by Nash, Lisa
His old eyes were playing tricks on him. Senator Arthur Trelow, long since retired, dressed in a silk robe and pajamas, sat in his study and examined the photo of the nude woman and tried to convince himself he was not seeing what he was seeing. The sex play he had ordered the two members of his staff to engage in served as nothing more than background noise.
He knew her, the woman in the picture. There was no mistaking the flawless skin, the impossibly perfect face, the faint come-fuck-me stare. It was her all right. And she would do more than cast a shadow on his family’ legacy. She would smash it to smithereens.
The fair brunette in the photo stood in a room littered with rubble. Water stains crisscrossed the wall behind her. A tile from the ceiling dropped down into the upper frame of the photo. The juxtaposition of the perfect female form and the crumbling room was jarring.
But that was not the most disturbing part of the photograph he held in his hand. The most disturbing part was the photograph she held in her hand. It was a picture of his son standing at a podium delivering a speech at a campaign fundraiser last year. Someone was sending the Senator a message, and that someone was using a woman who had died some 35 years ago to deliver it.
-7-
Grant Bio-Syn Industries left very little to chance. The industrial complex was made up of four expansive wings called campuses. The R&D campus was the largest by far. It housed 7,600 employees dedicated to the advancement of bio-synthetic technology. They produced prototype female and male units and put them through a battery of tests using experimental procedures that the FDA hadn’t approved yet. New personality types based on popular fictional characters were tested, most with unsatisfying results. Body types from both the comic book and Anime worlds were in the early stages of development to satisfy a growing need for what therapists called a hardcore fantasy neurosis.
Manufacturing was the second biggest campus with 1300 employees. Most of the workers were nothing more than highly skilled grunts with advanced degrees in bio-engineering, psychology, neurology, and bio-chemical anthropology. The latter field of study was actually created to satisfy the needs of Grant Bio-Syn. Everything in the manufacturing facility was tightly tied to strict procedures. Even the slightest deviation could shut down production and cost the company tens of millions of dollars. Automation was used when possible to minimize the chances of contamination, and the only tours of the facility were given to government inspectors.
Campus three was dedicated to sales and marketing. Seven hundred of the luckiest men and women on the planet. They made ridiculous commissions and salaries for a product that sold itself. A master’s level education was required, but it was an overkill qualification. The sales reps were really nothing more than well-paid witnesses to contractual agreements between Grant Bio-Syn and therapists across the globe. And marketing consisted of arranging year-round, city-to-city “conventions” that anyone in the psychiatric industry could attend to receive free vouchers to take a bio-synthetic for a test drive.
Campus four was the smallest and dreariest of the campuses with 400 employees under the roof of one building. It was a campus in name only. There was nothing fun or inviting about it. Fewer than 20% percent of the employees worked with the bio-synthetics. They were the decommission agents and their supervisory staff. The other 80% of the workforce on campus four were made up of therapists, medical personnel, members of the clergy, and pharmacists whose sole purpose was to help decommission agents deal with the stress of their duties. The decommission agents were required to wear white masks that covered their faces to conceal their identities from the other 9600 employees at Grant Bio-Syn, but they weren’t hard to spot at company-sponsored functions after hours. They were the ones with permanent scowls and slumped shoulders, and prone to angry outbursts.
After getting his cheek and underarm swabbed, Thomas waited in what was called the Bio-Syn Cantina on campus three. It was a bar, but not just any bar. It was set up as a safe meeting place for patients and their bio-synthetics. There were Bio-Syn Cantinas in every major city in North America, South America, and most metropolitan areas in Europe and Asia. They were all designed exactly alike and admittance was only made available to Grant Bio-Syn clientele. The wait staff was even trained to help facilitate smooth interactions between customers and bio-synthetics.
As soon as Thomas entered the cantina, the hostess directed him to a stool at the end of the bar. There were half a dozen other customers sitting at tables throughout the establishment; four singles and two couples. An unbelievably good looking man, who was impeccably dressed, sat with an olderwoman. He appeared to be charming the pants off her. Thomas pegged him right away as a bio-synthetic. As he did with the gorgeous, leggy blonde in the corner whose double Ds were practically popping out of her skin-tight dress. She was feeding nachos to a fat, bald guy with tufts of black hair growing out of his ears.
Thomas turned to the mirror behind the bar to see how pathetic he looked. He was wearing a suit that was too big, and his prematurely graying hair was uncharacteristically kempt. Nothing about him looked right, not to him. He questioned whether he wanted to work for a company that was considering hiring somebody as goofy as him.
The young, relaxed bartender brought him a cold draft beer and smiled. “You look like you could use this.”
Thomas wiped the surprised look from his face and reached for his wallet.
“No charge,” the bartender said. “Part of the package.”
Thomas watched the bubbles rise in the amber liquid.
“It’s real,” the bartender said with a laugh. “This whole place is the real deal. Everyone has a tough time processing it at first.”
Thomas smiled and took a swig of the beer.
“So, what are you getting?” the bartender asked.
Thomas looked at him over his tipped glass. He pulled it away from his lips and swallowed. “Getting?”
“What kind of bio-synthetic? A Jane? A Marilynn?” He hesitated and then asked, “A Michael?”
Thomas placed the glass down on the bar. “No, a Cora.”
The bartender nodded in approval. “Nice. The original. Rumor is Mr. Grant himself named that model.”
“Mr. Grant?”
“The founder of Grant Bio-Syn. He’s dead now, but he’s the guy who funded the bunch of crazy geneticists who first came up with the bio-synthetic idea back in the day. Made his fortune in virtual porn, but he always had a hard on, no pun intended, for taking the virtual out of it and bringing a safe, legal real-life porn experience to anyone who could afford it. He had enough money to buy the scientists, to convince lawmakers that it actually helped people with psychological problems, and bingo-bango, they didn’t just make it legal, they made it a medicinal service covered by health insurance. Fucking genius! Dude was rich before he started the company, and he was absolutely filthy rich by time he kicked the bucket.”
“Is it medicinal?” Thomas asked taking another sip from his beer.
The bartender shrugged. “Not sure. I do know that since Grant Bio-Syn’s been in business the crime rate has dropped to a record low, sales for antidepressants have crashed, cancer rates have dropped across the board, and divorce rates have plummeted.”
Thomas processed the bartender’s claims. “I get the others, but wouldn’t the divorce rate go up instead of down? I mean, isn’t it cheating?”
The bartender grinned. “Still having trouble with the whole bio-synthetic concept, huh? They aren’t human.”
Thomas looked over his shoulder at the blonde who was now massaging the bald man’s hand. “They sure look human.”
“Just because they look like us doesn’t make them human. They were created by a bunch of guys in bio-hazard jumpsuits. They’re glorified sex toys. In fact, most marriage therapists prescribe a bio-synthetic to help re-start a couple’s boring, routine sex life.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. A three-way with a bio-synthetic has saved many a marriage. Get hot, sweaty, and sticky f
or three days, say goodbye to your bio-synthetic, and the couple is reset and ready to roll for the rest of their marriage. Gives their brains enough happy juice to last until forever after.”
Thomas shook his head. “I guess I don’t get it.”
The bartender smiled. “You will.” He pointed to the front door. “I think your Cora is here.”
Thomas turned and was stunned by the sight of her. She wore a blue dress that clung to every curve and four-inch heels that accentuated her toned legs. He watched her walk to the other end of the bar.
The bartender slipped him a piece of paper.
Thomas picked it up. “What’s this?”
“This is what starts your clock.”
“What?”
“You say that to her when you’re ready to start the 72 hours.”
Thomas opened the paper and read. He almost laughed. “I’m supposed to say this? Really?”
“Yep.”
“But it’s stupid.”
“Maybe, but those words said by you click the last tumbler into place. She will be locked onto you like a guided missile onto a painted target.” He reached over and patted Thomas on the shoulder. “And, my friend, you will start to notice a change in yourself, too. You won’t be able to describe it or even really analyze it, but you will feel as right as you ever have before.”
Thomas handed the paper back to the bartender. “But couldn’t they have come up with a better line than this?”
“Trust me,” the bartender said walking away with the paper. “This stupid line will be the greatest thing to ever come out of your mouth.”
Thomas watched as the bartender approached Cora. They talked briefly. The bartender pointed at Thomas and then poured Cora a glass of red wine. The bio-synthetic picked up the glass, moved down the bar, and sat on the stool next to Thomas.
“Thank you,” she said. Her voice was slightly different than it had been earlier in the day. It was deeper, richer, smoky almost.
“Me?” Thomas couldn’t imagine why she would be thanking him.
“Yes, the bartender said you paid for my drink.”
He smiled. For some reason, he wanted to tell her that it wasn’t true, that drinks were part of the package. No one paid for drinks in this place, but he realized it would only complicate things. “You’re welcome.”
“Do I know you?”
“We’ve met. Sort of.”
“How do you sort of meet someone?”
He fumbled with an explanation and then finally decided to just change the subject. “What do you do?”
“Me?” Her eyes shifted up as she thought about his question. “I teach.”
Her answer shocked him. They made her a teacher? “Teach? Where?”
“The university.”
He shook his head. For some reason, that made her even more attractive.
“What?” She asked confused by his reaction.
“Oh, it’s just… don’t take this wrong way, but if you were one of my professors in college, I would have had a hard time concentrating.”
She let a devilish grin spread across her face. “I provide certain… incentives that help my students pay attention in class.”
“Incentives?”
She touched his arm and laughed. “Yes, they’re called grades, silly.”
Thomas laughed with her. This was real to her. She wasn’t feeding him bullshit. She actually thought she was a teacher at the university.
The bartender caught his eye and pointed to the piece of paper without Cora noticing.
Thomas rolled his eyes and prepared to deliver the stupid line.
She noticed the disgusted look on his face and said, “Is there a problem?”
“No,” he said. “I’m just… That is to say, I was just…” He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Opening his eyes he said, “Why so blue?”
She looked at him like he had three heads. With her brow furrowed, she leaned back, and studied his face. “That is a strange thing to say.” Her face flushed slightly.
He pointed to her thigh.
She looked down and saw the end of her dress draped over her soft smooth skin. “Blue!” she said rubbing the fabric between her fingers. “Why so blue? I get it.” She reached out and casually touched his bicep and snorted with laughter.
The bartender was wrong. It wasn’t the stupid line that changed things for Thomas. It was that touch. It was alive. A small, almost imperceptible charge of static electricity left her fingertips, and zoomed through his veins to his heart and gave him a little jolt. He felt himself start to sweat. His breathing was a little more labored. His ears no longer processed the background noise in the room. All he could do was focus on her hand touching his arm. It didn’t just feel right, it felt overdue, life-affirming… life-giving. He couldn’t fathom how he had survived this long without feeling her touch. He swallowed and brought himself back to the present saying, “You thought that was funny?”
She cupped her hand over her mouth and shook her head. “No,” she said after catching her breath. “I think it was totally corny and lame, but it was cute. You’re cute,” she said sipping the wine.
He groaned.
“What?” she asked sounding a bit alarmed.
“You called me cute.”
“Something wrong with cute?”
“Everything is wrong with cute,” he said indicating to the bartender that he wanted another beer. “In my experience, girls don’t go for cute.”
She looked at him disapprovingly. “Am I supposed to go for you…? Oh, God, I don’t even know your name.”
“Thomas Miller,” he said extending his hand.
“Cora,” she said shaking his hand.
The bartender brought Thomas his beer. “You two look like you’re striking up quite the little friendship.”
“Mr. Miller here was telling me that girls don’t like cute guys.”
The bartender picked up the empty beer glass. “Not true. Girls love cute guys. They just don’t fuck them,” he said as he walked away.
Thomas blushed and hurriedly took a sip of beer.
Cora lifted the wine glass to her lips and said, “Spoken like a man who doesn’t fuck a lot.” She drank from her glass and placed it on the bar. “So, you never answered my question.”
“What question?”
“Am I supposed to go for you?”
Thomas nearly spit his beer out. “Ahhh…”
“Because you should know that’s not how you get a girl, as you put it. By the way, you should know we prefer to be called women.
“You don’t get them to ‘go’ for you. Women, Mr. Miller, do not like to chase. They like to be chased. Not in a creepy, stalker kind of way. But, in a cool, yet passionate pursuit.”
“Cool yet passionate?” Thomas said with a raised eyebrow. “Aren’t those conflicting states of being?”
“They are. That’s why only the right man can find the perfect mix of the two.”
He sat back and crossed his arms. “Well, thank you for making this easy.”
She let out an adorable squeak of a laugh. “The right man earns the distinction of being the right man, Mr. Miller. It can’t be handed to him.”
“You can call me Thomas.”
She nodded. “I know, but I prefer Mr. Miller.”
He didn’t know why, but that excited him. “Any other advice on women you care to share with me?”
She bit her bottom lip as she searched her brain for useful bits of information for him. He found it wholly intoxicating. “It helps if you’re a little bit bad when you’re trying to be Mr. Right, but just a little bit.”
He shook his head. “That makes no sense at all.”
“Women want two things in a relationship. They want someone who makes them feel safe. Someone they can trust with all their heart. Someone who will be there if the bottom falls out. Understand?”
He nodded. “I get that. That’s more than two though.”
“No, that was one concept, Mr.
Miller. But they also want a guy who is unpredictable. Someone who will surprise them and take them places that terrify them.” She leaned in closer and dropped her voice to a whisper. “The right man will make a woman want to be very, very bad.”
Thomas became still. He let those whispered words sink into his buzzing brain.
Cora stood. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Miller.”
“You’re leaving?”
She took a step back. “I’m afraid I have no choice.”
“I don’t understand. Do you have to be somewhere?”
“No,” she said turning towards the door.
“Then why do you have to leave?”
“However can you expect to chase me, Mr. Miller, if I’m sitting a foot from you” With that, she exited the building.
Thomas turned to the bartender with a confused expression on his face.
“It looks like the chase is on, my friend.”
-8-
Oliver Davis stood in Senator Trelow’s study with his hands behind his back, pursing his lips together, assessing their current dilemma. He had been a judge for 42 years, working his way up through state appointments to the federal bench, and finally all the way to a seat on the Supreme Court. Sitting in judgment of people and events was all he knew. His years of training told him that he, Trelow, and the others were fucked.
He and the Senator had exchanged photographs when he entered the study. The one he brought was of a naked redhead holding a picture of his daughter, Chair Person of the House Ways and Means committee.
“This is bad, Artie,” Davis said.
Trelow did not bother to agree with the obvious statement.
“What are we doing to do?”
“Nothing,” the Senator said.
Davis was surprised by his old friend’s answer. Trelow was a man of action. He wasn’t the type to just sit idly by and let the fight come to him. “We have to do something.”
“What can we do?” the Senator asked. “We don’t know who we’re dealing with or what they want.”