Seoul Survivors (35 page)

Her glamorous veneer couldn't mask the shrewd look Da Mi flicked Damien as he walked in the door. She was standing in front of the desk, dressed in a black tailored jacket, a white blouse and a green skirt with black trim. This, he knew at once, was the genuine article.

“So we meet in person,” he murmured, sticking out his hand. The scientist reciprocated. Her eyes were alert, her expression one of controlled amusement, but like her ProxyBod's, her small hand seemed devoid of animating spirit. He wondered if she would prefer to be wearing latex gloves.

“Where's Pebbles today then?” he asked, looking round. The turtles in the tank peered back at him. Otherwise the room was eerily still. Through the window, the sky was a monotonous blanket of cloud and the mountains looked like a flat, painted backdrop. It was well time to get out of Seoul. And the sooner he sold his sperm to the nice lady doctor, the sooner he'd be off.

“She's having her nails done.” The scientist smiled. Unlike Pebbles, she had fine lines around her eyes. “So you've come to help us out, Damien?”

“If everything's fine down at Immigration, I'm ready and raring to go.”

“I spoke to them after you called. You have until Friday to leave. You can't return for a year, but nothing will show up on your computer records in other countries.”

“And my passport?”

She flashed open her jacket, revealing its green silk lining and inside breast pocket. “They couriered it over. You can have it as soon as you've made your donation.”

Right. The handover. Always the edgy part of any hostage deal. The condom was in his pocket, inside a brown paper bag.

He pulled it out. “Here's something I prepared earlier.”

Her smile was thin as a fish hook. “Thank you, Damien. I'll take that as back-up. But we do need a fresh sample as well.”

She relieved him of the paper bag, led him to the desk and offered him a flexi-chair. He sat down, on the edge of the seat.

“This is the standard GRIP sperm donation contract.” She handed him a sheaf of papers and took the other chair. “Your agreement is with us, not with our client. Please read it carefully. Would you like some honey drink to help you concentrate?”

There was a steaming pot of that disgusting stuff on the little table beside him. He politely declined. As she poured herself a cup, he scanned the contract. It didn't mention ProxyBods or gaming companies, but it did confirm the cash incentive, and demand confidentiality on both sides. There was a fat gold fountain pen beside the honey pot; it made a change from the chewed Biros and pencil-stubs he usually had lying around the flat. Leaning over the table, he signed the contract in glistening black ink.

“Thank you, Damien. Please come this way.” Da Mi stood up and led him to the door she'd pointed out the day before. It opened onto a short corridor. She took him down it, into an empty laboratory, then along another corridor to a small room, equipped with a leather sofa and a lamp, a couple of plants, a sink and towel and a stack of soft porn magazines. Blondes, he noticed, on the top one at least.

“Take your time.” She handed him a Ziploc plastic bag. “You can leave your sample here when you're done.” She pointed at a sliding opening in the wall then left, shutting the door softly behind her.

This was it then: the point of no return. As if he could still change his mind, he sat down on the sofa and asked himself if this was what he really wanted to do.

Well, no, to be honest, it wasn't. But it was the lesser of at least three evils, and the sooner it was done, the sooner he was free to start a whole new life.

He checked his MoPho, just in case, but there was nothing in his message tray. Christ, it was gone one o'clock; Jake was supposed to be on a mission, not still sleeping.

But that was a useless line of thought. He'd made his decision, signed on the dotted line. He put away his MoPho, undid his belt, unzipped his fly and let his jeans slip down to his ankles. Now was the acid test: was there even anything left in him?

He didn't need the porn. He just thought about Sydney and the way she totally lost it when she came. Afterward, he pulled his jeans back up, washed his hands and put the bag on the ledge.

When he re-entered her office, Dr. Kim was nowhere to be seen. Damien went over to the window and gazed out over the cold, colorless city. People in black coats were walking through the campus,
hunched over against a strong wind, clutching their collars to their throats. On the streets beyond the uni walls, silver Hyundais and Kias crawled slowly to their destinations. Damien tried to identify the roof of his flat, then picked out all the places he knew in the city: Hongdae, where the site of the new skate park was still a dirty brown hole gouged out of the packed pattern of shops and offices; Namsan, stubbled with leafless trees and bristling with MoPho towers; the river, a ribbon of battleship gray. Beyond the water lay Apkuchong, Chamshil, the mountains in the South he'd meant to get to but never had. There was supposed to be a good art gallery down there. Oh well, never mind.

He looked down at the turtles. They were clustered together on the gravel slopes of a shallow pool at the bottom of the tank. Up close, they were a spooky sight, their shells and wrinkled skin weird shades of stained ivory and streaky vanilla. One of them stretched out its neck and peered up at him. It resembled a wise old monk. Or a dried gob of paint.

“They're cloned albino snapping turtles.”

He jumped. Da Mi was standing at his shoulder. “But they won't bite.” She smiled, displaying a row of too-perfect teeth. “Look.” She reached into the tank and scratched a turtle's head. It stretched out its neck and she tickled its chin.

“Are they on drugs?”

“Not at all. As blastocyst embryos they were steeped in the stem cells of a particularly timid species of mouse, giving their brains a serotonin receptor that inhibits aggressive behavior. Now they make perfect pets. White animals are an ancient Korean symbol of good luck and prosperity. They're selling very well.”

“So they're not natural blondes?”

“If cloning for color is unnatural, Damien, then so is using henna hair dye or marrying someone you think would be a good parent. People have always altered and engineered their physical appearance, and they've always practiced selective breeding. We are temporal beings, and it's human nature to want to help shape the future.”

He felt the urge to needle her. “Control other people's futures, you mean?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Do you feel as though you're being controlled right now?”

She'd obviously done Psych 101. Feeling caught out, he muttered, “I didn't think I had much of a choice, no.”

“But your options were the result of your own actions, no? We create our own futures, surely. And whatever decisions you've made in the past, you haven't ended up in a bad spot.”

Was he imagining it, or had she undone a button on her blouse? Hating that his eye had even flicked beneath her chin, he resolutely met her droll gaze. Somehow the amusement he'd detected in her demeanor when he entered seemed less guarded now—well, of course, she'd got what she wanted and now she could afford to toy with him outright. But if she was loosening up, might she give a trade secret away?

“Cloning human beings, though?” he pressed, ignoring her personal remarks. “Wouldn't that be taking Confucian conformity a step too far?”

Christ. Had
he
gone too far, given Sydney's game away? If he had, Da Mi gave no sign of it. “Clones—identical twins—Koreans,” she said, smoothly. “Every human being is unique, Damien, no matter what they look like or what culture they belong to. But have you ever wondered what the world would be like if physical appearance were truly irrelevant? What that would teach us about sharing, fair play, the true meaning of love?”

Damien felt his testy need to challenge her inaudibly escape him, like a slow leak out of a tire. Let this woman have her freaky ideas; he had his own, involving asteroids and floods and getting the hell out of this country.

“I guess that'll be your next project, then,” he said. “Look, Dr. Kim, I've got stuff to do. If my donation's okay, could we settle up?”

“Of course.” She turned back to the desk and he followed, his feet sinking into the plush ivory carpet. Was it his imagination, or was she weaving a little? She steadied herself with a hand on the desk, unlocked a drawer and withdrew a bulging white envelope.

“You'll want to count it. Come, let's sit down.” She took her seat and gestured at the other flexi-chair. Reluctantly he lowered himself into it again. “Do have some honey drink,” she urged. “It will help replenish your amino acids.”

He squirmed as the seat re-embraced him. “I'm fine, thanks, honestly.”

“As you wish.” She offered him the envelope, her right hand ceremoniously tucked under her left elbow. He pulled the bills out and counted them as she sipped her drink. Two hundred American one-hundred-dollar bills.

“
Kamsahamnida
. That'll go a long way. As will I.” He stuffed the envelope in his jacket pocket. “Spunk money” didn't have a great ring to it, but it was cash, and a lot of it.

Da Mi opened her own jacket. “And here's your passport. It expires in a month, but I expect you know that.”

She
had
unbuttoned her blouse. He could see an expanse of faun brown skin and the black lacy crest of her bra. “Thanks,” he muttered, slipping the document in the back pocket of his jeans. She leaned back in her chair, the folds of her blouse exposing half an inch more of her bra.

“Are you sure you won't have some honey drink? I made it extra strong today.”

This was too much. “Cheers, Da Mi, but I ought to be going.”

Da Mi liberated a flake of mascara from an eyelash. That dreamy smile on her face, Christ, she looked almost stoned. “Of course. But please—before you go, I want to give you a present.” She took a small box out of her pocket and passed it to him. Inside was a jade ring, its comma shape a bit like Sydney's watch.

“The Chinese say that jade stones are drops of dried semen from the celestial dragon. This is for you, from GRIP, with our thanks. Goodbye, Damien, and good luck.”

He stuffed the box into his pocket. “Thanks, Dr. Kim. You too.”

She lolled back in her chair, regarding him indulgently. He cast one more look at the turtles, baleful in their glass enclosure, and exited the office with as much dignity as he could muster. In the lobby, he tossed the ring in the rubbish bin. Then he strode out of the building as fast as he could and broke into a cantering run.

At last Damien was back. Sydney buzzed him up and waited impatiently on the landing. As soon as he got off the elevator she grabbed him for a hug, but he was stiff and remote in her arms.

“Are you okay? How did it go?” Nervously, she pulled him into her apartment.

His face was pinched, as if he had a headache. For a minute she thought he was going to say he'd backed out. But he took a chunky envelope out of his jacket pocket and slapped it down on the table.

“I got this. But I don't feel good about it, Sydney.” He flopped down on the sofa and rubbed his face in his hands.

“You must be exhausted. I'll make you a honey drink. It'll make you feel—”

“God, no,” he groaned. “I'll have a tea, please—with milk. Here, I picked some up at the market.” He pulled a package of Red Rose out of his jacket pocket, passed it to her and sat silently as she boiled the kettle. She made the tea; he took it without saying thanks, blew on it and slurped.

She eyed the envelope. It was stuffed with money. Why wasn't he happy? “Look,” she said, crossing the room to her wardrobe. She took out her own two special envelopes: one marked “
won
,” the other “dollars.” Squeezing beside him on the sofa, she showed him their heft. “How much do you think we have between us?”

He didn't look that interested. “Enough not to work for a year, maybe two.”

He didn't get it. She put the envelopes down and stroked his arm. “Maybe if we play our cards right, we'll have enough not to work for the rest of our lives.”

“Yeah? If I donate my liver? Or how about my left leg?”

She ignored that, let him take another swig of tea. “No,” she said, patiently, “of course not. But if you want a cut of the VirtuWorld profits, I could ask Da Mi—not now, but later, when the park's making loads of money. I could tell her we're still friends and I think we should pay you some royalties. Who knows, maybe you could play a part in the Banquets, be the King's younger brother, maybe.”

“Christ, Sydney,” Damien said irritably, “you're up to your neck in confidentiality agreements. Don't blow all that for me. I told you, I'm not interested in being some corporate mascot.”

She folded her arms, shifted away from him. “I'm just trying to help,” she grumped.

He sighed, then he reached over and pulled her close. “I know. I'm sorry.”

His breath was warm on her neck. “Okay,” she pouted as he stroked her back. “But you don't have to be mean. I just don't get why you're not excited.”

“I've got a lot on my mind, that's all. I have to be out of Korea by Friday, so I should get to a travel agent's today, check out my options. Plus I need to sort a few things out with Jake and Sam.” He straightened up, fishing for his MoPho in his pocket.

Sydney leaned back against a cushion. “Why don't you just book online?”

He was inputting the number. “The travel agents have way better deals.” He put the MoPho to his ear and left a message: “Hey, Jake, it's half-two. Rise and shine. I got good news. Call me.”

His sharp profile cut the air as if slicing out a hole through which he might vanish. Watching him slip the MoPho back in his jeans, panic seized her. “Do you still want to go on holiday?”

“We should do more than that.” Damien pushed her into the corner of the sofa and kissed her throat. The envelopes of money crinkled beneath them.

“Like what?” Wrapping her arms around him, she breathed in the scent of his hair: hemp seed and licorice, that Dutch shampoo all the foreign guys were buying this year.

Damien sat up, his hands on her knees. “Like head out to Canada together—right away. We could buy a car, do a road trip in BC, do Christmas in Jasper or Banff. In the New Year we could check out the prairies—I heard Winnipeg's happening right now.”

“You want me to go to
Winnipeg
with you?” She was utterly baffled. “Winnipeg's fucking
freezing
right now. And I've promised Da Mi—”

“Sydney,” he cut her off, “I know I've sold my soul to her, but your precious Da Mi makes my blood run cold.”

She opened her mouth, but Damien raised his voice. “Let's talk about VirtuWorld for a minute. What's it really all about, huh? Cookie-cutter people, designer babies for whoever can afford them? What's going to happen to the rest of us plebs?”

Sydney wriggled up straight. “Damien! I
know
Da Mi. She wants to help society evolve. She's been so good to me; you wouldn't believe it.”

“She's a
witch
, Sydney. I'm positive she organized my arrest. And I don't know what's in that drink of hers, but she was knocking it back in that office like there was no tomorrow, and acting pretty strange, like she wanted to fuck me or something.”

“
Da Mi?
Wanted to
fuck
you? Are you crazy?”

“I'm telling you, it was like she was on drugs!”

“Da Mi is a
doctor
. That drink calms you
down
,” Sydney shouted. “
You
should have had some; then you wouldn't be acting like this.”

“Wake up, Sydney: she's a power-junkie. She's nice to you because you're her star exhibit! And just think about it for a minute: even if this theme park malarkey turns out to be the genetic wonderland she claims it is, aren't
you
going to get sick of playing the same tired role year in year out, being ogled like an animal in the zoo?”

Sydney scrambled to her feet. “Fuck off, Damien! I let you in on this so I could help you be part of something successful for a change, not so you could insult my friend and trash what I'm doing with my life!”

They glared at each other. Then Damien sighed and reached for her waist. “Sydney, I don't give a rat's arse about success. I just want to spend time with
you
, not some VirtuWorld mannequin.”

She said nothing, but she didn't push him away.

“Come on.” He hugged her closer. “Let's take off—give it a go. I've always fancied going to Canada, and you can show me around. We'd get on, you know we would.”

“I can't. I'd feel really bad about letting her down.” She spoke into his neck, her breasts squashed against his chest. He rubbed her back.

“She'll find someone else to do the banquets. Or you can visit; that'd be okay.”

Shaking her head, Sydney eased herself out his arms and sat back down on the sofa. It wasn't nearly as simple as he thought. “She's like a mother to me,” she pleaded.

“So fly the nest.”

Sydney buried her head in her hands. “Damien, I can't just up and leave. I've got the apartment and my modeling to think about. And Da Mi wants me to meet the surrogate mothers in December.” The envelope full of her saved
won
was beside her. She took out a handful of bills and thrust them at him. “Let's take a little holiday in Asia—on a beach somewhere. Or we can go shopping in Shanghai; I don't care where, just somewhere fun. Okay?”

He sat down beside her and put the money on the coffee table. Then he placed his fingers on her wrist and lightly tapped her Gotcha.

“She told me jade was made from the spunk of the cosmic dragon. Did you know that?”

Sydney laughed. “Oh, Da Mi—she's great! See?”

Damien stroked her hand, slowly, as if he was trying to memorize it with his. “Look,” he said, at last, “I've been planning to get to Winnipeg for Christmas for ages. Jake's got a friend there who might be able to get me a job in film. And I'd like to see snow. How about we go to Tokyo for a few days, and if we have a good time, will you promise to at least
think
about coming with me to Canada?”

She jutted out her chin. “If
you
promise not to hassle me the whole time!”

“I'm not trying to hassle you.” He paused. His eyes were almost stricken, as if he was afraid she was going to bite him, or laugh in his face. “It's just—you remind me of someone who needed me once, when I wasn't around. I know it sounds stupid, but I have a feeling maybe I'm supposed to help you instead.”

She didn't need anyone's help anymore. But still, it was a sweet offer. She stuck out her little finger. “So you won't bug me or insult Da Mi, and I'll come to Tokyo and think about showing you round Canada. Pinkie-promise?”

He crooked her finger with his own. “Pirate twins.” They squeezed each other's fingers, a deathless vow that soon became an arm wrestling match. Finally Damien let her slam his hand down into a cushion.

“I win!” she crowed, then screamed as he flung himself on top of her. He reached up under her shirt to tickle her, and somehow ended up playing with her breasts. Her face was flushed; her tummy felt creamy and warm. As her left nipple hardened in his fingers she opened her legs and wrapped them around his waist. He pressed his groin against her. Something hard vibrated against her thigh.

Damien lifted off her. “Sorry, Sydney—that might be Jake.” One hand still on Sydney's breast, Damien fumbled for his MoPho, checked the screen, and pressed it to his ear. “Hey, Jake—did you get my message?”

“Your message? No—fucking MoPhos.” A note of panic rose in Jake's voice. “Day, I've been calling you all morning—tell me you're not at Immigration yet?”

Damien smiled down at Sydney, who was fingering her other nipple and casting him a teasing, sex kitteny look. “No, I'm not at Immigration.”

“Fantastic!” Jake's usual confidence snapped back. “You gotta meet me right away. There's a guy here, sofa-surfer just got himself a university job, wants to take your flat. He's shown me the cash, Sam phoned your landlord: all this guy needs is the keys!”

No shit?
So he'd sold his soul for no reason except to avoid owing Jake and Sam half a month's wages. For a moment, Damien felt sick all over. He rolled off Sydney and sat up, rubbing his temples. She pulled her shirt down, looking up at him in concern.

Oh fuck it—what was done was done. Now he'd have even more money to play with. He patted her knee.
Two minutes
, he signed, followed by a thumbs-up.

“Hey Jake, that's great.”

“Plus, he's gonna give you an extra three hundred grand for all your furniture—you still got all that stuff I left, right? Wardrobe, coffee maker, bed-mat?”

“Sure.”

“Excellentro. So if you come down here, we can take him up to the flat, then Sam and him can deal with the landlord and you and I can go down to Itaewon.”

Itaewon? Oh yeah, the passport and SIN card—Christ, it was all happening so fast.

“Yeah, that sounds good.” He could go to the travel agent's while he was running around too.

“Just hurry up, will you? This guy's waiting with his money and I don't want him to change his mind.”

“No worries, I'll be right there.”

He hung up. “Sorry, Sydney, gotta go. Jake found a tenant for my flat. Can I stay the night here again if it goes through?”

Sydney stretched her legs over his knees and wriggled her toes. “Oh, I
suppose.
”

Jake was wearing a Burberry trench coat and carrying a briefcase; his dreads were tied up with a velvet ribbon and tucked under a trilby. Damien watched him check his teeth in the mirror behind the bar, and exchanged an amused look with Sam and the prospective new tenant, a beanpole American called Darren. Darren had uncombed ginger hair and was wearing a fringed sheepskin jacket; just a kid from the boonies, but he seemed nice enough. He was
drinking a beer, but Damien refused his offer of a drink: the clock was ticking. Jake locked up and they all crammed in a taxi to Tae Hung Dong.

“Wow, great view, dude.” Darren whistled as they reached the top of the stairs.

“Penthouse suite, what did I say?” Jake crowed. “The sunsets are amazing. All you need's a bit of weed and that's your night-life sorted out, right, Day?”

“Jake, what I always tell you?” Sam broke in. “Don't oversell. Let buyer make up own mind.”

They all laughed. Damien led the way to the flat and unlocked the front door. Inside, the flat was cold and dusty and there were unwashed dishes in the sink, but Darren didn't seem to care. He inspected the kitchen galley with a single swoop of his big head, stuck his nose in the bathroom and then strode into the middle of the living room.

“You can get internet here?”

“No problem.”

“Hot diggety! And no neighbors! You got yourself a deal.” He reached into his pocket and took out an envelope. “Here's the key-money.” He looked confused. “Should I give it to you now, or after I see the landlord?”

Damien glanced at Jake. “I gotta get down to Itaewon. How about we swap now? I give you the keys and you go with Sam to Mr. Han's?”

He and Darren made the trade. Damien stuffed the envelope in his inside jacket pocket, where it nestled beside the other two, practically a bullet-proof vest. “I'll just clean up a bit,” he said. “I'll be gone by the time you get back.”

Darren twirled the key ring round on his forefinger. “Hey, no rush, dude.”

Sam checked his watch. “You want use bathroom, Darren? We gonna sit cross-legged for half-hour, maybe more.”

“Really?” Darren's eyes widened. “Okay. Good plan.” He tipped an imaginary cowboy hat at Damien and ducked into the toilet.

“Sam—thanks a million, mate,” Damien said. “I'll see you later, right? Back at Azitoo?”

Sam slapped him lightly on the shoulder and headed out to the roof.

“You want me take this garbage down?” he asked at the door, pointing at Damien's hidey-hole binbag.

“No!” Damien barreled down the hall.

Jake and Sam cackled as he tore open the bag and pulled out his rucksack. Then Sam headed out onto the roof and Jake stepped into the kitchen galley and rolled up his sleeves.