"Yeah," he says.
"Bad dreams?"
"I don't dream," he says, lying.
"Everyone dreams," she says. "Have an egg. Or two. I poached them for you. They might be a little hard. Coffee's in the thermos." She turns the two eggs out onto a piece of toast: they've been done in heart-shaped poachers. Is this the Valentine surprise? Is this all? He feels massive relief. Get real, Stan, he tells himself. She's not so bad. All she wanted was a bit of fun, plus getting back at her letch of a husband.
She's looking at him to see his reaction. "Thanks," he says. "That's nice. It's a nice...a nice gesture." She gives one of her all-teeth smiles. She isn't deceived for an instant, she knows he hates this.
"You're welcome," she says. "A token of my appreciation."
A tip for the houseboy. Demeaning. He needs to wolf down the food, then beat it out of the house. Hightail it down to the scooter depot, make small talk, rewire some circuits, hit something with a hammer. Take a breather. "I'm a bit late for work," he says, to prepare her for his rapid exit. He slabs one of the eggs into his mouth, squeezes it down.
"You won't be going to your job today," she says in a neutral voice. "You'll be coming with me, in the car."
The room darkens. "Why?" he says. "What's up?"
"I suggest you eat that other egg," she says, smiling. "You'll need the energy. You're going to have a long day."
"Why is that?" he says as calmly as he can. He peers down over the edge of the next half-hour. Mist, a sheer drop. He feels sick.
--
She's poured herself a coffee, she's leaning in across the table. "The cameras are off, but not for long," she says. "So I'm going to tell you this very quickly." Her manner has changed completely. Gone is the awkward flirtation, the dominatrix pose. She's urgent, straightforward. "Forget everything you think you know about me; and by the way, you kept your cool very well during our time together. I know I'm not your favourite squeeze toy, but you would have fooled most. Which is why I'm asking you to do this: because I think you can."
She pauses, eyeing him. Stan swallows. "Do what?" he says. Lie, steal, inflict wounds? Conor things? Something from the shadowlands: it has that feel.
"We need to smuggle somebody to the outside - outside the Consilience wall," she says. "I've already switched your database entries. You've been Phil these past months, but now you're going to be Stan again, just for a few hours. Then after that we can get you out."
Stan feels dizzy. "Out?" he says. "How?" Nobody gets out unless they're upper management.
"Never mind how. Think of yourself as a messenger. I need you to take some information out."
"Just a minute," says Stan. "What's going on? Who's we?"
"Ed's right about some things," says Jocelyn. "You heard him on the Town Meeting. There really are some folks who want to expose the Project. But they aren't all out there. Some of them are in here. In fact, some of them are in this room." She smiles: now her smile has an almost elfish quality. Dangerous though this conversation must be, she's enjoying it.
"Whoa, just a minute," says Stan. This is too much in one sound bite. "How come? I thought you were part of the top management in this place. You're high up in Surveillance, right?"
"I am. As a matter of fact, I'm Ed's founding partner. I supported the Project in the early stages. I believed in it; I believed in Ed. I worked hard on it. I thought it was for the best," says Jocelyn. "I bought the good-news story. And it was true at first, considering the alternative, which was a terrible life for a lot of people. But then Ed brought in a different group of investors, and they got greedy."
"Greedy about what?" says Stan. "It's not like this place makes a profit! On the fucking Brussels sprouts? And the chickens? I thought it was more about saving money, or like a charity thing, right?"
Jocelyn sighs. "You don't honestly believe this whole operation is being run simply to rejuvenate the rust belt and create jobs? That was the original idea, but once you've got a controlled population with a wall around it and no oversight, you can do anything you want. You start to see the possibilities. And some of those got very profitable, very fast."
Stan can hardly follow. "I guess the building contractors must be making..."
"Forget the contracting end," says Jocelyn. "It's a sideshow. The main deal is the prison. Prisons used to be about punishment, and then reform and penitence, and then keeping dangerous offenders inside. Then, for quite a few decades, they were about crowd control - penning up the young, aggressive, marginalized guys to keep them off the streets. And then, when they started to be run as private businesses, they were about the profit margins for the prepackaged jail-meal suppliers, and the hired guards and so forth." Stan nods; he understands all of this.
"But when we signed on," he says, "it wasn't like that. They didn't lie about what we'd have, inside. We got the house, we got...Before, we were broke, we were miserable. In here we were a lot happier."
"Of course you were," says Jocelyn. "At first. So was I, at the beginning. But this isn't the beginning any more."
"What's the bad news, then?" says Stan.
"Suppose I told you about the income from body parts? Organs, bones, DNA, whatever's in demand. That's one of the big earners for this place. It was going on in other countries first, and they were making a killing; that aspect was too tempting for Ed. There's a big market for transplant material among aging millionaires, no? Ed's bought into a retirement-home chain, and he's set up the transplant clinics right inside each of the branch facilities. Ruby Slippers Retirement Homes and Clinics: it's big. The main operation is in Las Vegas, for the cutting edge. He figures there'll be less scrutiny there, because anything goes. He doesn't miss a trick."
"Just a minute," says Stan. "Whose body parts? It's still the same number of guys in Positron, I know them, they're not being sliced up for organs, it's not as if anyone's vanishing. Not once we got rid of the real criminals."
"Yes, Ed thinks it's a shame we ran out of those," says Jocelyn. "He's got plans to import some more, take them off the hands of the public, so to speak. But your guys are the good citizens of Consilience, they keep the place running day to day, they're the worker ants. They'll stay in place. The raw material's being shipped in from outside."
The truck. The hooded, shuffling prisoners. Oh great, thinks Stan. We're stuck in a grainy black-and-white retro-thriller movie. "You mean they're rounding people up, carting them here? Killing them for parts?"
"Just undesirables," says Jocelyn, smiling with her big teeth. She's kept some of her badass sarcasm, anyway. "But now undesirable is whoever Ed says. Ed says the next hot thing is going to be babies' blood, by the way. It's being talked up as very rejuvenating for the elderly, and the margin on that is going to be astronomical."
"That's..." Stan wants to say "fucking gruesome," which doesn't begin to cover it. Or else he could say, "You're shitting me." But he remembers that thing he heard about the mouse experiments; also she seems deadly serious. "Where are they planning on getting the babies?"
"There's no shortage," she says with that other smile of hers, the ironic one. "People leave them lying around. So careless."
"Has anyone heard about this?" he says. "Out there? Have they put it together, shouldn't they..."
"That's what Ed's worried about," says Jocelyn. "That's why the ultra-tight security. A few rumours were circulating, but he's managed to shut them down. Now nobody connected with a news outlet can get within a mile of this place, and as you know, no information is allowed out. That's why we have to send a person, such as you. You'll be taking a digitized document dump and some videos, on a flash drive. We'll try to set you up with a key media target. Someone who's not pals with Ed's political friends, and who's willing to take a chance on breaking the story."
"So I'm supposed to be what?" says Stan. "The errand boy?" The one who gets shot, he thinks.
"More or less," says Jocelyn.
"Why don't you take it out yourself? This document dump."
r /> Jocelyn looks at him pityingly. "No way," she says. "It's true I have a pass, I can go out. I've been setting up the outside operations, paying off the people we hire to do the less legal things Ed's got us involved in. But I'm monitored the whole time. To make sure I stay safe, is Ed's excuse. He trusts me as far as he trusts anyone, but increasingly that's not much. He's getting jumpy."
"Why didn't you make a break for it? Just get out?" says Stan. It's most likely what he himself would have done.
"I helped build this," says Jocelyn. "I need to help fix it. Now, time's up. We have to move."
SANDBAG
They're in the car now; he can scarcely remember walking out to it. In front of them there's a driver - a real one, not a robot. The driver sits upright, his grey shoulders straight, the back of his head noncommittal. The streets glide past.
"Where are we going?" says Stan.
"Positron," says Jocelyn. "Our exit strategy for you begins there. Need to get you prepped, then see you through the day. This move is not without risks. It would be very unfortunate if you got caught."
The driver, thinks Stan. It's always the driver, in movies. Listening in. Spying on everyone. "What about him?" he says. "He's heard all this."
"Oh, that's only Phil," says Jocelyn. "Or Max. You'll recognize him from the videos."
Phil turns around, gives a brief smile. It's him, all right - Charmaine's Max, with his handsome, narrow, untrustworthy face, his too bright eyes.
"He's been such a help in creating motive," says Jocelyn. "We chose Charmaine because we thought she might be..."
"Susceptible," says Phil.
"Sufficient to have stood but free to fall," says Jocelyn.
"What?" says Stan. This is some slur on Charmaine. He clenches his fists. Steady, he tells himself.
"She was a gamble," says Jocelyn.
"But she paid off," says Phil.
The lying bastard, he wasn't even sincere, thinks Stan. He was shitting poor Charmaine all along. Setting her up. Leading her astray for motives different from the ones you're supposed to have when you lead someone astray. It's as if Charmaine wasn't good enough for him; not good enough for a genuine illicit passion. Which, if you think about it, is actually a criticism of Stan. His hands are burning: he'd like to strangle the guy. Or at least give him a solid punch in the teeth.
"Motive for what?" says Stan.
"Don't be sulky," says Jocelyn. "For why I'd want to have you eliminated. I have superiors. I'll need to account to them for my decision."
"Eliminated? You're going to do what?" Stan almost shouts. This is getting more demented by the minute. Underneath the heroic talk, is she a psychopath after all? With designs on his liver as a bonus?
"Whatever you want to call it," says Jocelyn. "Among our Management group, we call it 'repurposing.' I have the discretionary power for that, and I've made those kinds of decisions before, when things have gone seriously...when I've had to. For this particular scenario - the one geared toward getting you past the wall in one piece - anyone likely to be checking up on me, such as Ed, knows power corrupts, they'll have experienced that first-hand. They'll see how I'd be tempted to use my own power for personal reasons. They may not approve of that, but they'll buy it. The evidence is all there, supposing I might ever need to use it, which I hope I won't."
"Such as?" says Stan. "Evidence?" He's feeling cold all over and a little dizzy.
"It's on record, every minute of it - everything you'd need to establish a reason. Phil and Charmaine, their torrid affair, which I have to say Phil threw himself into; but he's good at that. Then my own degrading and jealous attempts to re-enact that affair and punish Charmaine through you. Why do you think we had to go through all that theatrical sex in front of the TV? Your reluctance was fully registered, believe me - the lighting was good, I've seen the clips." She sighs. "I was a little surprised you didn't take a swipe at me. A lot of men would have, and I know you almost lost it a couple of times; I worried about your blood pressure. But you've shown impressive restraint."
"Thanks," says Stan. He has a moment of pleasure at having been tagged "impressive." Cripes, he tells himself. Are you buying this? Do you believe for one nanosecond that this stone-cold bitch wasn't getting off big-time on treating you like a fucking galley slave? Do you trust the two of them? No, he answers. But do you have any choice? Pull back, say you won't do it, and they'll likely kill you.
"It was a plus that you had to force yourself," says Jocelyn. "Your reluctance played well, though it was hardly flattering. Anyone watching would conclude it was sex at virtual gunpoint."
"She's not really like that, underneath. She can be very attractive," says Phil gallantly. Or maybe even honestly, thinks Stan. Tastes differ.
"I agree," he says, because agreement is called for. "It was hardly at gunpoint, it was..."
Jocelyn crosses her legs. She pats Stan's thigh as if steadying him. "Anyway, those who might have to be shown those videos will see why I might want to get rid of you. And by means of Charmaine, for, after all, she filched my husband, right? Double punishment. It has to be watertight, this stunt. Something that can fool Ed, supposing he'll go looking. He'd buy that kind of malice, coming from me. He thinks I'm hardass as it is. That's why I'm his right-hand gal."
Is this leading where Stan thinks? His hands are clammy. "What stunt?"
"The part where Charmaine goes in to work in Medications Administration - where on a normal day she administers an exit dose to someone slated for repurposing - and then finds out that the next Special Procedure she has to perform is on you. And then she does perform it. But don't worry - unlike the others, you'll wake up afterwards. And then we'll be halfway there, because you won't be in the database anymore except in the past tense."
Stan's getting a headache. He can hardly follow this. So that's what Charmaine's been doing at her confidential job. She's been...He can't believe this. Fluffy, upbeat Charmaine? Fuck. She's a murderess.
"Wait. You haven't told her?" he says. "Charmaine? She'll think she's killed me?"
"For her, it has to be real," says Jocelyn. "We don't want her to act, they'd see through it: they have facial-expression analyzers. But Charmaine will believe the set-up. She's really good at believing."
"She enters readily into fantasies," says Phil. Is that a grin?
"Charmaine won't kill me," says Stan firmly. "No matter..." No matter how far into her you got, you lying dickshit, he wants to say but doesn't. "If she thinks it'll kill me, she won't go through with it."
"We'll find that out too, won't we?" says Jocelyn, smiling.
Stan wants to say, Charmaine loves me, but he's not completely sure of that any more. And what if there's a mistake? What if I really do die? he'd like to ask. But he's too chickenshit to admit he's chickenshit, so he keeps quiet.
Phil starts the car, moves them soundlessly along the street toward Positron Prison. He turns on the dashboard radio: it's the Doris Day playlist. "You Made Me Love You." Stan relaxes. That crooning voice is such a safe place for him now. He closes his eyes.
"Happy Valentine's Day," says Jocelyn softly. She pats his thigh again.
He hardly even feels the needle go in; it's just a slight jab. Then he's over the edge of the misty cliff. Then he's falling.
VII | WHITE CEILING
WHITE CEILING
Stan enters consciousness as if coming up from a well full of dark molasses. No, a well with nothing in it, because he didn't have any dreams. The last thing he can recall is being in the car, the black Surveillance car with darkened windows, with Jocelyn sitting beside him in the back seat and her smug, treacherous dipstick of a husband doing the driving.
He has an image of the back of Phil's head - a head he wouldn't mind perforating with a broken bottle - and then another of Jocelyn putting her sturdy but manicured hand out to pat his knee in the patronizing way she had, as if he was a pet dog. The black sleeve of her suit. That was his last snapshot.
Then the prick of the nee
dle. He was gone before he knew it.
But look, she didn't kill him! He's still in his body, he can hear his heart beating. As for his mind, it's clear as ice water. He doesn't feel drugged; he feels refreshed and hyper-alert, as if he's just chugged a couple of double espressos.
He opens his eyes. Fuck. Nothing. Maybe he's been sent to the stratosphere after all. No, wait, it's a ceiling. A white ceiling, with light reflecting down from it.
He turns his head to see where the light's coming from. No, he doesn't turn his head, because his head won't turn that far. Something's restraining it, and his arms, and, yes, his legs too. Triple fuck. They've got him strapped down.
"Fuck!" he says out loud. But no, he doesn't say that. The only sound that comes out of his mouth is a slobbering zombie sound. But urgent, like a car in a snowbank spinning its wheels. Unhuhuh. Unhuhuh.
This is horrible. He can think, but he can't move and he can't speak. Shit.
--
Charmaine hardly slept a wink all night. Maybe it was the screams; or they might have been laughs - that would be nicer; though if they were laughs, they were loud, high, and hysterical. She'd like to ask some of the other women if they heard anything too, but that's probably not a good idea.
Or maybe her sleeplessness came from overexcitement, because really she's super excited. She's so excited she can only peck at her lunch, because this afternoon she gets to resume her real job. After putting in her morning session of towel-folding, she got to throw away the shameful Laundry Room nametag and replace it with her rightful one: Chief Medications Administrator. It feels blissful, as if that nametag has been lost and now it's been found; like when you misplace your scooter keys or your phone and then they turn up and you get a rush of luckiness, as if the stars or fate or something has singled you out for a win. That's how happy her rightful nametag makes her feel.
The other women in her section have noticed that nametag: they're treating her with new respect. They're looking at her directly instead of letting their eyes slide past her like she was furniture; they're asking her sociable questions such as how did she sleep, and isn't this an awesome lunch? They're handing her small, chatty praises, like what a good job she's doing with the blue teddy bears, even though she's such a crappy knitter. And they're smiling at her, not half-smiles either, but full-on total-face smiles that are only partly fake.