by R. Lee Smith
“With outwork programs,” she said. She felt no horror. She felt nothing at all, only the impossible cold and a mild confusion. Was it still today? Hadn’t she just been sitting with Sanford in that smelly little shed, watching a stripper seduce a floor lamp? Did she only dream that part? This couldn’t be the dream, she knew that; any dream this awful would wake her up.
“Outwork, ja, at first. And perhaps, as public opinion change…adoption programs.”
“Adoption.”
“Best for the bug, certainly, to be reared in a human environment. The camps…ah, we do what we can, but the bug is ultimately master of his own condition. We have done all we can for him. It is the next generation we focus on now and how to achieve his integration.”
“I can’t do that. I can’t—” She bit down on that with effort and said instead, “Sir, I barely got through high school. I’m sure you need degrees or something to do what you want. I’m just not qualified!”
“What is qualified?” he countered. “When I begin IBI, do you think I have degrees in alien management, hmm? Nee, I have only what you have—the strength of my conviction. Experience come in its own time. So it will be with you,” he concluded, reaching into his inner jacket pocket. He withdrew an envelope, but did not immediately extend it. He only held it and his expression, always difficult to read, grew even more inscrutable. “I do not make this decision lightly,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “And I must confess I am not entirely at ease, but after all is said, I believe you have much to offer, Miss Fowler, if your, ah, enthusiasm can be properly directed. So.”
He gave her the envelope. She took it. It was stamped with IBI’s logo—two big Is with that proud arch connecting them over a little B. The happy rainbow of bullshit, Kate used to call that. Sarah used to call it a bridge. IBI, triumphant, and underneath, their slogan. We do good work.
She opened it and took out two sheets of paper. That was all. Two printed pages that seemed to be a schedule. First on the list was Passport photo. Last was Land in Novokuznetsk. That didn’t sound like Kansas.
Sarah looked up. “I don’t understand.” She did. “Am I going somewhere?”
“Ja. I am sending you to Silverbrook, to take control of my efforts there to, ah, domesticate the young bug. Existing protocol has been some years in operation, but results have been…unimpressive. My people there do fine work, but perhaps lack your sincere affection.”
“I don’t…” Sarah shuffled numbly through those same two pages over and over. “Sir, I don’t even know where this place is.”
“Russia. The outer edge of Siberia.” Van Meyer rolled out another shrug. “There will be a car to take you the rest of the way in to Silverbrook.”
Sarah could only stare at him. “In to Silverbrook. In…to Siberia?”
“Is beautiful country. The weather can be at times severe, but you will spend most of your time indoors. The houses, much more comfortable, and IBI community, much more self-sufficient. They have ostrich farm on site. I know,” he said with a chuckle. “Ostriches in Siberia, but they tell me they do well.”
Sarah looked again at her itinerary, seeing only a meaningless jumble of letters, bringing nothing into focus until, with a start, she realized there were dates and times affixed to each point of van Meyer’s plan. “This says…Sir, this says I’m leaving tomorrow!”
“Ja?” Spoken with polite inquiry and no more.
“That’s not enough time! I couldn’t even pack that fast! I don’t know the language…I don’t even know where to look for this…this…Nova-kunu place on a map! And my van! How am I supposed to ship it to Siberia?”
He laughed at her, and yes, it really was a silly thing to say, but all she could think of. “We are happy to purchase at blue book, my dear,” he told her. “You will have a driver for all your needs, but you will find that Silverbrook is far more isolated than Cottonwood. Isolated, but self-sufficient. No one has personal vehicle there. As for pack, you will take only those few essential things with you and the rest will be sent. It is all arranged.”
It was the last straw she could see, so she grasped at it. Turning toward Piotr, she said, “But we had a date.”
“A date?” Van Meyer stared right through Sarah to his henchman, by all appearances thunderstruck. “You…date?”
Piotr’s mouth stretched, not smiling, but trying to fake it.
Now van Meyer looked at Sarah, a thoughtful look, the look of a man who had solved a thousand problems, but never saw this one coming.
“Friday,” she said. “I already bought the dress.”
His brows knit.
“A black one,” she said, and looked down at the papers. “The first fancy one I ever bought.” She’d bought fancy underwear too, all of it hanging from a hook in the bathroom, waiting to be put on. There was a garbage bag rolled up under the sink waiting for when she took them off again. She hadn’t thought she’d ever want to touch them again.
Van Meyer frowned and looked at Piotr. “You intended to do what, exactly?”
Behind her, Piotr shifted. “There’s a place in town,” he muttered, avoiding eye contact.
“Town?” he echoed sharply.
For the first time, Sarah saw Piotr’s temper flare in the presence of his employer. “What do you think, I’m going to make her eat off the fucking floor?”
In an instant, van Meyer’s black eyes took on the cold shine of space. “Perhaps you should have informed me of your intention,” he said quietly, setting his drink aside. “My plans are now made and I see no reason they should be altered to suit your social life.”
“Hey, I’m the not one asking, am I? But since you bring it up, thirty fucking years and I gotta ask your permission before I take a girl out? I ain’t your kid, old man! And what fucking business is it of yours where I take her?”
Van Meyer stood up and said something that wasn’t in English, cutting off this tirade while it was still gaining strength. There was a lot more, but it was all in that other language and now so were Piotr’s replies, first angry, then sullen, and finally grudgingly apologetic. At last, silence. The two men faced each other with Sarah small on the couch between them. Time has an entirely different elasticity in those situations, but she didn’t think it could have been more than a minute before van Meyer began to speak again. His words were not English, but his attitude was conciliatory, if frosty. He finished with, “And after all, it is none of my business, is it?” He gave Piotr a final probing stare, then smiled at Sarah. “Saturday, then. Saturday is soon enough. More time to pack, ja?”
“Thank you, sir. This is…This is an amazing opportunity.” She groped for something more to say, something to alleviate at least some of the suspicions that had caused him to extend this horrible offer, but came up completely empty. In desperation, she just stood up and put out her hand.
Van Meyer’s gaze dropped to study that. He laughed, very softly, and took it. His grip held on just a bit too long and squeezed just a bit too tight. “I believe I will miss you,” he mused.
“Thank you, sir.” She wasn’t sure that was the right thing to say, but her mind was still blank.
“Of course, I will see you soon enough in Silverbrook. And I am certain you will have the initial phase of your plan ready for my consideration.” He smiled as his grip flexed around her trapped hand. “I understand it may be some time before we achieve desired result, but if you can deliver me a domesticated bug within five years, I shall be extremely happy. But I am ahead of myself.” He released her. “In Silverbrook, there is time for all things. Now you go. Driver is waiting to take you for passport photo and necessary vaccinations. You will not be going back to work, far too much to do, but…why not? I will arrange for driver to take you into Cottonwood to collect your small bug. I know that you are fond of him and I see no reason you should not take him with you to Silverbrook.”
“Thank you so much,” Sarah heard herself say and then frowned. “But I don’t have a kennel or anything…and I’m
going to be so busy packing that I really couldn’t give him the supervision he needs. Perhaps I could pick him up later? I would really like to do it myself,” she added. “I don’t want to scare him.”
“Of course. Saturday, then.” He glanced at Piotr. “After your date.” And back to Sarah. “So, it is settled. If you could escort yourself, Miss Fowler? Piotr, a word.”
Sarah turned herself around and put her feet in motion. The itinerary in her hands caught her eyes now and then, but the real events weren’t on it. Passports and vaccinations were nothing. The real itinerary, as far as Sarah was concerned, could have been written in three lines:
Wednesday afternoon to Friday night—keep away from Cottonwood.
Friday night—sex with Piotr.
Saturday morning—vanish from the face of the Earth.
* * *
The next few hours passed in an honest-to-God blur. She could remember the overly-white light of IBI’s medical wing, but not the shots themselves; the sound of one of those pinging machines a few curtains away, but not the face of the doctor who examined her, much less his name. The only proof she had that the photo session had even happened was the passport sitting in her hands. She sat in the front seat of one of IBI’s plentiful white vans and watched scenery, but it wasn’t until she saw Cottonwood’s outer security gate that she knew where she was. If the driver said anything at any point, she wasn’t aware of it. She may have answered if he had, but she wasn’t aware of that either.
She asked the driver where she could get good boxes for packing and he took her to the copy room in the Administrations building. It was late. The halls were dark, but not entirely empty. The good news had gotten around already and she was stopped several times by total strangers who wanted to congratulate her. One of them wanted to know if it was true that she’d be training the bugs to act as personal assistants and if so, what rank he had to be to apply for one. She had no idea what she told him, but she must have said something because he went away smiling.
She went home. She tried to call Kate. She didn’t want to, but it was the sort of thing a person would do and she was dead sure she was being watched tonight. She used the house phone even, but got Kate’s paz. She left a message, hoping she sounded surprised and buoyant, saying simply that she had big news and couldn’t wait to share it. She hoped Kate wouldn’t call back tonight. Tonight was going to be a bad one.
Sarah packed. Like everything else she did that night, everything she’d done since going to see van Meyer, she had no plan. It just sort of happened. She watched as if it were a movie on TV as her hands collected random objects and not-so-random objects and put them all together in just one box. When she was ready, she took it out to the van, sat for a while, then came back in and got one more thing out of her Sundries box, as yet unpacked in her living room. She put it in her official IBI briefcase and took that too. She figured she was ready.
She drove to Checkpoint Seventeen and parked by the gate. The guard tonight was Larry, which gave her a pang. It would have been so much easier if it were the jerk.
“I’m being transferred,” she called. “Think I can leave some client papers here for whoever replaces me? I’d hate to leave them at the office, that place is a black hole for important documents. But if I could just pin something up on your wall…? I’m sure it’d only be for a day or two.”
“Well sure, I don’t see why not.” And he opened up his door.
“Thanks, Larry,” said Sarah, taking her briefcase in with her. “I always liked you, you know. I mean that.”
He blushed, God bless him, and turned away to find a pushpin in his desk. “You know…I always kinda liked you too. It’s too bad we have to say goodbye so soon.”
“It is,” she agreed. “And I’m really, really sorry. Please try to remember that.”
She hit him with the briefcase. She’d never hit anyone before in her entire life, except once Kate with a roller skate, but that had been an accident—a high kick and loose laces. This was different, but it worked just fine. She was afraid it wouldn’t be like TV and that she’d have to hit him over and over and risk actually hurting him, but he folded up on the first blow and went down with a thump and a grunt, still breathing and not bleeding. Thank God.
Sarah opened her case and took out her Sundry, a roll of duct tape. One thousand uses, said the ads. One thousand and one was taping over Larry’s mouth and binding his wrists and ankles together before rolling him under his desk. She tried to make him comfortable and not leave him in a position that was too undignified. Then she took his gate pass and got back in the van.
It was a quarter past ten when she pulled up in front of Sanford’s house, but he had a light on inside. That was good. She opened the door, sending him and his friend leaping to their feet, then realized she’d forgotten to knock. “Sorry if I scared you,” she said. “Hello, Mr. Samaritan. We have to change our plans, Sanford. I don’t work here anymore.”
Sanford put down his can of beer hard.
Samaritan looked at him. “What plans?”
The rear door opened. T’aki stood there, naked and tiny, eyes huge. “Sarah? What’s going on?”
“The Fortesque Freeship is parked outside,” she told him. “And I’m putting you on it. I kind of hate to rush you, but I left a very nice security guard tied up at the checkpoint, and we have got to be back through it before someone finds him, so did you get the parts you needed from that one thing? Is your gadget fixed?”
Sanford hesitated. “It works,” he said decisively and moved Samaritan aside to access his secret room.
“Fortesque Freeship?” Samaritan echoed. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means we’re leaving. Want to come? Get your clothes, jellybean. You can get dressed in the van. Hurry.”
Samaritan was just looking at her. “You’re really leaving?”
She nodded, then had to put her hand over her mouth, positive she was about to throw up. She didn’t, so she nodded again. “Right now. Tonight. Come with us.”
His stare held a little longer and then he looked down, through the open hatch at the tiny crawlspace where Sanford was moving things briskly around. When he looked up again, he said the one thing Sarah never thought he’d say: “No.”
He sat back down and picked up Sanford’s abandoned beer.
“You can’t mean that.”
“Don’t tell me what I mean, caseworker. You don’t know the first fucking thing about me.”
He spoke calmly enough, not looking at her. Not caring. She couldn’t convince him. Well, maybe she could, but she didn’t have time. Or room in the van, she thought, and this ugly piece of practicality so horrified her that she reached out and caught his wrist.
“I don’t want to leave you,” she said.
His antennae lowered. He sipped at his beer and pretended he wasn’t attached to the arm she held onto.
She said, “Please.”
He looked at her. Below their feet, Sanford was moving things around. In the back of the house, T’aki was digging frantically through his bedding for his toy ship. A few hundred meters away, Larry the gate-guard was maybe conscious again and trying to get his hands on his paz to dial 99. None of it mattered. He looked at her and said, quietly, “You’re not a hero. You know that, right?”
She knew it. She couldn’t say it, but she knew it.
Samaritan nodded, rubbed the plates over his weirdly human eyes, and said, “Get your hand off me, caseworker. Go on.”
Sanford pulled himself halfway out of the hole in the floor. “Do you know how to shoot?”
“Me?” she asked.
Samaritan snorted loudly and gave her a shove toward the door. “I know how to point and pull a trigger,” he replied. “Why?”
“Lacking a plan…” Sanford bent briefly out of sight and came up again with something that looked like a miniature jet engine with a sword stabbed through it. He plugged his code-bank into the back of the thing; vents along the side lit up with
a click and a whine. “…I need a distraction.”
Samaritan caught the gun when Sanford tossed it, coughing out an incredulous laugh. “I don’t remember asking you to make me part of your suicide pact. I could sell this and eat cow for the rest of my damn life. What makes you think I won’t?”
“Every minute IBI is looking here, they won’t be looking for us,” Sanford replied, climbing out of the crawlspace. He had a second, smaller gun slung over his back, his code-bank, and a dirty envelope stuffed to its limits with money.
“So?”
Sanford wordlessly handed the envelope to Sarah.
Samaritan’s antennae slowly flattened. “Fuck you,” he said. “Just…fuck you. I’m selling it!”
“No, you won’t. You can do what you want with the rest of them, but you’ll use that one. You’ll give us at least an hour.”
Sarah looked back and forth between them, too anxious to quite care about whatever she was clearly missing. Every second that passed, Larry was waking up and they were just standing here. “We have to go,” she said. “Please. Now.”
“Yeah, go.” Samaritan rather savagely adjusted components of the gun. He looked at the gun, at the hole in the floor, and back at Sanford. “Just how far do you really think you’re going to get?” he demanded.
“All the way to the ocean,” said Sarah, rifling through the money in the envelope.
“All the way to yang’Tak.”
“Are you sure you won’t come with us?” Sarah asked, sweeping up T’aki, his clothes, and his toy ship. “Please.”
“Hell, I’d rather stay and blow shit up than go and die horribly, which you will!” he snapped, directing this last at Sanford. His eyes came back to Sarah and his anger, although it did not abate, at least wavered. “This is stupid,” he said. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”