"Hey,” I complained. “I'm counting my pennies for an upgrade."
Everyone laughed, although Bonnie felt ill at ease. Yet she never lost her will, never needed so much as a soft word of encouragement. Then, later, once the appropriate forms and declarations had been signed and witnessed, my jolly attorney said, “A word with you, Justin?"
Bonnie waited for me in the lobby.
Straight away, my attorney asked, “Do you know how beautiful that woman is?"
"No,” I kidded.
He laughed, winked knowingly, and then said, “Seriously. This is not like the others that you've introduced me to. No elegant silver in the hair. No false teeth or bothersome grandkids. And that face isn't another bag of good and botched plastic surgeries, either."
"But she is rather poor—” I began.
"Fuck money. So long as it's just her money.” He laughed until he looked red-faced and breathless. “Poor is perfect, in fact. Like it was with you. It helps the soul come to terms with the world's realities."
Pride flickering, I asked, “Will she be as successful as I am?"
"And then some!” His laughter filled the room. “I mean it, Justin. She's going to have a great time. I've seen this new skin stretched over a woman's frame, and I've felt it, and I think she's going to be pleased. You're going to be very pleased. Frankly, she's going to be fighting off the potential suitors. And for each one that she doesn't fight off—"
"Yeah."
"Of course, you'll earn just the standard commission for bringing her in,” he admitted. “Until Bonnie can work off her own debts—"
"I realize."
"But for every CEO-type that she captures,” he continued, “I'll make sure that you get your 5 percent out of her windfall."
I still owed a tidy fortune to my makers. But I was immortal, and they could afford to be patient. All of their clients were immortal, and they could take an extraordinarily long view when it came to their business.
"More pennies for the saving,” he sang out.
"Sure,” I said, nodding amiably. “I'll never forget that."
* * * *
An appointment was made at my clinic, but Bonnie woke the day before with a smile. “Look at it out there,” she said. It was a cold but utterly bright morning, three days shy of her thirtieth birthday. “Do you think we could get in? If we went down there this minute—?"
"Now?"
"I really feel in the mood,” she promised.
Somehow, I wasn't ready. But I took Bonnie at her word and carefully hid my own nervousness. Accompanying her to the clinic, I repeated the old advice. “You should go in alone. Really, I'd be a—"
"Distraction. I agree."
Why did that hurt? And why, even after I used every reliable trick, did those three words continue to gnaw at me?
"No, this is best,” she assured me. “Going in early like this, I mean. I think some of my colleagues and friends are planning an intervention, which has to come tonight, of course...” She laughed softly, asking, “Wouldn't that be something if we let them...? If I get a good enough body, and if we kept the lights in the room down low enough so they couldn't tell—?"
"Are you happy?"
"Completely."
"You're certain?"
Bonnie didn't quite look at me. Then she wasn't speaking just to me, explaining, “Until a few weeks ago, I wasn't happy. Not like I thought I should be in my life. But I kept telling myself that if I just kept plugging along, eventually, maybe I'd run into somebody..."
Neither of us laughed.
Pulling into the half-filled parking lot, she said, “Maybe they won't have a slot for me now."
For her, they would make a slot.
"Kiss me. For luck."
I did what she wanted. I kissed her on the lips and told her, “I'll see you soon,” with a voice that sounded perfectly genuine. I even managed to smile, and Bonnie gave me a distracted smile and wink in return, and then she walked alone up to the front door and stepped out of sight.
I waited.
For maybe twenty seconds, I managed to do nothing.
But I have this ungraceful habit. This inclination—a reflex—that remains fixed in my nature. Preyed upon by doubts, I always try to follow. And afterward, I always make myself forget that I followed. What was different this time was that my reflex struck earlier than normal. I took the clinic by surprise, which makes me feel a little better. Stepping out of the Cheetah, I started to chase after Bonnie, a quick walk becoming a near-sprint, and because another patron had stopped inside the open door, thanking one of the doctors or one of the machines, I managed to slip into the lobby before any locks could be secured.
A nurse was leading Bonnie into the back rooms.
"Wait!” I cried out.
A young man, finished and fit, vaulted over the counter. I was tackled and rudely shoved to the floor, but I managed to say, “You don't need to! I seduced you to do this! They pay me—!"
A hand covered my mouth, choking off my voice.
Bonnie's hand, I realized.
Just like that first time, the pretty face hovered above me. But on this cold morning, she smiled with a certain fetching melancholy, and a calm, hard, and almost disappointed voice said, “I'm not an idiot, Justin. I figured it out for myself, almost from the first day."
Her hand lifted, and she rose to her feet.
"Don't go back there,” I called out. “Not now, darling. Not while you're angry like this, because you'll always be—!"
"Except I'm not angry,” she replied. And with a hard, wise smile, she added, “In fact, darling, this is better. I'm happy enough, but I also feel suspicious right now. Toward you, and everybody. And really, if you try and think about it, isn't that the best way to travel through the next hundred thousand years...?"
[Back to Table of Contents]
Copyright © 2005 by Robert Reed.
[Back to Table of Contents]
The Company Man by John Phillip Olsen
A Short Story
John Phillip Olsen is a California native who has lived in eastern France for the last thirty years. John loves learning languages. He has degrees in linguistics and English, and works in adult education, teaching English as a foreign language at a university language-training center. A 1998 Clarion West graduate, he credits his own living experience with providing him ample opportunity to study the “alien” that resides in each one of us. That expertise has been put to good use in “The Company Man"—his first sale, professional or otherwise.
[Back to Table of Contents]
"Do you like this picture, Mr. Soman?” Mr. Tsishh asked. The alien gestured toward a full-size colored print on the wall.
Kurt recognized the picture; it was The Scream, by the Norwegian painter Edvard Munch.
He turned back to look at his boss. The alien would have looked better in a Terran suit and tie, he thought. But Mr. Tsishh wore Hydrian garb, a light-colored robe that fit tightly over his sinuous reptilian body. The air held a faint odor of dust that reminded Kurt of snakes. He didn't like snakes much.
"I've always found it intriguing,” Kurt said, trying to sound as if he knew something about art. He did have one painting at home on his living room wall, a long-ago gift from his friend Dan. It was a useful conversation piece with women visitors.
"Many of my people say it captures the Terran soul,” Mr. Tsishh said in the distinctive Hydrian hiss.
Kurt steeled himself against the alien's stare. The president wore the dark glasses so popular among Hydrians posted to Terra. Behind the lenses were two tiny black orbs and a terrifying look. Terrans said that the glasses were a conciliatory gesture, but Kurt knew better. He'd seen the president remove them for effect.
"Do you know other works of Munch's?” Mr. Tsishh asked.
"No,” Kurt answered firmly. It wouldn't do to be timid, especially when he'd been so brusquely summoned that morning.
"This is a print, of course, but we intend to acquire the original. We
have some new clients on Tsaxhotsis,” the president said, using the Hydrian name for their native planet. He paused, then smiled.
"Who wish to buy Terran paintings?” Kurt ventured, and smiled back. A pitiful grin it must have looked, compared to the famous Hydrian smile. The middle of the reptilian lips didn't part. The pointed teeth showed, but not the darting tongue. Terrans said that their smile was another gesture, but Kurt knew mockery when he saw it.
"How should I proceed?” he asked.
"Handle everything yourself,” the president hissed. “Quickly, and, if possible, discreetly. Do you expect any problems?"
"Only from those who'll want to keep Terran paintings on Terra,” Kurt said. But he knew that the operation could be neither quick nor discreet.
"We only wish to buy some paintings,” the president said, “not plunder Terra's artistic treasures. I'm sure you can handle the opposition."
The president rose from his desk. “There is one other thing, Mr. Soman."
"Yes?” Kurt asked. The president was coiling, ready to strike.
"Terra-Beta Hydri Exports has been very happy with you,” Mr. Tsishh said as he removed his glasses. “So far."
Kurt stared back into the hard alien eyes.
"Your future with us depends on your success with this new mission."
And the president was gone.
Kurt stood alone in the top-floor office suite. He felt drained, but relieved. The bite hadn't been so bad. The new mission was all his, with perhaps a promotion in the offing.
There would be problems, though, he told himself as he took the elevator down to his own office far below. Selling films, recorded music, and pulp literature, his usual line, was one thing. Selling an artist's tangible creation was another. But he liked a good fight.
But why, he wondered, did the aliens suddenly want paintings?
* * * *
Once in his office, Kurt phoned Joanna.
"How did it go?” she asked.
Kurt studied her face on his monitor before answering. She was clearly worried, but so lovely.
"Fine. I was there in plenty of time."
"It's a good thing I was around to get you out of bed."
"Dinner tonight?” Kurt asked. “We'll celebrate.” They agreed to meet at the usual place for drinks.
Mr. Tsishh appeared on Kurt's monitor later that morning, bypassing both Kurt's secretary and assistant, and interrupting an on-line meeting. “We've sent you the file, Mr. Soman,” he hissed. He smiled his Hydrian smile and was gone.
All of the desired paintings were by Munch. Kurt accessed an art encyclopedia and began to read. Edvard Munch, 1863-1944, precursor to the German expressionists, had had a long and productive career. Kurt next looked at an on-line gallery of the paintings the Hydrian wanted. Anguish, he thought as he clicked from painting to painting. Pure anguish. “The camera could never compete with a brush and canvas as long as it couldn't be used in heaven and hell,” Munch had once written.
Kurt's curiosity grew. From the monitor, the famous face of The Scream looked back and to one side of him. That poor being, who later appeared on key chains, coffee mugs, and knick-knacks of all kinds, what was he suffering from? What was he thinking? Something frightening, no doubt. A lot of frightening things were out there. In Munch's day, as now.
Another painting caught his eye. The Sick Child, 1886, now in the Norwegian National Gallery. In thick dark tones, a young girl in her sickbed comforted her distraught mother. It made sense that the Hydrians would be attracted by a well-known painting such as The Scream, but why this one? Alien tastes had always leaned to the lighter side.
Kurt spent the afternoon on the net, reading up on the desired works and identifying their whereabouts. He contacted dealers in New York, Paris, and London for unofficial estimates, but did not as yet contact the owners. His plan was to wait; the inquiries alone would have an effect. Resistance would be fierce, but governments would bring pressure. Museums and private collectors would give in eventually. Terra needed Hydrian technology too badly. The operation would take longer, but the opposition would be minimized.
By evening, he was satisfied that his plan was in motion. With the contents of Tsishh's file and his own net search downloaded into his mallette, he left the office. On his way out, he left instructions for his secretary to order a set of full-size colored prints of the selected paintings. And then he was off at a brisk pace for another night with his Joanna.
In the lobby, Kurt saw Leo Garth, the concierge.
"Good evening, Leo. What's new?” Out of loyalty, Kurt made a point of being friendly with employees of Garth's station, but it was good policy, too. Garth was intelligent and observant. Many times over the years, he'd given Kurt useful tips.
"Good evening, Mr. Soman,” Garth said in a mock-Hydrian hiss. “Nothing new at all, Mr. Soman."
That was good news. The art project might still be a secret. Kurt knew that he had to be careful. If these new Hydrian clients were just whimsical collectors, he'd have no qualms at selling a few great paintings.
But what if it led to a buying craze? The ensuing resistance would be bad for business. And what was bad for business was bad for Kurt Soman. He had to be careful right here in the building, too. Some colleagues might be jealous of this opportunity.
And what if there was some deeper significance here? The aliens’ sudden interest in this expressionist painter was a mystery. Kurt didn't like mysteries, not where the aliens were concerned. So he would study these paintings closely and get some answers before things went too far. He had too much at stake.
* * * *
"How do I look?” Joanna said, and did a full turn to show off her new suit, a Hydrian-inspired robe.
"Hmm,” he said and kissed her. He thought it made her look rather box-like, actually. “I like what's underneath better."
Joanna sighed, then smiled. “Greg Ryder's joining us for a drink."
Greg. Why had she invited him?
"Only for a drink,” Joanna added, and smiled again. She frowned though, when he ordered whiskey. He knew she wanted him to try a Hydrian alcohol.
"You shouldn't be that way about Hydrian things, Kurt."
"I like whiskey,” he said. Joanna exasperated him sometimes. The true loyal employee. But she was young, she'd learn.
When Greg arrived, Joanna greeted him with a warm kiss on the cheek. Too warm, for Kurt. Joanna and Greg were old friends, he knew. They'd joined the company at the same time, hired by Kurt, had been promoted likewise, and were both buyers in other divisions now.
"So, what's new, Kurt?” Greg asked, after ordering the Hydrian alcohol. His nose twitched.
When Kurt saw Greg, he always thought of shixis, those giant rodents that the Hydrians imported and raised for meat. Looking oddly like rabbits, they hopped about like kangaroos and held their food in finger-like claws as they gnawed at it.
"Business as usual,” Kurt said.
"New project?” Greg asked smiling.
Ooh, now this was unexpected! Kurt smiled, suppressing the urge to make it look Hydrian, but he said nothing. He'd let Greg do the talking. The boy didn't yet realize that the Hydrians raised guys like him for food.
"You don't look very happy, Kurt,” Greg said.
"Kurt doesn't like our bosses anymore,” Joanna said.
Kurt scowled.
"I'm only thinking of your own good,” Joanna said. “Inside the company.” She glanced at Greg.
"Kurt,” Greg said, arms spread. “I'm your friend. You can tell me.” He glanced at Joanna.
Again, Kurt only smiled.
"Has to do with paintings, doesn't it?” Greg said.
So, the news was out. Garth was sleeping on the job. Kurt laughed to hide his anger. If Greg knew, then Joanna did too. It was time to find out more.
He opened his mallette and accessed the project file. The Vampire appeared on the screen, an oil on canvas from 1893, now in the Munch Museum in Oslo. In contrasting red, beige, and dark gr
eens, a weary man sought refuge in the arms of a woman, his head against her breast. The woman seemed to be peacefully kissing the back of his neck.
"Edvard Munch,” said Joanna. “He painted The Scream."
"What do you make of this?” Kurt asked. He had read up on the painting that afternoon.
"Now this is interesting,” Greg said. “The snake must be considering a whole new line."
Kurt hid his amusement at Greg's use of the derogatory term for a Hydrian. But the kid sounded spontaneous, and he didn't seem to know much. He'd been fishing for confirmation. That was a relief.
"We should have thought of it before,” Greg went on. “We could be pulling ourselves up faster."
"If we even should sell off great works of art,” Kurt said, hoping for a response.
"If you don't do it, someone else will,” Greg said.
Realistic enough. Maybe he shouldn't be so suspicious. Greg was just an eager, ambitious, young exec, as Kurt himself once had been.
"What do you think, Kurt?” Joanna asked. Again, she glanced at Greg.
"There's something strange about these paintings,” Kurt said, gazing at the mallette screen. The woman's rust-colored hair flowed down over her shoulders and the man's head, like streams of blood. “What can the Hydrians want with them?"
What was it that Tsishh had said of The Scream? That it captured the Terran soul? At least they considered the Terrans to have souls. A comforting thought. But why should they even care? For all their presence on Terra, the aliens remained aloof, holed-up in their compounds. As far as Kurt knew, no Terran had ever visited their home planet.
"It shows that they appreciate our culture,” Joanna said. “We aren't just a market for their technology."
"I think it shows more than that,” Kurt said, immediately regretting it.
"What's that?” Greg asked.
Kurt looked about the bar. A mixed Terran and Hydrian party were heading for a neighboring table. “We shouldn't be talking about it here,” he murmured. But he wouldn't be talking about it with Greg again, anywhere. He'd found out what he wanted to know.
"Anyway, Kurt,” Greg said as he stood to leave, “if you need any help, just let me know.” He glanced at Joanna again.
Asimov's SF, Sep 2005 Page 16
