The Heart Goes Last - Страница 48

“In addition to those, we think he’s working on a sort of blend. Not that we know for sure,” says Jocelyn.

“A blend of what?” says Charmaine.

“Heavens, look at the time!” says Aurora. “I need my beauty sleep!”

“I think I’ll pay a visit to Possibilibots,” says Jocelyn. “Just to make sure the security is tight, around Ed’s special project. We wouldn’t want a malfunction the first time he takes it out for a drive around the block.”

“A what?” says Charmaine. “Why are you talking about a car?”

Jocelyn actually laughs. She doesn’t laugh much as a rule. “You’re terrific,” she says to Charmaine. “It’s not a car.”

“Oh,” Charmaine says after a minute. “Now I get it.”

Malfunction

The next day Ed isn’t at the office. There’s nothing on his schedule to suggest where he might be. Charmaine takes the liberty – or else the chance – of knocking on his door. When there’s no answer she goes in. No sign of him. Desk neat as a pin. She peeks quickly into a couple of his desk drawers: there are a few folders, but all they have in them is expansion plans for Ruby Slippers. No receipts for plane tickets, nothing. Where could he have gone?

She isn’t supposed to contact Jocelyn during the day, not by text, not by phone or email: no snail trails is Jocelyn’s motto. With no orders to follow, she occupies her mind by painting her nails, which is a very soothing thing to do when you’re anxious and keyed up. Some people like to throw objects, such as glasses of water or rocks, but nail painting is more positive. If more world leaders would take it up there would be less overall suffering, in her opinion.

After so-called work, she goes straight home. Jocelyn’s waiting for her in the living room, sitting on the sofa with her shoes off and her feet up. Charmaine is pained by the sight of those feet. As long as Jocelyn keeps all her clothes on it seems improbable that Max/Phil could ever have made love to her, but with the shoes off, displaying feet with real toes … And she has terrific legs, Charmaine has to give her that. Legs that Max/Phil’s hands must have stroked, in an upward direction, many times.

Charmaine can’t imagine Jocelyn in the grip of passion, she can’t imagine her saying the kinds of words Max likes to hear. She’s always so in control of herself. Nothing short of a thumbscrew could make her lose it.

“I’m having a scotch,” Jocelyn says. “Want one?”

“Why, what’s happened?” says Charmaine. Is there a shock coming? “What’s happened to Stan?”

“Stan’s fine,” says Jocelyn. “He’s relaxing.”

“All right then,” says Charmaine. She flops down into the easy chair; she’s so relieved her knees feel weak. Jocelyn swings her feet over and onto the floor, pads across the room to pour Charmaine’s drink. “Water, I think,” she says, “but no ice.”

It’s not even a question. Darn it, Charmaine thinks, when will she stop bossing me around? “Thank you,” she says. She kicks her own shoes off. “There was a funny thing today,” she says. “Ed wasn’t there. At his office. And there’s nothing on his calendar, no appointment. He’s just vanished.”

“I know,” says Jocelyn. “But he hasn’t vanished. He’s in the Positron hospital infirmary. He’s had an accident.”

“What sort of an accident?” says Charmaine. “Is it serious?” Maybe it’s a car crash. Maybe he will die, and then she won’t have to worry about whatever was supposed to come next. But if Ed dies, she’ll lose whatever power she’s got. She won’t have any function for Jocelyn She has a quick thought: why not do what Ed wants? Become his whatever. Mistress. Then she’d be safe. Wouldn’t she?

“Painful accident, I expect,” says Jocelyn. “Judging from the video surveillance records. But temporary. He’ll be back to normal soon enough.”

Whatever he calls normal, Charmaine thinks. “Oh dear,” she says, “did he break something?”

“No. Not break. But he got a little bent out of shape.” Jocelyn smiles, and this time it’s actually a friendly smile. “He got tangled up with you, as a matter of fact.”

“Me?” says Charmaine. “That’s not possible. I never …”

“Okay, your evil twin,” says Jocelyn. “That prostibot with your head. He got carried away. He squeezed your neck too hard, and then he bit you.”

“Not me,” says Charmaine. Jocelyn’s being mean. “It’s not me!”

“Ed thought it was,” says Jocelyn. “Those things can be convincing when combined with a personal fantasy, which is always the magic ingredient, don’t you agree?”

Charmaine blushes, she can’t help herself. So Jocelyn hasn’t forgiven her: she’s still holding it against her, that time with Max. With Phil. “What did I … what did it do?” she asks. “To Ed?”

“Some kind of electrical short,” says Jocelyn. “Those circuits are so sensitive; the smallest thing can throw them off, such as a foreign object – such as, oh, a pin – or a maladjusted setting. Maybe it was sabotage. Some resentful functionary. Who knows how it could’ve happened?”

“That’s awful,” says Charmaine.

“Yes, it’s terrible,” says Jocelyn. Would you call that a grin? It’s not exactly a sweet smile. But Jocelyn’s not in the habit of those. “Anyway, the thing went into spasm, trapping Ed inside it, and then it started thrashing around.”

“Oh my goodness,” says Charmaine. “He could’ve died!”

“Which would have been a business disaster for Possibilibots if the news leaked out,” says Jocelyn. “Luckily, I was keeping tabs on him, so I sent the paramedics in before too much damage was done. They’ve got some ice packs on him, and they’re using anti-inflammatories. There shouldn’t be too much bruising. But don’t be surprised if you see him walking like a duck.”

“Oh my goodness,” says Charmaine again. She’s got her hands over her mouth. Whatever she thinks of Ed, it wouldn’t be nice to laugh. A person is a person, however creepy they may be. And pain is pain. Just thinking about that pain makes a tingly wire shoot up her back.

“He was fairly mad at you, though,” Jocelyn continues in her detached voice. “He sent you back to the shop. He ordered you to be destroyed.”

“Not me!” Charmaine says. “Not actually me!”

“No, of course not. You know what I mean. The boys at the shop said they were sorry, and they’d tested it beforehand, but as he’d been informed, it was a beta and these things happen. They said they could debug it, but he told them not to bother because he’s through with substitutes.”

“Oh,” says Charmaine. Now she has a sinking feeling. “Does that mean what I think? You told me not to let him …”

“That still goes,” says Jocelyn. “He’ll be back on his feet again soon, and then you’ll have to keep yourself in view but out of reach. It’s crucial; I must emphasize how important that is, and how important you are. We’re absolutely depending on you. Play the piece of cheese to Ed’s rat. You’re clever, you can do it.”

It’s not very nice being told you’re a piece of cheese, but Charmaine is pleased that Jocelyn has called her important. Also clever. Up till now, she’s had the impression that Jocelyn thinks she’s an idiot.

Unpacked

Stan jolts awake. It’s still dark, but he’s moving rapidly through the air, feet first. Then there’s a bump. Muffled voices. Snap, snap, snap, snap: the fasteners on his casket. The lid lifts, light streams in. He blinks in the dazzle. White-clad arms reach for him, hoist him into a sitting position.

“Upsy-daisy!”

“Wow, what stinks?”

“Get him some other pants. Make that a whole other outfit.”

“Don’t be harsh, he didn’t do it on purpose.”

“All together now! Heave-ho!”

Stan is lifted out of the satin coffin, stood on his feet. How long has he been asleep? It feels like days. He shakes his head, tries to unslit his eyes. The room is lit with a bank of overhead LEDs – hyper-bright, but that’s because he’s been in the dark so long. He seems to be in an office; there are filing cabinets, a couple of desks. A computer terminal.

Two Elvises, in white and silver with blue capes, are holding him by the arms; three more are surveying him. Each has the hairdo, the belt buckle, the epaulettes, the lips. The fake tan. Propped against the walls there are seven or eight more, but those don’t seem to be real.

“Don’t let go of him, he’ll fall over!”

“Oh dear, his mouth fell off!”

“He looks like the walking dead.”

“Make yourself useful for once, get him some coffee.”

“I’d say a sports drink.”

“Why not both?”

Another Elvis bustles in, carrying yet another Elvis outfit. Stan blinks. Cripes, how many Elvises are there?

“Here we go,” says the tallest one; he seems to be the leader. “Let’s get you into something more comfortable. Don’t be embarrassed, everyone here’s wet themselves at least once in their life.”

“And most of them weren’t locked in a packing crate,” says another. “There’s a washroom over there.”

“We won’t peek!”

“Or maybe we will!” Laughter.

Fuck. They’re all gay, Stan thinks. A roomful of gay Elvises. Is this a mistake, is he in the wrong place? He hopes they’re not expecting … How can he tell them he’s straight as a Kansas highway without sounding rude?