Offspring

by Steven Harper

  Kendi froze. Did Petrie know about Ben? But she couldn’t. Not unless she was the one who was threatening blackmail. Was she playing Kendi along? He gave himself a mental shake. He was getting paranoid.

  “What do you mean?” he asked instead.

  “Senator Reza is receiving more and more attention, even though she hasn’t officially announced her intention to run for governor. That will mean more attention for you and Mr. Rymar—and your eventual children. It would be a good idea to have someone who can...interfere for you.”

  “Guard us, you mean,” Kendi said. “We haven’t been bothered any more than usual lately. I’m getting the same number of weirdo messages and autograph hounds. Nothing’s changed.”

  “Not yet,” Petrie said. “You haven’t officially endorsed the Senator’s campaign. Once that happens, people will seek you out even more. I was able to walk right up to your house, Kendi. Who knows what strange person would do the same?”

  “Our address isn’t listed on any database,” Kendi said. “No one comes. The location of my office is public knowledge, but the monastery has pretty good security. Bodyguards would get in the way, especially since we don’t need them. Not yet.”

  “Nonetheless,” Petrie said with more heat, “I’ve seen this sort of thing before. People think they don’t need bodyguards until something happens. The best kind of bodyguards are the kind that don’t seem to be needed. They take care of a situation before it becomes a crisis—before you even know something is wrong.”

  “I don’t want someone in my house day and night,” Kendi said. “My privacy is invaded enough as it is.” And bodyguards might learn about the blackmail plot, he added silently.

  “Kendi—”

  “Drawbridges,” Harenn put in. As one, Kendi and Petrie turned to look at her. “This house is accessible by two walkways and two staircases. Convert them into drawbridges, and no one can get in unless they can scale a talltree. Doesn’t Senator Reza have such a system at her home?”

  “That would help home security,” Petrie said, “but not public situations.”

  “It’d be a good compromise,” Kendi said doubtfully. “But still a pain.”

  “I’ll call a carpenter immediately.” Petrie rose. “And do consider taking on security detail, Kendi. It would only be until the election was over.”

  “I’ll give it all appropriate consideration,” Kendi promised.

  Petrie gave a delicate, bird-like snort. “That is the sort of answer you should give to people who try to engage you in public debate. I’ll be in touch.”

  And she left.

  “That was informative,” Harenn said. “And fascinating. You have not received a proper dressing-down for a long time.”

  “I haven’t missed it one bit.” He picked up his data pad from the coffee table and called up the feeds. “Let’s see if everything’s as bad as she said.”

  Harenn peered over his shoulder as Kendi sifted through text. He could have called up a live news report, but it was faster to read. A Child of Irfan named Carl Kirchenbaum had gone to the store for ice cream and not returned. Two Ched-Balaar researchers had discovered a new way to block pain without medication. And Kendi had gotten into a verbal sparring match with Mitchell Foxglove. The latter story appeared on several different feeds, Kendi came off looking foolish in all of them.

  “Not the first time I’ve looked like an idiot in public,” Kendi said philosophically. “Ben’s going to love this, though.”

  “How are things between you and Ben?” Harenn asked. “I have had no chance to talk with you in private except during frantic phone calls. I’ve had two of them in two days, come to that.”

  “I think we’re fine,” Kendi said. “I groveled and he forgave me for being an ass. I don’t mind telling you it scared—scares—the hell out of me. It’s the biggest secret in the universe. I almost told Keith and Martina. I’m glad I didn’t. If this comes out, it would kill Ben.”

  “Ben is stronger than you think,” Harenn said.

  “And more breakable than you think,” Kendi countered. “Do you honestly believe the only reason I suck up the spotlight is ego and self-interest?”

  “It had occurred to me.”

  Kendi grimaced. “It’s all a front, Harenn. Ben hates being in the public eye. You didn’t see the panic attacks before the newsfeed interviews. You didn’t nurse him through the stress headaches, the nausea, and the insomnia. I think he was as relieved as I was when the Children gave us permission to disappear for two months to rescue your son and my siblings.”

  “So you accepted the heavy burden of fame to distract public attention from Ben?” Harenn said. “How noble. I’m sure you hate every moment.”

  “Fame does have its perks,” Kendi said, refusing to rise to the bait. “Fame also has its problems. I jump up and down and shout ‘Look at me!’ Then I give interviews, I handle offers to do books and games about my life, I read fan mail and death threats, I sign autographs and put up with interruptions in public places. Ben, meanwhile, gets to drop out of sight. The arrangement works.”

  “I see.”

  “My, we’re coming across all skeptical today.”

  “It is a function of hunger,” Harenn said. “I have not yet eaten lunch. That, in case you missed it, was a hint.”

  “There’s no food in the house,” Kendi said. “We can order from Maureen’s, though.”

  Harenn went into the kitchen while Kendi called up a menu on his data pad. From the kitchen came the sound of cupboards opening and closing, followed by the noises of someone rummaging inside the refrigerator. Harenn gave an uncharacteristic squeak of dismay, and the refrigerator slammed shut.

  “Sorry!” Kendi called. “Should’ve warned you about the vegetable drawer.”

  “The two of you live like bachelors,” Harenn called back. “How do you expect to raise eleven children in a house with no food?”

  “By means of a wonderful thing called take-away,” Kendi said. “Maureen’s chick-lizard sandwich is good, but the mashed potatoes are fake—shortage of real ones—so you might want to get the beet salad instead. I already ate, but I could do with a snack. Maybe some fried ben-yai leaves.”

  Harenn emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “You are completely unprepared for parenthood, do you know that? You cannot run a house on restaurant food. Not only is it less nutritious, it is also foolishly expensive.”

  Kendi shrugged. “I don’t know what else to do. Ben can’t stand cooking, and I’m so rotten at it, I can’t even make morning coffee.”

  “I will speak with Lucia,” Harenn said. “In the meantime, I believe I will order a sandwich and beet salad from Maureen’s.”

  They ate lunch and busied themselves with small matters surrounding the implantation. Kendi, Ben, and Harenn had already worked out the legal aspects of Harenn’s surrogacy. Harenn had originally refused a stipend, but her job had disappeared into the Despair, so she had reluctantly agreed to take one. Bellerophon law allowed for more than just two parents of record, so all three of them would be the child’s legal parents, but Ben and Kendi would be awarded sole custody. Harenn would be granted “arranged access” to the child, meaning she could visit whenever she wanted as long as she called first—in theory. In practice she would be in and out of Ben and Kendi’s house all the time. Harenn—and Bedj-ka with her—already came and went without knocking, though Kendi couldn’t say how or why that had begun. It had just seemed natural for Harenn’s household to combine with Ben and Kendi’s. The arrangement had begun soon after Ara’s death, so maybe that had something to do with it—an ease of grief.

  A small icon flashed at the bottom of Kendi’s vision and he shot to his feet. “All life, I forgot!”

  “What is it?” Harenn asked.

  “I’m supposed to meet with that sim-game bloke in my office at three o’clock. The hologram dumped it right out of my head.”

  “It isn’t quite two-thirty. You have plenty of time.”
>
  “I have something else to do first.”

  Kendi left the house, rushed to the office building, and skidded to a halt in front of it. A knot of reporters was waiting on the wide balcony that ran the length of the building. Two Guardians, their silver medallions gleaming in the dappled sunlight, flanked the main doorway. The reporters stampeded forward and thrust questions at him—”Father Kendi, did you mean to condemn Senator Foxglove’s campaign with your remarks?” “Father Kendi, would you support Senator Reza for governor?” “Father Kendi, is it true you feel Senator Foxgloves positions are nonsense?” Kendi pushed through them, chanting “No comment,” until he could slip inside the office building. He stood in the foyer for a moment, resisting the urge to pant. It was post-Despair all over again. He had been hounded like this for weeks after word about his involvement had gotten out. Kendi would just have to get used to going through it again. At least this time he knew it would only last until the election.

  The Initiate staffing the reception desk pressed his fingertips to his forehead in salute. “I called the Guardians when those reporters showed up, Father. We booted them outside. I hope that’s all right.”

  “Yes, and thank you,” Kendi said. “Pray for a cloudburst.”

  As he passed down the hallway to his office, a woman with graying mouse-brown hair stuck her head out of her own door and caught sight of him. “I thought that might be you, Kendi,” said Mother Bren. She had been Kendi’s history teacher when he was an Initiate. “I saw you on the feeds a little while ago. Quite the shouting match. Rumors are flying.”

  “I’ll bet. And if you’re fishing for information, Bren, you’re in for a long time on the lake. I’m under strict orders not to open my mouth in public anymore.”

  Bren laughed. “That’ll be the day.”

  In his office, Kendi checked the time. Fifteen minutes before his meeting with Tell Brace. He hummed to himself and made rustling noises around the desk for a few moments. Then, with a glance at Ben’s hologram, he suddenly said to empty air, “Father Kendi Weaver. Uh huh...You’re from which company?...Oh...Oh!...Well, I feel I should tell you I’m already in negotiation with HyperFlight Games, and I’m supposed to meet with them in a few minutes to—no. . . No, I haven’t signed it yet....Uh huh....Look, I wouldn’t want to do anything to jeopardize the deal with HyperFlight but—” He paused. “How much?...Well, you’ve got my attention. I suppose I could put off signing with HyperFlight until we talk. Should I tell him that you called me?...Why not?...I see. Okay....” He gave a small laugh. “Well, I won’t say anything if you don’t. How about we meet tomorrow morning at nine?...Great! See you then.”

  Kendi drummed his fingertips on the desktop. This was going to be fun.

  Thirteen minutes later, a chime sounded. “Father Kendi, a human named Tell Brace is here to see you,” said the Initiate’s voice. “He says he has an appointment.”

  “Send him up,” Kendi called.

  Tell Brace entered the office, looking breathless and windblown. Kendi rose and greeted him with a firm handshake.

  “Right on time,” Kendi said without a trace of irony. He was pretty sure Brace had originally intended to be late, pushing Kendi further into the role of supplicant. Clearly Brace had changed his mind in the last few minutes.

  Now why would he do that? Kendi thought smugly. “I hope the reporters outside didn’t give you trouble,” he said aloud.

  “Not at all,” Brace said. “So you had the chance to examine the offer more closely?”

  “I did, but...” Kendi put a sheepish look on his face. “I’m sorry, Mr. Brace, but I’m waffling again. Some other...factors just came up. I’m not ready to sign just yet.”

  “Not another offer, I hope,” Brace said with a jovial grin.

  “No!” Kendi said a little to quickly. “Nothing like that. It’s just that I’m nervous about putting more of my life on public display.”

  Brace sucked at his teeth. “Perhaps we can alter the offer a bit,” he said. “Raise the advance to seven-fifty and up the royalties half a percentage point.”

  “Really?” Kendi popped open his data pad’s display and made the changes on the agreement. “That’s generous, Mr. Brace.”

  “But only if you sign today,” Brace said. “I’ll have to talk fast to the boss, but I think it’ll fly.”

  Kendi deflated. “Oh. I can’t sign today, Mr. Brace. I’m really sorry. Is the original offer still good?”

  “Yes, but...”

  “But what?”

  “I don’t know for how long. I mentioned before, Father, that I’m under pressure to close this one, and I hope you can help me out.”

  Kendi bantered with Brace for almost an hour, pretending he was on the edge of signing before backing away. Then his earpiece chimed softly. When Kendi answered, Ben’s voice broke in.

  “Meet me at home,” he said in a desperate voice. “Hurry!”

  Kendi’s stomach flipped over. “What’s wrong?”

  “Just meet me at home as fast as you can get there.” The call ended.

  Kendi’s bantering demeanor vanished. He all but shoved the startled Tell Brace out of his office and ran all the way home. Walkways trembled and balconies thudded beneath his feet. Humans and Ched-Balaar alike snatched themselves out of his way, and twice he almost knocked someone over. Kendi’s lungs burned and his heart pounded like a snare drum. When he burst into the house, he found Ben, Harenn, and Lucia in the living room with a data display hovering over the coffee table. Their faces were tight and pale.

  “Wha—what—” he gasped, trying to get his breath.

  “Another blackmail letter arrived,” Lucia said. “Ben got the notification while we were investigating the Poltergeist.” She gestured at the display with a scarred hand. Kendi read, mouth dry.

  Want your secret to stay secret? it said. Then give me some honey. Just pop ten thousand hard and happy freemarks into a plain cloth satchel (fashion nightmare, I know, but what are you going to do?) and take that little darlin’ to the walkway in front of the house at Ulikov 10832-15. At exactly two p.m. tomorrow, throw it over the rail. It’s a nasty neighborhood, sweety-pies, so wear your gangster repellent. Now I know you’re thinking of giving the cops a teensy little ringy-dingy, and that would be a really bad idea. My fingers are just itching to do the two-step over my keyboard and tell the whole world that our boy Benji has the most dysfunctional family since...well, since Danny and Irfan made the bed bounce. Looking forward to seeing you—and to counting the small fortune you’re dying to give me. —A friend

  “What the hell?” Ben said.

  “Unorthodox,” Lucia said, “but the meaning is clear. It’s certainly no surprise.”

  Kendi tasted anger and bile. “So what do we do?”

  “We pay it,” Ben said. “In hard, happy freemarks.”

  “And what,” Harenn said, “would prevent this person—or people—from demanding money again and again?”

  “Nothing in the world,” Lucia said. “Which is why we have to act. The address is Treetown, not monastery, so perhaps we should quietly alert the Treetown police and let them—”

  “No!” Ben shouted. Everyone stared at him. He was on his feet, his face painted with a sheen of sweat. “If we bring the police in, they’ll want to know what the blackmail is about. We can’t afford to tell them—the more people who know, the more likely someone will tell.”

  “All right, all right,” Kendi soothed. “But Ben—you know we can’t let them get away with this. Harenn’s right. It’ll only get worse.”

  “The weak point in any anonymous blackmail plan is picking up the money,” Lucia said. “The blackmailer has to be in a certain place at a certain time, meaning someone can set a trap.”

  Ben sank to the couch. Kendi sat down as well, and Ben leaned into him. Kendi put an arm around Ben’s shoulders and was surprised to find him shaking. Kendi wanted to wrap his body around Ben, shield him from the fear and pain. Hatred for whoever was causing this stor
med over Kendi and he ground his teeth.

  “What do we do to catch this bastard?” he said.

  “Can you get your hands on that much hard currency?” Lucia asked.

  “I think so.”

  “Then we’ll use the tried-and-true. I will put tracer units on the bag and in the currency. You and I will set watch. When Ben makes the drop-off, we will grab the person who tries the pick-up.”

  “You mean when I make the drop-off,” Kendi said, hugging Ben harder. “Ben doesn’t need to be involved.”

  Ben sat up. “Yes, I do. I want to be there.”

  “Are you sure?” Kendi asked. “You don’t have—”

  “I’m sure,” Ben said.

  “What about me?” Harenn said. “I can be present as well.”

  “You’re going to be pregnant by tomorrow afternoon,” Kendi said. “The doctor’s going to tell you to sit home with your feet up for a few days, you know that.”

  “All right then,” Lucia said before Harenn could respond, “let’s find the drop-off point.” Lucia called up a map of the area. Treetown surrounded the monastery like a lake surrounding an island. Technically the monastery was its own political unit, a city within a city with its own police force, governmental representatives, and municipal works. In practice, however, Treetown and the monastery tended to blend together. Both had the same postal service and utility companies, for example, and the monastery worked closely with Treetown schools and libraries to provide education.

  The drop-off address was Ulikov 10832-15, and Kendi automatically split the number into its component parts. The first three digits indicated how high up the building in question was. The lowest anyone was allowed to build was a hundred meters above the forest floor. Every meter was a level, so 108 meant the house was on level eight, one hundred and eight meters up its talltree. The 32 meant section thirty-two on a grid arbitrarily drawn over Treetown and the monastery nestled within. Each sector had a name as well—Ulikov in this case—but the post office insisted on numbers. Ben and Kendi lived in Irvine—section six—which put them out of walking distance from the pick-up point. The last two digits were simply the house number. So 10832-15 was house number fifteen on level eight in section thirty-two. Lucia highlighted the spot with a stylus. It glowed an angry red that matched Kendi’s mood.