Robyn's Egg (5 page)

Chapter 3

R
obyn remained quiet while they walked across the Circle. A cold wind pressed into them. Moyer's ears ached. He was sure he'd end up with an ear infection. He complained and Robyn said nothing. Moyer's head was still wet as they rode home. A sale notice for ear drops appeared on Robyn’s coat. Moyer looked at his own chest and saw an ad for a discount divorce lawyer. Robyn still didn't speak when they were alone on the tube. Her eyes bored in on him accusingly.

“You can’t put this all on me,” he said. “All it takes is one of us to be chosen. How did you rank?”

“Forty-six seconds,” she said, her voice a low growl. “I stayed down for almost four minutes.”

“I-I had to come up. Water went d-down the wrong tube. I was drowning.”

“I nearly passed out,” she said. “When you came up, you were barely out of breath. I came as close to dying as I dared. And you managed forty-six seconds?”

She stared at him for a moment waiting for a response. He stumbled for words. What did she want to hear? She turned away disgusted. “You don't want a baby.” She said it with perfect clarity, not to him, but to herself, as if she’d become aware of it for the first time.

It was as if she finally recognized he wasn't the man she thought he was. Moyer saw it on her face — they had reached a crossroads. What he said next might determine if they stayed together or not, whether their desires and goals could ever be reconciled. He closed his eyes. What was the fair thing to do? Was it fair to hide his doubts? If she truly wanted children, wouldn't she ultimately be better off with someone else? And what of his wants? When he opened his eyes, a tear was streaming down her cheek. He brushed it away.

“That's not true,” he said. “I told you we didn't stand a chance of getting a baby this way. Someone in my group stayed under for six minutes. You know I’m not capable of that, and neither are you. And the thing is I don't know if that guy did well enough to be selected. We have to do this the old fashioned way – save our credits and scrimp. It may take time, but we will get there. Please be patient.”

Tuesday, 11 October

During his morning commute, Moyer’s mind was still fixed on the events of the day before. Hugh Sasaki had been hauled away like a sack of grain, and there was no ignoring it. No mind game could wash that away. Sasaki sat a row back. Fate had missed Moyer by two meters. Why? What had Sasaki done, and was Moyer next? He couldn’t shake the feeling it was all linked to the project, the Worm. Petro had been right about one thing. In the hierarchy at Digi-Soft, Moyer was next senior and the logical choice to replace Sasaki. Did that mean his neck was next on the block?

As he hiked across the Circle to work, his eyes rocked back and forth checking for security agents. He saw none. He kept alert for changes in the crowd, subtle movements; the type of herd reactions transferred over distance when a predator is near. People passed by unconcerned, bored or preoccupied, as if nothing could ever happen to them. Moyer knew differently. Lightning had struck the man next to him and it was hard pretending it couldn’t happen again.

Inside Digi-Soft, the atmosphere was more subdued than usual. All eyes were on Hugh Sasaki as Louis Berman led him to his desk. It was a surprise. Moyer never expected to see him again. Sasaki appeared to have been dressed by his mother for the first day of preparatory school, and needed Berman’s support to keep from teetering over. A blue argyle sweater topped freshly bought khaki pants still bearing creases and fold lines from their time on the store shelf. On his feet was a pair of shiny black oxfords.

Sasaki was married and Moyer was sure his wife had dressed him. The clothes were something Sasaki would never have picked for himself. His normally unkempt mop of black hair was neatly combed down and parted on the side. Sasaki’s glazed eyes fixed straight ahead on nothing. His mouth hung open, jaw slack, tongue protruding slightly. There wasn’t the slightest spark of recognition or interest in his face.

Moyer was sure Sasaki had no idea where he was, nor did he seem to care. Berman nudged him into his seat. Sasaki’s fingers found the keyboard and pecked out his login and password. Berman left. Sasaki sat frozen, staring at a blank screen. A drop of thick saliva trickled over his lip in a long glistening string down to his desktop. Later in the day, someone had placed a plastic cup on Sasaki’s desk in line with his chin to catch the effluent. SASAKI’S SWAMP was printed on the side in black ink.

Moyer wondered how Sasaki could possibly be expected to perform his job as addled as he was. Then it occurred to him that no such expectation existed. Sasaki had been brought back to have his drooling carcass serve as a warning, a head on a pike for anyone entertaining ideas of betraying the company. But what exactly had Sasaki done?

Louis Berman stopped by Moyer’s desk before lunch and asked him to come to his office. Moyer’s gut tensed under a wave of nausea. He instinctively looked for Petro. Petro was not at his desk, nor anywhere in sight. He glanced at the gleaming metal doors of the elevator. No security agents were blitzing the basement. Did this mean he was safe, or were different tactics in play? Were they waiting for him in Berman’s office?

Moyer followed Berman up the stairs. He felt helpless. Although nothing prevented him from running for the exit, he followed Berman obediently as if hauled on a leash. Berman opened the door for him. Inside, Petro was already seated at a small table, a queer expression on his face. To Moyer, it had all the earmarks of an ambush. He checked behind the door as he entered, half expecting to find a security agent lurking.

Moyer struggled to maintain his composure. Had Sasaki been tortured and offered Moyer and Petro up as accomplices? Sasaki wasn’t the kind who would bear up well to adversity. He was soft and doughy in every aspect of his being. Even if Sasaki had remained silent, it might be natural to assume that his coworkers on the project might be in on whatever it was he’d done.

“Sit down, Winfield,” Berman said.

Moyer took the open chair next to Petro. The two shared a nervous glance.

Berman was a large man and powerfully built. He delighted in using his bulk to intimidate. Rumors were that he had been a security agent before coming to Digi-Soft. He wore his hair severely short in military style. A large scar white as bone stretched like a jagged tendril of lightning parting the stubble along the left side of Berman’s scalp. No one asked how he’d gotten it. Moyer supposed it was because they were afraid the story was more horrible than what they conjured in their minds, and that the real story would confirm they worked for a monster. And of course asking meant confronting the man. No one wanted that.

As Berman spoke, he paced behind them and rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows exposing massively muscled forearms. “An unanticipated problem has arisen on the Worm Project, as you are no doubt aware.”

“Sir?” Moyer said.

“With Hugh Sasaki’s rehabilitation, we find ourselves down an engineer. The problem is, if we try to bring a new body onboard, it will take at least a year to spool them up. We can’t wait. We have a deadline.”

Moyer saw the corners of Petro’s mouth rise slightly. It was as Petro predicted in the café. “N-n-no, sir,” Moyer said.

“This is potentially the greatest project this company has undertaken. We must achieve our schedule commitments despite this new obstacle.” Berman paused and gave them both a grin. “That’s why I have called the two of you in. Each of us is going to have to work harder to pick up the slack. That means longer hours and no vacations.”

When Berman said
us
, Moyer knew it didn’t include Berman.
Us
was supposed to make them feel as if they had been granted entrée into the inner sanctum. What it really meant was bone crushing overtime – unpaid of course. Moyer struggled to suppress a sardonic smile and keep his face impassive.

“Sasaki,” Berman said, “was to have written the user interface, and combine and integrate the subcomponents you two are writing. The two of you will now have to add that to your duties. I’m positive you can handle it.”

Petro cleared his throat and spoke. “My wife and I have a newborn….”

Moyer rolled his eyes. He envisioned being saddled with the additional workload alone.

“…and I don’t —”

Berman held up a hand to cut Petro off. He flexed his thick neck and cocked his head quickly to the side producing a gruesome set of snaps. He then shook his head before settling his eyes on Petro. “A baby is no excuse. We need you here. Are we clear?”

Moyer stifled a laugh as Petro nodded. Petro looked resigned, if not a little afraid. Berman dropped a pair of heavy folders on the table, one for each of them.

“We have purposefully kept this project compartmentalized for security reasons. However, that is no longer possible. These files outline the project objectives and system functionality. You will need this information to complete your work. As a result, you will both be under greater scrutiny. Your movements are likely to be monitored, as well as your communications. These files are never to leave the building. When not in your hands, they are to be locked up.” Berman leaned forward resting his knuckles on the table. Cords of muscle tensed in his forearms under the weight of massive shoulders. “Be careful. We can’t afford to lose anyone else. Are we clear?”

Chapter 4

Saturday, 15 October

S
abbath was a day assigned by Trinity Corp to maximize facility use, and minimize construction costs. For Robyn and Moyer, Sabbath was Saturday, a draw most would consider fortunate. But there was no luck involved. It was the day Robyn’s parents worshiped, and as progeny, they inherited the day so they could all worship together. For Moyer, any other day or any other church would have been better.

Robyn wore a designer dress she’d bought before losing her programming job, when she could still afford to splurge once in a while. She had switched off the fiber optics so she wouldn’t be seen as too gaudy for church. Moyer wore black slacks, a white dress shirt, and a black two-way jacket worn with the Digi-Soft logo hidden on the inside.

Outside TrinityTemple 709,
Rock of Ages
blasted from the speakers so loudly he and Robyn had to shout to hear one another. As they drew nearer, Moyer saw why. A line of Begat protesters wearing heavy, brown robes walked a circle in front of the steps brandishing signs and shouting in unison,
This is NOT a House of God
, and
God’s Word doesn’t need amending
, and
Trinity Corp does NOT represent God
. All the while, hymns rained down from speakers to drown them out, to deny them the net audience they craved. It was a contest of volume and wills, and ultimately it was Moyer who was the loser.

Begat protested churches in the city on a random rotation. Though it had been months since they last protested Moyer’s church, he was angry; angry at the way it slowed the line, angry at having to bear the blaring hymns Trinity used to block the net browsers. Moyer inserted his fingers in his ears despite drawing disapproving glares.

A pair of lines stretched back from the church doors and around the block. The queue he and Robyn were in was over two hundred meters long and crept along at a slow shuffle as the previous service filed out.

The queue on the left was the Speed-Pass for the less devout. It was shorter and zipped right along. Those in the Speed-Pass line pulled up their sleeves to have their holograms scanned. The scan recorded attendance and simultaneously deducted the mandatory tithe.

The government’s stance was that overt Godlessness would not be tolerated. They enacted the Robertson Laws to prosecute the wicked and slothful. But by the same token, Trinity recognized an opportunity. By creating the Speed-Pass line as a concession to apathy, Trinity didn’t have to build enough churches to service the full population. The Speed-Pass was tolerance made profitable.

The benefits were a verifiable demonstration of toeing the line by the citizenry, and, of course, a healthy stream of income for Trinity Corp. A weekly scan, a tithe, and a citizen was deemed God-fearing enough for all practical purposes. Speed-Pass worked so well, future church construction was put on hold. It was simple economics, maximizing profits while minimizing expenditures. Once the scanner light pulsed green, those in the Speed-Pass turned back down the steps for home, their legal obligation satisfied.

People from the Speed-Pass line hustled past on their way to the tube. Moyer was envious. He wished he was among them. If not for his in-laws, the LaBenzes, he would already be on his way home.

Church was an opportunity for Robyn to spend time with her parents each week. This was their ritual. Moyer could be doing plenty of other things, but Robyn relished the formality. She said it made her feel closer to God.

When he studied her face during service, the way her expression changed when she prayed, he wondered if she really did see God. He wondered why God appeared for her and not for him.

His mother’s face used to take on the same placid look when he was a child. When he asked her about it, she said God would come to him in his own time. Then she died. And at that moment, at the age of ten, Moyer knew there was no God.

Inside the nave, Robyn spotted her parents sitting near the front, as usual. She towed Moyer down the aisle by the hand. The LaBenzes had reserved a pair of seats for them by placing their coats on the pew. The LaBenzes called ahead to get seats held in the front. Closer to God, Jack Labenz would say.

Robyn’s father was head of Capital City Sanitation Services, and had the clout to make favors happen. People moved mountains for Jack LaBenz. He was famous for never missing a pick-up in The Heights, downtown, or any other affluent neighborhood regardless of labor issues, strikes, or budget cuts. Jack’s attentiveness to an economic caste system was rewarded with ring kissing and an endless string of kickbacks and favors. He was a man used to getting what he wanted. Angering Jack had consequences. He had the power to allow garbage to pile up in retaliation.
Move a mountain for Jack, or Jack will leave a mountain for you
.