“Huh? What do you mean?”
“Savannah, I want to ask you a favor.”
“Of course, you can be there.”
“Thank you. I want to be there. But that’s not the favor I’m asking.”
“What is it?”
“I want you to let me have Mary Nell—the defective one.”
She gasps, and the look on her face horrifies me, displaying fury and hate.
“I love her, Savannah, that’s why.” A lump rises in my throat and my eyes moisten, and she can hear it in my tone, inviting her pity. “Please, Savannah.”
She takes a deep breath. “I know you mean well, but Daddy, that would be so weird. We’re getting the new Mary Nell, the genetically perfected Mary Nell. She will replace her . . . ”
“Do you know what they’re going to do with, with your daughter?” I consciously try to keep my voice calm.
“How can you care for a genetically defective girl? You’re so busy.”
“Thank you for admitting she’s a girl, Savannah. Not an ‘it’, regardless of what the courts say . . . ”
“Daddy!”
“Do you”—I clear my throat—“do you know what they’re going to do to Mary Nell?”
“Think of how much she’s suffering, and all the surgeries she needs. Daddy, I wouldn’t wish that existence upon anybody, especially Mary Nell. It’s because I love her that I want her to not suffer anymore. If she were in her right mind, she would want this for her family. But she’ll never be in her right mind, Daddy.” Savannah’s tears begin to flow in wide rivers.
Why do I feel like women always do this when they start to lose an argument, as if their tears transcend all reason and wit to trump any argument with a man?
“I want to do what’s best, Daddy, and what’s legal, and what’s most loving for all parties involved.”
I am not moved by her sniffing and weepiness. “Savannah, if you love me at all, please, what’s most loving for me is that you give me Mary Nell. Give me your defective baby girl. I’ll give her the best care possible.”
“Daddy, she’s mine. I can’t just give her to you.”
“If you don’t want her, why, um, why do you refuse to give her to someone who does love her, instead of the medical research facility that is going to get her?”
“I want her . . . I just want her fixed.”
“This won’t fix her. This will result in her being treated like trash and discarded—no, worse than trash! Savannah, do you know what they are going to do to her? They’re going to experiment on her like, like . . . ”
“Oh, Daddy . . . ”
“Like a monkey. Put probes in every orifice of her body, inject poison into her, stick her with needles, and who knows what else. Then they’ll dissect her up into little pieces and ship her out to research labs around the country. I should know. I’ve . . . I’ve done the cutting and the clamping, the packing and the shipping. That’s what they are going to do to your daughter. Unless some pervert like Redd Cranton gets her, and then she’ll serve out her days like a pet in a cage—a living hell if there ever was one. That’s what they’re going to do to that precious, loving, little defective person named Mary Nell.”
I pause. My daughter is silent. “Please, just think about it. Please.” Still, silence. “Savannah? Hello?”
The image fades. My daughter has hung up on me.
My driver rolls down the window between us. “Are you all right, Dr. Verity?”
“No, Jim, I’m not. But thank you for asking.”
He turns his gaze back to the road. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Unfortunately not.”
“I’m sorry.” He rolls up the window.
A buzz precedes the announcement in my right ear. “Message from Morgan,” the nanophone’s female voice announces. Then Morgan’s voice: “What are you doing, Ray? Calling Savannah and throwing a hissy fit? Where’s the man I married? Call me.”
I drop my head into my hands. The last thing I want to do is be lectured by my wife. When she is not getting her way, she’s like the constant drip of an unfixable faucet that torments me day and night.
I order the driver to take three extra trips around the block just to help me prepare for what I suspect will be an explosive argument with Morgan. Finally, I can put it off no longer. Postponing the inevitable confrontation is just going to make it worse and more prolonged. He drops me off at the front door. I tiptoe in the door and, not seeing her, I plop down on the couch.
Her footsteps come down the stairs, and an irritating gnaw begins to eat away at my stomach. Even my genetically perfect organs know when something is troubling me. It’s amazing how the physical body responds to distress of the mind. I recall the feeling of dread when Dr. Wilkes ordered Jeremy Porter to push the button to kill Forty, and the similar, yet more personal feeling of hopelessness and horror when that handgun was aimed at me and I realized I was going to die. I felt like I deserved what was coming to me out of the tip of that black hole in the barrel right there in that surgical suite. I wonder, was it the same room where my cerebral-ocular transfer took place? I try to remember my surroundings when they resurrected me. I think it was the same room! That would have been a fitting end to a life that was wholly dedicated to exploiting some for the benefit of others.
A chill comes over me. My hair stands on end. I am not dead yet. I am alive. I still have time.
My wife’s body presses against me. I startle, and open my eyes. She snuck up on me. She smiles, but I am so dreading the predictable argument that I cannot bring myself to enjoy her scent and appreciate the silky nightgown that obscures her lovely form.
“I’m so glad you’re alive, too.”
“Did I say that?”
She nods.
“I must have fallen asleep.”
We stare into each other’s eyes for a long moment. She does not appear to be in the mood for an argument. My, oh my, she is a beautiful woman.
“I’m so sorry for what you went through today.” Her tone is tender and warm. “It must have been horrible.”
I turn my gaze to the ceiling and my eyes brim with tears. She presses her body against me, snuggling her nose into the crook of my neck.
“I’m so glad you made it, Ray.”
Her nearness simultaneously excites me and disgusts me. It’s not even her lips that are pressing against my neck. It’s not her arms that are trying to wrap around me. Everything amazing about Morgan isn’t her, and that which I detest about Morgan is all that remains.
“Morgan, do you realize that we can have a child again?”
“You mean, conceive?”
“Yes. These bodies are young. We’re fertile.”
“My clone was engineered to be infertile, Ray. No menses. No ovulation. I never told you?”
“Oh.”
“It was much safer than hormonal birth control, which increases risk of clots, heart attacks, some cancers.”
“I suppose. Well, if we could have a child again, and it were born imperfect in some way, would you want a New Body physician to kill him or her in exchange for a perfected clone?”
“Depends. But even if not, I would want every parent to have the choice. Including my own children.”
“Do you know what they’re going to do to Mary Nell?”
She sighs heavily, and then begins to kiss my cheek. “You’re going to ruin this night if we have this conversation.”
I feel her smile press against my lips.
“You should argue like this more often.” She playfully bites my neck. “I might let you win more.”
“Oh, I win ‘em all anyway, babe. You can’t turn me down.”
She begins to unbutton my shirt. “You know how much I adore you . . . ”
I know what I need to do. I push her away and sit up on the couch. “I’m shutting it down.”
Her smile flattens. “Shutting what down?”
“The New Body Research Center.” A faint smile breaks upon my
face, surprising even me. A wave of euphoria comes over me. “Yes, that’s what I’m going to do.”
She stares at me with a blank look on her face for a moment, and then breaks out in a full laugh. “Very funny.”
“I’m serious. I’m shutting it down.”
She backs up six inches and half-smiles, half-smirks at me, as if I had just made the most moronic comment of all time. “Are you mad?”
“You still love me now?”
“That’d be like un-inventing the Internet. You can’t shut it down. It’s a tsunami that has transformed the world. You can’t reverse time, and why would you want to?” She shakes her head side to side and forces a smile. “Heaven is here, babe. A paradise of our own making. Accept it.”
She begins to unbutton my shirt again. There’s that twinkle in her eye, the curious grin, the raising and lowering of her eyebrows. She’s inviting me, enticing me away from the probing of my conscience.
“It’s my company. I’m shutting it down.”
She stands to her feet, her hands firmly on her hips. “You’re a hard nut to crack, babe. Savannah was right. Your brush with death today did mess with your head.”
“My head’s been messed up for a while. I’m finally getting it right.”
“Friday the 22nd. 8 a.m.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I made an appointment for you to see my neuro-psychiatrist, Dr. Devonaire.”
Now I laugh at her. “I’m not seeing your aura-sniffing quack, Morgan.”
“Do you want to go bankrupt? Is that what you want? Ruin this family? See us kicked out of this home and all our stuff taken away by creditors?”
“We have more credit than we can spend in a hundred lifetimes.” I stand and head toward the kitchen.
“Not a hundred of my lifetimes. And certainly not after the string of lawsuits you are certain to face if you dare try to shut down your company.”
I open the refrigerator, and look back at her. “Well, some things are more important than credit.”
“Like what?”
“A clean conscience.”
“A conscience is only as good as it is useful. If it gets in the way of progress, or your comfort, or what’s best for yourself and your family, it’s about as useful as cancer.”
I shrug. “Sometimes I think a little bit of cancer would do us some good. Force us to see what’s important in life. Help us realize the inevitable end of all people, and help us prepare for it.”
I reach for the almond milk and slam the fridge shut.
“You know you can just tell the fridge you want a cup of almond milk and it’ll pour you a cup and deliver it to you through that door on the left.”
“I want it the old fashioned way.” I open the top and take a drink directly from the box.
“Don’t be stupid, Ray. You have convenience and immortality at your fingertips, and you want to drink from cardboard boxes, grow old and get cancer instead, all to appease your fragile little conscience?”
She’s getting emotional, and it’s unlikely anything good will come of this conversation. Normally, at this juncture I would just give in to her or leave the room. But I feel courage rising up inside me.
“No, Morgan, I don’t want to die. But I don’t want to pretend like we never will, and we should both try to be ready for it when we do.” I put the milk back in the fridge and slam the door.
“Do you want to see your children disown you as their father? Do you want to be publicly disgraced? You’re going to irreversibly scar your reputation, Ray.”
“Oh, Morgan. So fearful of the unknown, so much lack of fear of the known.” I lean against the bar.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and use my foot to try to dissipate a spot of milk that dropped on the floor.
She marches past me, throws open a cabinet, grabs a mug from the cupboard and slams it down on the counter beside me. “Use a cup!”
I ignore her outburst and turn to her. “Look at me, Morgan. Today, I stared death square in the eye—again. And I felt fear. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me when I die, but I know I’m not ready, and I know why.”
I put the cup back in the cupboard and begin to take off my shirt as I head upstairs.
“Why?” She follows me into the bathroom.
“Bloodguilt, Morgan.”
“Bloodguilt?”
“It’s my company. All mine, now that Dr. Wilkes is dead. I’m making things right and shutting it down.”
She stomps out of the bathroom, and I shut the door.
I shouldn’t have told her. At this point, I don’t care about her opinion. Why does my conscience appear impossible to please? It’s such a fine line it demands me to walk.
When I’m done with my shower, she is gone. There’s no sign of her. From the chaotic pile of clothes she has littered on the bed, she has packed her suitcase and disappeared.
Now, I’m worried. I hope she doesn’t tell others about my intent to shut down the company before I’m able to dig the grave. If she were to speak to the right people—those on the Board, or with the federal government—she could make things difficult for me.
How would a CEO even go about collapsing his own billion-amero company without triggering safeguards designed to protect it? I’ll have to spend the night researching that. To collapse a skyscraper with as little collateral damage as possible, the explosives must be precisely placed. And for the iceberg to stand a chance at sinking the Titanic, several people have to not be paying attention.
I gaze at my body in the mirror on the bedroom wall. I am more handsome now than I ever dreamed I could be, even when I was young and fit. My new body appears to have been truly made in heaven.
Stolen bread is sweet going down, but leaves a bitter aftertaste.
23
THE NEXT MORNING, I’M WAITING patiently at the office door of Dr. Wilkes’ secretary, Mrs. Williamson. She’s late. I feel rushed to get the process underway as soon as possible before my wife dares reach out to others who could intervene. One thing for sure, I’m going to need the help of an entrenched insider like Mrs. Williamson.
When Mrs. Williamson steps out of the elevator, I smile at her. She is slightly hunched over between her shoulder blades. Her hair is dark brown and thin, though carefully fluffed and sprayed to maximize its coverage of her gray roots and the evident psoriasis in her scalp. Her pants suit has been carefully chosen to flatten the obvious bulge she carries in her lower half without stretching her buttons. My acquaintances are all so physically perfect, either with new bodies or with the time and resources to make the most of their original—it’s refreshing to see a normal aged person. As she walks up to unlock the door, she has tears in her eyes.
“Mrs. Williamson?”
“Yes,” she mumbles, dabbing her eyes with a tissue in her right hand. “Dr. Verity. What do you need?”
“I’m sorry. I know he meant a lot to you.” I rest a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Ivan Wilkes will go down in history as an icon of scientific breakthrough.”
She presses the code into the electronic keypad. “He was a moron.”
Whatever warm feelings she has for her deceased boss Dr. Wilkes is obviously eclipsed by the reports of Dr. Cranton’s abuse of Jeremy Porter.
She leads me across her spacious front office to the door that leads to Ivan Wilkes’ personal office. She unlocks his door with her fingerprint on a pad on the wall, and pushes the door open. “Mrs. Wilkes already took everything that she wanted.”
His office was so much more luxurious than mine, with a view of the Bay from the top floor. He has an elevator all to himself that goes from the basement parking lot straight to his 4th floor office in three seconds flat.
“Thank you, Mrs. Williamson. I have a question for you.”
She stands in the doorway as I walk to the window to admire the view. “Anything.”
“Did Dr. Wilkes know what Redd C
ranton was doing?”
She sighs. “He would have denied it, but he did. Cranton would request that certain dupes be locked away for his personal experiments. Wilkes protested at first, but then consented a couple weeks later. I think Cranton had some dirt on him. I was their go-between in those agreements, I think, to insulate Dr. Wilkes if Dr. Cranton ever got caught. I always thought Dr. Cranton wanted to conduct some interview of the dupes, but now I know that was naïve. I should have known by the way he always wanted to be by himself with Thirty-One.”
“You saw them together?”
“He used Thirty-One to do menial things like office chores, and clean up messes. So I saw Thirty-One with Dr. Cranton sometimes, and Dr. Cranton would always look at him strangely. When Dr. Cranton started taking dupes home, I knew that his addictions were going to be the death of him.”
“There were more than one?”
She nods. “Unfortunately, yes. I don’t know what became of them. That was before Thirty-One.” She turns her eyes to the ceiling. “He brought Thirty-One here for some kind of specialized training. Redd was obsessed with him. ”
“You had no other knowledge of Cranton’s relationship with this particular young man, Jeremy Porter?”
She shakes her head back and forth, but has a look of confusion on her face. She is not accustomed to male dupes being called young men. “I know when the dupe escaped, security couldn’t even figure out how he did it. He did something to the computer to conceal his tracks. We replaced our computer systems because of it. Dr. Cranton and Dr. Wilkes asked me to report it to the authorities on their behalf several years ago.”
“How, how could Jeremy Porter have created a false ID, graduated from med school, and been accepted into residency?” I am thinking out loud. “The application process to get a federal ID, and get accepted into this program is so thorough, so impenetrable.”
“I suppose Dr. Cranton wanted a brilliant, unmedicated, genetically perfect slave. One year in a library and the boy could have been a top expert in any field of his choosing. He had a photographic memory even with speed-reading, and could hack through any firewall of any computer in the world. At least that’s what Dr. Cranton told me when he had me report him missing. He was scared of him.”
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