"Not if the laser job is done professionally," says Budge. "But it's still experimental. It hasn't been entirely perfected. Some clients have been willing to take the chance anyway, but mistakes have occurred."
"Like what?" says Stan.
"You'll see when you meet your guide," says Budge. "She didn't turn out the way she was supposed to. That was one very pissed-off client! But he'd signed the terms and conditions, he knew the risks."
"What went wrong?" Stan asks. He's already imagining. She wants to hump dead people, or dogs, or what?
"Timing," says Budge. "But it makes her an ideal operative, because she can never be distracted by a man."
"What can she be distracted by?" Stan asks.
Budge stops in front of a door, knocks on it, opens it with his card. "After you," he says.
SACRIFICE
The funeral chapel is one size fits all. No crosses or whatnot, but there's a giant pair of praying hands and a picture of a sunrise. The colour scheme is powder blue and white, like the Wedgwood-style teacups Grandma Win used to have. There are huge banks of white flowers: they've really gone all out.
The chapel is filled to overflowing. The women from the bakery where Charmaine works when she's not in prison are here, and so are the knitting groups - her original group and that other group she hardly knows at all. They must have let these women out of Positron on passes for the funeral. Quite a few are wearing black hats - berets, pancake shapes, modified cloches - so she's made the right choice hatwise.
There are a number of Stan's fellow workers from the scooter shop. They nod at her deferentially because she's the widow, but there's an extra layer of deference as well. It must be the presence of Ed, who has tucked her arm within his and who is leading her up the aisle carefully, respectfully. He places her in the front pew, then sits down beside her, his thigh not touching hers, thank goodness, but still too close.
Aurora is on the other side of her, and on the other side of Ed is the woman from Surveillance, wearing a pillbox hat. She looks a bit like Jackie Kennedy.
And on the other side of that woman is Max. Charmaine can feel a thin filament of superheated air stretching between them, like the inside of an old light bulb: incandescent. He feels it too. He must feel it.
Ignore this, she tells herself. It's an illusion. You are in mourning.
The chapel has fold-down pews in case any dead person has a kneeling family. Charmaine wasn't brought up as a kneeler, but she'd like to be able to kneel right now - put her hands on the back of the pew in front, then place her forehead on those hands as if in despair. That way she could just zone out, which would help her get through this bogus funeral. Or she could spend the time thinking about what in heck she's going to do if Ed makes a move on her, such as putting his hand on her thigh. But she can't do any kneeling, because she's in the front row. She has to sit up straight and act noble. She squares her shoulders.
Now they're playing organ music, some kind of hymn. If they play "You'll Never Walk Alone," like in some of the Consilience TV funerals, she doesn't know if she can stand it. She is walking alone, she always will be. Here comes a tear.
Toughen up. Just pretend you're at the hairdresser's, says the little voice.
The coffin is closed, due to the hideous burns that Stan is supposed to have suffered as he threw himself upon the defective main switch, then frizzled as the current shot through him. That's what it said on the TV news, but really the coffin is closed because Stan isn't in it. She wonders what they've done with him and what they've put into the coffin instead. Most likely some old cabbages or bags of lawn clippings: something of the right weight and sogginess. But why have anything in there at all? No one's going to look inside.
What if she called their bluff? Said, I want to see my darling Stan one more time. Made a scene, threw herself on the coffin, demanded they wrench off the lid. Then, when they refuse, she could turn to the congregation and tell them what's really going on: Innocent people are being killed! Like Sandi! Like Stan! And there must be dozens of others...But they'd surround her in a minute and haul her away to calm her down, because after all she's out of her mind with grief. Then she'd be erased, just like Stan. Oh, Stan...
Dang it, more tears. Aurora squeezes her hand to show support. Ed is going pat pat, and in one more minute he's going to snake his arm around her. There's black on her white hanky: the mascara. "I'm all right," she manages to gasp in a half-whisper.
Now there's a soloist, a woman from Charmaine's knitting group, the second one. She's got that solemn soprano expression on her face, she's inflating her lungs and sticking out her black frilly boobs and opening her mouth, and this will be awful, because Charmaine recognizes the organ-music tune: "Cry Me a River." The woman's way off-key. Charmaine covers her face with her gloved hands, because she might laugh. No losing it, she tells herself firmly.
The soprano's done, thank heavens. After the rustling and coughs die down, one of Stan's scooter co-workers delivers a message from what he calls Stan's Team. Bowed head, foot shuffling. Great guy, Stan; stepped up to the mark, proud of him, made the sacrifice for all of us, miss him. Charmaine feels sorry for the speaker, because he's been deceived. Like everyone else.
Then Ed unglues himself from her arm, straightens his tie, and walks to the podium. He clears his throat and out pours his TV voice, warm and reassuring, strong and believable. It comes to her as bursts of sound, like a scratched CD. Brought together malfunction regrettable sacred deplorable admirable brave enduring heroic forever. Then, Join loss spouse help hope community.
If she didn't know the truth, Charmaine would be convinced. More than convinced, won over. Get through it, you windbag, she thinks at Ed.
Now six of Stan's Team are moving forward. Now they're rolling the coffin down the aisle. Now the music starts up: "Side by Side."
I can't take this, thinks Charmaine. That should have been us, me and Stan, travelling along as we used to, through all kinds of weather, even inside that smelly old car, just as long as we're together. Here come the tears again.
"Stand up," Aurora is telling her. "You need to follow the coffin."
"I can't, I can't see," Charmaine gasps.
"I'll help you. Up you come! People will want to pay their respects at the reception."
Reception. Egg salad sandwiches with the crusts cut off. Asparagus pinwheels. Lemon squares. "To me? Respects?" Charmaine stifles a sob. That's all she needs, a hysterical outburst. "I couldn't, I couldn't eat anything!" Why does death make people so hungry?
"Take a deep breath," says Aurora. "That's better. You'll shake their hands and smile, it's all they expect. Then I'll drive with you back to the house, and we can discuss your grief therapy. Consilience always provides that."
"I don't need any grief therapy!" Charmaine almost screams.
"Oh, you do," says Aurora with her sham compassion. "Oh, I think you really do."
We'll see about that, Charmaine thinks. She starts to pace down the aisle, Aurora's steadying hand on her elbow. Ed has materialized again and flanks her on the other side, his arm stuck onto her back like a squid.
PERFECT
Budge eases the door open, stands aside to let Stan go first. The room they enter is the closest thing to a genuine old-fashioned room that Stan has seen in some time. The Dimple Robotics golf course had a bar like that. There's wood panelling, there are floor-length curtains, there are oriental carpets. There's a fire burning in the fireplace, or a quasi-fire: gas, maybe. There's a leather-look sofa in front of it.
Sitting on the sofa with her long legs stretched out is one of the most gorgeous women Stan has ever seen. Lustrous dark hair, shoulder-length; perfect tits, the tops of them just barely displayed. She's wearing a simple black sheath, a single strand of pearls. What a classy piece of ass, thinks Stan.
She smiles at him, the neutral smile she might give a puppy, or an elderly aunt. There's no charge coming from her, no chemistry.
"Stan, I'd like you to meet Veronica," says Budge. "Vero
nica, this is Stan."
"Veronica," says Stan. Is this the same Veronica? That hooker from PixelDust who Charmaine used to tell him wasn't really her friend? If so, she's had quite a makeover. She'd been pretty before, but now she's drop-dead stunning. "Do I know you?" he asks, then feels dumb because every man she meets must ask her that.
"Possibly," says Veronica, "but the past no longer applies." She extends a hand. Manicured nails, burgundy. Expensive watch, Rolex. Cool palm. She gives him an LED smile: light, but no heat. "I understand I'm taking you to the other side."
Stan shakes the hand. Take me fucking anywhere, he thinks. This is what he once thought Jasmine would look like - Jasmine, the fatal fantasy. He needs to watch it here, not let himself be hauled around by the gonads. Listen up, he tells his dick silently. Keep it zipped.
"Sit down, have a drink," says Veronica.
"Do you live here?" says Stan.
"Live?" says Veronica. She arches a perfect eyebrow.
"This is the honeymoon suite," says Budge. "Or one of them. Where the customized individuals first meet their...their..."
"Their owners," says Veronica with a precious-metal laugh. "It's supposed to be lust at first sight on behalf of the, of the people like me, but they missed the target in my case. The man walked in to collect on his investment and there was nothing."
"Nothing?" says Stan. Why isn't she angry? But Budge said they weren't, or not so you'd notice. They don't seem to miss what they've lost.
"No spark between us. Not a twinge. He was furious about it, but there was nothing I could do. Consilience gave him the choice of a refund or a second pick. He's still thinking about it."
"They couldn't do Veronica over again," says Budge. "Too risky. She might come out drooling."
"He wanted just me," says Veronica, shrugging. "But I can't. It wasn't my fault."
"It was some stupid, well-meaning nurse," says Budge. "The guy's photo was there, as agreed, in case he got held up in a meeting. But the nurse gave her a comfort toy. Like she was a kid."
"My head was turned that way, so he was the first thing I saw," says Veronica. "His two gorgeous eyes, gazing into mine." The mishap doesn't seem to have bothered her. "Luckily I can take my loved one with me everywhere I go. I keep him in this carry bag, right here. I'd show him to you, but I might lose control. Even talking about him is the most incredible turn-on for me."
"But," says Stan. "But you're so beautiful!" Is this a joke, are the two of them messing with him? If not, what a fucking waste. "Have you tried -"
"Any other man? I'm afraid it's no use," says Veronica. "I'm just plain frigid when it comes to real live men. The mere thought of them in that way makes me feel a little sick. That was programmed in when they did the operation."
"But she's smart," says Budge. "Good in an emergency, and she has a swift kick. And she follows orders, so long as it isn't about sex. So you'll be in safe hands."
"And I won't rape you," says Veronica with a sweet smile.
If only, thinks Stan. "Mind if I look?" he asks politely, indicating the black carry bag. He has an urge to see what he's already thinking of as his rival.
"It's okay," says Veronica. "Go ahead. You'll laugh. I know you don't believe me about this whole thing, but it's true. So I'm just telling you: don't have any hopes about me. I'd hate to wreck your nuts."
Not such a total makeover, thinks Stan. She's still got her street mouth.
The bag has a zipper. Stan undoes it. Inside, staring up at him with its round blank eyes, is a blue knitted teddy bear.
GRIEF THERAPY
Charmaine makes it through the reception somehow. She manages the receiving line and the hand-clasping and the meaningful glances, and the arm strokings, and even the hugs from both of her teddy bear knitting groups. That second group hardly talked to her at all, as if she'd done something wrong; but now that she has done something wrong they're all mushy and huggy, with their breaths of egg salad sandwiches. Which just goes to show, as Grandma Win would have said. But what does it go to show? That people are delusional?
We're so sorry for your loss. Buzz off! Charmaine wants to yell. But she smiles feebly and says to each one of them, Oh, thank you. Thank you for all your support. Including when I really needed it and you treated me like puppy throw-up.
--
Now they're in Aurora's car, and Aurora's in the front seat, and Charmaine is eating the asparagus pinwheel she wrapped in a paper napkin and tucked into her clutch bag when no one was looking, because despite everything she has to keep up her strength. And now they're at Charmaine's house, and Aurora is removing her unflattering black hat in front of the hall mirror. And now she's saying, "Let's just kick off our shoes and get comfortable. I'll make some tea, and then we can start your grief therapy." She smiles with her stretched face. For a fleeting instant, she looks afraid; but what has she got to be afraid of? Nothing. Unlike Charmaine.
"I don't need any grief therapy," Charmaine mutters sulkily. She feels bodiless and also unbalanced, as if the floor is tilting. She teeters over to the sofa on her high heels and plunks herself down. She'll be darned if she lets these mean, slippery people give her grief therapy. What would they want to therapize about? The way Stan is supposed to have died or the way he really did die? Whichever, it will be a major brainwreck.
"Trust me, it will do you good," says Aurora as she disappears into the kitchen. She'll put a pill in the tea, thinks Charmaine. She'll blot out my memory, that's likely their idea of grief therapy. In the kitchen the radio turns on: "Happy Days Are Here Again." Charmaine's neck prickles: are they playing that on purpose? Do they know about her habit of humming her favourite upbeat tunes while she readies herself to do the Procedures?
Aurora enters in her stocking feet, carrying a tray with a plate of oatmeal cookies and three cups. Not two, three. Charmaine feels cold all over: who's in the kitchen?
"There," says Aurora. "Girls' tea party!"
The woman from Surveillance saunters out of the kitchen. She's holding a blue knitted teddy bear. Her expression is - what? Sarcastic, Charmaine would once have said. More like inquisitive. But concealing it.
"What're you doing in my kitchen?" Charmaine says. Her voice is squeaky with outrage. Really it's too much! Privacy invasion! Ease up, she tells herself: this woman could obliterate you with one word.
"In point of fact, every other month it's my kitchen," says the woman. "My name is Jocelyn. I happen to live here when I'm not working from Positron."
"Jocelyn? You're my Alternate?" says Charmaine. "So you're..." Oh no. "Max's wife! Or Phil, or whatever he..."
"Maybe we should have our tea first," Aurora offers, "before we get into the -"
"Never mind which wife is whose," says Jocelyn. "We can't waste time on the sexual spaghetti. I need you to listen very carefully to what I'm about to say. Many lives will depend on it." She gives Charmaine a severe stare, like a gym teacher's.
Goodness, thinks Charmaine. Now what have I done?
"First of all," says Jocelyn, "Stan isn't dead."
"Yes, he is!" says Charmaine. "That's a lie! I know he is! He has to be dead!"
"You think you killed him," says Jocelyn.
"You told me to!" says Charmaine.
"I told you to carry out the Special Procedure," says Jocelyn, "and you did. Thank you for that, and for your overreaction; it was a great help. But the formula you administered merely induced temporary unconsciousness. Stan is now safely inside a facility adjacent to Positron Prison, awaiting further instructions."
"You're lying again!" says Charmaine. "If he's alive, why did you make me go through that whole funeral thing?"
"Your grief had to be genuine," says Jocelyn. "Facial expression recognition tech is very precise these days. We needed everyone watching you to endorse a reality in which Stan is dead. Dead is the only way he can be effective."
Effective at what? Charmaine wonders. "I just don't believe you!" she says. Is that a butterfly of hope somewhere inside her
?
"Listen for a minute. He sent you a message," says Jocelyn. She fiddles with the blue teddy bear, and out of it comes Stan's voice: Hi, honey, this is Stan. It's okay, I'm alive. They'll get you out, we can be together again, but you have to have faith in them, you have to do what they say. I love you. The voice is tinny and sounds far away. Then there's a click.
Charmaine is stunned. This has to be fake! But if it really is Stan, how can she trust that he's being allowed to speak for himself ? She has an image of him with a gun to his head, being forced to record the message. "Play it again," she says.
"It self-erased," says Jocelyn. She's taken a little square thing out of the bear; she crushes it under her heel. "Security reasons. You wouldn't want to be caught with a hot teddy bear. So, will you help Stan?"
"Help Stan do what?" says Charmaine.
"You don't need to know that yet," says Jocelyn. "Stan will tell you, once we get you out. Or far enough out, at any rate."
"But he knows I killed him," says Charmaine, starting to sniffle again. Even if the two of them do get back together outside Positron, how can he ever forgive her?
"I'll tell him you knew it wasn't real," says Jocelyn. "The death drug. But then I can always un-tell him, after which he'll hate you, and you can stay locked in here forever. Big Ed has a hard-on for you, and he won't take giggle for an answer. He's having a sexbot made in your image."
"He's making a what?" says Charmaine.
"A sexbot. A sex robot. They've already sculpted your face; next they'll add the body."
"They can't do that!" says Charmaine. "Without even asking me!"
"Actually, they can," says Jocelyn. "But once he's practised on that he'll want the real thing. Eventually he'll tire of you, if history's top bananas are any guide - think Henry the Eighth - and then where will you end up? On the wrong end of the Procedure, is my guess."
"That's so mean," wails Charmaine. "Where am I supposed to go?"
"You can stay here at the mercy of Ed, or you can take a chance with us, and then with Stan. One or the other." Jocelyn takes a bite of her cookie, watching Charmaine's face.
This is awful, thinks Charmaine. A sexbot of herself, that is so creepy-crawly. Ed must be crazy; and despite the message he sent, Stan must be totally mad at her. Why does she have to choose between two scary things? "What do you want me to do?" she asks.