. If you survive, get off at the first stop. Find the church near the creek. He will meet you there.”
Daryl left with his friends and headed back into the city. Moyer wondered if the warning, if you survive, was a joke intended to scare him. Laborers did relish their petty taunts, especially if it came at the expense of a professional.
The train appeared on the horizon before he could give it much thought. The train was fully automated, running on old nuclear engines. The archaic cars were in disrepair, antiques clattering over rusted steel track at what seemed a slothful pace compared to the tube. It was an anachronism, unfunded and unmaintained, left to die on its own.
The areas serviced by the old Mannington line were deemed commercially nonviable by the Consolidated Board of Directors. The government had no interest in funding recreational treks into the hinterlands beyond city walls. But they also weren’t interested in footing the bill to dismantle the old train and track when given enough time, nature would do the work free of charge. The trains ran on their own, passengers or not, and would do so until they finally broke down or ran out of fuel.
In the spring and fall when the heat was less intense, it wasn’t uncommon for labor-class families to brave the scorching temperatures of the solar collector fields for a daytrip into the wilderness. And as for the handful of people a month who died making the crossing, the government’s attitude was let them burn.
The sun crested the horizon a fiery balloon before the train left the decrepit terminal. Temperatures inside the railcar soared. A little after 7:00 a.m., Moyer realized he was being cooked alive, and wished he’d gotten an earlier start. Begat could have arranged it. Or was this their plan all along — lure him into the collector fields so he would roast to death? After what had happened at his previous meeting with Begat, Moyer couldn’t believe he’d been foolish enough to be victimized again.
