by Nancy Kress
“What hospital?” I say.
“Carter Memorial. There was a federal marshall guarding your room. People kept coming and going, FBI and doctors and such. They wouldn’t let me see you. They said you were hysterical, almost psychotic. Finally, three days later, Melita took me aside and said they were going to do an induced retrograde amnesia, that you were going psychotic without it and it was either that or keep you so heavily drugged you’d never be able to dance again.”
I say, “So they wiped his memory so they didn’t lose a good moneymaking dancer,” and again they both look at me like I’m a dead fish.
Atuli says, “The alternative was not to dance.”
“So? You could do something else.”
Atuli shakes his head. He’s holding Radisson’s hand again; good thing this dump is empty. “The same thing happened when we started a ballet about fertility … at some level, my brain knew. Even when I didn’t know. It’s all tied together, somehow: dancing and … what they did to me.… Go on, Rob.”
But I say, “Who signed? For the operation. If he was psycho, a family member would of had to sign.”
Atuli’s hand tightens on his lover’s. I suddenly see that this is where he learns if he’s got any family. But Radisson says to me, “Mr. C. signed. Cameron only has an uncle and cousins, all of who threw him out long ago, for … for loving men. So Mr. C. signed.”
They don’t see nothing wrong with this, apparently, but I know better. Atuli wasn’t no minor, and this Mr. C. had no right. Somebody was bending rules all over the place.
“I knew what an induced amnesia would mean,” Radisson says, his voice husky now. “You wouldn’t even remember me, Cam. Not anything that we’d been to each other. I couldn’t bear it. I had to see you once more, no matter what. So in the middle of the night I bribed the marshall—”
“With what?” I say, interested.
Radisson suddenly blushes bright red. So that works for rucky-fuckies, too! But then Radisson says, “With all the money I had saved,” and I see that the blush was for this supposed crime of bribery. Dancers are weird.
I say, “So you got in to see Atuli in the middle of the night. This is the important part, Radisson. Tell us everything he said. Everything.” A horrible thought hits me. “Was Atuli raving crazy?”
“No. He was … they’d given you some drug, Cam, to calm you down. You were crying, but slowly, heavily, like nothing mattered any more. That was the drugs. But you recognized me, and we talked, and I … made love to you. I thought it might be the last time ever. They said that after the operation, I couldn’t ever tell you how we’d been together … or anything else about the past. I had to let you move on. So I got into that narrow little bed with you, and—”
“No pervert stuff,” I say. “Just tell us what Atuli said to you.”
Radisson don’t even look at me. His gaze is glued to Atuli. “You said three men had grabbed you and forced you into a car. You described how they took tissue samples and MOSS readings and then they brought in a porn holo for you to … give a semen sample. But you wouldn’t—”
No wonder, I think—probably the porn was of a girl. But I don’t say it out loud.
“—so one of the men said, ‘Then just take the whole thing, and we’ll test it that way. We’re going to delete him anyway.’ And … they did.”
He stops. I’m going to want a lot more details than this, but not just yet. I say, “Radisson, did they say anything—anything that Atuli repeated to you, anyway—to show that they knew he was a world-famous dancer?”
“No,” Radisson says.
“Did Atuli say anything about the location of this place, or the place Atuli’s balls and tissue samples were going to, or the men’s names, or anything?”
“Yes,” Radisson says, and I draw in a breath. Atuli’s face is still stone.
Radisson says, this time to me, “Cam told me that he was in the car for exactly fifty-five minutes. They didn’t take his wrister away, and he timed it. They didn’t blindfold him. When he got out, it was in a parking lot all overgrown with weeds. He glimpsed the outside of the building across the street—it was boarded-up old-style concrete blocks, with a name in faded paint. KANG, LTD. He could smell the ocean, and there were seagulls overhead. The men called each other ‘Zuger,’ ‘Meyerhoff,’ and ‘Doctor.’ He described them for me. They argued in front of him about which of two places to send the tissues, and they decided on ‘Emily Jogerst,’ in Philadelphia, because she had the best contacts even though she didn’t pay the highest price.”
“Jesus” is all I can think of to say. Here it is. The bastards weren’t careful at all; they’d expected to kill Atuli, so it didn’t matter what he heard. We got actual names and places.
Which means so does the FBI. But a case like this—Atuli’s face on chimps—would have been all over the newsgrids as soon as charges were filed. Which means either no charges are filed yet while the feds follow through, or that they’re sitting on the whole thing. Which?
I say to Radisson, “Who else did you tell any of this to?”
“No one.”
“Not the feds?”
“They didn’t find out I’d been in to see Cam. And when they asked what else, if anything, I knew, I said nothing. They’d have had it all from Cam anyway, wouldn’t they, with truth drugs?”
“Yeah. They would.” I don’t know what the feds are doing with their information. But whatever it is, it won’t magically clear me of lying in front of Congress so I can get into the army. Nobody isn’t going to bother with that little detail, unless I do it myself. And now I have a name. Emily Jogerst. In Philadelphia.
Where in Philadelphia?
A human being finally appears in the doorway at the back of the bar. He notices Atuli and Radisson holding hands across the table, and he scowls hard. I get them out of there, and I walk between them while we find someplace else to talk. I need more information, all the information Radisson has, before I can plan what to do next.
* * *
Maggie, who’s still not home, is the same size as me, just a little smaller in the tits and thicker in the waist. I stand in her bedroom trying on clothes I could never afford, and wouldn’t buy if I could. Calf-length dresses, loose flowing vests. Old-lady stuff, without no flash. “How about this red one?” I say to Atuli, who sits in a bedroom chair, watching me.
“I still don’t like the whole idea,” he says, scowling.
“You got a better one? No. What about the dress?”
“Too tight in the bust,” Atuli says. “You’re trying to look rich, for God’s sake. And that color isn’t right for you. Put the blue one back on.”
“I fade out in the blue one!”
“You’re supposed to fade out. You’re a young rich matron, not a hooker.”
I yank the red dress over my head and stand fuming in my underwear. Atuli don’t react, of course. I pull the blue dress back on, pale silk, cut soft and full, hardly don’t show my figure at all. And it goes down past my knees. With a stewdee ruffle of cream-colored lace on the attached vest. Atuli nods. “Yes. In that one you look believable. Sort of.”
He gets up and gathers my hair into a low knot at the back of my head, like the ballerinas wear. The front he slicks smooth with pomade, and then tips his head to eye me critically. “Yes. But I’m going to do your makeup. Wash your face.”
I let him, hating what he does. Maggie’s pale old-lady colors, and hardly none of those. But I have to admit that when he’s done, I look like what I’m supposed to be: a rich boring girl who could be Laurie Clementi. I’m even blonde like her, although the difference is buttercups to baby shit.
“Yes,” Atuli says. “Now let’s go, before anyone comes home.”
“You’re not going with me!” I yell, for maybe the millionth time. “They know you, stewdee. They cut off your balls, remember? One sight of you and it’s over. You can’t go.”
“I can go as far as the Philadelphia train station.”
�
��No. I don’t want you cluttering up my movements. Go back to Aldani House, Atuli, like I told you.”
He says, “And suppose you need physical help?”
I laugh. “From you? A rucky-fucky dancer?”
His face darkens and he moves away from me. Suddenly, in a blur, I’m on the floor, pinned. I try all my tricks, but he don’t let go. He’s strong, and fast, and trained. I pant, “Where’d you learn that?”
“I don’t know. But dance is an athletic discipline, asshole.”
I struggle some more, but he’s really good. Finally I thrust my face up suddenly and kiss him full on the lips. He lets me go like I’m poison ivy, and I laugh. “Too bad, Atuli. You don’t know what you’re missing. But you’re still not going with me.”
He glares at me. All of a sudden I see that he needs to stay angry, that the anger is fueling him. It’s the first thing about him I’ve understood.
“Listen,” I say. “Don’t worry about me. And there’s something I need you to do here. If I don’t call you at Aldani House by twenty-four hours from now, then you have to come back here and tell the whole story to Nick. He can get high-level cops involved if he has to—he told me so. Tell him everything. But only if you don’t hear nothing from me, okay?”
“Yes,” he says, but will he do it? Guys like him usually just run away from scary situations.
Before we leave the house, I write a note to Nick and Maggie: Not home tonite. Hot date with gorjus guy. They’ll believe that, all right, or at least Maggie will. She thinks I’m a slut. Too bad she can’t see me in her boring blue dress.
Two blocks down the street, Atuli snaps, “For God’s sake, don’t walk like that. You’re supposed to look like a young wife, not a hooker.”
“I know what I’m supposed to look like and I know how to do it when the time comes! Leave me the fuck alone!”
We glare at each other, and then he says suddenly, surprising me, “Shana. Be careful.”
“Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself. I’ll phone you.”
He nods and starts off in the opposite direction. He really does have a cute butt. What a waste.
I walk carefully to the nearest station and catch a train to Philadelphia.
* * *
It’s not so hard to find people as you might think, even in a big strange city. Not if you know the kind of people you’re looking for, and have someplace to start.
People running large-scale underground markets need large-scale aboveground fronts. It accounts for the trucks and visitors and stuff, and it gives the local cops someplace to say they didn’t know was illegal if their payoffs get investigated. At South Station I simply use the public vid directory. There are two “E. Jogerst’s.”
I call the first one. An old man comes on-line. “May I speak to Emily Jogerst?”
“No Emily here, just me,” he growls, and blanks. Okay. Try the other code.
“May I speak to Emily Jogerst?”
“May I ask what this is in reference to?” the pleasant middle-aged holo in a business vest says. Behind her—it—is an office that might of been any office anyplace, or just another holo.
I make my voice soft and scared. “It’s … personal. Mr. Meyerhoff sent me.”
“Just a moment.”
Long delay. They’re tracing. I smooth my hand over my hair to make sure it’s still stuffed into the stewdee ballerina bun. People hurry past in South Station, under a high ceiling so gritty it must not of been cleaned in fifty years. Or maybe it was built like that.
“Hello. This is Emily Jogerst. You’ve reached Martin Medical Supplies, Inc. Was that what you wanted?”
Meyerhoff must usually use a different number. Be careful. I look confused and even more scared. “I … don’t know. I lost the number Mr. Meyerhoff gave me, so I just looked in the directory.… I’m Laurie Clementi. I’m looking for … a job.” And I hold my breath. If there’s supposed to be a code word, I’ve blown it. “Job” is the best I could come up with, after a lot of thought on the train. It could mean employment, or delivery, or …
“I see. May I have your citizen ID number, Ms. Clementi?”
I give her Laurie’s number. It’s amazing what people leave around in their files when they got house guests. Old tax returns, family records, vid pictures, notes to themselves.
“Where can I reach you in a few minutes? Naturally we do a background check before we offer employment interviews, even with recommendations.”
Jesus, does she think Meyerhoff really recommended me for employment? I stammer, “Well, right now I’m at the train station, I’m from out of town.…”
“Please give me that number.”
I do, and she blanks. I spend ten minutes fidgeting on a bench, watching all the old people hobbling past. Two moldy ladies together, cackling and laughing like kids. What have they got to laugh about? An old fart with a walker, inching his way along. Then another one. Not even the one or two young men hit on me. Looking like a young matron is boring.
The vid rings and I jump for it. “Your employment credentials check out, Ms. Clementi, and as it happens we need another secretary immediately. Could you possibly meet me for dinner?”
I burble all pretty, “Oh, yes, of course, thank you, where?”
She gives me an address and a time, and after an hour of wasting time in a VR parlor programmed like the Mars colonies, I get a cab. The restaurant is small, one of those places where there’s only three things every day on the menu and the chef cooks them all himself fresh. I walk in like Laurie Clementi, who I met at a family dinner at Dr. Clementi’s house, and who everybody treats like she’s some sort of precious gift made out of breakable glass.
“Ms. Clementi? Here.”
Emily Jogerst is maybe fifty, big-boned but pretty, dressed in clothes like mine. Like Maggie’s. Her eyes are lasers. I smile shyly and drop my napkin and bite my lip and otherwise look bothered and nervous. We chitchat about the menu, we order drinks. I ask for a wine that Nick once served at his house.
“Now, let’s talk,” Jogerst says pleasantly. “You’re Mrs. John Clementi, and you need a … job.”
At dinner Laurie looked so honest you wanted to kick her. I say, “Ms. Jogerst, what I need is … I can’t have a baby. And we’ve tried so hard.”
If this really is a job interview, that should make Jogerst think I’m nuts. But she says, “You’ve visited three different fertility clinics, over three years.”
Did I? I don’t know that much about Laurie Clementi. But I nod.
“You and your husband are not wealthy people,” Jogerst says.
I rush in with, “No, but my husband is—”
“—Dr. Nicholas Clementi’s son. Who stands to inherit quite a bit. But not just yet, and of course there are other heirs.”
“Oh, but my father-in-law will help us now! He wants a grandchild just as much as John and I want a baby!”
Jogerst nods. “Yes, we know that.” How, for fucking sake? She adds, “Does he know you’re here now?”
“No.” I look down at the table. “I wanted to … to investigate the situation first.”
“And how do you know Mr. Meyerhoff?” She’s looking at me real sharp.
I take a deep breath. This is my weak link. “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you that. The person who gave me the name asked me not to. She’s an old friend.”
“Someone we’ve helped previously?”
I say nothing, though that’s exactly what I want her to think. These rich people must have their own underground word-of-mouth. Somewhere Laurie Clementi must know somebody who’s done fertility on the black market, even if Laurie don’t know she knows.
“I see,” Jogerst says. “Well, then, let’s proceed to what you’ve heard about what we can do for you. You know we don’t deal in newborn babies?”
“I know. And I … we … couldn’t afford that anyway. But I know someone who has … I think I could love a substitute baby.”
“A pet?”
“If it looked human. Like … a chimpanzee with a human face. I could love it.”
There—I laid down my cards. She says, “And how do you know we can provide such a thing?”
“The same way I heard about you.”
Jogerst goes on studying me. I see the moment she comes to a decision. “I see. Mrs. Clementi, there is sometimes a gap between what we visualize and what is actually offered. Before you and I talk any further, I’d like you to see one of our little ones. If you don’t mind delaying your meal a few minutes, I can show you an adorable little one now.”
“Here?”
She smiles. “In the parking lot, of course. In my van.”
I look eager, which isn’t hard because I am. They exist. They’re real. And if I can bring one to Nick and he can take it to that fucking Congressional committee to prove I wasn’t lying.… US Army, here I come. Weapons training. Maybe someday be a non-com.…
Jogerst says something to the maitre d’ and leads me out a back door. Her van, with heavily opaqued windows, is parked so the back opens into a corner made by two high fences. We squeeze behind the van and she unlocks it. I suddenly wonder if this particular chimp will have Atuli’s face. But that would be too much of a coincidence, an operation this slick must have a choice of chimp babies—
A man leans out of the back of the open van and grabs me.
I don’t even have time to scream. His hand clamps my mouth shut, followed immediately by tape. He snaps on manacles, wrists and ankles. Jogerst climbs in behind me and slams the door. The unseen driver starts us moving.
“Now, we’ll talk,” Jogerst says to me. “One way or another.” I try to kick her, but the manacles are fastened to the side of the van and the chain don’t reach that far. She laughs and studies me.
“You’re pretty good, I’ll give you that. Laurie Clementi’s ID number, medical history, life story. If it hadn’t been for Billy McCullough, I might have bought the whole thing.”
Billy McCullough? Who’s that? I duck away from the man taking my retina scan. He tries again and gets it, jamming the scanner against my eye so hard that I’ll have a shiner.
Jogerst says, “I see you don’t know that Dr. Clementi already contacted us through McCullough about a little one for Laurie. And he described Laurie Clementi: ‘mixed background, some French, some Hispanic, some black. Dark hair, light brown skin, hazel eyes flecked with gold.’ … That’s certainly not you.”