Blood Zero Sky (10 page)

The door swings in, and there’s Dyanne, standing in the doorway, regarding me through half-closed eyelids. My stepmom: eight months older than I am. Her breasts look like a pair of motorcycle helmets inside my father’s dress shirt, which she wears without pants like a nightie. Her sleek, muscle-etched legs extend for what seems like miles before they hit the floor. Her professionally sculpted face (I seem to be the only one who notices one of her eyes is bigger than the other since her last surgery) is framed by perfectly highlighted blond hair. Last time I saw her, she was trying to quit smoking because the substance her lips were made out of is flammable. Seriously.

“Maaay,” she whines, “it’s laaate.”

Maybe it is, but I don’t think that’s why her eyes are half closed. I shoulder past her, in no mood to chat.

“Dad!” I call. “Dad!”

My voice echoes over and over again, bouncing off the fifty-foot cathedral ceiling of Dad’s foyer and the sparkling fountain in its center, across the imported marble floor, and back to my ears.

I look up the huge, winding marble staircase. After a moment, my father’s grizzled head peeks over the banister.

“Dad, we have to talk.”

“Oh, May, look, listen . . . if it’s about the loss projection don’t worry—it will all work out. Okay? Goodnight.”

He goes to turn around, but I shout up at him: “It’s not about the financials, Dad. I need to talk. Now.”

“Now? But . . . Well, we were just settling down for the night. . . .” He blinks with exaggerated slowness. His hair is a tousled mess.

I look at Dyanne again. She smiles at me dreamily.

“Maaaaay,” she says.

“What’s wrong with you two?” I ask, unable to mask my disgust.

At first, she makes a face like she’s offended, and then she laughs the musical laugh of a carefree little girl (a sound that God knows I’ve never uttered) and leans against one of the marble columns.

“May,” my father admonishes, reaching the foot of the stairs now, “it’s a bad time. We were just getting into bed—or the hot tub. And I—did you notice the fountain in here? It’s a new one. It’s not too big? The other one seemed too small.”

No doubt about it, my father is acting very, very strange.

“I’m here to talk about work, Dad.”

He straightens up suddenly. “Of course,” he says. “Is it gonna take long?”

“It depends on whether you let me start or not. . . . Are you two alright?”

“Perfectly,” says my father.

“Purrrrfectly,” says Dyanne.

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll try to make this quick for you—”

“Wait,” says Dad. “You want some coffee?”

Before I can answer, he’s tilted his face toward the ceiling and pressed two fingers to each temple, like a B-movie psychic. He squeezes his eyes shut, nods, and then opens his eyes again.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

He grins and puts his arm around me, leading me from the foyer.

“That was the future, my dear,” he says. “I just ordered three coffees to be brought to us in the North study!”

“That’s how you order coffee?” I ask, skeptical.

“That’s how
everyone
will be ordering coffee!” he says. “And operating imagers and driving their cars. N-telekinesis! Cross/brain interface isn’t just going to be for ICs anymore. It will work with every appliance in your house and workplace!”

It makes sense, I guess. It’s just another use of the cross/IC technology. Still, something about it gives me the creeps.

“Watch!” Dad says eagerly.

A wheelchair waits in the hallway. Dad sits in it and closes his eyes, concentrating. Immediately, he starts rolling forward alongside me.

He holds up both hands for me to see.

“See, no hands! All operated by the brain. This is the next big-ticket item, I’m telling you!”

“That’s great Dad, but listen . . . ”

“Everyone’s going to have their apartment outfitted with the system,” Dad continues, ignoring me. “No more remote controls, no more light switches, no more touch screens, just the brain itself! And the technology isn’t that expensive, I’m telling you. Profit margins will be huge. We’re talking big money!”

We’ve passed down the ornately decorated hallway and entered Dad’s office. The room is massive and full of books—mostly unread—and periodicals—mostly pornographic.

“We’ll make a ton of money on the serving robots, too,” Dad continues. “Did I ever show you the new ’bots? We’re rolling them out

next year, May. I’m telling you, they’re fantastic. Nobody wants to work, especially not at home.”

“You’re right, as usual,” I say. “But listen. I have to talk to you about the Africa Division expansion program. You said it received a
warm welcome.
”

“Sure,” Dad says. “Profits are up thirty-four percent out there!”

Dyanne sits in a wing chair by the fireplace (the fire sprang to life automatically when we entered the room and now blazes cheerily). She sprawls in the chair with her legs half open, and I get the distinct feeling she’s situated to give my dad a show. It’s a disconcerting thought, but I press on.

“That’s not what I mean,” I say. “What I’m saying is, did some of the African people refuse to work for the Company. Did we—?”

“Aaah!” Dad says. “Look!”

A robotic butler with a rubbery-looking face enters, walking with a fluid yet utterly unnatural gait. On a serving tray, he has three coffees. He bends at the waist and offers them to my father, graciously.

“
Your drinks, sir,”
the robot says, its voice a digital approximation of a stuffy butler’s drawl.

Dad takes his drink and hands me mine.

Dyanne only responds with a muted snore when my father goes to give her hers, so he puts it back on the robot’s tray.

“Take this one back,” he says. “Dyanne doesn’t want it.”

“
What?”
the robot butler says. “
I didn’t understand your instruction.”

“See,” Dad mutters to me. “Here’s the problem. Now I have to remember the right command.”

He places two fingers on each temple and squints at the ceiling. The robot does not move.

“Return to the kitchen,” he says aloud.

“
What? I didn’t understand your instruction.”

The robot is still bent over, offering the drink.

“Go back to the kitchen,” Dad says. “We don’t want the G. D. drink. Take it back!”

“Dad, listen. About Africa Division—”

“What? I didn’t understand—”

“Oh, for crying out freaking loud!” Dad shouts at the butler. “Stand there and rot then!” He turns back to me. “I’m telling you, May, the bugs are almost worked out, and we can sell them for huge money. I’m talking starting out at five. It’s the next car or apartment—the next big-ticket thing we can get people for. And it’s going to be a necessity. See, and I want to build them in Africa, that would be perfect, but the stinkin’ rustics there don’t know electronics. It’s going to take decades to get a good class of worker there. . . . ” As he speaks, his eyes wander to Dyanne, who still sits spread-eagle in the wing chair. “Most of them are so undereducated, heck, undernourished—that they can barely string a few beads together, much less do high-end robotics.”

“Dad,” I say, losing my patience, “that’s what I was going to talk to you about—”

“See, that’s where B&S has us by the balls—the Asian worker is just a better class of worker than the f—pardon me—stinking Africans. Better consumers, too. But of course, B&S is mostly a Chinese outfit anyway, always has been.”

“Dad,” I say, “did we—did the Company—”

The robot suddenly jerks to an upright position, sloshing latte all over his tray.

“If you won’t be needing me, sir, I’ll return to the kitchen.”

“Bout time,” says Dad.

“What?”
the butler says,
“I didn’t understand your instruction.”

“Dad!” I shout.

“I wanna get in the hot tub!” Dyanne whines, suddenly wide awake.

“Baby—” Dad coos to her.

“Stop!” I stand, furious. “Everybody shut the hell up! N-Corp killed a whole African village! Women, children, everybody! They did it with little flying robot machines! I saw it. Now you explain it to me!”

Everyone’s suddenly silent, even the robot butler.

“May,” my father says, “such language. As Jimmy Shaw says, your mouth should belong to God, and hence—”

“Dad,” I say. “Please! When I was growing up you cussed like a sailor. Don’t lecture me, just answer the damn question.”

“I’ve never been a cusser,” my father says, indignant.

“Baaaby, the hot tub!”

“Please,” I beg, “please, I don’t want to argue. Just tell me, did we wipe out a village in Africa Division?”

Dad stands from the wheelchair, suddenly indignant.

“No!” he says. “There are six fundamental principles N-Corp was founded on! One: we strive to earn and deserve the trust of the community; two: we pursue excellence and success for our shareholders, our customers, and ourselves; three: we commit to making our community and our world a better place by prioritizing good service and neighborly conduct. Three . . . Wait. Three? Or four? Was it? What was it? Place ourselves on a path to success by—? Huh, dammit . . . ”

“Dad, forget the principles! No one cares about the principles. I’m talking about—”

“That’s exactly the problem with the modern debtor-worker, May! No principles! In my day—aha!—five: to achieve the maximum potential by working together as a team in all aspects of our . . . ”

My father’s thought is derailed as his eyes wander to Dyanne again.

I wheel on her.

“Would you stop it! I can see in the window what you’re doing!”

She pulls her shirt-nightgown down and crosses her hands over her chest. “Heeeeey!”

“And you!” I say to my father. “You should be ashamed of yourself! You’re a seventy-five-year-old man!”

“Ah,” says Dad, “but with our newest medical advances, aging is a thing of the past! I could conceivably stay like this forever. Just like this, at this age. Denny assured me the product is ready for market. I’ve been taking the treatment for months now! It’s gonna be huge!”

“Baaaby! Hot tub!”

“Please!” I scream. “Please, Dad. People died. Many people. I saw it. If the Company has all these principles, they shouldn’t—couldn’t be doing this. If we have all these principles, it can’t have been us, right? Can it, Dad? Just tell me it wasn’t us!”

Dad stares at me, suddenly lucid. “The Company would never hurt innocent people, May. You know that.”

I stare at my father.

“And who decides who’s innocent and who’s not?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t look at Dyanne. He sighs. For a moment, I think I’ve actually gotten through to him.

“Promise me,” I say. “Promise me the Company would never kill innocent people, even if they stood in the way of expansion. Or profits. Even if they stood in the way of everything.”

“I promise. But . . . it’s a big Company, May. Nobody can know all its dealings.

I nod. “And do we make little flying things that shoot poison darts?”

“No,” he murmurs and sinks back into the wheelchair, suddenly somnolent. “I mean, not that I know of . . . ”

He sits back down in the wheelchair, looking suddenly weary. “Let’s get some ice cream,” he murmurs.

“Yeeeeaaah!” says Dyanne.

Dad slumps. His chin is almost on his chest. His eyelids are almost closed.

“What the hell is wrong with you two?” I ask.

“Neeeeew pills,” says Dyanne. “They do work well, they do, do, do.”

Dyanne’s chirps seem to wake my dad, and he rallies for a minute: “We have to break down the barriers to worker productivity, one by one, May. Depression, restlessness, despondency—these attitudes can ruin a worker’s productivity and negatively impact the attitudes of those around him. With our new line of N-Meds, we not only meet this problem head on, but we also meet it with a product on which we can make an over five hundred percent profit. And it’s virtually side-effect free. Virtually. Some headaches, dry mouth, disorientation, vertigo, mild dementia—but, so what? It’s not like the old days where we had to worry about lawsuits, thank God! With these meds, work can be sustained for longer periods of time, with fewer breaks, and the debtor-worker’s overall mood stays high. After taking the pills for only a few months, Dyanne and I are already feeling in much higher spirits. Talk to your HR rep; I’ll send a memo to Blackwell, make sure he approves a sample pack for you. Seems like you could use a pick-me-up. . . . ” Dad says. By the end of his speech, he’s wound down again. His eyes close.

Dyanne, in her chair, has suddenly fallen asleep.

I watch my father for a moment as he dozes peacefully. “Things may not have always been great between us, Dad, but you always had my respect,” I say, then shake my head sadly.

I take a throw blanket from the back of the couch and drape it over him before I leave. As I pass the robot butler in the hallway, I pick up the latte on its tray and dump it over its head.

~~~

After the encounter with my dad, exhaustion descends on me like a crushing weight, and I nap. Now, a few hours later, I’m wide awake again, out of bed, and showered. Amid all this chaos, all this confusion, all these questions, what I want, what I need—is distraction.

Standing in my massive closet, I scan the racks. I bypass all the black, brown, or gray skirts, all the little striped tops, all the tailored blazers that mark my—and indeed every N-Corp tie-woman’s—wardrobe. Instead, I reach out and part the hanging clothes, right at the spot where the shirts meet the skirts. There, hanging against the back wall of the closet on a nail, is my father’s suit, one from the skinny days of his youth. It fits me perfectly.

My head, already hurting from the fall from the chopper, throbs a little harder now in response to my fast-beating heart. Without another thought, I pull on the pants, button up the white shirt, and put on the jacket. Last, I take out the tie, a shiny red one, and slowly tie the knot.

I step up to the mirror and see myself. Perfect.

Cross-dressing has been a proven source of decreased productivity, and the Company has made it its mission to stamp out any such behavior in the workplace. Since all land and all facilities are owned by the Company, any place could be considered a Company workplace—so the policy extends everywhere. Technically, I could be fined for being dressed like this in my own apartment. Where I’m going, the risk is many times greater. But it doesn’t matter. There’s no way I’m staying home tonight.