"Eh," she shrugs, heading to the kitchen.
I follow. "Um, aren't you a little old to be getting those?"
"Maybe, but Liam's not too old to be giving them. " Sandra has a taste for idealistic young revolutionaries.
She starts to make herbal tea, and I know enough not to ask for coffee instead.
We take the tea to the lumpy, cat-hair covered futon in the living room. "How'd the interview go?"
"Shaky start. Getting Stuck really threw me off. But I did manage to laugh at his jokes, and, sad to say, I'm more or less qualified. "
"You do speak their language. " Sandra likes to remind me that I've only recently stopped being part of the problem. "So where do things stand?" she asks.
"He said he only had one more interview, and he'd call to let me know by the end of the week. "
"Did you pick up anything while you were there?"
"Not much about the next formulas. AOL-Time-Warner-Starbucks is definitely in now, but that's old news. "
"But you think you can get access? the job's in the right division?"
"Close enough. Marketing's always looking over R&D's shoulder. It won't seem strange for me to be poking around. "
"What should I tell our counter-formula development contact?"
"Well, assuming I get the job, and assuming I can start right away, three weeks. Maybe four. It'll depend on their security. "
She seems satisfied with this answer. "What about Plan B? How's the Mata Hari routine working on our favorite evil genius?"
"He's not evil—he's just oblivious. "
She raises an eyebrow at this. "Dangerously oblivious. "
"Yes, I know. " I concentrate on picking cat hair off my clothes. "It's going fine. Fourth date tonight. Expensive place. I should get going, actually. " I rise and head for the door. She stops me and stares pointedly at my forehead.
"Alex, don't forget—he's the enemy. " I consciously abort an eye-roll and substitute a smile.
"Dangerously oblivious genius equals enemy. Check. " I give her a little wave as I step outside.
"Which restaurant are you going to?" Sandra asks from the doorway.
"Prima. "
Her brow furrows. "Don't they serve real meat?"
"Oh yes—and I'll be ordering a steak," I say, taking a moment to enjoy her disapproving look.
"I'll have the porterhouse. Rare, please. "
"Make that two," Tom says. "Mine medium. "
"Very good," the server says. "I'll be back with the first course shortly. " He gives us each a prim little four-star nod as he leaves.
I put my elbows on the white linen tablecloth and rest my chin on my interlaced fingers. "I'm not sure I can ever love a man who would ruin a perfectly good steak. "
Tom leans into the candlelight, too. "And I'm not sure I can trust a woman who likes her meat nearly raw. "
"I guess we'll just have to stay together for the sex. "
"And the children. " He raises his glass to his lips.
"I'm not having sex with children, you pervert. "
He chokes on his wine and grabs his napkin. I have to give him points for not looking around to make sure we haven't been overheard.
"If I'd known you'd be shooting wine out of your nose I'd have suggested a Merlot," I say as innocently as I can manage.
"How," he coughs, "did I ever end up in such hazardous company?"
We met accidentally at a Better Living through Chemistry Expo sponsored by Dow-DuPont-Bristol-Myers-Squibb-Pepsi Co six weeks ago.
Actually, we met at a hotel bar during the expo.
I was running my report through my head, thinking about the companies that had the most bad news for humanity in the works. He sat down a couple of bar-stools away. We traded a little eye contact and a few shy smiles in the dim light.
"So which of these evil bastards are you representing?"
He laughed. "CraveTech. "
"Ooh, a startup. Exciting. "
"Yeah. What about you?"
"Me? I'm with an underground group whose goal is to liberate people from the tyranny of corporate chemical dependence. "
"Huh. Underground, you said?"
"Yeah, we're not very good at that part. " I was already starting to like his laugh, especially since it came so easily. "Actually, I freelance in marketing. "
"Anything I might have seen?"
"Maybe the Junior Chemical Engineer campaign. "
"‘Big Molecules for Little Hands. '"
"That's the one," I said, suddenly aware I was twisting a lock of my hair around my finger. I reached for my drink.
"Wasn't there a massive judgment against them in one of the last big class action suits?"
"No, that was Union-Pfizer's My First Exothermic Reaction. Ours were just repackaged Make Your Own Cologne! kits left over from the last Queer Eye reunion tour. "
"Clever. " He got up and closed the barstool gap between us.
"Despicable. So what do you do at CraveTech?"
"I run the place. "
"That's funny," I said, laughing until he slid the nearest candle closer. I squinted at a face I almost recognized from the cover of Time-Newsweek.
"Where are your glasses?"
"Contacts tonight. "
"You lose the glasses when you don't want to be recognized. "
"Yeah, sort of a—"
"Reverse Clark Kent thing. "
He smiled. "Yeah," and I could feel his geeky little heart reaching out for mine.
Tonight he's wearing his glasses. He looks cute in them.
"Of course, the really exciting work is in BeMod," he says, slicing into his steak.
"BeMod?" this seems like a good time to play dumb.
"Behavior Modification. The current dart formulas can make you want to ingest something—food, smoke, whatever. That's easy. "
"Easy for you," I say, raising my eyebrows toward the bump that's only just beginning to subside.
At least he has the grace to look embarrassed. "Yeah, uh, sorry about that. But once we ship the darts to the providers, it's pretty much out of CraveTech's hands. I get Stuck sometimes, too, you know. "
I spell the word oblivious in my head over and over, until I lose the urge to punch him. It takes four this time, so I miss hearing yet another version of the "If It Wasn't CraveTech It Would Be Someone Else" speech.
". . . anyway, it's all just using the chemistry of cravings," he's saying when I'm calm enough to tune back in. "the fact that you have to buy whatever it is you're craving is an indirect consequence. "
"An awfully profitable indirect consequence. " I stab at a carrot.
"Yes, but see, that's the thing: the next big leap in the field is to skip straight to the buying part. We've been doing some promising work with what happens to brain chemistry when avid consumers watch successful commercials. "
"So you're trying to synthesize a drug that will make people go out and buy MaxWhite toothpaste. "
"Or a pair of NeoNikes. Or an H5. "
"Oh my God. "
He unleashes his Boy Genius grin. "Yeah. Pretty cool, huh?"
I report for my first day at CraveTech two weeks later. No one mentions that I'm dating the CEO, so I assume it hasn't gotten out. Still, I make a point of flirting back—and being overheard—when the cute young thing from Amazon-FedEx Kinko's makes her rounds.
I'd told Tom up front that I was applying for the job. He was encouraging, but made it clear he would keep his nose out of it and leave things to Avery. I never see Tom around the marketing department—he seems more interested in making things than selling them, which I find endearing. If only he weren't making such awful things.
I flop down on Sandra's futon, narrowly missing a cat.
She puts mugs of tea on the table while I fish an envelope out of my shoulder bag. When she sits down next to me I place the envelope in her hands.
"Information," I say, "and lots of it. " She takes the data card out of the envelope and peers at it as if she can
actually make sense of what it contains.
"This is all of them?"
"All the formulas set to come out over the next six months. I've included a release schedule so you'll know which ones will be hitting the street first. "
"The counter-formula team is gonna love this. "
"They'd better. That little card represents a month of my life spent smiling at banalities and pretending to care about other people's kids. "
"So you're ready to quit. " She sounds relieved.
"I'd love to, but I don't think I can just yet. I still haven't found anything about this BeMod stuff. Tom keeps going on about it, but as far as I can tell it hasn't surfaced in R&D. "
"Isn't it weird that he seems so serious about BeMod but you can't find it at CraveTech?"
I laugh. "So you think he has some other lab where he's developing chemicals he can use to rule the world?"
"Maybe not rule the world. . . just make a shitload of money, which is close enough. "
"You're serious, aren't you?"
She shifts uncomfortably on the futon. "It just seems like he's been awfully specific about this BeMod stuff, and it hasn't turned up where you'd expect it. "
"So what are you suggesting?"
"I think it's time you broke up with him, and maybe quit CraveTech, too. "
"But if this BeMod stuff is in development somewhere, we'll need to get our hands on it and start on a counter-formula as soon as we can. "
"That's true. "
"And how do we do that if I don't keep seeing him?"
The cell leader finally overcomes the college buddy. "Just be careful. Don't get too attached to him. "
I pick up the data card, two gig worth of corporate espionage. "Does this seem like I'm too attached?"
I arrive at Tom's place in a foul mood. He doesn't notice. Dangerously oblivious.
We're still in the foyer when he starts in about BeMod.
"I read a fascinating study on endorphins today. Apparently you can stimulate—"
"Can we please talk about something other than biochemistry?" I drop my bag on the floor.
He looks surprised and a little hurt. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was boring you. "
"You're not boring me. " I reach for his hand as we head into the living room. "I just think we have more in common than an interest in BeMods and DC Comics. " I haven't gotten around to telling him I prefer Marvel.
He stops and pulls me back toward him. "I love you. "
"See, there you go—I love me, too. Something else we have in common. "
"Oh for God's sake," he sighs, collapsing on his down-filled couch. "I'm trying to be serious. "
"I know. " I sit down next to him. "I'm sorry. I just need a little more time. "
"Okay. A little more time," he says, kissing my forehead and then my neck.
It's so easy to kiss him back.
The next time I go to Sandra's, she has a data card for me.
"What's this?"
"A press release. It says CraveTech is voluntarily recalling all darts because internal studies have shown them to trigger heart attacks and strokes in a small but substantial segment of the population. We need you to send it out from the CraveTech network. "
I hand the card back to her. "the media will figure out it's bogus. "
"Not before the stock plummets. We're set up to trigger a small drop, and the release will do the rest. "
"You know I won't be able to go back there after I send it. They'll trace it to me. "
"I know. " I stare hard at her. She doesn't flinch.
"And I'll have to break up with Tom. "
"You need to do that anyway, Alex. It's been almost six months. That's too long. It's longer than you've dated anyone for real. "
"Sandra, sending this press release is just throwing a brick through a window. It's meaningless in the long run. They'll replace the window. The stock price will readjust. "
"But it will slow them down. "
"Sandra, if it isn't CraveTech, it'll be. . . "
"What?"
"Nothing. " I take the card.
"You'll send the release?"
"I'll send it. "
I put the few personal items that decorated my cubicle in a gym bag. I never had a picture of Tom on my desk. that would have been indiscreet.
The press release glows on my work station, one twitch away from every major news outlet and the most incendiary of the minor ones. If I had a picture of Tom, I might have stared at it for a while, maybe even whispered Sorry to it.
But I don't, so I just flick Send.
I've come to break up with him. "You're early," he says when he greets me at the door. "I've planned something special. " I follow him out to the deck.
"For what?"
"Our six-month anniversary. " there's a cloth-covered table and dining chairs, a silver champagne bucket on a stand. "In another twenty minutes there'll be a sunset, too. " He says this like he paid for it. "But, you know," he looks oddly apologetic, "you're early. "
"Tom, I'm sorry. . . we're not going to have a six-month anniversary. "
I expect anything from him but the crooked Boy Genius smile I love so much. "this isn't about the press release, is it?"
I sit, a little inelegantly in my surprise.
"What press release?"
He laughs. "this conversation will probably be less awkward if I just tell you I had all your CraveTech e-mails routed to me before they went out. "
Ah.
"I was a little surprised that you actually sent it, but I do understand. I appreciate your beliefs. I love you for them—I want you to know that. " He pours us each a glass of champagne. "And besides, you really helped me out with those counter-formulas. "
I pick up my glass then set it down again. "Helped you out?"
"Absolutely. My people made a couple of tweaks, though. Your group's design wasn't very cost effective at the ten thousand unit level. "
"Wait, wait, wait. You're going to manufacture our counter-formulas?"
"Oh, yes. The marketing campaign has been in development at a subsidiary company for weeks now. And the profit projections—Alex, you wouldn't believe it. Apparently people really, really hate the craving darts. " Oh, my oblivious darling. "they'll pay twice the cost of the actual food just to make the cravings go away. "
"But they won't have to. We'll be giving away the counter-formula for free. "
"Funny thing about that—the research shows people would rather pay a couple of bucks to get the antidote from a familiar, trusted source than from a pack of anarchists with a habit of blowing up buses. "
"Blowing up buses? What're you—"
"Oh, it's a little something we're planning for the fourth quarter. Disinformation campaign. It's ready for implementation now, but we think everyone will be more inclined to actively hate you during the holidays. "
"Hate me?" I stand up and start backing toward the door.
"Well, not you, your group. They'll love you, Alex. You'll be managing my charitable organizations, giving away money to worthy causes right and left. People love that. And they'll love me. People love CEOs whose wives do that kind of stuff. "
"Wives?" He brings out a pistol and fires a dart into my neck. I pull out the dart and drop it on the ground.
"What was in that thing?"
He answers my question with a question as he pops open a little black velvet box.
"Alex, will you marry me?"
"Tom, you sneaky little—" I say, lost between admiration and horror. "Will I marry you?"
Of course I will.
Tom Jr. has a hard time waking up in the morning. He gets it from me, not his father, who is always up before the crack of dawn, especially since the BeMod wide dispersal aerosol went into production.
"Tommy, wake up!" I call out toward his room. There's only a muffled grumbling in response.
I walk up to his doorway. "Really, Tommy, it's time to get going. You'll be late for school. "
He rolls over, groaning, but doesn't make a move to get up. I unholster my parenting gun and shift the round in the chamber from Go to Bed to Wake Up.
"Get up, Tommy," I say as I draw a bead on his sleep-tousled head. "I'm not going to tell you again. "
Caught In The Organ Draft
by Robert Silverberg
Robert Silverberg—four-time Hugo Award-winner, five-time winner of the Nebula Award, SFWA Grand Master, SF Hall of Fame honoree—is the author of nearly five hundred short stories, nearly one hundred-and-fifty novels, and is the editor of in the neighborhood of one hundred anthologies, including my own The Living Dead, Federations, and The Way of the Wizard. Among his most famous works are Lord Valentine's Castle, Dying Inside, Nightwings, and The World Inside. Learn more at www.majipoor. com.
The United States no longer has a draft. Military conscription was ended under the Richard Nixon administration in 1973. But before that, millions of American men experienced compulsory military service. When confronted with the possibility of wartime horror and the very real threat of death, these men could not run. They faced long sentences in military jails that were famous for their harsh conditions. Once their time was over, their legal records would be ruined.
These men could give their bodies and lives to the war machines, or they could throw away their futures. that was their choice.
In our next story, Robert Silverberg paints a reality where young people must once again choose between their bodies and their futures. Their organs are needed by the rich and important, people who've got the power of the law on their side. A conscripted organ donor can live without a lung or a kidney, but a convicted draft dodger might wish he'd never been born.
Here is a tale that pushes the boundaries of ownership and duty and leaves us ready to burn our draft cards and emigrate to another world.
Look there, Kate, down by the promenade. Two splendid seniors, walking side by side near the water's edge. They radiate power, authority, wealth, assurance. He's a judge, a senator, a corporation president, no doubt, and she's—what?—a professor emeritus of international law, let's say. There they go toward the plaza, moving serenely, smiling, nodding graciously to passersby. How the sunlight gleams in their white hair! I can barely stand the brilliance of that reflected aura: it blinds me, it stings my eyes. What are they, eighty, ninety, a hundred years old? At this distance they seem much younger—they hold themselves upright, their backs are straight, they might pass for being only fifty or sixty. But I can tell. Their confidence, their poise, mark them for what they are. And when they were nearer I could see their withered cheeks, their sunken eyes. No cosmetics can hide that. These two are old enough to be our great-grandparents. They were well past sixty before we were even born, Kate. How superbly their bodies function! But why not? We can guess at their medical histories. She's had at least three hearts, he's working on his fourth set of lungs, they apply for new kidneys every five years, their brittle bones are reinforced with hundreds of skeletal snips from the arms and legs of hapless younger folk, their dimming sensory apparatus is aided by countless nerve-grafts obtained the same way, their ancient arteries are freshly sheathed with sleek teflon. Ambulatory assemblages of secondhand human parts, spliced here and there with synthetic or mechanical organ substitutes, that's all they are. And what am I, then, or you? Nineteen years old and vulnerable. In their eyes I'm nothing but a ready stockpile of healthy organs, waiting to serve their needs. Come here, son. What a fine strapping young man you are! Can you spare a kidney for me? A lung? A choice little segment of intestine? Ten centimeters of your ulnar nerve? I need a few pieces of you, lad. You won't deny a distinguished elder like me what I ask, will you? Will you?
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