Health Agent

by Jeffrey Thomas

  They only approached so far, and then hung back. They were definitely tailing her.

  Monty started closing up his booth. Fast. He tried not to look panicky as he began unfolding the portions of the circular stand’s security screens.

  “Hey Blondie,” cried a voice. It was Midge at the coffee stand. “You shutting down a little early, aren’t ya?”

  Monty saw the scarred woman twist at the waist to look at him.

  The Stems looked, too.

  Monty tried to ignore them, called back, “My customers have dried up…I don’t feel good, either. What are you gonna do, report me to my boss?” He’d never shut down a minute early before.

  “Not immediately, but now I’ve got something on you for the rest of your life.”

  Shut up and leave me alone, Monty told his friend in his mind.

  Get her over here, he ordered himself, warn her. Maybe they meant her some real harm. Maybe it hadn’t been clear for hem to strike before. Call her over.

  How? he argued back with himself, impatiently.

  The last screen was locked and he began tossing bundles of papers roughly into the storage compartments running around the outside of the booth. He heard a train coming. He was only halfway around the booth.

  The train pulled in. His face was hot. Fuck it. He straightened up.

  She was already in the train; he saw her in the windows, and the dwarf. The Stems were now boarding…

  “Monty,” called Midge.

  Ducking behind his booth, Monty bolted off down the platform to the right, hoping she (or they) didn’t glance out the windows just then…and if they did, that they didn’t spot him.

  “Hey Monty!” called Midge. Shut the hell up, he called back inside.

  He launched himself up into the car two cars over from the one she had entered. One of the closing doors hit his shoulder coming in; he stumbled in the door well as the train pulled out of the station. He smiled nervously.

  Three teenage boys sitting opposite the door well were laughing at him. When Monty stepped up out of it and loomed over them for a moment they quit laughing. They saw too much of the dying he’d lived in his eyes.

  Monty cautiously peeked down into the car she had entered, the doors which could separate these cars now parted open. The car beyond this one had a homeless person sleeping in a seat—that was all. In her car, he saw the back of her head, and behind her the two Stems, their backs to him. Smoke rose from where the dwarf sat, giving her away. One of the Stems started to turn around in his seat and Monty lowered himself swiftly back into the recessed door well, out of sight.

  It was a fairly long ride to her stop. Along the way the train pulled into four stations, losing the three subdued teen boys and the dwarf, gaining two couples, young and loud and drunk, in the car behind Monty, plus an obese black man with a huge yellow-white bony growth above his left eye, in the car with the homeless person. The black man took the papers covering the slumbering derelict to read, and gave him a cuff across the head before he sat, giggling. Even if he’d known Monty was watching he probably wouldn’t have cared. The homeless man only moaned as if at a bad dream.

  When the train pulled into Beaumonde Station, with its dark green and metallic gold checkerboard tiles, Monty saw her disembark from her car out his own car’s door as it whooshed automatically open. He leaped out, landing lightly like a cat, stepping immediately behind a great circular green marble pillar. He was vaguely conscious of a few people boarding or leaving the train, but when he casually moved around the pillar the woman was nowhere in sight. Nor were the Stems.

  Had that pair gotten off? He hadn’t seen them. The train was already gone, leaving only a few student-types on the platform, Paxton University being very close by. Monty walked on, turning the corner to a row of turnstiles. Beyond them, the path forked. The right fork ended in escalator banks. The left curved to who-knew-where. He was sure he heard high heels clacking hollowly around the bend in this left fork. Monty pushed through a turnstile and down the left-hand branch.

  Around the bend he saw doors to restrooms for men and women. He no longer heard footfalls, but neither had he heard a door open. Uncertain, he hesitated outside the ladies’ room door. He began to reach for the pen inside his jacket, the red one with the plasma capsule inside.

  The door to the men’s room burst open and the Stem snatched his hand at the wrist just as he took hold of his pen. It bore down on him, pushing him up against the opposite wall, its other two tiny hands gripping his jacket. Monty cried out, thrashed. His wrist was bleeding, pinched, the pen slipping back into his pocket. With his free hand he chopped and pushed at the arms. He kicked at the three legs. It was not nearly so brittle as it looked. And now the second one was emerging from the men’s room, holding an object from its black pouch. It extended the object, obviously a weapon, at Monty’s face. He yelled, crazily, desperately, fought so hard that he managed to free both his arms and shove the Stem away from him with his foot. He knew, however, that he would die.

  Peripherally he saw the ladies’ room door open. Then, a voice. “Hold it or I’ll shoot.”

  He had to look. Another gun was now trained on him. Mauve Pond held a small, orange plastic pistol in both hands, in an experienced stance. Monty calmed himself down. He let the first Stem pin his arms.

  “All right, don’t shoot.”

  “Who are you?”

  “You know who—I’m the paper man from Blue Station.”

  “I know that. Are you following me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I thought these two Stems were following you.”

  “They are—they’re my bodyguards. I’m an actress.”

  “I know; Mauve Pond. I read the papers. I thought they meant to hurt you…they weren’t with you, they were behind you.”

  “They keep back a bit so they won’t draw too much attention and make me conspicuous, but they keep me in sight.”

  “How’d you know I was tailing you?”

  “I looked when I heard that girl calling you and I saw you jump on the train. You acted very suspicious, I thought.”

  “You’re sharp. Sorry. I used to be a health agent and got paid to chase people around. Old habits die hard.”

  “A health agent, huh?” She lowered the gun a bit but looked leery. The Stem wasn’t drawing any more blood, but then Monty was keeping perfectly still, even if his heart wasn’t.

  “My name’s Montgomery Black. I got dismissed when I contracted M-670 during Toll Loveland’s show Pandora’s Box. You remember all that? Last year?”

  “I’ve heard of him. I’m in the arts. So you were cured, right? Why are you selling papers?”

  “I was a bad boy. I kept looking for Loveland on my own, didn’t turn myself over to the HAP containment and research program.”

  “Can my bodyguards see your ID?”

  “Sure.”

  “Go ahead,” Mauve Pond told the one with the alien hand weapon.

  Monty’s wallet was produced. Handed to Mauve. She flipped through it, nodded and pouted and handed it back to him. “Let him go, boys. Sorry, Mr. Black.”

  “No prob.” Monty straightened his jacket, slipped his wallet away.

  “You’re bleeding.” She touched his arm.

  “I’ll live.”

  Mauve withdrew her hand and smiled. Her eyes narrowed warmly. “You would’ve taken on these two guys to help me? I’m impressed.”

  “With my stupidity?”

  “Whatever it is.”

  “I thought I was dead. Good thing I didn’t soil my pants or I’d be pretty embarrassed right now. I considered it for a minute.” Monty was nervous, but weirdly elated at conversing with Mauve Pond face-to-face and at still being alive. “Do these things live with you?”

  “No, just escort me home. I’ve been mugged before and I was raped by two men in my apartment once. And that was even before I made the papers.”

  “Popular girl.”

  Mauve w
as a little shocked at his making so light of her ordeals, but was smart enough to know that he wasn’t unconcerned. He wouldn’t be here, with blood on his wrist and very nearly with shit in his pants, would he?

  “Sorry, just kidding.”

  “I know. Can I reward your attempt at heroism with a cup of coffee? There’s a nice little place not far from here.”

  “That’s awfully kind. Love to.”

  “It’s still early yet. Come on, boys.”

  The mute gun-wielding Stem finally, reluctantly, put its weapon away.

  *

  Beaumonde Square was one of the nicer areas of Punktown, since the Blue Line mostly only stopped at the nicer areas, to as safely as possible transport Punktown’s “nicer” people from one spot to another without having to pass through areas like Red Station, and those far, far worse. The expensive Beaumonde Women’s College was here, P.U. was near, and so Beaumonde Square was cobblestoned, with trees and stone benches and bookshops and coffeehouses. Mauve told Monty she had a nice little attic apartment across from some of the P.U. dorms. She obviously trusted him now. What a turn of events, tonight…more than his fantasies had allowed.

  “You a native P-towner?” he asked over frothy cappuccino.

  “No—I’m from Enceinte. My father’s a career military man. A colonel in the Colonial Security Forces, stationed on Earth right now.”

  “Ever been?”

  “No thanks. Enceinte’s close to the Outback Colonies. I’m a bit of a hick.”

  “You handle yourself well in the city.”

  “My dad taught me how to shoot. Bought me my gun.”

  “Can these things understand us?” Monty nodded at the Stems seated at the next table, voice lowered.

  “They’ve got implanted translators—so yes, they can—but they can’t answer back unless they use the translator mikes in their pouches.”

  “Scary critters.”

  “They’re okay.” They sat without eating or conversing, watching the humans with their tiny jack-o’-lantern faces. “So, you seen my play?”

  “No, but I’d love to. Booked solid. You think if I paid you, you could dig me up a ticket someplace? I hate to ask…”

  “I’m sure I can. And don’t worry about paying…”

  “Oh, come on…”

  “No, I mean it. You tried to save my life, right?” Narrowed eyes again, so sincere. He found it surprisingly easy to forget the scars.

  “A lot of good I would have done you if you’d really been in danger.”

  “It’s the thought that counts. I’ll find you tickets; my treat. I mean it.”

  “You are most kind.” Without a sweet dessert to go with his bitter cappuccino he had to spoon some sugar in. “So,” he said as he stirred, trying to seem casual and not morbid, “you’re never in pain from your wounds, huh?”

  “Nope. I’m good with pain, but I don’t need this; a little excessive, you know?”

  “Takes a few days to heal all the way? How do they do it?”

  “My most popular question. You sure you don’t work for a newspaper?”

  “Just selling ‘em.”

  “Why not ask me how I psych into my role?”

  “Okay, then, how do you psych into your role?”“I’ll tell you about the scars; it’s inevitable.”

  “No—really—it isn’t important.”

  “I don’t mind, I was just teasing. They’re hard to ignore, so let’s get them out of the way. First off, I get sliced on stage by a doctor in the part of a mugger. He’s not a doctor, actually, he’s a medical researcher named…and this is top-secret, now. He isn’t supposed to be named, for the sake of his reputation—all the controversy, and all.”

  “Word of honor.”

  “Westy Dwork. So he slashes me. Then backstage he stitches my face and stitches up Aurora Lehrman’s stump. He regenerates the cells somewhat with a full cell cloner setup he has backstage, then we go on. It has to look like we were attacked a few months ago; we don’t become hookers overnight.”

  “Then why do your characters have stitches, still?”

  “Just for cosmetic reasons, so to speak…to appeal to our customers. We work in a freak show brothel.”

  “I read that. So why doesn’t this Dwork guy just clone you and Aurora fully after the show instead of only accelerating the healing…too expensive?”

  “‘Friendly flesh.’”

  “Excuse me?”

  Mauve laughed, brushed her hair from her face. “Westy works for a company called Cugok Pharmaceuticals.”

  “I’ve heard of them.” A tiny vertiginous thrill of déjà vu.

  “Really? They’re very new.”

  “I know.”

  “They’re really into research and innovation; Westy’s one of their top people. Aurora and I are sort of guinea pigs for something he’s nicknamed ‘friendly flesh,’ a new inexpensive concept in cell regeneration that doesn’t require hospitalization, necessarily, or intense cloning. It could very well make people immortal. Kind of.”

  “Kind of immortal, huh? Sort of invincible? How’s it work?”

  “Your body is scanned like it is for a teleportation record. This is your cellular blueprint. Then you take these pills, one a day, to maintain a certain level of a drug in you which will instantly begin rapid cell regeneration once you get injured. Your cellular blueprint, which will be on file at a specially equipped participating hospital, is alerted by the activity of the regenerative drug and transmits its blueprint information to the drug’s ‘memory.’ If Aurora’s arm was cloned in the traditional way it would only take a day or so. It takes a week right now with this…but, this would be cheaper, ideally, and outpatient…no prolonged hospital stay. Her stump would just be sealed, then she’d be released. The regenerative drug stimulates rapid cell growth, and the cellular blueprint being transmitted insures that the arm will be restored just as it once was…right down to every last mole.”

  “Fantastic. This will be big.”

  “Well, Westy is a little wary about it. He thinks the medical profession might try to buy the rights and then sit on it. Hospitals are big business. They might only let it sneak by for those who can shell out the big money, though the process itself isn’t really all that costly.”

  “How far does the immortality possibility go? Can they perfect it to the point where the cells refresh themselves constantly and the aging process doesn’t take place?”

  “There’s already various approaches to that, but I’m talking about this thing getting to the point where you can be shot with a gun and heal a moment later. Get beheaded and grow your head back in seconds. Wild, huh?” Mauve sipped from her tiny cup. “But the hospitals are like corporations, if not owned by them. You’ll see it stomped on, squelched. Why do you think cloning after death is illegal? Religious pressure and colonial security alone, like they say? Mutant shit, pardon my language.”

  “You’re a conspiracy nut. Paranoid.”

  “Why does everyone think I’m paranoid?” Mauve bulged her eyes, an eager actress.

  “So if you cut your finger off right now you wouldn’t feel pain because of your painkillers, and you’d grow it back entirely because of the drug and this Dwork with your molecular scan on file?”

  “Right. Except my fingernail wouldn’t be painted red.”

  “Hey, give them time. Before long they’ll regenerate the ring along with it.” Monty shook his head. “This is all pretty fascinating.”

  “But you’ve heard of Cugok before?”

  “Their building used to be the Greenberg food plant. That’s where Toll Loveland held his show Pandora’s Box.”

  “Is it really? Wow, I didn’t know that. What a coincidence.”

  “Fate works in wondrous ways.”

  “I guess.” Mauve killed off the last of the rich exotic dessert she’d had with her cappuccino. “So, I could cut my face open for you right now as a preview for the show, Montgomery, except I’d bleed to death before my cells could regenerat
e enough.”

  “I guess I can wait. Does it spook you at all, looking in the mirror?”

  “No, but that first scene in the play does. Dwork really gets into the role.” Mauve appeared subdued a moment, smiled faintly…an odd expression. “He’s a little strange. It looks like something romantic is developing between him and Aurora.”

  “Oh? What’s so strange?”

  “Well, I heard he slept with one of the two mutant actresses in the play already. I’ve seen him flirt with the other. And he’s tried to pick me up, too, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “He’s asked me to dinner. I’ve declined. And he’s excessively physical, in my opinion…hand on the shoulder a lot, stroking the hair, et cetera. He’s kind of stroked my face while punching the stitches in. I’ve never said anything. He just makes me rather uncomfortable. I hope he sticks to Aurora with his romantic impulses, now.”

  “Just send your two bodyguards, here, after that Lothario.”

  “They work for him. For Cugok, that is, not for the theater. It was Westy’s idea to have them escort me home every night.”

  Monty glanced at the silent, unblinking creatures again. “Ah…so…you will try to get me that ticket, then?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Do you think maybe we could get together for lunch during the week?” A big shy grin.

  “Sure.”

  “I’m not trying to be a pest…”

  “I know. Health agents exterminate pests.”

  “Right.”

  “Sure, that sounds like fun. You’re my hero.”

  Monty laughed, giddy. Did she really like him as much as it appeared? “Yeah, right,” he responded sarcastically.

  FOURTEEN

  OPENING SOON, the advertisement announced, THE BIG FROWN.

  Monty had seen a huge billboard with this same advertisement for the first time today while coming into work. It had caught his eye because it reminded him of Mauve. It showed a man’s face with the corners of his mouth turned down in an enormous grimace. He looked like a Choom, but in the painting there was a drop of blood running down from both corners of the big frown, and the man’s eyes looked bewildered and pained.