Dues of Mortality

by Jason Austin

  Glenda's eyes flapped open, when the stereo's drive broke into a particularly loud crash of symbols and bassoons blaring through the speakers. She checked the wall clock. She'd been asleep about fifteen minutes.

  “Messages,” she ordered, suddenly remembering to check her voicemail, and hoping she had gotten a callback. Thank goodness for American Network Interface(ANI). With her compieces cut off, it was all she could afford. In fact, it was so cheap that most new homes and apartments had a freestanding port built in for basic service which was often left online even when the place was vacant and on the market.

  The webscreen blinked on. An attractive woman with Glenda's eyes and the beginnings of gray hair appeared on the screen. “Glenny, it’s your mother, honey. It’s been a couple days and I was just wondering if you’d landed anything yet, sweetie. I’m sorry if it seems like I’m nagging you, but you know I worry about my baby. Daddy says hang in there and we love you. Let us know when you get something. Bye.”

  “Nagging?” Glenda snickered. As if she somehow couldn't tell that Louise Jameson was just appeasing her daughter's exaggerated sense of independence. Mom, you wouldn't know how to nag if your life depended on it. The irony being that it just might.

  Glenda heard a disturbance from the direction of the kitchen. She assumed the roast was boiling over and proceed on to deal with it. Halfway to the swing door, the hub beeped again and the next voice message stopped her cold.

  “Hi, Glen,” the voice said, sending her into a girlish tailspin.

  Good lord, he couldn’t even say hi without it sounding like a mating call. Glenda's legs went numb and she defiantly kept her back to the webscreen.

  “It’s me again. I know you asked me not to call.”

  Glenda shook her head. He'd said it as if he presumed “no” really meant “yes”. The way men always do.

  “I wanted to let you know that I’m going out of town for a while, but I’m not scheduled to leave until tomorrow. I know things are...difficult for us right now and I know I'm taking a huge chance in asking you this, but...I’d like you to come with me. I want us to be together like we always wanted, away from all the 'noise'. You're all I've ever wanted, Glen. I’d hate to think that I missed one last chance for us.” The voice paused then said, “You know how to reach me if you decide to come. I’ll be waiting for you. I love you.”

  Glenda turned quickly only to catch a fading-to-black image. She walked stoutly over to the webscreen, and stared at its blinking replay option. Sunlight from the window warmed her face. She let the sensation course through her body for several seconds, before saying softly, but decisively, “Delete.”

  That bastard! Son-of-a-bitch couldn't even express a caring word without stroking his own ego. How dare he call her, after everything he’d put her through! Of all the egocentric, inconsiderate, irresponsible...How dare he make her want to say yes! Glenda bit down, huffing through her teeth. And she called herself a woman of the future. Ha! She should be ashamed. If her former sisters at Feminine Future Perfect had ever gotten wise to the relationship, they would’ve burned Glenda at the stake for two reasons—one for debasing herself with a man in such a Neolithic pattern, and two, for not telling them sooner so they wouldn’t have to feel guilty about their own similar off-the-record adventures...or at least their desire to have them. The judgment she could live with, but the hypocrisy was a whole other story. That and the air of anger and divisiveness, which seemed to be edging its way to the upper echelons of the organization, one faction at a time, was what made Glenda's attendance at the semi-annual rally, three years ago, her last. Not that that made her feel any better. Glenda was still a sister of the future and it was just wrong to indulge herself in the mirage of the fair maiden rescued by the gallant knight and then whisking her away to a palace on a hill.

  Damn him for making her want that!

  Damn him for exposing her to the reality of what she was capable; for giving her the most life affirming adventures she’d ever had! And for making her fear they would forever be behind her. Damn him, and damn every man like him!

  As Glenda ground her teeth to little white nubs, the hub’s beep sounded again. She regarded the screen, only to have it flash the words, NO IMAGE AVAILABLE.

  “M...Ms. Jameson, hello. This is Richard Kelmer.”

  Glenda's brow angled up. There was a name she hadn't heard in a few weeks. Not since he'd relinquished his part time professorship. Richard Kelmer had tutored her to fill a science requirement at Case Western Reserve University. He was a kind man, drastically shy, viciously polite, and she loved the fact that he was so patient with her. She even suspected a mild crush. Funny, he was calling. She hoped he hadn't finally gathered the courage to ask for a date. She'd hate to hurt his feelings.

  “I...I don’t mean to disturb you,” he said. “but I’ve been doing some...very special work here at Millenitech lately and I uh...uh, well l...let’s just say your name came up and...Oh, dear, this is difficult to discuss over the phone. I really wish you were there. I really need to speak with you. I’m sorry, I can’t leave a number. I...I’ll try to get in touch with you again later, when we can talk in person, some place safe. It’s important.” The hub beeped again signaling the messages end.

  Glenda grimaced and scratched her head. Well, that couldn't have sounded any stranger. Some place safe? What did that mean? She put it to the side of her mind and started toward the kitchen again. She barely got a foot forward before the webscreen trilled.

  “Hello,” she said, facing it once more.

  The NO IMAGE AVAILABLE flashed at her. “Ms. Jameson, thank God.” It was Richard Kelmer.

  “Dr. Kelmer?”

  “Yes. Th...thank God I reached you! I m...m...must speak with you right away! Can you m...meet me?”

  “Dr. Kelmer, are you alright? Your last message sounded very strange.”

  “I'm n...not sure I can discuss it over the phone. Are you...you alone?”

  Glenda held silent for a second. Kelmer had always stammered, but now he sounded different. He had dampened himself to almost a whisper, as if he feared being overheard.

  “Why do you want to know that?” she asked.

  A noise sounded off somewhere on Kelmer's end and he yipped like dog whose tail had been stepped on.

  “Are you alright?” Glenda asked again. “Do you need help. Do you need me to call the police or...”

  “No! They already have the police. Whatever you do, don't trust the police.”

  A series of incomprehensible sounds echoed over what seemed like Kelmer cursing a blue streak. “Dammit I...I think th...they're here. This was a mistake! I'm sorry Ms. Jameson. I'm sorry.”

  The line went dead.

  “Dr...Richard? Rich...Oh.” Glenda stared at the webscreen frazzled. Kelmer was in an absolute tizzy about something. Enough to even upend his personal behavioral boundaries. The traditional introverted scholar, Kelmer could ordinarily make the invisible man look like Michael Jackson. Although, one would think someone so vastly lauded for his work would have a few more friends. As far as Glenda knew, all he had were colleagues and research assistants, like that Dana Holliman, who followed him around like a Japanese geisha. Glenda got the impression Dana was diffidently endeared to Kelmer, but unless words like microdissection and quantitative analysis were code for “do me,” they weren’t sharing any broom-closet time. Well, he didn't leave a number, Glenda thought and there was nothing on the caller ID. She hoped whatever it was, he was okay.

  Glenda turned again, walking off in the direction of the kitchen. She pushed past the swing door and was yanked off her heels, constricted in a bear-hug. She started to scream, only to have it stifled by a huge sticky palm across her mouth. Instinctively, Glenda began to buck and kick like a wild steer in a rodeo, throwing her body into every contortion possible. She forced her assailant back through the swing door.

  “Want it to be quick and painless, then stop this shit,” the man grumbled.

  Glenda kicked ha
rder. If this asshole's intention was to simply scare her into submission, then he hadn’t thought things through very well. Most bullies never do.

  “Goddamn, girl,” the brute grunted. He wanted to hit her someplace that would result in unconsciousness, but her feral threshing made a free hand impossible.

  Glenda knew that if she could at least get sideways, she'd be a lot harder to hold on to. She squirmed and squirmed, not letting up until she felt she'd pivoted far enough toward the nearest wall. She threw her feet flat against the wall and pushed off. The two of them tumbled over the sofa and thudded to the floor. The man’s grip loosened. Glenda’s incisors then found a fat chunk of palm and she bit into it like a famished tiger. Not wanting to draw attention, the man muffled his wail with his sleeve. Glenda spat out the leathery skin and swiftly rolled over into a superior position. She then let loose a firestorm of knuckles and fingernails, beating him gangland style. This was her home, she thought. Her home! Who was this prick to come breaking in and...uhhhh!!! The violation! Bastard!

  To the intruder the flurry of blows was painful but still quaint. He jolted his thighs upward and Glenda toppled sideways. He then grabbed a huge handful of her hair, and snapped her head backward. She threw back an elbow and, by the grace of god, hit him square in the testicles. He let go, clutching his crotch and wheezing asthmatically. Glenda then sprang to her feet and dashed into the kitchen. The ugly beast sucked in a helping of air and raised from the floor. He clumsily charged the still flapping swing-door madder than shit. When he pushed it open, he was bonked dead on the nose with the fatty part of a flying pork roast and its remains of piping hot bathwater. His hands padded his scalded face and he let out a gurgled scream. He lunged forward, grabbing blindly for his would-be victim. Glenda stepped aside, allowing him to list into the kitchen. She leaned heavily into her swing. The pot skipped off his skull, with the ring of a cathedral bell. The underside of the man's chin caught the kitchen counter as he fell. He hit the floor and lay still. If the pot hadn’t already knocked him cold, the counter's uppercut certainly had. Seconds later, Glenda was in perverse spasms, gripping her priceless cookware and standing over the intruder's motionless form as it defaced her decorative tile. He was a pug-faced linebacker of a man. He wore a tacky suit and had skin like stale chocolate. His head was so polished it was like looking into the sun with naked eyes. He'd breathed on Glenda at some point and she was certain he had the kind of halitosis that could be smelled from orbit. Glenda backed up through the swing door and hit the direct police line. She then exchanged the pot for the old Louisville slugger her father had given her when she moved out. She scoffed at the sophisticated front door locks on her way back and noticed the closet door was wide open. The asshole must have been watching her the whole time, saw her with her arms loaded and didn’t hear the lock reengage. Jesus, the one time she didn’t lock it right behind her. How long had he waited inside the closet? Was he watching her sleep? God, maybe her father was right: you had to have eyes in the back of your head if you were going to live on your own in the city.

  “But I won, you asshole,” she shouted at the sharply-dressed lump. “I beat you!”

  She poised herself over the body, club-over-shoulder, like a caveman warrior atop a fresh kill. If he so much as twitched, it would be a home run.

  Chapter 6

  Jerome Wallace barely acknowledged Mai Ling Chow as he approached his office lobby in a huff. His stride remained seamless as he asked if Gabriel was inside—no dirty-old-man look, like she was used to getting from him—and Mai Ling could practically see the steam geysering from his ears as he goose-stepped toward her like one of the soldiers in her mother's old home vids from China. She gave a quick, “Yes, sir,” and Wallace entered his office, leaving her to await the severed head that was certain to come rolling to her feet.

  Once inside, Wallace made a beeline for his desk. He ventured behind it, but refused to stand still. His lips were intractably curled over his tall stalks of teeth and the most motley shade of rouge had overtaken his features. It seemed as if he was silently counting to ten in order to prepare himself for that revolting look of serenity he just knew was beaming like a full moon from the man seated across from him. When he finally pulled his chin up to take a look, he saw he was right and his whitened fists hammered the desktop.

  “Impossible!” Wallace screamed. “He never got that deep into the files and he was cut off before he could copy anything!”

  “There's no other way he could’ve known,” Gabriel said. “And he's an experienced hacker along with being a brilliant geneticist. Good with the bad, so to speak.”

  Gabriel’s calm was like a painful itch in Wallace’s balls. Everything going to hell and Gabriel was just sitting there adjusting the drape of his Armani trench coat, basking in the glow of his men’s magazine profile, and Blondelicious hair restoration. He made forty-five look like a seasoned twenty-five and, though Wallace was loathed to admit it, Gabriel had a constant bead on Wallace's jealous streak. It was why Wallace could take a smidgen of kinky pleasure in sending Gabriel to places like the upstate facility, from where his silk-lined tuchas had just returned. Wallace knew his lawyer detested the duty, but no one else could be trusted to oversee the transactions with the foreign buyers. The upstate installation—the Octohetero-something-or-other—the worker-nerds called it—engaged in the bulk of Wallace’s illegal cloning and bioweapons projects. Disgusting stuff. Gabriel would rather have spent the night in the all-too-famous Turkish prison.

  But fair is fair, Wallace thought. And it just wasn’t fair for the boss to be sweating bullets while his employees rolled around on an emotional bed of roses. A good thing Gabriel was so valuable. Millenitech's acquisitions had skyrocketed since the Thaddeus Maguire case and Wallace was well on his way to eliminating the competition nationwide.

  “It’s not possible,” Wallace reiterated, throwing his hands against the big bay window that stretched across the office. He looked like he was being arrested. “The computers don’t lie.”

  “Computers lie, cheat and steal with the best of them,” Gabriel said, nestling his hands in his lap with obscene repose. “Apparently a few details have been overlooked.”

  “You think?” Wallace said sarcastically and turned his head toward Gabriel like a tank turret. “Goddamn files might as well have been encrypted with a crossword puzzle! It's not enough I have to keep throwing money down a bottomless hole to keep my offices and labs from being blown up! Do you know how many people called in sick this morning?”

  “I'm not surprised.” Damn right he wasn't. Gabriel had gotten a most inappropriate phone call just after 2:00 a.m. from a very agitated Thaddeus Maguire who'd also been awakened by an unexpected caller just minutes prior. By the end of the conversation Gabriel knew exactly who had hit MIT and that they would claim responsibility before the day was out. Gabriel thereafter “advised” his client and cursed his name for robbing him of the remainder of his beauty rest.

  “As long as we're on the topic,” Gabriel said, lacing his fingers. “I spoke to one of my friends at the FBI this morning. He suggested we beef up security around Millenitech headquarters and some of the more exposed areas around BioCore...at least in the short term.”

  “Then be sure to thank your friend for me! I enjoy running scared because they keep getting outsmarted by some fucktard with a bag of fertilizer and a Zippo!” Wallace paused, looking ten seconds away from a stroke. That would be all he needed: to end up sharing the fate of those losers like Jenetix, out of San Francisco, who'd had its main headquarters damn near leveled. And after its owner, Nigel Thurman, was murdered, Thurman Industries, out of Boston, bled money so profusely it went into receivership. Millenitech had been able to largely steer clear of the loony leftists’ warpath early on, but within the past year a number of their subsidiaries had been hit pretty close together and now everything was about security, security, security. It was bound to happen; with its finger in so many pies, Millenitech was gorging itself at
op a biotechnology food chain that spanned the country and, unintentional or not, it produced some mighty scrumptious table scraps. It had taken Jerome Wallace less than twenty years to expand Millenitech into the largest biotech firm in history, propelled largely by its patented organ replication process, which had revolutionized the medical industry. It employed over 700,000 people all-told and brought the dream of the Great Lakes BioCore to life. A small city of smooth marble and fiberglass research centers, office complexes, and pavilions, BioCore was the centerpiece of a reconstruction project that gave Cleveland map surveyors a five-year headache. Underground and overhead walkways bridged Cleveland Clinic and University Hospital branches to the huge spawning ground of leading-edge medicine that provided an unprecedented coalition of education, research and development, and patenting and sales. It was truly a global empire to be coveted by both king and peasant alike. It was also a lot to protect. And while Jerome Wallace, could always accept it graciously when things got ugly, when they began getting expensive...it was time to start collecting scalps.

  “FBI should stand for Fucking Brainless Incompetence,” Wallace said. “That's just what it would take too: somebody detonating a bomb in the middle of BioCore. The entire complex stretches across twenty-two city blocks—if they ever decided to hit it, it could make every terrorists attack so far look like a series of backyard barbecues! And you know they'd find someplace where security was lapse and I'd get dragged through ten years' worth years of civil suits while the plummeting stock drove me to bankruptcy!” He pounded his fist on the window's thick glass over and over. “Now, to make matters worse, I've got this little frog-faced fuck hacking my systems and stealing my tech!”