I seem to have my own retinue, a contingent of four russes: Fred Londenstane, the one who showed up on the day of my little death, and three more. I am not a prisoner here, and their mission is to protect the compound, Governor Starke, and her infant daughter, not to watch over me, but I have noticed that there is always one within striking distance, especially when I go anywhere near the nursery. Which I don’t do very often. Ellen is a beautiful baby, but I have no desire to spend time with her, and the whole house seems to breathe easier when I stay down in my tomb.
Yesterday evening a jenny came down to announce dinner. I threw on some clothes and joined El in the solarium off the kitchen where lately she prefers to take her meals. Outside the window wall, heavy snowflakes fell silently in the blue-gray dusk. El was watching Ellen explore a new toy on the carpet. When El turned to me, her face was radiant, but I had no radiance to return. Nevertheless, she took my hand and drew me to sit next to her.
“Here’s Daddy,” she cooed, and Ellen warbled a happy greeting. I knew what was expected of me. I was supposed to adore the baby, gaze upon her plenitude, and thus be filled with grace. I tried. I tried because I truly want everything to work out, because I love Eleanor and wish to be her partner in parenthood. So I watched Ellen and meditated on the marvel and mystery of life. El and I are no longer at the tail end of the long chain of humanity—I told myself—flapping in the cold winds of evolution. Now we are grounded. We have forged a new link. We are no longer grasped only by the past, but we grasp the future. We have created the future in flesh.
When El turned again to me, I was ready, or thought I was. But she saw right through me to my stubborn core of indifference. Nevertheless, she encouraged me, prompted me with, “Isn’t she beautiful?”
“Oh, yes,” I replied.
“And smart.”
“The smartest.”
Later that evening, when the brilliant monstrance of her new religion was safely tucked away in the nursery under the sleepless eyes of the night jennys, Eleanor rebuked me. “Are you so selfish that you can’t accept Ellen as your daughter? Does it have to be your seed or nothing? I know what happened to you was shitty and unfair, and I’m sorry. I really am. I wish to hell they got me instead of you. Maybe the next one will be more accurate. Will that make you happy?”
We both knew she was mistaken. The assault was never aimed at her. If Ellen was the carrot, then I was the stick. The conditions of her coronation could not be clearer—step out of line and risk everything. My pathetic presence would only serve as a constant reminder of this fact.
“No, El, don’t talk like that,” I said. “I can’t help it. Give me time.”
That night Eleanor invited herself to my bed. We used to have an exceptional sex life. Sex for us was a form of play, competition, and truth-telling. It used to be fun. Now it’s a job. The shaft of my penis is bruised by the normal bend and torque of even moderate lovemaking. My urethra is raw from jets of scalding semen when I come. Of course I use special condoms and lubricants, without which I would blister both El’s and my own private parts. Still, it’s just not comfortable for either of us. El tries to downplay it by saying things like, “You’re hot, baby,” but she fools no one.
We made love that night, but I pulled out before I came. El tried to draw me back, but I refused. She took my sheathed penis in her hands, but I told her not to bother. I told her it just wasn’t worth the misery anymore.
In the middle of the night, when I rose to return to my dungeon, Eleanor stirred from sleep and hissed, “Hate me if you must, Sam, but please don’t blame the baby.”
I ASK MY new belt how many eyebrow hairs an average person of my race, sex, and age has. The belt can access numerous encyclopedias to do simple research like this. “Five hundred fifty in each eyebrow,” it replies in its neuter voice. That’s a sum of eleven hundred, plenty of fuel to light my investigation. I pluck another and say, “Blame.”
For someone must be blamed. Someone must be held accountable. Someone must pay. But who?
Eleanor blames her “Unknown Benefactor,” the person or persons behind her sudden ascendancy. She’s launched a private project with Cabinet they call Target UKB. Basically, the project is a mosaic analysis to identify the telltale signature of this mysterious entity. It emulates the massive data-sifting techniques long practiced by the HomCom, but her subjects are the ruling elite, not terrorists or protesters. She’s spent a fortune on liters of new neuro-chemical paste to boost Cabinet’s already gargantuan mentality. (Henry would never have stood a chance against Cabinet now.)
From the small amount of information that Eleanor has shared with me, I gather that Target UKB works by recording and parsing the moment-by-moment activities of the five thousand most prominent people on the planet. Being familiar with the degree of security we endure around here at the manse, and assuming that other affluent godlings maintain comparable privacy, such surveillance can’t be easy. Nevertheless, El assures me that when her model is in place, she’ll be able to trace the chain in intention of any event back to its source. She says she should have done something like this years ago. In my opinion, it’s paranoia writ large.
Eleanor blames her UKB. But who do I blame?
That’s a good question, one for which I don’t yet have an answer. If there is a UKB pulling El’s strings, at least it gave us fair warning. We walked into this high stakes game of empire with our eyes open. In the end, in the hallowed tradition of victims everywhere, I suppose I blame myself.
I PLUCK ONE more eyebrow, and as it sizzles, I say, “Fred.”
For this russ, Fred Londenstane, is a complete surprise to me. I had never formed a relationship with a clone before. They are service people, after all. They are interchangeable. They wait on us in stores and restaurants. They clip our hair. They perform the menialities we cannot, or prefer not to assign to machines. How can you tell one joan or jerome from another anyway? And what could you possibly talk about? Nice watering can you have there, kelly. What’s the weather like up there, steve?
But Fred the russ is different. From the start he’s brought me fruit and cakes reputed to fortify tender digestive tracts, sunglasses, soothing skin creams, and a hat with a duckbill visor. He seems genuinely interested in me, even comes down to chat after his shift. I don’t know why he’s so attentive. Perhaps he never recovered from the shock of first meeting me, freshly seared and suffering. Perhaps he recognizes that I’m the one around here most in need of his protection.
When I was ready to try having sex with Eleanor again and I needed some of those special insulated condoms, my new valet couldn’t locate them on any of the shoppers, not even on the medical supply ones, so I asked Fred. He said he knew of a place and would bring me some. He returned the next day with a whole shopping bag full of special pharmaceuticals for the cellular challenged: vitamin supplements, suppositories, plaque-fighting tooth soap, and knee and elbow braces. He brought twenty dozen packages of condoms, and he winked as he set them on the table. He brought more stuff that he discreetly left in the bag.
I reached into the bag. There were bottles of cologne and perfume, sticks of waxy deodorant, air fresheners and odor eaters. “Do I stink?” I said.
“Like a roomful of cat’s piss, myr. No offense.”
I lifted my hand to my nose, but I couldn’t smell anything. If I stank so bad, how could Eleanor have lived with me all those months, eaten with me, slept with me, and never mentioned it once?
There was more in the bag: mouthwash and chewing gum. “My breath stinks too?”