“Thank you.”
“Anything else?”
“Just one other thing,” Coe said.
“All right.”
“About Janeiro...”
“Who? Oh, your lady friend on the moon—”
“Mars, actually.”
“Talk about a long distance relationship.”
“About that,” Coe said.
The handler said, “That’s no small feat, Coe.”
“I understand—”
“There’s a lot of red tape, if you want to do it right...”
“I do.”
“And there’s vaccinations and mandatory quarantines and a waiting list just to get a seat...”
“I know, sir, and I appreciate that—we appreciate that. Honestly.”
“They’re shipping them off Earth by the thousands. It’s hard to get just a temporary visa with the matter of population what it is.”
The man grew still and quiet. For a moment, Coe had begun to think his vid screen had frozen. Finally he said, “Have you ever thought of going there? It’s certainly easier and cheaper to make that move—”
“No,” he said, flatly. “The deal was she comes here.”
“Right,” his handler said. “Right.”
The conversation had left him cold. Or maybe it was the cold, the rain—the dampness. Even in the overcrowded train, in the tight, airless quarters, sandwiched between the window and an enormous, corpulent man, Coe was unable to get warm. When the train finally, mercilessly arrived at his stop, Coe stood with difficulty, squeezed past the man and elbowed his way through the standing riders, reaching the doors just as they closed. His briefcase stopped them. The doors opened, and he was expelled onto the platform. He stumbled, touched the briefcase to the ground to steady himself, and caught a glimpse of the squished faces of the other riders—their expressions fixed somewhere between satisfaction and anguish; contentment and resignation. They were Earthlings. They were grateful for their place—even if it was forever shrinking. Coe composed himself and joined the flow of humanity inching its way down the steps to the congestion waiting below.
His flat was a roomy 400 square feet.
“Lights,” he said, tiredly. The apartment was suddenly awash in white light. Coe ignored the sole cockroach as it ran up the wall in response to the light. Quantum furnished the unit as part of his promotion package. They paid for pest control as well. “Left front burner on.” The blue flame of the city gas erupted in a small ring of fire on the stove. “Medium.”
It was a smart-apt. The entire place was cued to voice recognition.
He loosened his tie, shrugged out of his coat. He removed a frozen meal packet from the freezer, dropped it into the boiling water. Fettuccini Alfredo with broccoli spears.
“Coffee,” he said. “Dark roast. Cream...no sugar.”
The rain beat harder against the window.
“Rachmaninoff,” he said.
The Piano Concerto No. 3 began playing softly throughout the flat, canceling out the rain.
He ate his meal. A clap of thunder reported in the distance; the lights threatened to go out—but didn’t. He placed the dishes, the pot—his fork—into the dishwasher, gave the appliance the order to “wash.”
It was then that his vid-phone illuminated with the message: INCOMING TRANSMISSION.
“Identify,” he said. The vid-phone response was, “Janeiro.”
“Accept.”
He sat down before the screen. The familiar image of a woman with olive skin and black hair—her ancestry dated back to the Mediterranean, but she was second-generation Martian—appeared on the monitor. He knew he was looking into the past. The image had left the surface of Mars, relayed to a satellite orbiting the red planet, and then beamed across space—eight minutes before.
“Hello, Scotty,” she said. “How are you? Please tell me about your day. What news do you have to report from your first day at the corporate office? Stop.”
They had the ability to terraform and transform parts of Mars and the moon into livable cities but still could do nothing about the delay in interplanetary communication.
She sat patiently, smiling pleasantly from her flat in the domed city of Terre Haute while Coe dictated the following:
“I am well, Janeiro. Thank you for asking. It is very kind of you...but that is your nature. I had an interesting day. My superior even took me out to lunch. Thai food. Do they have any good Thai restaurants on Mars? Stop.”
They filled the silent gap in transmissions by staring at each others image, their interstellar version of a message in a bottle. She was lovely in her straight, dark tresses that curled at the ends, and her delicately long lashes and her green eyes that sparkled across the expanse of space/time. He did not have the heart to tell her about the intrigues he had committed himself to, for fear she would think less of him. She was aware that he was working on his end to orchestrate her move to Earth, that it was a convoluted affair that involved representatives of the State Department, Global Immigration (GINS), the Martian officials, and the Earth Embassy.
“There are no good Thai restaurants on Mars,” she said. “In fact, there are no Thai restaurants, period.”
He thought for a moment and wrestled with the awkwardness of distance and time. “I’ve met some of my new coworkers,” he said. “I think I’ll be happy at this office.”
He watched her expression change as she received his transmission. The lines around her mouth softened and the corners turned up in a slight look of bemusement. She raised a tea cup and drank from it. She nodded. “I am so very happy for you, Scotty. I am certain your new coworkers will come to love you and adore you as much as I do. I long for the day when we can finally be together, to touch each other—to finally give our bodies to each other.” She smiled then and Coe could see she was blushing. “Tell me about the oceans again. Please. Tell me how it is to stand on the edge of the shore with the first drops of an ocean stretching out to touch your feet. Stop.”
Coe told her. He called up the childhood memory of one of his family’s many vacations to the New Jersey Shore—The Wildwoods, Ocean City, Cape May. He’d not been back since. He told her about the smell of the sea, the relentless murmur of the surf—the salt air on your skin.
“You will take me there?” she asked. “You will take me there when I’m finally on Earth? We will honeymoon by the ocean? Stop.”
He felt himself nodding as she spoke, though the gesture, when finally received by her, will come orphaned and without context. There were still a few stretches of unspoiled beaches not in the shadow of, or within view of, a desalination plant. On a planet where, at its most crowded, there was a person for every square foot and some people had learned to sleep standing up like horses, resources were stretched to their breaking point. The oceans, still lovely to behold, represented for many, the last source for drinking water. Why she would want to come to Earth in its current state, sometimes baffled him. But to breathe air that was not manufactured and pumped in into what amounted to nothing more than a giant cake dish—not to mention the ever-present fear of a space rock smashing into the dome—must have seemed like a delicious luxury, even if that air was rife with impurities and daily weather reports came with the government’s recommendation on the maximum amount of time one should spend outside (that amount of time being accumulative).
“During the silence,” she said, smiling, “I was remembering how we met. Love knows no boundaries, does it, Scotty? It has no regard for space or time or distances...it cares nothing for red tape. Stop.”
It was purely by chance—a sun storm; it briefly interrupted communications, caused a data entry clerk in an office somewhere in the Midwest to type a 9 instead of an 8. That was the difference in the Universal Identification Number (UID), that mixed up Janiero with one, Harold A. Bock, of Winnipeg, Alberta. Bock’s file, as subje
ct of an inquiry, came across Coe’s desk in Philadelphia, and prompted Coe to make an interplanetary call to Mars, to straighten out the glitch. When her image flickered onto his work monitor (she was sleepy-eyed and her hair tousled; Coe had not realized he was calling her in the middle of the Martian night), he felt a stirring almost immediately. Despite her sleepiness, Janeiro seemingly felt it, too.
“The Universe conspired to bring us together,” he said. “Stop.”
After more time had escaped them as they stared sometimes thoughtlessly at their monitors (or at least Coe did), she said, “I made a new VR for you. I hope you like it. I love you, sweet, sweet Scotty. Good night.”
He told her, “I love you, too,” but her screen had already gone dark. She would receive it as an addendum to their communication. A box appeared in the center of the screen. It read: FILE ATTACHED.
“Download,” he said.
It took some time. Coe waited patiently. When the message, DOWNLOAD COMPLETE finally appeared, Coe slipped on his VR goggles.
He was in a bedroom. There were three windows, but the shades were drawn. There was one door. When he turned his attention to it, it opened, and Janeiro walked out. She was in a black lace negligee. It was sheer. Coe could clearly make out her nipples and a dark triangle of pubic hair. She was wearing black high heels. It was all standard fantasy as far VR goes. But in love and lust and desire, even cliché has its place.
“Hello, Scotty,” she said.
“Hello.”
“What would you like me to do next?” she asked. “Would you like me to take off my nightie? Play with my titties? Touch myself to your image? I await your prompt.”
“Take off your nightie.”
“Your response was ‘Take off your nightie.’ Is this correct?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Okay,” she said. “I will take off my nightie.”
She loosened a few draw strings and the lace nightie slid off of her champagne-smooth shoulders and fell to the ground. She stepped out of it and stood smiling.
“Do you like me?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“What would you like me to do next? Play with my titties? Touch myself to your image? Take you in my mouth? I await your prompt.”
He cleared his throat and said, “Play with your titties.”
“Your response was ‘Play with your titties.’ Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” she said. “I will play with my titties.” She cupped her breasts in her hands, rolled the nipples around between her thumbs and forefingers. She smiled as she did this, often opening her mouth to gasp or to emit a moan or an ooh, or a yeah. “Do you like me?”
“Yes.”
“What would you like me to do next? Would you like me to touch myself to your image? Take you in my mouth? Allow you to fuck me? I await your prompt.”
“Fuck me,” he said.
She suddenly looked alarmed. “I’m sorry. I did not understand your response. What would you like me to do next? Would you like me to touch myself to your image? Take you in my—”
“Allow me to fuck you,” he said, remembering the precise command.
“Your response was ‘Allow you to fuck me.’ Is that correct—”
“Yes,” he answered, impatiently.
“Okay,” she said. “I will allow you to fuck me.” She lay down on the bed and spread her legs.
“Disrobe,” he commanded and his virtual self’s clothing disappeared. He looked down at his virtual self. His virtual erection matched the very real one rising up in his trousers.
He mounted the virtual Janiero. She felt surprisingly real. Rachmaninoff’s Piano Sonata No. 2 played softly in the background.
Three.
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Coe had just removed his raincoat and placed it on the coat hook in his cubicle when a voice behind him said, “Mr. Coe? Mr. Mitchell would like to see you.”
It was Ms. Hunter. She was dressed in a gray suit, with her skirt resting just at the knee.
“Thank you, Ms. Hunter.”
She flashed a nervous smile, curtseyed, and was gone.
Coe looked longingly at his coffee. It was real. He’d stopped off the morning train and rushed into the same beanery where the Thai restaurant had gotten their coffee. He sighed, left it on his desk, and started out through the maze of cubicles in the direction of Mitchell’s office—or at least in the area where he’d remembered it was. It took some time, but eventually—with a little luck—he found Mitchell’s office.
Mitchell was seated at his desk. He wore reading glasses perched at the edge of his nose. He was leafing through a file. He looked up as Coe knocked lightly on his open door. “There you are,” he said. “Come in...come in.”
Coe entered and Mitchell gestured toward the door.
“If you will, please.”
Coe closed the door behind him.
“It’s a compliance thing,” Mitchell said, after Coe had closed it. “The Steele Affair has changed the very way we do anything. Now, we can’t even discuss a file except behind closed doors.”
Coe was still standing. Mitchell told—more or less ordered—him to sit. He pulled up a chair and sat in front of the desk.
“How are things? I heard you received a troubling call yesterday.”
The way Mitchell stressed the word troubling made him wonder if he meant it sardonically.
“I suppose, in hindsight, perhaps I overreacted. It was my first day and I—”
Mitchell dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “You don’t have to justify your actions. Better to be safe, right? And what was the resolution?”
Coe cleared his throat. “It’s still ongoing,” he said. “The investigation into—”
“Good...good. Keep me updated. I’m confident you’ll see the matter to the end. Anyway. On to business. I didn’t call you in here about that. Rather, this.” He slid a thick file across the desk to Coe.
“What is it?” Coe asked.
“It’s a file,” Mitchell said. He looked incredulous.
Obviously, Coe knew it was a file.
“I hate to lay this on you on just your second day, but...well...shit comes up. It’s the Bruges file.”
Coe went to open it; Mitchell quickly placed his hand atop it and stopped him.
“It’s rather self-explanatory. It’s a Revis file. I don’t need to say more. He worked it before he shit the bed. It’s a complex and important matter. Obviously, I have concerns turning over such a case to you, in light of your relative inexperience. However...” He pointed to the ceiling. “They seem to think you’re the right man for the job. For obvious considerations, we can’t put one of our established men on the case. I don’t need to tell you why. They seem to think your lack of experience and your fresh face are an advantage. I won’t belabor the point. Here you go.” He lifted his hand. “Ms. Hunter coordinated much of the intel and traces on this thing for Revis. Use her. She will be an asset. Any questions, come see me. My door is always open...except for when it’s closed.”
Coe sat staring at the file.
It was approximately six-to-seven inches thick. On the label, it read BRUGES. FILE #2029-001-547-02. The name Revis was struck-through; Coe was written beneath it in ballpoint and all capitals.
Mitchell went back to work. Coe suddenly realized as he stared down at the file, that he did not know the first thing about being an auditor. Mitchell pored over a report. It was a computer printout. He looked up at Coe.
“You’re still here? Is there a problem?”
Coe shook his head. “I was under the impression—”
“Yes?”
“There would be a training period before I—”
“Plans change by the moment. That’s Quantum. You’ve got to be ready to roll with the changes,” he said. “Copley seemed to think you’re a quick study. I’ve no reason to doubt that. Hell, you received a strange call—probably a wrong number—and you quickly launched an investigation.”
Coe stared at him.
“You’re the right man for the job,” he said. “Okay? You need a vote of confidence? There you go. You’ve got mine.” He looked to the door.
Coe understood. He scooped up the file underneath his arm and let himself out.
Back at his desk, he opened the file and sipped his coffee. It had turned cold. He drank it anyway. He removed a yellow legal pad from his desk, a sterling silver Quantum pen (a gift for five years of service), and wrote across the top of the sheet, BRUGES, and the file number.
He felt someone standing beside him. He turned to find Ms. Hunter there.
“How was your meeting with Mr. Mitchell?” she asked.
“It was fine. I—”
“Oh? You’ve got a file already?” She leaned in and closed the file to read the label. “Bruges? They’ve assigned it to you? You must be a superstar,” she said. “A real up-and-comer.” Her manner changed. Her cheeks flushed. She leaned back against his desk, then sat down on it. She crossed her legs. “Bruges,” she said. “How exciting.”
“Mitchell...er, Mr. Mitchell...said you could assist me with it.”
“I would love to. Anything. I’m here for you, Mr. Coe. Completely at your disposal.” There was a lilt in her voice now. “Use me as you will. I have no qualms about late nights, weekends—you name it. I have no responsibilities—just a cat. They’re very self-reliant creatures.”
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