The Heart Goes Last - Страница 57

“Oh, the special event,” she says. “You’ll be in the Atrium.” She’s obviously used to green guys or the equivalent filing in past her desk. Clowns, jugglers, singers with guitars, zombie dancers, pirates, Batmen, whatever. Actors.

In the Atrium there’s one already in full flight – an Elvis, in the white-and-gold outfit. He’s finishing up a gargly rendition of “Love Me Tender” and gives them a dirty look as they troop in. The old people in the audience provide a smattering of applause, and the Elvis says, “Thank you, thank you very much. Would you like another song?”

But Con blows the green New Year’s Eve horn he’s brought along, which puts a stop to that. “Timing’s everything,” he says to Stan. “Can’t have that loser cutting in on our act. Get that music going!”

The music’s on Con’s phone, attached to a Bluetooth speaker. Jerold’s blowing up green balloons with a hydrogen cylinder, Rikki’s handing them to Budge, who doles them out to the audience members. They take hold of the strings, some with confusion, some with distrust, others maybe with pleasure, though it’s hard to tell. Several Ruby Slippers Events Assistants in their trademark red shoes help out, wearing green hats in honour of the Men. “Isn’t this nice?” they coo, in case there’s any doubt, which there is. But no one has protested yet, so the act must be doing well enough, or at least well enough to convince. Conor points to his ear and Stan whangs the gong.

Con looks at his watch. “Fuck,” Stan hears him mutter. “What’s keeping them? Squirt some water out of your mouth,” he tells Rikki. “That’s always a howler.”

Now there’s the wail of a siren, coming closer. An ambulance drives in through the front gate, heading for the clinic entrance at the side. Con produces a giant rubber tulip from inside his jacket, waves it aloft. It explodes, mildly. That’s the signal: Jerold, Rikki, and Budge release a clutch of helium balloons into the air, rush out through the Atrium door, and disappear around the corner.

“Are they coming back?” says a plaintive voice from the audience. Stan nods vigorously and hits the gong again. Maybe they’re a success after all.

Now Con is tugging on his sleeve. Up. Stan rises to his feet. Con is bowing, so Stan does the same. Con links arms with him and two-steps him out through the door. “We got him,” he whispers. Who have they got? Stan wonders.

Around the corner. There’s the ambulance, back doors open. There’s Jocelyn, with another woman. Jocelyn’s asshole of a husband is helping Budge with a third man, who appears to have slumped to the ground. It’s Ed, the big cheese at Positron, without a doubt. Two Ruby Slippers security guards and three other guys in black suits litter the pavement. Fast work, thinks Stan.

“Let’s move it, lynchpin,” says Con. “In here. He steers Stan to the ambulance.

Inside there’s a stretcher, with someone on it, covered to the chin with a red-and-white blanket.

A woman. Charmaine. Is that the robot head? It looks too real. Stan touches her cheek.

“Oh fuck!” he says. “Is she dead?”

“She’s not dead,” says Jocelyn, who has joined him. “Everything’s in order, but we don’t have long. “They’re standing ready.”

“Let’s get them inside the clinic,” says Con. “Fast.”

Flamed

Lucinda Quant breaks the story of the big leak on the six o’clock news. She’s straightforward, she’s believable, and, best of all, she has extensive document trails and video footage. She tells the story about how she came by her treasure trove of dirt, though she doesn’t name names – she says “a brave employee” – and how she smuggled the flashdrive containing the information through the herds of nosy journalists and undercover security agents at the NAB convention by taping it to the top of her fuzzy head under her cancer survivor’s wig – here she removes the wig, to demonstrate.

She closes by saying that she is so glad fate has given her this opportunity at what might be the end of her life, because Live every minute to the full has always been her motto, and she’s humble about the small part she’s played in what is after all a much bigger picture, and though she could have been a casualty and found dead at a blackjack table or similar, because big money has a lot invested in Positron, she took the risk because the public has a right to know.

The host thanks her very much, and says that America would be a better place if there were more people like her. Big smiles from both of them.

Instantly the social media sites are ablaze with outrage. Prison abuses! Organ-harvesting! Sex slaves created by neurosurgery! Plans to suck the blood of babies! Corruption and greed, though these in themselves are no great surprise. But the misappropriation of people’s bodies, the violation of public trust, the destruction of human rights – how could such things have been allowed to happen? Where was the oversight? Which politicians bought into this warped scheme in a misguided attempt to create jobs and save money for the taxpayer? Talk shows roister on into the night – they haven’t had this much fun in decades – and bloggers break out in flames.

Because there’s always two sides, at least two sides. Some say those who got their organs harvested and were subsequently converted into chicken feed were criminals anyway, and they should have been gassed, and this was a real way for them to pay their debt to society and make reparation for the harm they’d caused, and anyway it wasn’t as wasteful as just throwing them out once dead. Others said that was all very well in the early stages of Positron, but it was clear that after they’d gone through their stash of criminals and also realized what the going price was for livers and kidneys, they’d started in on the shoplifters and pot-smokers, and then they’d been snatching people off the street because money talks, and once it had started talking at Positron it wouldn’t shut up.

Yet others said that the idea had been a good one at first; who would sneeze at full employment and a home for everyone? There were a few rotten apples, but without them it would’ve worked. In response, some said that these utopian schemes always went bad and turned into dictatorships, because human nature was what it was. As for the operation that imprinted you on a love object – if not of your own choice, then of somebody’s choice – what was the harm in that since both parties ended up satisfied?

Some bloggers objected, others agreed, and in no time at all “Communist” and “Fascist” and “psychopathy” and “soft on crime” and a new one, “neuropimp,” where whizzing through the air like buckshot.

Stan’s watching one of the talk shows on the flatscreen in the recovery room where Charmaine lies in an anaesthetic slumber. There’s a small white bandage on her head, no blood. Happily they didn’t shave off her hair; that would have been unsightly. She may get a fright when she first sees the new, bald Stan, but that will be fleeting, says Jocelyn, and after that Charmaine will be all his. “But don’t push your luck,” she says. “Remember, she didn’t have any more sex with Max, or Phil, than you had with me – less, in fact– and I intend to tell her all about our little interlude. This is your payout for all the help you’ve given us, so don’t muck it up. By the way, get rid of the green makeup; otherwise you’ll have to paint yourself up like a zucchini every time you want sex.”

Stan did as suggested, wrecking a couple of hospital towels in the process, because he could see the point of it. Then he settled down to wait for the magic moment when his sleeping beauty would awaken and he could say goodbye to froghood and become a prince. He’s listening to the TV on the earphones, so as not to disturb Charmaine prematurely. Jocelyn has been very firm – he must not leave the bedside, even to pee, or Charmaine may imprint on the wrong love object, such as a wandering nurse – so there’s a bedpan handy.

How long is this going to take? He could use a burger.

As if on cue, in comes Aurora, carrying a tray. “I thought you might like a nibble,” she says.

“Thanks,” says Stan. It’s only tea and cookies, but that will hold him till something more carnivore-friendly comes along.

Aurora perches on the foot of Charmaine’s bed. “You’re going to be amazed at the results,” she says. “I certainly am! As soon as Max woke up and gazed into my eyes he swore undying love, and five minutes later he proposed! Isn’t that a miracle?” Stan said it certainly was.

“He’s so handsome,” Aurora says dreamily. Stan yups politely.

“Of course he’s already married,” Aurora says, “but the divorce is underway; Jocelyn ordered it up in advance, and UR-ELF is taking care of it for them. It’s called the Lonely Street Special, they fast-lane it.”

“Congratulations,” says Stan. He means it. The idea of philandering Phil or roaming Max tied by the ankle to Aurora – or to a pit bull or a lamp post, come to that – does not displease him at all, so long as the fucker is out of commission.

“Jocelyn doesn’t care?” he says.

“It was her idea,” says Aurora. “She says she isn’t even being generous. She has something else in the works, and this way, poor Phil will be cured of his sex-addiction problem. Would you like another cookie? Take two!”

“Thanks,” says Stan. She looks so happy she’s almost pretty. And for Max, she’ll be ravishing. Good luck to them, thinks Stan.