Periphery (14 page)

Lazarus’ gaze on him was cold and level. They stared each other down for a few seconds, then the guard turned away, his thick hand clutching the knife hard.

“That cocksucker,” Lazarus said in a venomous whisper. “When I get out of here, I’ll roast his nuts on a grill.” Her eyes flashed in Aleph’s direction. “And I
am
getting out of here. Johanson can’t stop me. No one can.”

Aleph shook her head. The battling hormones around her had been painting great smears across her mind. “I don’t know how you got into this trouble,” she said, “but why don’t you give Johanson what she wants?”

Lazarus stared at her in disbelief. “Do you know what that is?”

“Some research results…”

Lazarus cut her off with a harsh laugh. “I’ll tell you what she wants. My freedom. She wants to own me, to have me as her possession forever. The formulas are my only way out of here. I’ve told her she can have them as soon as I’m back on Earth. But she can’t have them and me, too. She has to choose, or she’ll end up with neither.”

A tremor of doubt passed through Aleph’s mind. Lazarus believed absolutely in what she was saying.

“Johanson can’t abide anything independent of her,” Lazarus said. “She has to control things. Here, she can do it. She can own everything and everyone but me. Only I am free. That’s why she hates me.” She paused, then reached across the table for Aleph’s hand, pressing it hard between hers. “Are you her tool? Does she own you?”

Aleph’s skin prickled with borrowed egotism. “No one owns me. There is no
me
to own.”

“What do you mean?”

“I came here in a null state. I am chemically neutral. I have no self.”

Lazarus’ eyes narrowed. “That’s impossible. The sense of self is essential to awareness.”

“Alright, then say I have no ego. You said you were the only free one here, but you were wrong. You may be free from locks and cells, you may even be free from Johanson. But you are still a prisoner of your own personality. Only I am truly free.”

Lazarus stared at her, transfixed. She looked as if a new awareness had impaled her. “Aleph—” she started.

Two guards were approaching their table. Lazarus saw them, and whispered urgently, “I have to see you again. Please. Come here tomorrow. Don’t let me down.”

As the guards came up, Lazarus stood to meet them, once more mocking, self-assured. For an instant she turned back to Aleph, her eyebrows slyly bent. She held out her hand. As Aleph shook it, she glimpsed a second cafeteria knife protruding from Lazarus’ sleeve. Lazarus winked at her, and then was gone.

Aleph’s own silent guide/guard was waiting at the doorway. It crossed her mind that she, too, was being treated more as a prisoner than an employee. She quickly dismissed the thought, a remnant of the paranoia that had entered her body at Lazarus’ touch.

Which version of events was she to believe? Lazarus’ mythic struggle, freedom against despotism? Or the slightly sordid personnel problem Johanson had portrayed? Perhaps, within the boundaries of each woman’s individuality, each story was true. But it didn’t matter now; Aleph’s role in this drama was over. She had been detected, and was of no more use to Johanson. Probably she would be sent back on the next shuttle to Earth.

She got up to leave, but changed her mind and sat down in the place where Lazarus had been. The seat was still warm. A memory of intense vitality rushed like liquor to her head.

She forced herself to stop. She was only tantalizing herself. As she was rising to leave, she saw that Lazarus had left her book of poetry on the seat. She picked it up and pressed it between her hands, then fanned the pages. They breathed on her, cool with the scent of many readings.

And suddenly there was no question. She had to convince Johanson to let her continue. Somehow, she had to find a way to possess Lazarus, to drink her in, to feel that flesh become her own. She had never wanted anything so much.

As she followed the guard docilely to her room, she could feel a seed crystal of self growing in the supercooled liquid of her being. Already the air, the light seemed different. Her surroundings had lost neutrality. She was beginning to reflect, to measure the world against herself and give it value. Soon she would be human.

*

When Aleph entered Johanson’s office the next day, the administrator’s chair was turned with its high back to the door. A slow tendril of smoke rose from it into the yellow spotlight. The opposite wall was lit with a recording of Aleph and Lazarus sitting at the cafeteria table. It was taken from above—the light fixture, Aleph realized. She watched as Lazarus reached out and took her hand, then saw her own face go taut with inrushing life. There was a click and the scene showed again, this time slower, drawing out the sensuality. When it began to run a third time, Aleph cleared her throat.

The wall went black and Johanson’s chair pivoted around. She was holding the remote control in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Aleph stood defiantly casual, arms crossed and weight on one leg. She had not thought it out clearly; she just intuited that she was twice as likely to be fired if she acted like a failure.

Johanson was studying her closely. “I’ll be damned,” she said at last. “You already look a little like her.”

“That’s my job,” Aleph said.

“Mannerisms more than looks,” Johanson mused. “Sit down.” Aleph came forward and spun the chair around, then sank down sideways in it, her long legs stretched out.

“Well, you certainly botched your assignment,” Johanson’s voice grated. “It took her two minutes to see through you.”

“I doubt there’s much she doesn’t see through.”

“You’re useless to me now, you know.”

“I don’t think so. She asked me to come back.”

“Yes, I saw that part. I think she meant it for my ears. She knew I was listening, of course.”

Aleph’s gaze was steady and cool. “I think you’re wrong,” she said. “I think she meant it for
my
ears.”

Johanson drew closer to her desk. The skin around her eyes was pale and puffy, but the eyes themselves looked ravenous. Aleph felt a breath of her turmoil, but could ignore it; the imprint of Lazarus’ personality was still strong inside her.

“Why did you react when she touched you?” Johanson said.

Aleph allowed a slow, tantalizing smile to grow on her face. “For me,” she said, “a touch is a way into a client’s being. I can feel their essence.”

“Yes? Tell me what it was like.”

“It was like having her inside me.” For a moment, Aleph let the memory wash through her in all its intimacy. She was only half surrendering to Johanson’s suggestions; the other half was deliberately trailing bait before the older woman. She could smell the hunger on her breath.

“You found it pleasant?” Johanson asked softly.

Aleph let her head fall against the chair back, laughing softly.

“Do you want it again?”

Suddenly the game felt sour. Aleph
did
want it again. And Johanson could deny it to her.

“I think I could still get her to trust me,” Aleph said. “She was intrigued. Perhaps it’s the thought of seeing a duplicate of herself.”

Johanson was resting her chin on the heel of her hand, the cigarette by her ear building ash. “Yes,” she said. “I can believe that. She’s the ultimate narcissist. She’s never really believed in the existence of anyone but herself.” She tapped the ash into a tray. “She was manipulating you, you know. All that show of interest in you was just another magic trick. Everything she does is calculated. She wants something from you.”

“Well, I want something from her,” Aleph said coolly. “Maybe we can work out a deal.”

“Maybe. It’s worth a try.”

Aleph felt a surge of triumph, but kept her face neutral. She didn’t want Lazarus’ emotions used against her. She was glad Johanson couldn’t detect how far under their influence she was.

“But if I give you this chance, take this warning as well,” Johanson said. “Don’t give her anything until you have what you want. Gratitude and loyalty are foreign words to her. I learned that the hard way. She owes me everything.
Everything
. And look what I get.”

Aleph wondered what had happened between them. “Why did she come here?” she asked.

“She had no choice.”

“You don’t mean she was a prisoner?”

Johanson’s face grew rigid. “You think I employ criminals on my scientific staff?”

“No. I suppose not.”

“All the same, she wouldn’t be free if it weren’t for me.”

“But she’s
not
free!”

“She’s as free as any of us here,” Johanson said savagely. “We can none of us return to Earth, you know. Not after having been here. Even if the Company allowed it, the stigma would follow us everywhere. But Lazarus won’t admit that. She wants to have it all: all the advantages the Company can give her, none of the limitations. Not like the rest of us human beings.”

“Perhaps if you didn’t confine her—”

“You call that confinement?” Johanson demanded. “Do you want to see real confinement? Do you want to see where the prisoners are kept?”

“I thought—”

“You thought the prisoners lived like the rest of us. Well, let me teach you something about freedom.” She pushed back her chair and tapped out a code on her keyboard. A drawer opened, and she took out a hand-held video monitor. “Here, take this,” she said.

Aleph took it gingerly, since it was covered with the bitter secretions of Johanson’s hands.

“Go down the hall to the elevator,” Johanson ordered. “I’ll direct you from there.” She watched as Aleph stood slowly. “Go on!” she shouted. Aleph went.

The monitor sputtered to life in her hand when the elevator arrived. Johanson’s face appeared on the tiny screen. “Get on. Go up to 19.” Aleph obeyed. She turned the screen away as if it could see her.

When the elevator stopped, Aleph’s feet left the ground and she had to catch hold of the rail to come back down. The gravity was barely strong enough to walk. When she stepped out, the hallway was the same monotony of gray as before. Ahead, a uniformed guard sat at a workstation surrounded by video monitors. On seeing Aleph he tensed, staring. As she approached he rose, frowning suspiciously.

“Give him the monitor,” Johanson’s voice ordered.

The man plugged an earphone into it and listened to some silent instructions from Johanson. At the end he nodded and handed the monitor back. He took out a key-card and led her down the hall. Pairs of numbered doors faced each other at intervals down the long corridor. He stopped at the second pair and inserted his card. “Keep going till you get to the other door,” he said in an official voice. Then, as Aleph passed him, he muttered in her ear, “Giving you a preview, Lazarus?”

A moment later the door closed behind her. Aleph stood for a second, touching her face, intrigued that she had changed enough to fool someone. It rarely happened so quickly.

Ahead of her, the narrow corridor curved upward; she realized that it ran riblike around the drum. On either side, the way was lined with glass-fronted cabinets, stacked six high to the ceiling. The acrid smell of fear she had noticed on first entering the prison was stronger here.

“Go ahead,” Johanson’s voice said from her hand. Aleph glanced up toward the lights, Johanson’s eyes. She started forward.

When she came abreast of the first set of cabinets, she realized she was in a morgue. Bodies lay shelved behind the sealed glass, all dressed in uniform gray smocks. They looked perfectly preserved. Aleph passed by the first few rows. Most were men, all races and shapes. Puzzled, she stopped to study one whose eyes were still open. His head turned to look at her.

She jerked back so hard that her feet left the floor and she caromed into the cabinets on the other side. The dead man’s glassy eyes seemed to follow her.

Johanson was laughing, a dry, crackling sound. “Don’t worry,” she said, “he can’t see you. It’s one-way glass.”

“They’re alive,” Aleph said.

“Yes. Prisoners usually are.”

“This is how they are kept?”

“Yes. It saves marvelously on storage space. We keep them healthy, in case we ever have to produce them. They’re fed intravenously and monitored all the time. The low gravity keeps the blood from pooling; they never get bedsores. Of course, the muscles atrophy, and after a few years the bones decalcify. We’re working on ways to prevent it.”

Aleph’s voice sounded raspy. “They’re drugged, aren’t they?”

“Not at all. Too expensive.”

“How long are they kept like this?”

“We still have some from when the prison opened 19 years ago. They’ve never been out of their cases.”

Aleph closed her eyes. Something inside her, something from Lazarus, was reacting violently. The narrow walls seemed to be closing in, trapping her. Her heart raced, panicky. She moved on to convince her body she was still free.

She saw now that the prisoners’ arms and legs were strapped down to prevent movement—not that they could have moved far in the confines of their coffins. She came to some who showed more life. One was turning his head back and forth like an endless, purposeless pendulum. Another seemed to be talking, his face rigid and white. She paused by one who was trying to move, struggling against his straps. As she watched, his bearded face turned toward her and he screamed. Not a sound passed through the thick glass.

“A new one,” Johanson said. “He’s only been in there a week.”

“Who are they?” Aleph asked faintly. “What have they done?”

“We don’t ask,” Johanson said. “They’re sent here by governments, courts, whoever can afford the fees. We take them on contract. It’s not our business what they’ve done. We just provide a service.”

“Burial alive,” Aleph said.

“If you want to get moralistic.”

Aleph hurried on, wanting to get to the end of the corridor. On either side the prisoners crowded, so close they could have touched her, each one living out an individual nightmare in a box. She tried not to look, but their agony ate at her skin. She clamped her jaw to keep her face from showing it.

“Don’t you want to see the ones Lazarus experimented on?” Johanson’s voice came mockingly from the monitor in her hand. Aleph forced herself to slow down.