by Various
I couldn’t take credit for the face design. That was modeled on the original.
• • •
One weekend morning Nora dared a shower. Greg lay in bed. I activated a cry a half-hour early to get him on his feet.
Greg peered in the mimic’s room a long moment before going in.
“There’s gotta be a trick to it,” he mumbled.
He checked behind him. The shower was still blasting. He picked up the mimic. He spread a blanket on the nursery rug and stripped the mimic’s fire-truck onesie. He admired the body design. Robust. Pliant. Fine creases joined limbs to torso. He ran a fingernail along them.
Meanwhile the mimic sobbed and coughed.
Greg peered in its ears. Nostrils. Mouth.
He started to put the mimic down. Then he noticed the belly skin shift sideways under his hand. There, under the protruding navel: the tiny plug. Six pins in a spiral.
Greg shook his head.
“What am I supposed to do with that?” he asked.
The mimic’s voice broke to a rasp.
“I’m sorry, buddy,” said Greg. He dressed the mimic again. “I had to check. I’m sorry.”
Toweling her hair, Nora found Greg in the glider with the mimic over his shoulder. The mimic screamed.
“It hates me!” said Greg, not at all joking.
“He’s just a baby,” said Nora.
“It’s not.”
“Pretend he is.”
The mimic howled on.
• • •
They brought the mimic to Dr. Park for its first weekly. I stood by and took notes. The office was warm and cramped with four of us in it, but a mirror on the far wall gave the illusion of space.
“There’s that special boy!” said Dr. Park. Nora handed Anthony off while Greg hung by the door.
“He looks well,” I said.
“I hope so!” said Nora.
Dr. Park put the mimic on the scale. It flinched but didn’t cry. “Twelve pounds, 11 ounces.”
“Six pounds in a week?!” asked Nora.
“He’ll develop quickly.” Dr. Park unfastened his onesie. “You’ll need bigger clothes soon.”
“Here,” I said. I handed her the mimic’s CCD: pale green plastic, size of a deck of cards.
Dr. Park flicked through the readings. “Immunity normal. Appetite normal.” She paused. “Hmm. Oxytocin low normal. I’d like to see that number go up.”
“What can we do?” asked Nora.
“Are you both bonding with Anthony?”
“We are,” said Nora, right away.
Greg looked in the mirror.
“It’s in progress,” said Greg.
• • •
Before the next weekly I called Nora: “How’s it going?”
She was eating stale cereal from a coffee mug and passing puffs to Anthony on her knee. Unopened mail cluttered the coffee table. Garbage sat by the door. Baby bottles lined the sink.
“Good,” said Nora, but her voice cracked.
“Tell me, Nora.”
The rest of her cracked. “My bones ache. My hair feels greasy. I think I’m getting a cold.”
“Oh?”
“It’s so hard, Amy! I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I need to turn him off somehow. Just for a while.”
A cry for help. Not my strong suit. But Dr. Park had suggested this would happen. And she’d prepared me with constructive responses.
“Are you getting help?” I asked.
“From Greg? Some, yeah.”
“Get more. And from more people. Get your needs met. Sleep. Get clean. Feel normal.”
“I’ll try.”
“You can’t do this by yourself,” I said. “But you can do it. It will get easier. I promise.”
“Thank you, Amy.”
We hung up. I knew she needed a boost. I picked up the mimic’s CCD and made an adjustment.
In her condo, Nora held Anthony tight. He reached for her hair.
“I’ll try,” she said. “For my Anthony.”
The Paul McCartney eyes lit up and he smiled at her. A first.
“My baby Anthony!” she gasped. He smiled even bigger. She held him tight and breathed deep the dark tufted top of his head.
• • •
That night Greg came home to find the crib in their bedroom, still on the towel Nora used to drag it.
“He’s sleeping in here?” he asked.
“It’ll be easier for me,” said Nora, rocking the mimic.
Greg sighed.
“I know it’s not what we bargained for,” said Nora. “But what if he were a real baby?”
“It’s not.” “What if he were?”
Greg tested the barred wall of the crib. “I’m sorry, babe,” he said. “I don’t think I can fake it the way you do.”
“Please just try,” she said. “Show me you’re trying.”
That night Nora put the mimic down in its crib scant feet from the end of their bed. One small grumble woke Greg. But I adjusted Nora’s melatonin and kept her fast asleep.
The mimic coughed and groaned. Greg looked at Nora. She snored.
The mimic hit its first high note of the night. It sat up and stared at Greg, eyes welling.
Greg jiggled Nora’s arm. No response.
Greg got up and ventured to the crib. The mimic strained, mouth open, ready to blast. Greg picked it up and saddled it on his hip. He tried shushing and dancing. The mimic grunted and shoved him away.
Greg glanced at Nora, dead asleep. He made a deep growl of frustration.
The mimic paused, spooked. Looked at him. Chewed a wet finger. Greg studied its startled face. It started to cry again.
Greg growled back, even louder.
The mimic paused again, staring at him.
“Did I confuse you, buddy?” asked Greg. He squeezed the mimic closer. “You don’t know what’s going on.”
The mimic blinked at him. Those big eyes. Those apple cheeks. Just like any other baby. But this was the one in his house. This was the one his wife was in love with.
“You can’t help any of this,” said Greg. “You didn’t get a say at all.”
With that, Greg growled a long deep filling-rattling growl. The mimic jerked back, frightened. Then it laughed.
Greg had never heard him laugh before.
He laughed, too.
• • •
At 4:00 AM, Nora bolted awake. Greg’s side of the bed was empty. The crib was empty.
She leaped to her feet and searched the house. Living room? Empty. Kitchen? Empty.
“Greg?”
She found her husband in the second bedroom, in the glider again, feeding Anthony.
“Hey,” he said. “You didn’t hear him?”
“I didn’t!”
Anthony reached up to pat Greg’s stubbled chin.
“Did you notice he smells like cherry Kool-Aid?” asked Greg.
Nora laughed.
• • •
Greg rescheduled the next day’s commitments. They took Anthony to the park. Everything fascinated him. He ripped apart a maple leaf and laughed. He showed the halves to Nora, then Greg. As soon as he got in one set of arms, he wanted to be in the other. He was overstimulated. He was hilarious.
The days contracted around their bundle of three. Formula bottles found a rhythm. Endless waves of laundry got surfed. Anthony recognized their voices, laughed at Nora’s peek-a-boo, squealed when Greg walked in the door. He loved construction paper and peanut butter Cheerios. He hated windshield wipers.
One wild night, Nora put down Anthony early, and man and wife, delirious, made out on the couch like teenagers.
They were careful to tell curious neighbors they were “just watching him a while,” but as Nora, Greg and Anthony shared afternoons of picnic blankets, Goldfish, and PBJs on mismatched bread, they looked like a family.
• • •
“Twenty-five pounds!” marveled Dr. Park. Suspicious, Anthony reached out of her arms for Gre
g, who took him. The mimic showed signs of wear: sluggish eye, stiff jaw, scuffs on his knees. It was tough to see. He buried his face in Greg’s neck. Nora stroked his cheek.
“That’s good, little man!” said Nora. Greg blew a raspberry on his head and got him to smile.
Dr. Park swiped through the readings on the mimic’s CCD.
“What do you think, doctor?” I asked.
“They’ve completed all their parameters.”
“Excellent.” I stood and turned to them. “Nora. Greg. Thank you so much for your participation.”
Nora and Greg looked at each other.
“We had another week,” said Nora.
“We’ve had to accelerate the schedule, I’m afraid,” I said. “I’m sure you two won’t mind having your life back! Nora, we’ll need you to return the ring as well.”
“No,” said Nora.
“We get another week,” said Greg.
“Your commitment is concluded,” said Dr. Park. Her voice wavered. I stepped forward to steady her.
Nora choked. Greg backed toward the door. Anthony sensed the stress and started to fuss.
I approached from the side. “Please hand over the mimic.”
“Let’s talk about this,” said Nora, voice rising.
“Should I call for assistance?” asked Dr. Park.
“That shouldn’t be necessary,” I said. She hit the button anyway.
“What will you do with him?” asked Nora.
“It will be refurbished or recycled.”
Anthony started crying in earnest.
“This is crazy,” said Greg. “Let us keep him. At least a while. What’s the harm?”
I cornered them and laid hands on Anthony. He howled. A quick rap at the door. In came two of my security detail: Balmer and Partridge. Pro wrestler types. Tasers.
“Assist us,” I said.
“NO!” screamed Nora, twisting away. Balmer held her back with a stiff arm. Anthony shrieked.
“Don’t do this!” shouted Greg.
“Sir, I need you to come with me,” said Partridge.
“Help!” cried Nora. “Someone help us!” She tried to force her way past Balmer. He caught her arms and walked her backward.
“I’ll escort you out,” said Balmer.
“We can’t leave!” cried Nora. “I want my son!”
Dr. Park and I slipped out the door with Anthony. We ducked into the narrow parallel walkway and watched them through portholes of one-way glass.
Security frog-marched Nora and Greg down the hall. The Malloys dug in their heels. Alongside, hidden, we kept pace. Anthony’s cries rattled the walls.
“Wait!” gasped Nora. “Stop!”
“This way,” said Balmer.
“We have to talk about this,” said Greg.
“Outside,” said Partridge.
“No!” cried Nora. “We can’t leave him here!”
Together they bucked. Nora stomped Balmer’s foot and Greg grabbed his arm. Partridge struggled to pull Greg off, but Nora kicked him in the thigh and twisted out of his grip. Greg snagged the guards’ sleeves and dragged.
“Run!” yelled Greg.
Nora sprinted away, Balmer in pursuit. Parallel, we ran ahead. Anthony wailed and Nora chased. Clinicians stuck their heads out, confused. CCTV caught it all.
Nora started catching up. We ducked sideways into a secret room. In the main hall, Nora rounded the corner onto a gauntlet of gray doors. She strained her ears for Anthony, somewhere on the right. She ran from door to door, listening.
“I’m coming, Anthony!” she said. “I’m almost there.”
The last door: REASSIGNMENT. Beyond, the cry stopped short.
Nora threw open the door.
A sitting room. Table lamps. Maplewood armchairs. A mirror over a fireplace. A low table set with tea and cookies. Beyond that, a skinny ten-year-old boy sat on a tapestry couch. Scabby knuckles. Button-down shirt tucked into jeans. He held a crinkled looseleaf page.
He stood to greet her.
“Nora?” he said.
She knew him! That dark fluffy hair and peanut chin. Those Paul McCartney eyes. She clapped her hands over her mouth.
A side door opened and there was a sound of struggle. Greg staggered in, wrists zip-tied, hair mussed. The door shut behind him. He saw the boy. He froze.
The boy looked down at his looseleaf page. His hands trembled and made it flutter.
“Dear mister and missus Malloy,” he read, fast, monotone. “My name is Anthony Williams. I am ten years old. I have been in foster care for four years. My mother was Alexis Williams. She died. My father lives in Michigan. He surrendered his rights.
“The Larentia Institute found me. They asked me who I wanted to be adopted by. No one asked me that before. They showed me a lot of people and you seemed like the best ones. You seem nice and you want a kid and I want a home where I can stay.
“I know you want a younger kid. I hope it is okay that I am old.”
He looked up, cheeks flaming. Nora worked her way around the armchair and collapsed into it. Greg’s mouth hung open.
Anthony took shears from his backpack and approached Greg.
“I can get those,” said Anthony. He snipped off the zip-ties.
“Thank you,” said Greg. He rubbed his pinked wrists.
“Sorry about that.”
“It’s all right.” He shook the boy’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, too,” said Anthony.
Nora clutched her chest. What was the right thing to do? What was protocol?
She held out her arms and made a choked sound.
Anthony walked into her embrace and let her crush him.
“I missed you,” said Nora. “I missed you so much.”
She buried her face in his hair. He smelled like cherry Kool-Aid. It was bizarre. But they would get used to it. They couldn’t wait to get used to it.
Natural.
• • •
On the other side of the fireplace mirror, Dr. Park and I watched the three sit down together. She sniffled, and then she went to the far corner to sit by herself a while.
I looked down at my binder. The page for Nora and Greg—their ages, their hobbies, their mug shot—stared back. I clacked open the binder rings and took out the page. The page after theirs had Kal and Isha. After them was Hunter and Tina. After them was Sandra. It was all right. Someone would pick them eventually.
I reviewed my clipboard of paperwork and said, “We should get started on this.”
“Give them a minute,” said Dr. Park. “Jesus.”
Laughter filtered in from the sitting room. I filed Greg and Nora’s page in a cabinet. A rap at the door: in came Balmer and Partridge. I shushed them preemptively.
“They were scrappers!” whispered Partridge, cradling his thigh.
“Good,” I said. I counted out their bonuses from an envelope of cash. “Go on and get a gel pack from pharmacy. We’re on same time tomorrow.”
Partridge stole a peek through the glass. “Not cheap,” he said.
“It couldn’t be,” I said. “We had to give him something he never had.”
Partridge nodded. “A family.”
“No,” I said. “A choice.”
THE DEMETER GYRO DISASTER
by Tory Hoke
First published in Isotropic Fiction (Nov. 2013), edited by Lucas Ahlsen
• • • •
THE GYRO was on fire. Not the whole station, strictly speaking, but the compartments with air and climate control and other things Dennis was partial to. At the kitchenette’s canopy window, he watched it burn. Smoke puffed out of the opposite inner rim as if a cosmic giant had stumbled onto their big spinning wheel and stuck a cosmic cigar butt in it.
Dennis climbed down from the view and went, grilled cheese in hand, to the kitchenette’s EnviroStat display.
“Is it bad?” asked Sonia, who still crouched, wrench in hand, by the sink’s disassem
bled graywater filter. She had a half-smile. Androids were slow to panic, but Dennis was arriving right on time.
“I think so?” he said. This wasn’t how the night was supposed to go. She’d just told him about her post-manufacture year in Antarctica. He’d just told her about making the Demeter gyro roster after twelve years of trying. She’d just tightened the graywater filter screw he’d carefully loosened the hour before. He’d just made tea: Rooibos, with vanilla syrup (her preference, which he just happened to have on hand.)
A second blast rocked the room. The EnviroStat O2 meter plunged from green to amber. Dennis squinched his already squinchy face. His brain flitted through the seven stages of grief and locked down hard on “shock.”
Sonia sidled up to see the screen for herself. Round-faced and almond-eyed, she tossed her turquoise hair and laughed. If she were any slower to panic and she’d miss it entirely.
“Good God, look at it go!” she said. “What the hell happened up there?”
Dennis worked his jaw. Shock’s grip was iron.
Sonia tapped over to the ship schema. “Not to worry. Lots of time. We should head up Spoke Charlie to meet the lifeboat.” She expanded the view of that lifeboat: a Torus Z3, capacity 120, already whirling. “Huh…”
Dennis, not yet verbal, gave her a stiff-necked look.
“They’re decoupled,” said Sonia. The gap between gyro and Torus incremented. “They’re leaving!”
This jostled Dennis out of shock and directly into anger. He climbed back to the canopy window for confirmation. Sure enough, the Torus was spinning out of the hub.
Dennis said, “Those gray-jacket sons-of-”
“Was our alarm delayed?” said Sonia, still tapping around the EnviroStat. “Did they darken our wedge?”
“They didn’t bother.”
The floor rippled. Smoke streamed from the ventilation ducts.
“Did they skip the headcount?” she asked.
“We have to go!” Dennis dropped the grilled cheese, yanked Sonia’s hand and set them both sprinting from the kitchenette.
They ran down the rim toward the 200s. Their feet clanged on the grate. A glittering clutter of repair nids scuttled overhead the opposite way. Nids were handy indicators of where not to be.