by Jett Lang
She hadn’t seen Syntheia or her Senior Liquidationist since she began her employment proper. Five-Nine’s little message would have worried her, but the money drops she was receiving told another story: She was grandfathered into the organization, a founding member with a salary no upper middle-class worker would scoff at. There was no reason for Syntheia or Ellie to waste large sums of money on a person they would eventually eliminate. The words of her superiors were not needed when their actions were so audible.
Irrespective of that, it all nagged at her.
She knocked her knuckles lightly against the door. “You stay shut,” she told it. With a button press, another set of bolts slid into place.
Queen retraced the exact steps she had taken and found herself staring down at the darkened spot of carpet the robot had cleaned. She kneeled, touched the spot. Gummy sauce still there on the bluish-black strands.
She rose, wiped her fingers on her jean leg. She went into her kitchen and washed off the towelette Five-Nine left draped over the long neck of the faucet, returned to the dampened area and started to scrub. Numb determination, her mind going off to those memory-corners she, unlike Five-Nine, could not delete. She laughed. All she wanted to do was forget and all her robotic partner wanted was to remember those locked-up blocks of his past, even as painful as it was for him.
How idiotic they both were to think that any contentment was within their grasp. The absolute stupidity of it brought tears to her eyes, and as she ground the rag over the tight carpet, her vision of it and the apartment blurred into vague shapes and colors.
No matter how heavy-handedly she wiped her eyes, the tears continued. Her body shook with revulsion of itself. Conditioning and experience meant nothing. She shivered like it was the first day of training, scrubbed and scrubbed at a stain that was gone. Memories drifted into her head; a dead man spoke words she didn’t need to hear. No wry observations or encouragements. Just a jumble of sentences that could have been anybody’s, a garbled web-work.
“I can’t even remember you properly,” she whimpered. “I–”
She stopped crying. Felt cold fear in her stomach. Sudden, strangling panic.
She sprinted out of the living room. Down the hallway. To her bedroom. The door was ajar. She’d left it that way, hadn’t she? She must have. Yes, she was sure. She turned the knob, pushed it in, flicked on the ceiling light. The room was still cold. Colder than she remembered.
The bed was unmade, sheets crumpled about the midsection. The memory foam pillows were tossed aside, as they had been earlier. Vanilla sheets, vanilla cases, vanilla lifestyle. Everything where it should be for an upward mobile woman. Above it all, her ceiling fan was humming. With central air, it was an unnecessary addition to the room, but something about it made sleep come easier. She needed that.
Her nightstand was cluttered with unread tablets and paperback books. Poetry, history, and a couple romance novels she didn’t remember purchasing. Her desire to swipe them off the surface was dwarfed by her desire to find what she was looking for. What she hoped was undiscovered. She’d been watching the robot the whole time he was here, but she couldn’t be sure he hadn’t found it.
She leaned over her teak bedpost, to the pillar closest to her. It was capped by a pyramid, and when she lifted the cap, there was a hollowed out section within. She’d stuffed the inside tight with polystyrene and cellophane wrappers. Insulation. If anyone were to knock, they would hear a solid sound, unsuspicious.
She dug out the insulation, threw it on the floor. Steadiness seemed beyond her. She swallowed down her shakes and withdrew the bundle of business cards and news clippings. Pushed aside a paperback romance novel, the sappy, overwrought cover shining under white light. She unwound the rubber band, placed the cards and clippings onto the nightstand. White on black.
For a time, she stood there, not sure what to do. They were safe. She was safe. She took up one of the clippings. Digital paper, old, flexible. Sold as a novelty to the well-to-do. She had spent a handsome sum to acquire it, to acquire every clipping here.
And it was worth it to see his face again.
In the photograph, he was younger by ten years. He clutched a diploma in one hand, his graduation cap at a rakish angle. The university loomed behind him, powerful and imposing. His father, Murdoc, was standing beside him on an emerald lawn. The old man had an uncharacteristic smile. Jack, too, was smiling in that cocksure manner. Father and son captured in one perfect instance. An instance that would not repeat.
And whose fault is that?
She put the clip to her chest and kept it there for a long while. Her eyes stung, but there were no tears left to fall. Cutouts and cards. That was the world she had to contend with now. She placed the photo back on the stand, replaced it with a card. Laminated, off-white, nondescript font. She turned it over. On the back, she’d written a number. Unregistered area code. City undefined. She hadn’t bothered calling yet.
It was supposed to be a number for a surgeon. Or a man who knew a man who knew a surgeon. Underworld contacts were not keen on revealing direct sources. She’d spent a fortune on it, but hadn’t felt cheated. Somehow.
She took the surgeon’s card and the clipping of Jack into her kitchen. Opened the incinerator.
I should put this behind me. Leave it alone. For good.
Ache in her chest. She licked her lip, then bit it.
“For good,” she said, and closed the chute.
Acknowledgments
Infinite thanks to my mother and father for their love, support, and advice. I also wish to thank Siân Davies for her editing prowess and constant encouragement, along with Carl Graves at Extended Imagery for his amazing cover.