Robyn's Egg (8 page)

“It’s okay. Petro went to Hogan-Perko and negotiated the price. He told them how much we had, and I believe he did some work for them to make up the difference. Nine months later we had Brooke.”

“Thanks, you were a big help. Give Brooke a kiss for me when she wakes up.”

When Robyn drifted back to the apartment, Moyer was sitting next to her, a mix of disapproval and anticipation on his face. “What did they say?”

“You are going to Hogan-Perko tomorrow to negotiate for our baby.”

Chapter 6

Tuesday, 18 October

P
etro’s banter stopped the moment Moyer entered the break room. “Hey, my man,” he called. He left his coffee clutch to join Moyer. “So how are things going? Sorry about the other night, spilling the beans on the lead programming position and all. I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay,” Moyer said. “Robyn lit into me after you guys left. She wants me to apply for it and go to HP to negotiate for a baby.”

Petro hesitated a moment. “Negotiate?”

“Yeah, like you did. Robyn talked to Kelsey yesterday. I dread doing it, but Robyn has her mind set. I won’t hear the end of it until I at least try.”

Petro nervously glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “About that,” Petro said, “You’ve got to have your eyes open going in. It’s not as easy as it sounds.”

Moyer tapped his wrist to point out the time. “I’d love to talk, but we only have ten minutes until start of shift and there’s something I have to do.”

Moyer stood in the corridor trying to muster some nerve. Less than eight minutes remained on morning break as the status timer counted down. It was now or never. Moyer took the stairs and stood frozen in front of Berman’s door. What courage he’d mustered in the men’s room had evaporated during the short trip to Berman’s office.

This was Petro’s scheme and Petro’s fault. The idea might have died quietly on the vine had nature taken its course, but no, Petro had to bring it up in front of Robyn. Until then, it was only a notion, a
what if.

He paced in front of the door whispering what he planned to say, wondering how Berman might respond. Why was he so afraid? The status board ticked under seven minutes. Down on the main floor, Petro waved to get his attention and rolled his hands in a circular motion urging Moyer to get on with it. Moyer drew in a deep breath, let it puff out his cheeks and rush past his lips. He knocked. A gruff, muffled voice from inside said “Come in.”

Louis Berman stood with his back to the door gazing out a window in the rear wall of his office. It looked down over the cubicles in the basement. Moyer wondered how a man like Berman came to be programming supervisor at a software company. He didn’t fit the type.

Berman turned his head toward Moyer, ran his eyes from toe to head and then turned back to the window as the employees wander back to their desks. “Winfield, isn’t it?”

“Y-y-yes sir.” Moyer waited frozen in place, haunted by the feeling that this was a horrible mistake. The rehearsed words fled his mind like cockroaches scurrying from light.

“The board is at five minutes, Winfield. Spit it out or get back to your desk.”

Moyer’s mind was a blank. He tried to recall what he was going to say. He thought back to his conversation with Petro. Then it came to him in a rush. “S-S-Sasaki, sir, I-I-I assume the company will be interviewing to fill his position?”

Berman turned from the window and focused his dark eyes on Moyer. “Go on.”

Moyer caught sight of the long jagged scar running across Berman’s scalp. It looked as if he’d had his head split wide open, which begged the question, how? Had it been some kind of accident, or the result of violence? Moyer bet it was the latter, and an attack from behind. Who on God’s green Earth would risk trying to club such an imposing man face to face?

“Winfield?” Berman urged.

“Sir, sorry. I-I-uh, want to be considered for the opening.”

Berman’s expression changed. He smiled slightly. “I’ll see to it that your name is on the list.” Then under his breath he added, “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Sir?”

“Nothing Winfield. If you do become lead, you understand the dedication and sacrifice involved? I’d have to know that your top priority is assuring this project comes in on time. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you’ll do whatever it takes?”

“Yes.”

“So how is the program coming?” Berman asked.

“Uh, we’re on schedule. We’re a few months from live testing. We’ll need to find beta subjects.”

“Don’t you worry about that. Just make sure to finish the test routine.” He gazed out the window again opening onto the basement. “The clock is almost at zero, Winfield. Hurry back to your desk before you go red again. Go, go, go. You can’t afford another one.”

It wasn’t until he closed Berman’s door that Moyer was able to process what had happened. His muscles quaked under the influence of all the residual adrenaline in his system. But he’d done it. He’d faced the monster and thrown his hat in the ring. He smiled. He felt like bounding to his desk, but restrained himself to a springy jaunt. He glimpsed over at Petro and broke into a wide grin, giving him the thumbs up sign. Petro nodded with a smile and turned his thumb up in acknowledgement. Moyer managed to log in before the clock hit all zeroes.

Moyer headed for the elevator at lunch break. Petro caught him by the arm. “Moyer, my man, mind if I tag along?” he asked.

“Actually, I’ve got business to take care of.”

“What kind of business?”

“I’m headed to Hogan-Perko.”

“Oh, right.” The smile drifted from Petro’s face.

Moyer was still floating on the elation from the morning’s victory and felt capable of anything. He pulled himself free from Petro and nodded toward the status board, “The clock is ticking. I’ve got to get going.”

Petro called after him as Moyer ran up the stairs, “Be careful, my man. There’s no such thing as free.”

Moyer rushed out of the building without a care.

Over the Circle, a thick layer of clouds threatened rain. The air was still and smelled of ozone the way it does before the sky opens a torrent. Moyer zipped his jacket up to his chin. Viktor Perko’s giant grandfatherly face gazed down on the Circle, infused into the glass façade of the Hogan-Perko tower with some sort of etching process, the phrase “
Father of Mankind
” emblazoned below his chin. To Moyer, there was a predatory edge to the smile on Perko’s likeness, the lips drawn a little too taut, showing a little too much tooth, the eyes a bit too intense. That was one reason Moyer preferred to keep his eyes pointed at the ground when he crossed the Circle.

On clear days, when the sun was at just the right angle, Perko’s image reflected onto the bricks of the Circle in colorless shadow and light like a faint charcoal rendering. People didn't walk on the image. Any child old enough to speak knew nobody steps on Viktor Perko. It was bad luck. And, it was said, he was always watching.

A knot formed in Moyer’s stomach as he stepped into the shadow of the HP building. He slowed and swallowed hard. The thought of negotiating made him uncomfortable. Operating in gray areas outside the law felt wrong, as if he was doing something he could be arrested for. Black and white was what he preferred. Pay list price, everything on paper and legal, nice and proper. Nothing could go wrong that way. Haggling seemed too much akin to bartering on the black market, which was definitely commerce crime, and made Moyer nervous. What had Petro called him, a
straight arrow
?

As he approached, the crowd thickened and grew boisterous. Something was going on. He pressed his way through the throng. A line of hooded figures marched in front of the Hogan-Perko building. Amplified white noise blared down from the building’s speakers drowning out Begat chants of
Hogan-Perko is not God
. A dense crowd had gathered to eat lunch hoping for a show. Moyer sensed their anticipation. They were hoping to witness a confrontation. Would Security Services come crashing in? Would skulls be cracked? It was all entertainment to them. Bloodlust.

What horrid luck. He thought of turning back. To Moyer, this was a sign that perhaps today was not the day to beg for a baby. It was one more thing to stack atop his growing dread. Who would blame him if he swung a 180 on his heel and went back to the safety of his desk? But he couldn't shake the image of Robyn on the sofa, a flock of balled up tissues clustered on the coffee table, her eyes red and swollen at the thought she’d never have a baby.

He also remembered
Robyn’s determined face after she’d heard Kelsey and Petro had negotiated for a baby. She had not asked that he go to Hogan-Perko, it had been an ultimatum. How could he face her if he didn't even try? Though it went unsaid, Moyer knew more than a baby was at stake.

He pushed past the line of Begat protesters blocking the door, his hands over his ears to muffle the noise from the chanting protesters and the hiss of the loud speakers. Someone grabbed his arm. Moyer balled his hand into a fist, tight and hard, and turned prepared to throw a punch. A tall muscular albino dressed in a brown tunic stared down at him. The giant appeared to be soldier-class, bred freakishly strong and athletic for the rigors of the battlefield. Placid blue eyes set against snow-like skin gleamed from beneath his liripipe hood. Moyer’s fist went slack.

“Don’t go to them,” the giant said. “Let God provide. There is another way. His way.”

Moyer jerked free and ran the last few steps into the glass cube of the Hogan-Perko lobby. Once inside, he gazed through the windows. The giant stood watching, his face expressionless.

“May I help you sir?”

Moyer startled at the sound of the woman’s voice. The receptionist tending the front desk repeated, “May I help you, sir?”

Moyer turned from the window. “Yes. I have come to discuss terms for acquiring a baby.”

She smiled. “Of course, sir. Please take a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.”

Four large stuffed chairs near the front of the lobby bracketed a low Lucite table. A sign indicated the lobby was a free net zone so customers in the waiting area could keep entertained while they passed the time.

Moyer sat in a chair facing the Circle. The giant had rejoined the protest line pacing an elongated oval carrying a hand painted sign – “BABIES ARE NOT PRODUCT”.

“How bad does it get?” Moyer asked.

“The Begat protesters?” the receptionist said. “They make our customers nervous, as do the stories on the net about bombings, but I’ve never seen them do anything to anyone other than handing out pamphlets.”

The elevator bell softly chimed behind the reception desk. A small silver-haired man in a navy pinstripe suit stopped briefly at the reception desk and the receptionist directed him to Moyer. His movements were quick and efficient.

“Hello, I’m Fredrick Duncan, a customer representative here at Hogan-Perko. I understand you want to discuss bringing a baby into your life – Mister ...?”

“Winfield, Moyer Winfield.”

“Where is your wife Mr. Winfield? I usually deal with couples.”

“She’s at home. She tends to get overly emotional when it comes to babies. I thought it might be better to conduct the initial meetings without her.”

“I see.” Duncan’s lips curved upward knowingly. His eyes darted toward the protesters then back to Moyer. “We should continue this upstairs in my office.”

Inside the elevator, Moyer asked, “Are you broadcasting white noise outside to thwart the net browsers?”

“Yes, the protesters want attention and if you give it to them, they’ll never stop. Did they give you much trouble?”

“No, not much. I hear they bombed your Southgate outlet.”

“Yes, they are a true menace. I wish Security Services would shut them down completely.”

“Why don’t they?”

“The courts. They won’t allow the group to be prosecuted. They say crimes must be attributed to individuals. It’s so shortsighted. If they arrested the lot of them, the bombings would stop. Who doesn’t want that?”

Moyer nodded. “At least no one was hurt.”

“I wouldn’t say that. The blast destroyed over two hundred babies in our incubator pods. All lost. Explain that to parents who have been waiting for months.”

“What happened to them?”

“What?”

“The parents, do they still get babies?”

“Yes, of course. But they have to wait another nine months or more as openings become available.”

The elevator decelerated. Moyer started to rise off the floor and clutched the rail.

“It takes a little getting used to,” Duncan said. When the doors opened, Duncan led the way down the hall and Moyer followed.

Duncan’s office was stark – a desk with a phone and keyboard, three chairs, and a vid screen. A floor to ceiling window dominated one wall overlooking the city. The view made up in grandiosity what the room lacked in furnishings. Duncan pulled up a form on his vid screen. “Let’s examine your options.”

Moyer took a seat. “I was told it’s possible to negotiate these things.”

Duncan grimaced and let his hands settle on his desk. “Mr. Winfield, on occasion negotiation is an option. Regardless, we must fill out the forms to determine the value of the trade.”

Duncan guided Moyer through the form, typing in the responses to his questions. Moyer grew alarmed as Duncan tapped out 80,000 as the base price. “Your ad said the Christmas sale price is sixty thousand credits.”

“First, it's not Christmas. That price isn’t available yet and won’t be for over a month. Second, that’s a very basic price covering fertilization with random cells. It’s a roll of the dice. Your baby might be born defective or prone to genetic disease. You don’t want that, do you? For twenty thousand more we screen the donor cells to create a genetically perfect child. It eliminates the risks. It’s like a guarantee. When you are talking about your child, and this amount of money, you don’t want to take chances, do you?”

“No, of course not.”