Robyn's Egg

by Mark Souza

  Dingy light filtered through darkening clouds. Darkness was fast approaching. The snowfall limited his visibility to fifty meters or so. The dogs snarled and barked inside the library. Moyer slung the heavy pillow case over his shoulder and trudged for home. Robyn would be out of her mind with worry by now. In the distance, howls rang out from somewhere on the hill.

  Chapter 42

  Thursday, 14 February

  Robyn’s belly swelled while layer upon layer of snow thickened over the fields during one of the worst winters in recent Indiana history. It was the day of lovers in the world Moyer and Robyn had left behind, a day for flowers and chocolates, and Moyer had neither.

  After Moyer milked the goats, Betsy Connors pulled him aside and led him to the pantry. She handed him a bouquet of dried flowers, muted oranges, yellows, purples. The arrangement was made up of native wildflowers; coreopsis, milkweed, cowslip, coneflower, lupine, dull reflections of summer colors. Moyer was speechless. An understanding smile brightened Betsy’s face. “I wish I could do better. Whose idea was it to put this holiday smack in the middle of winter?”

  Moyer carried the flowers upstairs with Robyn’s breakfast. She lay in bed reading. She flinched in pain when he entered the room.

  “Are you okay?”

  “The baby kicked. Give me your hand.” Robyn raised her nightgown and guided his hand to the hot, taught flesh of her belly. “Moyer! Your hands are cold.”

  “I don’t think they are. It’s that your stomach is so hot.”

  “Oh, there it goes again. Did you feel it that time?”

  “Yes.” Moyer set down the tray and grinned.

  Robyn lifted the bouquet, her eyes wide with astonishment. “What’s this?”

  “They’re from Betsy, a gift for both of us.”

  While Robyn picked at her food and admired her flowers, Moyer thought of Margret and her baby, the first pregnant woman he had ever seen, the first proof of Viktor Perko’s lie. She represented the promise of a new truth, a truth that now included Robyn. When Margret and her baby died, he realized promises, no matter how bright and hopeful, are not always kept.

  Maybe Viktor Perko’s ways were better, the lie palatable because of the certainty of the result. In Viktor Perko’s world, babies were born healthy, and mothers were never at risk. He guaranteed it. Yes, the monetary cost was high, but now with a baby kicking inside Robyn and knowing what might happen, he would gladly pay if it weren’t already too late.

  “You’re quiet,” she said, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” He smiled as if it was true so she wouldn’t worry. “Do you regret me bringing you out here?” The question brought a smile from Robyn. Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight.

  “Yes. I hated you the first day. But not since. I’ll admit I wish for privacy and a place of our own every now and then, but I don’t regret a minute of it. We belong here.”

  Sunday, 24 March

  By mid-March the snow had melted enough to permit travel. Wagons went back and forth to assess the state of families in the valley and to spread the word. Church services were organized for the following Sunday. Moyer had misgivings about Robyn riding in a cart, swollen as she was, but Betsy reassured that everything would be all right. She had made the trip dozens of times during her four pregnancies. Armal Connors took a horse and rode to town alone two hours ahead of service. When Brothers Duffy, Bonderenko and Wilson rode past the farm, Moyer knew the elders were meeting and something was afoot.

  Betsy remained at the house to tend to Frieda who was ill with a fever that was wending through the household. A tickle in Moyer’s throat signaled he was next and would have to be careful around Robyn.

  Joshua bridled the horses and rigged the carriage. Moyer laid a thick layer of straw in the front corner of the bed to cushion the ride for Robyn. He extended his hands and helped her up, swaddling her in blankets, and sat with his arms wrapped around her to protect her from the wind. Joshua eased the carriage out from the barn and along the road, never letting the horses above a walk.

  After the service, valley residents clustered together catching up on events. Women gathered around Robyn asking about her pregnancy, wanting to touch her belly and feel the life inside. The elders huddled and Moyer knew he was the topic of conversation. Moyer headed to the library. The supply of books he’d brought home months before had been exhausted, read and reread a number of times.

  When he opened the door, a foul stench and a cloud of flies pushed him back gagging and coughing. Betsy’s breakfast of fried eggs and smoked goat which had fortified him against the cold during the carriage ride, churned in his stomach and threatened to make a return. Moyer didn’t feel well. The pack of dogs lay dead and putrefying near the entrance. He left the doors open to let in some good air.

  A few minutes later, Moyer went in to begin the grim task of dragging out the rotting carcasses. They had died huddled together and left a brown viscous stain beneath them crawling with maggots. When he dragged the last carcass out to the street, he saw the elders striding toward him. Moyer’s instinct was to run. He walked toward them instead, determined to meet trouble head on.

  “How is the virus coming?” Brother Duffy asked. His black, porcine eyes bored into Moyer. At first, Moyer wondered how Duffy knew he was getting ill. It was only a sore throat and he hadn’t mentioned it to Armal or Betsy. Then it dawned on him Duffy was asking about the Worm virus.

  “It’s done.”

  Duffy’s cynicism brightened to joy. He glanced at the others who were also grinning, brows raised. “We need to discuss when to insert it,” Duffy continued. “We all feel it would be best to proceed before your baby is born.” The other men nodded. “Once you have your child, we feel it might not be possible to motivate you.”

  “Why me?” Moyer asked. “What about your network of spies? Can’t they deliver the virus?”

  “Most of our spies died when the Worm went active. We have an asset inside Digi-Soft who won’t trust anyone he doesn’t know, and he knows you. It’s the only way.”

  Moyer nodded. “Who is it?”

  Duffy looked at Bonderenko, who shook his head. “We prefer not to tell you in case you are captured and tortured. You cannot reveal what you do not know.”

  “When?” Moyer asked.

  Duffy watched Robyn and the women clucking around her, his face grim. “Soon.” Duffy cast his eyes down at his feet. Duffy had assumed Nastasi’s crown as the leader of Begat and it was heavier than he expected. The fact that the decision troubled Duffy comforted Moyer. It meant Moyer was more than a pawn to these men and he could trust them to care for Robyn and his child if he didn’t return. Moyer closed his eyes and nodded. He needed to think of how to break the news to his wife.

  For the moment he’d been spared the chore as Robyn rode home with the women. She seemed in her element, the center of attention, a smile plastered to her face. Women leaned in to offer advice and touch her protruding belly.

  That afternoon, Robyn tired quickly while performing chores. Moyer brought lunch and a cup of rosehip tea up to the bedroom where she rested. She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Moyer scooted a chair over to use as a table for her meal.

  “The elders have made a request of me today,” he said. Robyn stopped stirring the tea and gazed at Moyer. Her face was stern, as if she knew the news was bad. “They need me to go into the city to deliver the virus.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know. Soon.”

  “Nooooo. Our baby, Moyer. I need you with me. Tell them no.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why?” she pleaded.

  “Their man on the inside knows me and won’t trust anyone else.”

  “But this is their cause, Moyer, not ours. Tell them to find someone else.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Stop saying that. You can. Begat has been in this valley for over fifteen years. What’s the point of stirring the pot and bringing corporate wrath down on us
now?”

  “Last fall, a pack of wild dogs attacked the goats killing the white female. Armal said we needed to put a stop to this wickedness lest it swallow us up. I sensed he was talking about more than wild dogs and goats. These people survive only because the government has turned a blind eye for now. The minute the political climate changes, or someone needs a scapegoat, they will hunt us down and wipe us out.

  “If we don’t do something to change the way things are, the likelihood of our child reaching adulthood are slim. You know me. I’m no hero. But I know I must do this for all of us. It won’t change the world. But it’s a start, and will make what must follow possible.”

  Robyn kicked the chair across the room. Moyer caught the porcelain cup before it hit the floor, and burned his hand with hot tea. When he turned, Robyn was lying in bed facing the wall, her back quaking. He cupped her neck in his hand and bent close to her.

  “I wouldn’t consider it if I didn’t love you,” he said. Tears fell from his lashes and splattered against her cheek.

  Monday, 1 April

  The trip to Mannington Station was frigid, the grass beside the trail gilded silver with an unseasonable frost. A stiff breeze brought on a chill as the horse hauled the wagon through the darkness. Armal and Betsy Connors and their son Joshua sat on the bench seat, Moyer huddled behind them holding Robyn, his hands clasped over what would soon be his child.

  When the train pulled into the station, Armal whispered that he would look after Robyn and his child no matter what. When Moyer tried to shake Armal’s hand, the big man pulled him into a hug and told him to be careful. Moyer was so nervous and frightened all he managed was a nod.

  Moyer held Robyn for a long time. Her tears warmed his cheek. He tried to put on a brave face, as if there was little need to worry, but he couldn’t stop quaking. He wanted to kiss her one last time, but the illness that days before had been only been a tickle had forged a flaming path down his throat and into his lungs. The risk of infecting Robyn and affecting his baby was too great. He promised Robyn he would return soon, and nearly broke down when Armal’s son Joshua cried. The cars started moving down the platform without him. Moyer had to break his embrace with Robyn and run to make the train. When he turned back, Robyn had collapsed into Armal’s arms.

  The car was cold and drafty. Moyer huddled in the last seat and tucked his knees into his coat. Before lying down, he put the gold cap on his head in case he fell asleep during the ride.

  He wore a laborer’s coverall and an old sweatshirt with a hood to cover his cap. In a land where people didn’t look up and spent most of the time with their eyes disconnected from their brains, Moyer wouldn’t be noticed. Though somehow something was already going wrong and he knew it. A series of coughs racked his ribs until his breath ran out. Beads of sweat sprouted from his brow despite the frigid night air.

  It was still dark when the train pulled into the terminal. Moyer waited by the fence on Michigan Street, in the shadows, facing out on the gloomy concrete housing blocks lit by the jaundiced light from streetlamps. When workers left their apartments for the commute, Moyer joined the ranks and fell in step with them.

  On the tube, Moyer tried to blank his mind and stare ahead the same as other workers on the car. He noticed their hands, calloused and heavily veined. His now matched theirs. He was a different man than the one who had fled to Mannington months earlier. He tried to stifle a laugh which spawned a hacking fit. The laborers nearest him snapped to consciousness and moved away.

  From Freedom Circle Station, Moyer took backstreets following directions Brother Duffy had given him to an alley and a small café he didn’t know existed. Inside, the space was narrow and long, filled with booths on both sides. The clientele was exclusively laborers. The restaurant lacked a menu vid board because there was no choice. Breakfast was breakfast and the same every day. Patrons either wanted it or found someplace else. Considering how far it was off the beaten path, and the limited menu, there was little chance of an accidental meeting with anyone from his previous life who might recognize him, which was the point he supposed.

  He found an open booth at the back facing the door and waited. He shooed away a server telling him he was expecting a friend. “You don’t look so good,” the man said as he left. When a familiar face came through the door, Moyer pulled his hood low attempting to evade detection. Hugh Sasaki spotted him anyway and lumbered ahead, still looking like a giant schoolboy whose clothes were chosen by his mother. Was this his contact? Sasaki sat and grinned. “This place is hard to find,” he said. “But I hear the food is good.”

  “Why are you here, Hugh?”

  The grin left Sasaki’s face. His mouth hung slack and his eyes went dull. After a moment the spark returned. “You are supposed to give me something to upload,” he said. The sense of purpose brought a smile to Sasaki’s doughy face. The server returned to the table. Sasaki held up a pair of fingers. “Two please.”

  The server walked to the kitchen and returned with two plates. Sasaki offered his barcode and was charged for both. Moyer pulled the micro-disk from his pocket and slid it across the table. It shone silver as a mirror and unraveled light reflecting off it into a rainbow of distinct colors. Sasaki plucked the disc off the table and squirreled it away in his coat.

  “Upload that onto the main server,” Moyer said. “It doesn’t matter where. Then launch the executable. Do you understand?”

  Sasaki nodded.

  “You seem to be doing better.”

  “Little steps,” he said.

  Moyer picked at his plate but couldn’t finish. His stomach was roiling and after months of Betsy Connors cooking, he had lost his appetite for flavored soy. Moyer also worried he would lose what little he’d managed to get down during his next coughing jag.

  He let Sasaki leave first and wondered if he had recovered enough from rehabilitation to successfully upload the virus. Moyer supposed it didn’t matter. There were no other options.

  “Live long and prosper,” Sasaki said as he left, his hand splayed in an odd, split-fingered salute.

  Moyer left the café a few minutes later. It was too hot inside. Perspiration dampened his skin. He headed to the station to return home. The chilled air of the Circle was pure relief.

  A train pulled in as he cleared the turnstile, the doors opened and people hurriedly streamed out – professionals. The labor commute was already done. Professionals now owned the trains and station. Moyer moved well away from the cars and turned his back to the departing commuters on the off chance he might be recognized. He noticed a camera suspended from the ceiling and tipped his head down to let the hood shield his face.

  When he heard the commuters move off and up the stairs, he turned and boarded an empty car and waited for the doors to close. No one would be riding the tube outbound at this time of day. Laborers were well into the workday, and professionals were on their way in, not out.

  He waited, but the doors didn’t close. Something was wrong. Moyer stood to exit the car. Two agents blocked the way, a barricade of black. Their wands glowed, ready for a fight. Moyer didn’t offer one. It was the realization of what he dreaded and anticipated – his destiny. He didn’t resist.

  They dragged him out of the car by the arms and led him up the stairs toward the Circle. One agent seemed intent on re-breaking his bad arm. Instead of heading for the Security Services building, they forged ahead past it. The sun was high enough to reflect off the glass facades of the surrounding skyscrapers. The agents were taking him to the Hogan-Perko building. They were close now, close enough that there was no doubt.

  The receptionist waited near the doors and opened them so the agents didn’t need to break stride. The elevator sat open and ready. The agent crushing his arm pressed 140, the top floor. Perko’s office. When the doors opened moments later, they led him out down the marble hall and through the tall metal doors.

  A child sat at Viktor Perko’s desk, wrapped in a plush burgundy housecoat. The agents pulled Moyer
toward him and shoved him down into a chair.

  The boy smiled. “Moyer Winfield, I didn’t recognize you at first. It’s been such a long time. Look at you. You have gone, oh what’s the word I’m searching for, native. Yes, that’s it. My, my, long hair, and your shoulders are broader, but you don’t look well. Not well at all.”

  The boy’s smile broadened into something threatening and predatory. Moyer knew this was no boy. It was the next iteration of Viktor Perko. “I didn’t recognize you either. Something about you has changed, but I can’t quite put my finger on it,” Moyer said. “Did you change your hair?”

  Though he seemed like a child, his skin smooth and healthy, teeth pearly and small; the sadistic gleam in his eyes, unique turn of phrase, and malignant smile belonged to Viktor Perko and no one else. It answered a question that had plagued Moyer for months. If Petro’s story of his great grandfather having eaten meat as a boy were true, how could Perko, who ran the company then, still be alive? He must have invented a way of transferring his knowledge and memories to clones. Judging from Petro’s story, this was at least the third iteration of Viktor Perko. Those in the resistance who thought they could simply wait for Perko’s death were in for a rude surprise. Viktor Perko would never die without help.

  Perko tipped his chair back putting additional distance between himself and Moyer. “I must say you have disappointed me. I asked you to do a simple favor like planting a bomb and you failed. Hawthorne’s embarrassing return forced me to use the Worm before it was ready, another example of your incompetence. It killed millions, and that’s your fault, as well. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

  Moyer smirked. “Happy to disappoint.”

  The smile faded from Perko’s face. “I don’t think you appreciate how dire your circumstances are.”