The Heart Goes Last

by Margaret Atwood

  "Those were early days," Aurora says. "They're doing things differently now."

  "Differently," says Charmaine. "Things. You mean they're killing them differently? Those prisoners? They're not doing the Procedure?" She shouldn't have blurted that out, she knows never to use the k-word. She's had too much to drink. At least she didn't say murdering.

  "Killing is harsh," says Aurora. "It was positioned as the alleviation of excessive pain. And happily there are now more ways than one of doing that! Alleviating the excessive pain. Ways that are less harsh."

  "You mean, they don't kill them?" Even to herself, Charmaine sounds like a five-year-old. She's overdoing it on the dumb.

  "Hardly at all any more," says Aurora. "The thing is, people get lonely; they want someone to love them. That can be arranged for anyone now, even if you look like something the cat coughed up. Why should anyone have to endure that kind of emotional damage? Lord knows I can identify with the whole solution! Considering the way my face...this face is, you can imagine I haven't had much of a love life since that happened."

  "Poor you," says Charmaine. "Of course, there can be a downside."

  "A downside to what?" says Aurora a little coldly.

  "Well, you know. To a love life. All of that," says Charmaine. She could tell Aurora about a few of her own downsides, but why dwell on the negative?

  "Not if the person is devoted," says Aurora. "Not if they're fixated on you. Only you. It can be done, they do it by changing the brain, it's like a magic love potion."

  "Oh," says Charmaine. "That would be..." What's the word? Amazing? Impossible? She's never felt she had a lot of choice with love, especially with the hopeless kind. The kind that was mostly sex. You loved someone in that way, and wham! You couldn't help yourself. It was like going down a water slide: you couldn't stop. Or that's how it was with Max. Maybe she'll never be able to feel anything like that again.

  "Jocelyn's promised me," says Aurora. "If I helped her. She says I can have that done, very soon now, once she's identified the right match. I've been waiting so long! But now I can have a whole new life." Her eyes tear up.

  Charmaine is almost envious. A whole new life. How can she herself get one of those?

  ESCORT

  "You've snagged your first Elvis Escort gig," Rob tells Stan at breakfast. Or at Stan's breakfast. It's more like lunch for Rob, but Stan slept in. They're both eating much the same thing, however: undifferentiated foodstuffs. Things that come already sliced, things in foil packages, things in jars. The Elvisorium is not a gourmet establishment.

  Stan pauses in mid-crackle. He has to stop gobbling Pringles, they'll make him fat. "Where?" he says.

  "Woman here for that broadcaster convention," says Rob. "NAB. She's television, or ex-television from the sound of it. Thought I ought to know who she was. She wants someone to take her to a show. Sounds harmless."

  Stan actually feels nervous. Performance anxiety, he tells himself. What's there to worry about? This isn't his real job, or the rest of his fucking life. "So, what exactly do I do?" he says.

  "What she's ordered up," says Rob. "You don't even have to go through the dinner, it's just the show. You won't know about the sex till later in the evening; that can be an impulse buy. But remember to compliment them on their dress. Gaze into their eyes, all of that. At UR-ELF we're noted for our discreet attention to every detail."

  "Okay, got it," says Stan.

  --

  He goes for his usual stroll along the Strip to quiet his nerves, poses for a few photos, collects a few dollars, and one fiver from a big spender from Illinois. When he gets back to the Elvisorium, Rob's still in the kitchen. "Some guys were here looking for you," he says. "They had your picture."

  "What kind of guys?" says Stan.

  "Four guys. They were bald. They had sunglasses."

  "What'd you tell them?" says Stan. Four bald guys with sunglasses - that sounds ominous. Jocelyn never mentioned anything like that, and neither did Budge or Veronica. His contact is supposed to be just one person. Has Ed traced the data leak to its source, has he pulled off Jocelyn's fingernails to extract Stan's whereabouts from her? Are these guys Ed's heavies? He sees himself being yanked into a car, then tied to a chair in a vacant garage having the crap smashed out of him until he cries, "It's in the belt buckle!" Already he's sweating inside his Elvis carapace. Or sweating more than he was.

  "I said they had the wrong address," said Rob. "I didn't like the feel of them."

  "What kind of picture?" Stan asks. He gets himself a beer, gulps down half of it in one swig. "Of me. You think it was taken here?" If so, he's really in trouble.

  "Nah, it was old," says Rob. "You were standing on a beach with a hot blonde, with penguins on your shirt."

  Stan feels his stomach clench. It's his honeymoon pic, it has to be. The last time he saw a copy of that was at Possibilibots; it was beside Charmaine's head, and he himself had been deleted. Ed and the Project are calling the shots on this, for sure. They've tracked him down.

  Fuck it, he thinks. I'm fucked.

  --

  He figures it's better to stay in crowds - the bald thugs won't want to call attention to themselves while abducting him - so it's good he has a client for the evening. Her name is Lucinda Quant, which rings a distant bell. Didn't Charmaine used to watch a show this Lucinda did, back when they were sleeping in their car? The first time he heard that name he could imagine the locker-room jokes it must have generated in Lucinda's teenaged years.

  He meets her at her hotel, as arranged; it's the Venetian one. The lobby is crammed with NAB convention-goers, still with their badges on. Some of them look as if they ought to be famous, or have been, once; the others, the scruffier-looking ones, are probably from radio.

  Lucinda Quant spots him before he spots her. "Are you my rent-boy Elvis?" she says. He peers down at her tag and growls, "Why yes, little lady."

  "Not bad," says Lucinda Quant. She's about fifty, or maybe sixty; Stan can't tell because she's so tanned and wrinkly. She grabs Stan's arm, waves goodbye to a chattering group of her fellow broadcast journalists, and says, "Let's get out of this freak show."

  Stan hands her into a taxi, goes around to the other side, and slides in beside her. He gives her his best rubbery-lipped smile, which she doesn't return. She's skinny in the arms, teeth-whitened, and covered with silver and turquoise ornaments. Her hair's dyed black, her eyebrows are drawn on with a pencil, and on her head she's wearing two little horns, like baby goat horns, orange in colour.

  "Good evening, ma'am," he says in his Elvis register. "I sure do admire those horns you got." It's as good a way as any of starting social chat.

  She laughs the hoarse laugh of a long-time smoker. "Got them here, from a street vendor," she says. "Supposed to be the horns of Nymp."

  "Nymp?" says Stan.

  "It's a nymphomaniac imp," says Lucinda Quant. "Some comic book manga thing. My grandkids know about it, they say it's all the rage."

  "How old are they?" Stan asks politely.

  "Eight and ten," says Lucinda. "They even know what 'nymphomaniac' means. When I was their age I didn't know which end of the lollipop to put in my mouth."

  Is that an innuendo? Stan hopes not. Suck it up, Stan, he tells himself. Be a man. Better still, be some other man. Lucinda reeks of Blue Suede, an Elvis tribute scent Stan has inhaled a ton of lately. A lot of the old babes wear it; it must be sort of like cats rolling around on their dead owner's sweatshirts. It's weird to wear a perfume named after shoes, but what does he know? The aroma - a little like cinnamon, but with an undertone of leather preservative - wafts up from between Lucinda's breasts, the tops of which are on display in the plunge neckline of her scarlet hibiscus-flowered dress.

  "So first I thought, those horns are for kids," says Lucinda, "but then I thought, why not? Go for it, gal! Live while you can, is what I say. I'm going to tell you right now this isn't my real hair. It's a wig. I'm a cancer survivor, or I am so far, touch wood, and right now I
just want to enjoy the hell out of life."

  "That's okay, these aren't my real lips," says Stan, and Lucinda laughs again. "You're fabulous," she says. She slides over and positions one of her bony little butt cheeks up against his thigh. Should he say, in his deep Elvis voice, "Whoa, darlin', we've got all night"? No; that would hint, unfairly, of delights to come. Instead he says, "So, since you've shared with me, I feel I should tell you that I'm gay."

  She laughs her smoky laugh. "No, you're not," she says. She pats his white-clad knee. "But good try. We can discuss that later."

  Here they are at the venue, in the nick of time. The casino is a new one, with a Russian Empire theme; it's called The Kremlin. Gold onion domes on the outside, servitors in red boots, a line of fire-eaters dressed as Cossacks waiting to welcome them. One of these helps Lucinda out of the car while raising his flaming torch high in the other hand.

  White Russians featured at the bars, and dancers in faux-fur pasties bumping to Slavic rock on several of the gambling tables. Four theatres inside: the shows now pull in more than the gambling, according to Rob, though they make you walk through the gambling on the off chance you'll be seized by the devil of risk.

  "This way," says Lucinda, "I've been here before." She steers him toward the theatre where their show will shortly begin.

  Stan keeps an eye out for any bald guys with sunglasses, but so far, so good. They make it past the slots and the blackjack and the table dancers without mishap, then into the auditorium. He settles Lucinda into her seat; she puts on her rhinestone-studded reading glasses and peers at the souvenir program.

  Stan glances around, locates the exits in case he has to run. There are at least a dozen other Elvises present in the auditorium, each with a crone under his wing. There's also a scattering of Marilyns, in red dresses and silver-blond wigs, paired with elderly dudes. Some of them have their arms around the shoulders of their Marilyns; the Marilyns are throwing back their heads, doing the iconic open-mouthed laugh, flashing their Marilyn teeth. He has to admit it's sexy, that laugh, even though he knows how fake it is.

  "Now we'll make some conversation," says Lucinda Quant. "How did you get into this business?" Her voice has the neutrality and edge of a professional interviewer, which is what she claims to be.

  Watch it, Stan, he tells himself. Remember those four bald guys. Too many questions means danger. "It's a long story," he says. "I just do this when I'm between engagements. I'm an actor, really. In musical comedy." That's a sure-fire yawner: everyone here is.

  Luckily for him, the show begins.

  REQUISITION

  Early on the Monday morning, Jocelyn comes over to the house. Charmaine's had a shower and is dressed for work, with a white frilly blouse and all, but she isn't feeling up to scratch - it must be a hangover, though she's had so few of those in her life she isn't sure. Aurora is making scrambled eggs and coffee, even though Charmaine has said she doesn't think she could look an egg in the face. She has a dim memory of what they discussed the night before. She wishes she could recall more of it.

  "There's an update," says Jocelyn.

  "Coffee?" says Aurora.

  "Thanks," says Jocelyn. She inspects Charmaine. "What's happened? You look like hell, if you don't mind my saying so."

  "It's the grief," Aurora says, and she and Charmaine both giggle.

  Jocelyn takes this in. "Okay, good story. Stick to it if he asks," she says. "I can see that the two of you had a play date in the liquor cabinet. I'll get rid of the evidence for you, empties are my thing. Now listen up."

  They sit at the kitchen table. Charmaine tries a sip of coffee. She's not ready to tackle the eggs yet.

  "Here's his plan," says Jocelyn. "Charmaine, he'll tell you he's taking a business trip to Las Vegas. He'll ask you to book tickets for him, and for yourself as well. He'll say he requires your services onsite."

  "What kind of services?" Charmaine asks nervously. "Is he going to trap me in a hotel room, and then..."

  "Nothing so simple," says Jocelyn. "As you know, he's through with sexbots, for his personal use. He's moving to the next frontier."

  "This is what I was telling you," says Aurora. "Last night."

  Charmaine's recollections of last night are a little fuzzy. No, they are very fuzzy. What was it she and Aurora were drinking? Maybe there was a drug in it. There was something about Aurora's face coming off, but that can't be right. "Frontier?" she says. All she can think of is Western movies.

  Jocelyn brings out her PosiPad, turns it on, calls up a video. "Sorry for the quality," she says, "but you can hear quite well." There's a pixelated Ed standing in front of a large boardroom touchscreen that says Possibilibots in writing that scrawls across the space, explodes into fireworks, then begins again. He's addressing a small gathering of men in suits, visible only as the backs of heads.

  "I have it on good authority," he's saying in his most persuasive manner, "that the interface experience, even with our most advanced models, is and can only ever be an unconvincing substitute for the real thing. A resort for the desperate, perhaps" - here there's some laughter from the backs of the heads - "but surely we can do better than that!"

  Murmuring; the haircuts nod.

  Ed continues: "The human body is complex, my friends - more complex than we can hope to duplicate with what is, and can only be, a mechanical contrivance. And the human body is driven by the human brain, which is the most sophisticated, the most intricate construct in the known universe. We've been killing ourselves trying to approximate that body-brain combo! But maybe we got hold of the wrong end of the stick!"

  "How do you mean?" asks one of the heads.

  "What I mean is, why build a self-standing device when a self-standing device already exists? Why reinvent the wheel? Why not just make those wheels roll where we want them to? In a way that is beneficial to all. The greatest possible happiness of the greatest possible number - that's what Possibilibots stands for, am I right?"

  "Cut to the chase," says one of the haircuts. "You're not on TV, we don't need the sermon."

  "What's wrong with our current position? I thought we were raking it in," says another.

  "We are, we are," says Ed. "But we can rake it in even more. Okay, short form: why not take an existing body and brain, and, by a painless intervention, cause that entity - that person - not to put too fine a point on it, that hot babe who won't come across for you - cause her to home in on you and you alone, as if she thinks you're the sexiest hunk she's ever seen?"

  "Is this some kind of a perfume?" says another voice. "With the pheromones, like with moths? I tried that, it's crap. I attracted a raccoon."

  "No shit! A real raccoon? Or just a dame with..."

  "If it's a new oxytocin-Viagara pill, they don't last. The next morning she'll go back to thinking you're a douche."

  "What happened with the raccoon? That would be something new!" Laughter.

  "No, no," says Ed. "Let's settle down. It's not a pill, and believe it or not, it isn't science fiction. The technique they're refining at our Las Vegas clinic is based on the work that's been done on the erasure of painful memories, in vets, child-abuse survivors, and so forth. They discovered that not only can they pinpoint various fears and negative associations in the brain and then excise them, but they can also wipe out your previous love object and imprint you with a different one."

  The camera moves to a very pretty woman in a hospital bed. She's asleep. Then her eyes open, move sideways. "Oh," she says, smiling with joy. "You're here! At last! I love you!"

  "Wow, that simple," says a haircut. "She's not acting?"

  "No," says Ed. "This is one that didn't work out; we tried it onsite here, but it was too soon, the technique hadn't been perfected. Our Vegas team is up to speed on it now. But it illustrates the principle." Segue left: The woman is pressing her lips to a blue teddy bear in a passionate kiss.

  "That's Veronica!" Charmaine almost shrieks. "Oh my gosh! She's fallen in love with knitwear!"

&n
bsp; "Wait," says Jocelyn. "There's more."

  "I don't know what saboteur gave her that bear," Ed says. "Trouble is, this thing works on anything with two eyes. The guy who ordered the hit...ordered the job...ordered the operation was very annoyed when he turned up, but he was too late. She'd already imprinted. Timing is everything."

  "This is dynamite," says one of the heads. "You could have a harem, you could have..."

  "So you designate the target..."

  "You requisition it..."

  "Into the van, then the plane," says Ed, "off to the Vegas clinic, a quick needle, and then - a whole new life!"

  "Fan-fucking-tastic!"

  Jocelyn turns off the PosiPad. "That's it, in a nutshell," she says.

  "You mean, they're snatching them?" says Charmaine. "Out of their own lives? The women?"

  "That's a blunt way of putting it," says Jocelyn. "Though not just women, it's a unisex thing. Yes, that would be the idea. But the subject doesn't mind, because their previous love attachments have been nullified."

  "So that's why Ed wants her to go on the business trip to Vegas?" says Aurora.

  "He hasn't told me in so many words," says Jocelyn, "but it's a fair guess."

  "You mean, he wants to fix it so I don't love Stan any more," Charmaine says. She hears her own voice: it's so sad. If that happened, Stan would become a stranger to her. Their whole past, their wedding, living in their car, everything they went through together...Maybe she'd remember it, but it wouldn't mean anything. It would be like listening to someone else, someone she doesn't even know, someone boring.

  "Yes. You wouldn't love Stan any more. You'd love Ed instead," says Jocelyn. "You'd dote on him."

  This is like one of those love potions in the old fairy-tale books at Grandma Win's, thinks Charmaine. The kind where you get imprisoned by a toad prince. In those stories you always got the true love back at the end, as long as you had a magic silver dress or something; but in real life - in this real life, the one Ed's planning for her - she'll be under some awful toad prince spell forever. "That's horrible!" Charmaine says. "I'll kill myself first!"