Six Scifi Stories (7 page)

“Why? What's going on?” I'm a little nervous, because I found Dr. M hiding out with her bottle of whiskey in the dungeon...I mean my secret lab. She is leaning against the metal table on which my personal secret project lies hidden under a bedsheet.

Dr. Medici raises her glass, but I have no glass of my own with which to toast. “That's irony for you. I'm smart enough that I probably could have found a cure for cancer if I'd put my mind to it.”

As she downs her drink, I take a step closer. “Cancer?” My head spins as the word dribbles from my lips.

Dr. Medici nods and refills her glass. “Star cell carcinoma,” she says glibly. “A mind is a terrible thing to turn to paste.”

I stumble another step toward her in the shadowy chamber. “Inoperable?” I'm having trouble talking to her, but not for the usual reasons.

Dr. M raises her glass. “Merry Christmas.” She gulps her drink. “What really pisses me off, though,” she says, “is that I didn't get to be queen of the world first.”

This time, I stumble back away from her. I come up short against the cold wall of the cave and let it hold me up while the world melts out from under me.

Dr. Medici laughs bitterly. “I should've been a medical doctor,” she says. “What the hell was I thinking?”

 

*****

 

Twenty-five years ago, the first time I saw Dr. Medici, she was pounding the hell out of a teddy bear in her family's back yard. She was six years old, and dressed all in black.

Lots of cars were parked in front of her house, and I had come over to see what all the excitement was about. Hildegarde scowled at me and kept pounding the bear as I approached.

“Who's all the people?” I said, gesturing in the general direction of the cars parked out front.

“Funeral people.” Hildegarde held the bear by its stubby legs and swung it hard at a rock as big as she was.

“Why are they here?” I remember looking around for something like the stuffed bear to swing and pound, as if it were the polite thing to do.

“My mother,” said Hildegarde, sweeping the bear way back and really slamming it against the rock with all her might.

“What about her?” I said.

“Cancer!” Hildegarde went wild then, pounding the bear on the rock so hard that the bear's seams split and stuffing flew out of it. “Cancer cancer cancer cancer
cancer
!”

I stood and watched as she pounded the bear, then dug her nails into the split seams and tore it apart. Grunting like an animal, she shredded the skin and hurled the stuffing into the yard.

When she finally ran out of bear to pound and rip, she threw down the last remaining hunk of brown fur and glared at me.

“Someday,” she said, “I'll be queen of the world, and I'll make it so nothin' happens without my say-so.”

“Okay,” I said. “Wanna play doctor?”

 

*****

 

I watch her get drunk in the old dungeon for a long time, and I hardly say a word. When she finally starts to nod off, I help her upstairs to her quarters so she can sleep in her own bed.

And I don't leave right away like I should.

I stand in the doorway and watch her as she sleeps, the peaceful look on her face belying the turmoil in her life.

I would do anything for her. If I could cure her cancer by giving up my own life, I would do it. If I could take all of her troubles on myself, I would do that, too.

But there
is
one thing that I can do. It's the one thing that both of our lives have been leading up to since we first started playing mad scientist in the back yards of our childhood homes.

 

*****

 

The next morning, I have a pot of coffee waiting for her in the lab. That much, at least, is like every other morning...though it's really the third pot I've made since midnight the night before. I drank the first two on my own; it was the only way I could stay up all night and make the final preparations for the grand unveiling.

When I see how bad she looks when she walks in, I'm extra glad I decided to carry out my secret plan today. Her eyes are bloodshot, her face haggard, her hair tangled. She shuffles around like she's still half-asleep, like she was the one up all night and not me.

I fill her mug with coffee and stir in a teaspoonful of sugar, the way she likes it. She doesn't take it at first, and when she does, she only sips once and puts the mug back down on the table.

Half-heartedly, she walks over to the big whiteboard on the wall and stares at the equations scrawled there in red, green, and black dry-erase marker. “Did the U.N. return my call yet?” She says it without looking back at me.

“No, Doctor.” I cross the lab and stand alongside her.

She sighs and shakes her head. “I give up.”

“I know the feeling,” I say.

“No,” says Dr. Medici. “I mean I really give up. No more mad science. It's just not working for me anymore.”

I never thought I'd hear her say that, but I understand where it's coming from. “You've been having a rough time lately,” I say. “Things'll get better.”

“If by ‘better,' you mean death, then yeah.” She's finally showing some spark. Too bad it's in the form of sarcasm. “Much better, coming right up.”

I take a deep breath. My big moment has arrived. “Things
will
get better.” I feel a chill as all the blood seems to rush right out of my body at once. “Things will get better right
now
, in fact.”

She isn't taking me seriously. She doesn't even look at me as she ladles on more sarcasm. “Oh, good. You've come up with that cure for cancer you've been working on. I'll have some right now, please.”

“Follow me.” I turn and march to the far corner, where the big surprise awaits, laid out on a gurney under a white sheet.

Dr. Medici follows slowly, her face etched in a scowl. “I'm not in the mood for jokes, Glue.”

My hand shakes as I pat the shape beneath the sheet. I feel the heat of it, the rise and fall of it, and I know I've done well. “Trust me,” I tell her. “Give me a chance.”

“What is it?” she says as she draws up beside me.

“Science project,” I say, and then I whisk the sheet from the gurney.

Dr. Medici stares silently at the naked man who is lying there.

He is lean and muscular, the type who could be a model or an all-around athlete. His complexion is fair, his thick hair glossy and blond. He has a movie star face with chiseled features...and his eyes, when they finally flutter open, sparkle like twin sapphires.

He looks young, in his twenties or thirties, but nowhere near his true age, for he is a newborn. Today is the first day of his life.

“Who?” For a change, Dr. Medici is the one reduced to one-word sentences.

“That's up to you.” I pat the new man's shoulder, and he smiles up at us. “He's all yours.”

Dr. M's frown softens just a little. “You made him?” She hangs back from the gurney, but she can't take her eyes off the man. “But how?”

“With snips and snails and puppy dog tails.” I can't believe I'm making a joke, but I feel incredible. “And cloned, hypertrophic super stem cells resequenced by viral nanodrives seated mitochondrially.”

“Huh.” Dr. Medici shoots me a sideways look. “Are you
sure
you don't have the cure for cancer?”

“Go ahead and sit up,” I tell the man on the gurney, and he does. “Say something.”

“Hello.” When he says it, his voice is deep and rich, and he looks right in her eyes. “I love you.”

Dr. Medici blushes. “This is crazy,” she says. “This is nuts.” But she doesn't break eye contact with him the whole time.

I feel better than I can remember ever feeling before. “He understands you,” I say. “The thrill will never be gone for him. And he will never leave you.”

“But you can't know that,” says Dr. M, “can you?”

Grinning, I give the homemade man a wink. “Tell her.”

“I understand you.” The homemade man gazes into her eyes and speaks with intense feeling that leaves no room for doubt or apprehension. “The thrill will
never
be gone. And I will never
leave
you, Hildegarde.”

I brainwashed him well. Every word, inflection, and expression are perfect.

Dr. Medici flashes me a confused frown. “But why?” she says. “Why did you do this?”

“I didn't want you to be alone anymore.” It's only now that I lie to her. “Since you couldn't meet the right man, I made one for you.”

Dr. Medici turns back to the homemade man, her confusion dissolving into wonderment. “I can't believe it,” she says. “No one's ever done anything like this for me before.”

Each word is like a caress to me. As she reaches out to touch his cheek, I feel like she's reaching out to touch mine. As she gazes tenderly into his eyes, I feel like she is gazing into mine.

Which makes sense, really. There's one part of the secret plan that I haven't told her about yet...one part that I will never tell her about.

That part is me. I am part of him.

I grew his heart from a piece of my own. The heart in his chest, the one that beats faster as she takes his hand in her own, is the twin of my heart.

And as he embarks on the life I always wanted, takes the love I always longed for in his new, strong hands, I'll share it, in a way. As I go about my work and see them happy, I'll know that I made it possible, and part of me will always be part of them.

This is the real reason I made him, the one I lied to her about. I made him because it's the only way I could ever have her, the only way I could ever close that final mile between us.

Though, if I'm honest, I have to say that not everything I'm feeling right now is happiness.

“Wendell.” For the first time that I can remember, Dr. Medici calls me by my first name. “Wendell, thank you.”

“Be happy.” My heart is pounding like the pistons of a giant robot. “That'll be thanks enough.”

She reaches over and brushes my hand with her fingertips. Not for the first time and not for the last, I long to fold her into my arms and press my lips to hers in a kiss for the ages.

“This is mad, you know.” A single tear rolls down her face as she turns back to her newborn lover. She can't take her eyes off him.

“Mad is good,” I say, wiping away a tear of my own.

 
The great state of Missouri lay across the Speaker's bench at the front of the House of E-representatives, wrapped in the American flag. His eyes and mouth gaped, and his arms and legs hung over the sides, dripping blood on the carpet below.

"Oh, God," said Connecticut, her shaky hand hovering over Missouri's motionless chest. "He's not breathing."

Manitoba stood on the next tier down and wouldn't come any closer. "Is there a--what's it called? Heartbeat?"

Connecticut lowered her hand, then jerked it away. "That's in the throat, right?" Nervously, she scrubbed her palms on her smart red pantsuit. "Or is it the arm?"

That was when Nevada had finally had enough.

Without a word, he pushed his tall, lanky body through the crowd on the floor of the House and charged up the steps to the Speaker's bench. Without hesitation, he pressed two fingers against the side of Missouri's throat.

"No pulse." Nevada said it loud enough for the whole crowd to hear. "The Speaker of the House is dead."

A great gasp went up from the crowd--the computer-generated, artificial intelligence-driven avatars of ninety-eight of the one-hundred states of the United States of America. Though they didn't have flesh-and-blood bodies and shouldn't have feared being murdered in the physical sense, the evidence of dead Missouri had left them all shell-shocked.

"But how?" Connecticut slipped off her gold-rimmed glasses, let them hang by the diamond-studded chain around her neck...then slid them back on a second later. "And why?"

Nevada pushed up the sleeves of his tuxedo. He took Missouri's head in his hands and turned it gently to one side, exposing a gruesome wound. "Blow to the back of the head." Accepting the wound for what it appeared to be instead of what it was--an electronic simulation of a wound--he looked around for a simulated weapon that could have caused it. "What did it and why, I don't know."

"What are those?" Connecticut pointed at bloody marks on Missouri's left arm.

Nevada put Missouri's head down on the bench and took a look at the arm. Wiping some of the blood away, he realized the marks followed a familiar design.

Someone had cut a number into Missouri's arm. "One hundred," said Nevada. "It's the number one hundred."

The crowd murmured and moved restlessly. Nevada could tell the e-reps were confused because they usually acted more decisively.

They were A.I. avatars of the United States in the year 2300, guided by the aggregate preferences of the human electorate in the world outside. Perfectly attuned to the people they represented, perfectly immune to corruption, they never hesitated or doubted themselves.

That was why their confusion was unusual...and it didn't last long. As Nevada examined the body on the Speaker's bench, three of the e-reps broke from the pack and stormed toward him with jaws and shoulders set.

Sinaloa, in the middle, flipped his red-lined bullfighter's cape over his shoulder. "This is impossible." An American state since Mexico had disbanded twenty-five years ago, Sinaloa cultivated an air of insolence and false bravado. "What we see here is the product of a server malfunction."

"Exactly." South Africa tossed his glossy blond hair beside Sinaloa. "This is a bug. The Developers will fix it."

Nevada rubbed the stubbly cleft of his chin and met South Africa's blue-eyed stare. "Like Idaho?"

South Africa straightened his khaki safari shirt and looked away. So did stocky Kamchatka, the recent Russian convert, who had followed him up the steps.

Sinaloa glared. "I hear that Idaho might have been someone
else's
fault. Not the Developers."

A cold, threatening smile spread across Nevada's face. He knew exactly whom Sinaloa was talking about.

He was talking about Nevada.

"Then maybe you'd best be careful." Nevada adjusted his gold pinky rings and cracked his knuckles. "Just in case he can hear what you're saying."

"If, by some wild chance, the same person is responsible for this crime, I hope he
does
hear me," said Sinaloa. "I want him to know he won't get away with what he's done."

"Tell him yourself, when you catch him." Nevada started to walk away.

"
I
won't catch him." Sinaloa snagged Nevada's shoulder and held him in place. "
You're
sergeant-at-arms of the House, aren't you?"

Nevada sighed. "As of twenty-four
hours
ago. What makes you think I'm ready to catch a
killer
?"

Sinaloa let go of Nevada. "We all know you've done this job before." He tightened his bolo tie, pushing the turquoise slide higher into the neck of his black silk shirt. "Five years ago, yes?"

"So what?" said Nevada.

"So you've got experience," said Sinaloa. "Not just with being sergeant-at-arms, but with losing e-reps on the job."

Nevada felt the urge to clock him in the face. Idaho had been his greatest failure, his darkest moment.

His deepest love.

"You're better qualified than any of us. You have more motivation to solve this than anyone," said Sinaloa. "You have quite a lot to prove, don't you?"

Nevada smirked and loosened the collar of the frilly shirt under his tux jacket. "You just don't want to get your hands dirty. None of you ever do."

Even as he said it, he knew Sinaloa was right. He knew what people thought of him. He knew he had a lot to prove.

And he knew he would take the case.

 

*****

"Missouri and I walked out together," said Antarctica, her beautiful silver eyes staring into space. "He went back in for some papers he'd forgotten." She tucked her long, platinum hair behind her ears, and a single tear rolled down her pale cheek. "That was the last time I saw him alive."

Across the table, Nevada watched Antarctica's reaction closely. She was the last person to have seen Missouri before the murder, and that earned her a spot on the list of suspects.

She was also a sweet kid, and Nevada didn't buy her as a killer. She was the youngest e-rep, in fact, from the newest, hundredth state; Antarctica had joined the U.S.A. only one year ago, in 2299. Strikingly beautiful and shining with inner light, the junior Congresswoman gave Nevada an impression of innocence and honesty, not wiles and lies.

For a moment, Nevada looked away from her, directing his gaze across the chamber at the bloody Speaker's bench. While Nevada interviewed witnesses in the back of the room, other e-reps were up front, clearing the crime scene.

"Did he say anything unusual?" Nevada flicked his eyes to Antarctica, then back to the cleanup crew. They'd already removed Missouri's body, but the blood was another matter. Soap and water didn't exist in the digital realm, so the e-reps couldn't scrub out the soaked-in stains.

Antarctica adjusted her white fur wrap. "Just small talk about today's vote."

As Nevada considered his next question, his fellow
e-reps gave up trying to clean the Speaker's bench and draped a red tablecloth over it to hide the blood. "How close were the two of you?"

"He was a mentor to me," said Antarctica.

"And there was nothing else between you?" Nevada locked eyes with her. "Nothing of a more personal nature?"

Antarctica didn't flinch. "Nothing."

Nevada believed her. "Okay, fine. Thank you for your time."

With that, Nevada rose from his chair and called out to the e-reps milling around the chamber. "Will the great state of Panama please report to the sergeant-at-arms."

When Nevada turned back to the interview table, he realized that Antarctica was still sitting there.

"You're dismissed, sweetheart," said Nevada. "Unless you've got something else to say?"

Antarctica nodded grimly. "I want to help you. I want to help find who killed him."

Nevada fiddled with his tuxedo cufflinks. He could think of two reasons for her offer. One, she really
did
want to do her part to bring the killer to justice.

Or two, she
was
the killer, and she wanted to divert attention from her own guilt.

Either way, Nevada figured he could use her.

"Why not?" he said. "As long as you don't mind getting your hands dirty."

"I'll do what I have to." Antarctica rose, smoothing the glittering, ice-blue gown that she wore under her fur wrap. "Missouri was a great state."

"Aren't they all?" said Nevada.

 

*****

Panama was no help. Neither was Jamaica or Wyoming or any of the other states who had been around Missouri before his death.

After hours of questioning one e-rep witness after another, Nevada was no closer to solving the murder. According to the witnesses, Missouri hadn't said or done a thing out of the ordinary, and no one in his orbit had said or done anything suspicious.

Frustrated, Nevada marched out of the House chamber through the big double doors and into the halls of the digital Capitol building. "I need some fresh air." Antarctica followed him.

Except for Nevada and Antarctica, the halls were empty. The e-reps, whose sole reason for existing was to vote on legislation according to the will of the electorate, rarely ventured outside the House chamber. Neither did the e-senators.

"What's next?" said Antarctica.

Nevada shrugged. "Missouri's office, I guess. Root around for some kind of clue."

"Like what?" said Antarctica. "What are we looking for?"

"How should I know?" said Nevada. "I'm no detective."

Antarctica frowned. "What did Sinaloa mean when he said you have experience losing e-reps on the job?"

Nevada sighed. "Didn't anyone ever tell you about Idaho?"

"I'm new around here," said Antarctica. "There's a lot I don't know."

"Idaho disappeared five years ago," said Nevada. "I was sergeant-at-arms at the time, and I couldn't find her."

"So they blame you for losing her?" said Antarctica.

"Some of them." Nevada listened to his lizard-skin cowboy boots echoing down the corridor. "And some think I might have
killed
her."

Antarctica gaped at him. "How could they think
that
?"

"Because we were lovers." Nevada stopped in front of an office door. The print on the frosted glass bore the name of Missouri. Nevada turned the knob.

Antarctica walked in after him and closed the door. As Nevada rifled drawers and flipped through papers on Missouri's desk, Antarctica circled the perimeter, watching him with a guarded expression.

"Nothing here." After ransacking the desk for a while, Nevada planted his hands on his hips and shook his head. "Nothing out of the ordinary."

"What about that?" Antarctica pointed toward the door through which they'd entered. At the base of it, a single sheet of blank paper lay flat on the floor.

"Someone must have slid it under the door while we were busy," said Nevada.

Antarctica picked up the paper. "Why would somebody slip us a piece of paper with nothing on it?"

"Depends." As soon as Nevada's fingers touched the page, black lettering appeared on it. "Depends who it's addressed to."

Antarctica leaned in close enough that Nevada could smell her sweet gardenia perfume, and they read the note together.

Statue of Liberty, 3PM, Come Alone.

"It's an invitation," said Nevada. "Somebody wants to tell me something."

"Or maybe this is from the killer," said Antarctica. "Maybe he wants you to 'come alone' so he can kill you."

"There's only one way to find out." Nevada crumpled the paper into his tux jacket pocket and headed for the door.

 

*****

From the windows in the tiara of the Statue of Liberty, Nevada gazed out over the digital realm that was his home.

He could see everything spread out before him--a world of American landmarks, brought together to provide picturesque backdrops for the e-reps' and e-sens' press conferences.

In the middle of it all, Nevada saw the gleaming white dome of the Capitol building. Northwest of the Capitol jabbed the ivory needle of the Washington Monument; to the southwest rested the Lincoln Memorial. The Liberty Bell hung in a golden tower to the southeast, and Plymouth Rock perched on a pedestal to the northeast.

Straight across the bubble of the digital realm from the Statue of Liberty, Mount Rushmore spanned the horizon, its giant presidential heads gazing out over the city. Niagara Falls roared to the east, and the Grand Canyon sprawled to the west, glowing forever red in the
never-dimming sunrise.

"Nevada." The whispered voice from across the room surprised him. Nevada shot his gaze into the shadows...and saw an intercom speaker built into the wall there.

"Nevada." The voice spoke again, still no more than a whisper. Nevada crossed the room and stood close to the speaker, straining to identify who was doing the talking.

"Nevada. Are you
there
?"

Nevada pressed the button to transmit and spoke into the grill in the wall. "I'm here. Who is this?"

"Call me Looking Glass." The voice belonged to a man, but that was all Nevada could tell. "I know where to look."

"For what?" said Nevada.

"For Yukon's murderer," said Looking Glass.

A sharp chill raced up Nevada's spine. "Don't you mean Missouri's? Yukon isn't dead."

"She wasn't," said Looking Glass, "when you got on Lady Liberty's elevator."

Nevada's finger shook as he pressed the intercom button again. "Is that what this is about? Did you bring me here so I'd be out of the way while you killed Yukon?"

"Here is your first clue," said Looking Glass. "When is one one-hundred?"

Nevada scowled. "Just tell me if you did it. Tell me if you killed them both."

"When does one plus zero equal two?" said Looking Glass. "That's your second clue."

"If you didn't do it, who did?" said Nevada.

"No more for now," said Looking Glass. "See you after three and four."

With that, the line went dead.

Nevada slammed the button with the palm of his hand. "Looking Glass! Talk to me!"

But Looking Glass was gone.