The Heart Goes Last

X | GRIEF THERAPY Handcreep

Charmaine sits in the back seat of the long, smooth, silent car. Beside her is Ed, who has just helped her into it, one hand on her black-suited elbow.

“It’s so good of you to come and collect me,” she says to him tremulously. “In person.” Her lower lip really is quivering, a tear really is trickling out of her eye. She blots it with the tip of her black cotton glove. That glove tip feels like a soft, dry rabbit foot, stroking her gently.

She and Stan once had a rabbit foot. It was in the car when they’d bought it, along with some other junk. Stan wanted to toss it, but Charmaine said they should keep it because some rabbit had sacrificed its life so they could have good luck. Poor rabbit. So sad. The mascara, she thinks: is it running? But it would be crass at this moment to take the compact out of her black clutch bag to see.

“It’s the very least I could do,” says Ed. He sounds almost shy. He pats her arm, a tentative pat that stops short of being too familiar. His voice is flatter and tinnier than it is when it’s coming out of the TV, and he himself is shorter. She’d been sitting down the time he came to Positron and made that scary speech, and then complimented her on the blue teddy bear she’d been knitting; he’d seemed taller then, but she’d been looking up. She guesses he stands on a box when he’s doing the important TV broadcasts about the tremendous progress and how they must all overcome the subversive elements. But right now, if you happened to glance in through the window, not that you could glance in because the glass is tinted, you would never guess that Ed is the big cheese of Consilience. The biggest cheese of all.

Why are important men called big cheeses? Charmaine wonders; she needs to distract herself, she does not want to deal with the fact that Ed has patted her arm again, and this time his hand has hovered, then descended and remained, just below her elbow. You would never say big cheese about a woman, even an important one. And Ed looks sort of like a cheese, because of his slickness; the round kind of cheese with wax all over the outside that kids used to love. They used to trade for that cheese in order to get the wax. It was red, and you could peel it off the cheese and mould it into little figures, like dogs or ducks. That’s what had been valued, the wax; the cheese was only an add-on. It wasn’t flavourful, but at least it wasn’t awful.

Maybe that’s what Ed would be like in bed, she thinks. Not flavourful but not awful. Something you didn’t want that had to be accepted because of something you did want. He would have to be encouraged, he would have to be cheered on. Rapid breathing, false crescendos. Then there would be his gratitude, she’d have to cope with that. She would rather be the one feeling gratitude. Just thinking about all of it makes her tired.

How far could she force herself to go, supposing it comes to that? Because it will, if she allows it. She can tell, because of the look Ed is giving her now, a kind of damp, sickly, pious look. Reverence crossed with hidden lust, but behind that a determination to get what he wants. It’s a dangerous look disguised as niceness. First they wheedle, but if you won’t do that thing they want, they set hurtful.

Never mind, she tells herself. Think about flowers, because now you’re safe. Except she isn’t safe. Maybe no one can ever be safe. You run into your room and you slam the door, but there isn’t any lock.

“It is absolutely the least we could do,” says Ed. “We want to be here for you, in your great loss.”

“Thank you,” Charmaine murmurs. What to do about the hand? She can’t push it away; that would be rude, and she would lose the edge it gives her. Not that she has the edge exactly, but it’s an edge of sorts, as long as she neither offends him nor encourages him. What if she grasped the hand in both of hers and started to cry? No, that might turn him on even more. He might lunge, clumsily. She can’t have him lunging just before the funeral.

“You’ve been brave,” Ed continues. “You’ve been … loyal. You must feel very alone now, as if there’s no one you can confide in.”

“Oh, I do,” says Charmaine. “I do feel alone.” No lie there. “Stan was so –”

But Ed doesn’t want to hear about Stan right now. “We want to assure you that you can rely on us, on all of us in Management here at Consilience. If you have any concerns, any problems, any fears or worries you want to share …”

“Oh, yes. Thank you. That makes me feel so … protected,” she says with a little intake of breath. Fat chance she’d ever share her fears, especially the ones she’s having right now. This is thin ice. Powerful men don’t take well to rejection. Rage could result.

There’s a pause. “You can rely on … me,” says Ed. The hand squeezes.

What a nerve, thinks Charmaine with indignation. Making advances to a widow – to a woman whose husband has just died heroically in a tragic chicken accident. Even if he hasn’t, and even if Ed knows he hasn’t. If he knows, he’ll use that knowledge as a weapon. He’ll whisper her husband-killing guilt into her ear, then he’ll seize her in his cheesy arms and stick his cheesy mouth on hers because she has committed a terrible crime and this is how she’ll be expected to pay.

If he tries that I’ll scream, thinks Charmaine. No, she won’t, because no one would hear her except the driver, who has surely been trained to ignore any noises from the back seat. And a scream would blow her edge right out of the water.

What to do, how to act? She can’t let herself be taken for granted. If Ed must be endured, she’ll need to make him beg a little. If only for form’s sake. It will have to be a negotiation, like asking for a pay raise, not that she ever did that when she had a real job, at Ruby Slippers. But suppose he’s open to a negotiation, what could she get from him in return?

Luckily the car is drawing up to the curb, because they’re at the funeral chapel. Ed has removed his hand, and the door on his side is being opened from the outside, not by the driver but by a man in a black suit. Then her own door is opened and Ed helps her out. There’s a crowd gathered, with that muted look – like stuffed cloth – that people waiting for funerals used to have back when funerals were still done properly. When people still had the money to put into them. Before dead people were simply cast adrift.

Ed offers his arm and leads Charmaine on her shaky black high heels and her slender black suit through the clustered people. They draw back to let her pass because she is sanctified by mourning. She keeps her eyes lowered and does not look around or smile, as if she’s in deep grief.

She is in deep grief. She is.

Quality Control

“Down the hall,” says Budge. “Next stop, Quality Control. Hang in there, we’re almost done.” He pats Stan’s shoulder.

This has to be a signal. Stan clamps down on his urge to laugh. This whole thing is crazed. Charmaine’s head? Budge the spook? You couldn’t make it up. He’s finding it hard to take it seriously. But it is serious.

Quality Control, says Kevin, is where they put the bodies through their paces before they attach the heads. It’s to test the mechanical and the digital, says Gary, especially the writhing and the grinding and the smoothness of the pelvic action. The space is filled with the motion of thighs and abdomens, like some grotesque art installation; there’s a soft pulsing sound and a smell of plastic.

“Waldo, you want a ride round the block on one of these?” says Derek. Stan reflects that, come right down to it, nothing turns him on less than the sight of a dozen headless, naked plastic bodies miming the act of copulation.There’s something insect-like about it.

“I’ll take a rain check,” he says. They all laugh.

“Yeah, right, we didn’t want to either,” says Tyler.

“They fix that smell later on,” says Gary. “They add synthetic pheromones, and then there’s a choice of orange blossom, rose, ylang-ylang, chocolate pudding, or Old Spice.”

“I’d say you need the head, at the very minimum,” says Budge. “They stick them on after the bodies have checked out Affirmative. It’s tricky, a lot of neural connections; all that work would be wasted if the body’s defective.”

Stan looks down the line, to the far side of the room: it’s like an operating theatre over there. Bright overhead lights, air purifiers. They’re even wearing full caps and surgeon’s masks.

“You don’t want any hairs or dust getting into those heads,” says Derek. “It can screw up the reaction time.”

They proceed to Wardrobe and Accessories. Racks of clothes stand ready – ordinary street clothing, business suits, leather outfits, feathers and sequins and gaudy costumes; also rolling shelves, with many different wigs. Movie sets must have looked like this, back in the days of Technicolour musicals.

“Here are the Rhiannas and the Oprahs,” says Kevin. “And the Princess Dianas. Those are the James Deans and the Marlon Brandos and the Denzel Washingtons and, the Bill Clintons, and that’s the Elvis aisle. It’s mostly the white jumpsuit model they go for, with the studs and spangles, but there’s other choices. The black with gold embroidery, that’s popular. Not with the old ladies though, they want the white.”

“And this is the Marilyn section,” says Budge. “You can have five different hairstyles, and in the outfits you get a choice too, depending on what movie. That’s from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, the pink dress; there’s the black suit from Niagara, and over there is the all-girl jazz band one from Some Like It Hot …”

“Where are these headed for?” says Stan. “The Oprahs. Are they that into Oprah, in Holland?”

“You name it, someone’s gonna be fetishistic about it,” says Derek.

“Our biggest customers are the casino operations,” says Gary. “The ones in Oklahoma, but they can be puritanical there. Even though these aren’t real women and so forth. Whereas, Vegas. It’s whatever, whenever, and the place is knee-high in cash. The rust-bucket stuff never hit there.”

“Not the upmarket venues, anyway,” says Budge. “Shedloads of foreign tourists, big spenders. Your Russians, your Indian millionaires, your Chinese, your Brazilians.”

“No regulations,” says Tyler. “Sky’s the limit.”

“Whatever you can think of, it’s either up and running already or it will be,” says Derek.

“There’s a lot of Elvises and Marilyns there anyway,” says Kevin. “Alive ones. So the replicas blend right in.”

“What’s that over there?” says Stan. He’s spotted a bin full of knitted blue teddy bears.

“They’re for the kiddybots,” says Kevin. “They get dressed in the white nighties or the flannel pjs. They’re boxed in flannelette sheets, and each one has a bear tucked into the package for extra-realistic effect.”

“That is fucking sick,” says Stan.

“I hear you,” says Derek. “Yeah, it’s sick. We agree, we felt the same when we found out about this product line. But they aren’t real.”

“Who knows? Maybe these bots are sparing real kids a whole lot of pain and suffering,” says Kevin. “Keeps the pervs off the streets.”

“I don’t fucking buy that!” says Stan. “They’ll use these for dry runs, they’ll practise up, then they’ll …” Zip it, he tells himself. Don’t get involved.

“But a lot of customers do buy it, if you see what I mean,” says Gary. “They buy it like hotcakes. This vertical is a big earner for Possibilibots. Hard to argue with the bottom line.”

“Jobs are at stake, Waldo,” says Derek. “Mega-jobs. Folks out there have bills to pay.”

“That’s not a good reason,” says Stan. They’re all watching him now, but he pushes on. “How can you go along with this? It’s not right!”

“It’s time for your trial run,” says Budge. He gives Stan’s shoulder a little nudge, turning him toward the exit. “ ’Scuse us, guys. I’ve got it set up in one of the private test rooms. There’s some things a man needs to do alone.”

Laughter. “Have a good trip,” says Derek. Gary adds, “Heavy on the lube.”

“Down here,” says Budge. “Nothing much left on the tour proper, except Shipping,” he says. “It’s mainly carting the boxes around; they’re all packed and locked by the time they get to Shipping. That’s my department, Shipping. Want to grab a beer?”

“Sure,” says Stan. He almost blew it back there, over the kiddybots. And those fucking blue teddy bears. What pervert dreamed that one up? “How about the trial run?” he says.

“Forget it. We’ve got other business,” says Budge. “Tulip business.”

“Right,” says Stan. Is he supposed to know what that means?

“In here – it’s my office.” They go in; standard cubicle, desk, couple of chairs. Minibar: Budge gets two beers, pops the tops.

“Take a seat.” He leans forward across the desk. “My job is to ship you. You and whatever you’re taking with you. I don’t know why and I don’t know what, so no point asking.”

“Thanks,” says Stan, “but …” He wants to ask about Charmaine, about her head. Is she in danger from some twisted stalker? If so, he can’t leave Positron. He can’t just desert her.

“No need for thanks,” says Budge. “I’m just a hired gun, I do what I’m told. It’s one of our specialities, people-moving.” He doesn’t look like a friendly uncle any more: he looks efficient. “Me, for instance. To get me inside, they tucked me into a box of torsos, along with the ID I’d need. It worked fine. But you’re our first try at shipping someone out.”

“Who’s this we?” says Stan. “You mean Jocelyn.”

“First off, you mean your brother, Conor,” says Budge. “We go way back, we did some time together when we were kids.”

“Conor!” says Stan. “How did he get into this?” Trust fucking Conor. Not that he does. He remembers the sleek dark car in front of the trailer park, that time he went to see Con. Who’s the pay pal?

“Same way he gets into everything,” says Budge. “We got a call, we made a deal. We have a reputation for keeping our word. Doing what we’ve been paid for.”

“Mind my asking who paid you?” Stan asks.

“Classified,” says Budge, smiling. “So, here’s the plan. We’ll put you into an Elvis outfit, then into a bot shipping crate. An Elvis would be the closest to your size.”

“Wait a minute!” says Stan. “You want me to be a sexbot? You’re pimping me out? No fucking way, that won’t –”

“It’s only for the shipping part,” says Budge. “There’s not a lot of options. You can’t just walk out of here. And they check every management vehicle and match up the biometrics. Remember, even though they think you’re dead, your data will still be on file. But inside the shipping box, and to the casual glance …”

“I don’t look like Elvis,” says Stan.

“You will when we add the outfit and the finishing touches,” says Budge. “And it’s not the real Elvis you need to resemble, it’s the imitation Elvises. Not hard to look like one of them.”

“What do I do when I get there?” says Stan.

“We’re sending a guide out with you,” says Budge. “She’ll help you.”

“She?” says Stan. “The only women I’ve seen in here have been plastic.”

“The prostibots are only one of the solutions Possibilibots is marketing,” says Budge. “There’s something even more advanced. Come on, I’ll show you.”

They go out into the hallway, turn a corner, then another corner. More framed pictures of fruits: a mango, a kumquat. The fruit, he notes, is getting more exotic.

“Bots can’t hold a real conversation,” says Budge. “Even the best of them.

Today’s tech isn’t there. But higher up the income scale, the customers want something they can show off to their friends; something less like, less like –”

“Less like a brain-dead trashbunny,” says Stan. What’s he leading up to?

“Let me put it to you,” says Budge. “Suppose you could customize a human being through a brain procedure.”

“How do you mean” says Stan.

“They use lasers,” says Budge. “They can wipe your attachment to anyone previous. When the subject wakes up she imprints on whoever’s there. It’s like ducklings.”

“Holy crap,” says Stan.

“So, shorthand: choose a babe, give her the operation, stick yourself in front of her when she’s waking up, and she’s yours forever, always compliant, always ready, no matter what you do. That way nobody feels exploited.”

“Wait a minute,” says Stan. “Nobody’s exploited?”

“I said nobody feels exploited,” says Budge. “Different thing.”

“Women sign up for this?” says Stan. “For the brain op?”

“Not sign up, exactly,” says Budge. “Wake up is more like it. That way there’s more freedom of selection. The clients wouldn’t likely want anyone desperate enough to sign up of their own accord.”

“So, they fucking kidnap people?” says Stan.

“That’s not to say I’m endorsing it,” says Budge.

“That’s …” Stan doesn’t know whether to say evil or brilliant.“Don’t they – don’t these women care about their earlier lives? Don’t they resent –”

“Not if it’s done professionally,” says Budge. “But it’s still experimental. It hasn’t been entirely perfected. Some clients have been willing to take the chance anyway, but mistakes have occurred.”

“Like what?” says Stan.

“You’ll see when you meet your guide,” says Budge. “She didn’t turn out the way she was supposed to. That was one very pissed-off client! But he’d signed the terms and conditions, he knew the risks.”

“What went wrong?” Stan asks. He’s already imagining. She wants to hump dead people, or dogs, or what?

“Timing,” says Budge. “But it makes her an ideal operative, because she can never be distracted by a man.”

“Who can she be distracted by?” Stan asks.

Budge stops in front of a door, knocks on it, opens it with his card. “After you,” he says.

Sacrifice

The funeral chapel is one size fits all. No crosses or whatnot, but there’s a giant pair of praying hands and a picture of a sunrise. The colour scheme is powder blue and white, like the Wedgewood-style teacups Grandma Win used to have. There are huge banks of white flowers: they’ve really gone all out.

The chapel is filled to overflowing. The women from the bakery where Charmaine works when she’s not in prison are here, and so are the knitting groups – her original group and that other group she hardly knows at all. They must have let these women out of Positron on passes for the funeral. Quite a few are wearing black hats – berets, pancake shapes, modified cloches – so she’s made the right choice hatwise.

There are a number of Stan’s fellow workers from the scooter shop. They nod at her deferentially because she’s the widow, but there’s an extra layer of deference as well. It must be the presence of Ed, who has tucked her arm within his and who is leading her up the aisle carefully, respectfully. He places her in the front pew, then sits down beside her, his thigh not touching hers, thank goodness, but still too close.

Aurora is on the other side of her, and on the other side of Ed is Jocelyn from Surveillance, wearing a pillbox hat. She looks a bit like Jackie Kennedy.

And on the other side of Jocelyn is Max. She can feel a thin filament of superheated air stretching between them, like the inside of an old light bulb: incandescent. He feels it too. He must feel it.

Ignore this, she tells herself. It’s an illusion. You’re in mourning.

The chapel has fold-down pews in case any dead person has a kneeling family. Charmaine wasn’t brought up as a kneeler, but she’d like to be able to kneel right now – put her hands on the back of the pew in front, then place her forehead on those hands as if in despair. That way she could just zone out, which would help her get through this bogus funeral. Or she could spend the time thinking about what in heck she’s going to do if Ed makes a move on her, such as putting his hand on her thigh. But she can’t do any kneeling, because she’s in the front row. She has to sit up straight and act noble. She squares her shoulders.

Now they’re playing organ music, some kind of hymn. If they play “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” like in some of the Consilience TV funerals, she doesn’t know if she can stand it. She is walking alone, she always will be. Here comes a tear.

Toughen up. Just pretend you’re at the hairdresser’s, says the little voice.

The coffin is closed, due to the hideous burns that Stan is supposed to have suffered as he threw himself upon the defective main switch, then frizzled as the current shot through him. That’s what it said on the TV news, but really the coffin is closed because Stan isn’t in it. She wonders what they’ve done with him and what they’ve put into the coffin instead. Most likely some old cabbages or bags of lawn clippings: something of the right weight and sogginess. But why have anything in there at all? No one’s going to look inside.

What if she called their bluff? Said, I want to see my darling Stan one more time. Made a scene, threw herself on the coffin, demanded they wrench off the lid. Then, when they refuse, she could turn to the congregation and tell them what’s really going on: Innocent people are being killed! Like Sandi! Like Stan! And there must be dozens of others … But they’d surround her in a minute and haul her away to calm her down, because after all she’s out of her mind with grief. Then she’d be erased, just like Stan. Oh, Stan …

Dang it, more tears. Aurora squeezes her hand to show support. Ed is going pat pat, and in one more minute he’s going to snake his arm around her. There’s black on her white hanky: the mascara. “I’m all right,” she manages to gasp in a half-whisper.

Now there’s a soloist, a woman from Charmaine’s knitting group, the second one. She’s got that solemn soprano expression on her face, she’s inflating her lungs and sticking out her black frilly boobs and opening her mouth, and this will be awful, because Charmaine recognizes the organ-music tune: “Cry Me a River.” The woman’s way off key. Charmaine covers her face with her gloved hands, because she might laugh. No hysteria, she tells herself firmly.

The soprano’s done, thank heavens. After the rustling and coughs die down, one of Stan’s scooter co-workers delivers a message from what he calls Stan’s Team. Bowed head, foot shuffling. Great guy, Stan; stepped up to the mark, proud of him, made the sacrifice for all of us, miss him. Charmaine feels sorry for the speaker, because he’s been deceived. Like everyone else.

Then Ed unglues himself from her arm, straightens his tie, and walks to the podium. He clears his throat and out pours his TV voice, warm and reassuring, strong and believable. It comes to her as bursts of sound, like a scratched cd. Brought together malfunction regrettable solemn deplorable admirable brave enduring heroic forever. Then, Join loss spouse help hope community.

If she didn’t know the truth, Charmaine would be convinced. More than convinced, won over. Get through it, you windbag, she thinks at Ed.

Now six of Stan’s Team are moving forward. Now they’re rolling the coffin down the aisle. Now the music starts up: “Side By Side.”

I can’t take this, thinks Charmaine. That should have been us, me and Stan, travelling along as we used to, through all kinds of weather, even inside that smelly old car, just as long as we’re together. Here come the tears again.

“Stand up,” Aurora is telling her. “You need to follow the coffin.”

“I can’t, I can’t see,” Charmaine gasps.

“I’ll help you. Up you come! People will want to pay their respects at the reception.”

Reception. Egg salad sandwiches with the crusts cut off. Asparagus pinwheels. Lemon squares. “To me? Respects?” Charmaine stifles a sob. That’s all she needs, a hysterical outburst. “I couldn’t, I couldn’t eat anything!” Why does death make people so hungry?

“Take a deep breath,” says Aurora. “That’s better. You’ll shake their hands and smile, it’s all they expect. Then I’ll drive with you back to the house, and we can discuss your grief therapy. Consilience always provides that.”

“I don’t need any grief therapy!” Charmaine almost screams.

“Oh, you do,” says Aurora with her sham compassion. “Oh, I think you really do.”

We’ll see about that, Charmaine thinks. She starts to pace down the aisle, Aurora’s steadying hand on her elbow. Ed has materialized again and flanks her on the other side, his arm stuck onto her back like a squid.

Perfect

Budge eases the door open, stands aside to let Stan go first. The room they enter is the closest thing to a genuine old-fashioned room that Stan has seen in some time. The Dimple Robotics golf course had a bar like that. There’s wood panelling, there are floor-length curtains, there are oriental carpets. There’s a fire burning in the fireplace, or a quasi-fire: gas, maybe. There’s a leather-look sofa in front of it.

Sitting on the sofa with her long legs stretched out is one of the most gorgeous women Stan has ever seen. Lustrous dark hair, shoulder-length; perfect tits, the tops of them just barely displayed. She’s wearing a simple black sheath, a single strand of pearls. What a classy piece of ass, thinks Stan.

She smiles at him, the neutral smile she might give a puppy, or an elderly aunt. There’s no charge coming from her, no chemistry.

“Stan, I’d like you to meet Veronica,” says Budge. “Veronica, this is Stan.”

“Veronica,” says Stan. Is this the same Veronica? That hooker from PixelDust who Charmaine used to tell him wasn’t really her friend? If so, she’s had quite a makeover. She’d been pretty before, but now she’s drop-dead stunning. “Do I know you?” he asks, then feels dumb because every man she meets must ask her that.

“Possibly,” says Veronica, “but the past no longer applies.” She extends a hand. Manicured nails, burgundy. Expensive watch, Rolex. Cool palm. She gives him an LED smile: light, but no heat. “I understand I’m taking you to the other side.”

Stan shakes the hand. Take me fucking anywhere, he thinks. This is what he once thought Jasmine would look like, though Jasmine had only ever been a fantasy. He needs to watch it here, not let himself be hauled around by the gonads. Listen up, he tells his dick silently. Keep it zipped.

“Sit down, have a drink,” says Veronica.

“Do you live here?” says Stan.

“Live?” says Veronica. She arches a perfect eyebrow.

“This is the honeymoon suite,” says Budge. “Or one of them. Where the customized individuals first meet their … their …”

“Their owners,” says Veronica with a precious-metal laugh. “It’s supposed to be lust at first sight on behalf of the, of the people like me, but they missed the target in my case. The man walked in to collect on his investment and there was nothing.”

“Nothing?” says Stan. Why isn’t she angry? But Budge said they weren’t, or not so you’d notice. They don’t seem to miss what they’ve lost.

“No spark between us. Not a twinge. He was furious about it, but there was nothing I could do. Consilience gave him the choice of a refund or a second pick. He’s still thinking about it.”

“They couldn’t do Veronica over again,” says Budge. “Too risky. She might come out drooling.”

“He wanted just me,” says Veronica, shrugging. “But I can’t. It wasn’t my fault.”

“It was some stupid, well-meaning nurse,” says Budge. “The guy’s photo was there, as agreed, in case he got held up in a meeting. But the nurse gave her a comfort toy. Like she was a kid.”

“My head was turned that way, so he was the first thing I saw,” says Veronica. “His two gorgeous eyes, gazing into mine.” The mishap doesn’t seem to have bothered her. “Luckily I can take my loved one with me everywhere I go. I keep him in this carry bag, right here. I’d show him to you, but I might lose control. Even talking about him is the most incredible turn-on for me.”

“But,” says Stan. “But you’re so beautiful!” Is this a joke, are the two of them messing with him? If not, what a fucking waste. “Have you tried –”

“Any other man? I’m afraid it’s no use,” says Veronica. “I’m just plain frigid when it comes to real live men. The mere thought of them in that way makes me feel a little sick. That was programmed in when they did the operation.”

“But she’s smart,” says Budge. “Good in an emergency, and she has a swift kick. And she follows orders, so long as it isn’t about sex. So you’ll be in safe hands.”

“And I won’t rape you,” says Veronica with a sweet smile.

If only, thinks Stan. “Mind if I look?” he asks politely, indicating the black carry bag. He has an urge to see what he’s already thinking of as his rival.

“It’s okay,” says Veronica. “Go ahead. You’ll laugh. I know you don’t believe me about this whole thing, but it’s true. So I’m just telling you: don’t have any hopes about me. I’d hate to wreck your nuts.”

Not such a total makeover, thinks Stan. She’s still got her street mouth.

The bag has a zipper. Stan undoes it. Inside, staring up at him with its round blank eyes, is a blue knitted teddy bear.

Grief Therapy

Charmaine makes it through the reception somehow. She manages the receiving line and the hand-clasping and the meaningful glances, and the arm strokings, and even the hugs from both of her teddy bear knitting groups. That second group hardly talked to her at all, as if she’d done something wrong; but now that she has done something wrong they’re all mushy and huggy, with their breaths of egg salad sandwiches. Which just goes to show, as Grandma Win would have said. But what does it go to show? That people are delusional?

We’re so sorry for your loss. Buzz off! Charmaine wants to yell. But she smiles feebly and says to each one of them, Oh, thank you. Thank you for all your support. Including when I really needed it and you treated me like puppy throw-up.

Now they’re in Aurora’s car, and Aurora’s in the front seat, and Charmaine is eating the asparagus pinwheel she wrapped in a paper napkin and tucked into her clutch bag when no one was looking, because despite everything she has to keep up her strength. And now they’re at Charmaine’s house, and Aurora is removing her unflattering black hat in front of the hall mirror. And now she’s saying, “Let’s just kick off our shoes and get comfortable. I’ll make some tea, and then we can start your grief therapy.” She smiles with her stretched-back face. For a fleeting instant, she looks afraid; but what has she got to be afraid of? Nothing. Unlike Charmaine.

“I don’t need any grief therapy,” Charmaine mutters sulkily. She feels bodiless and also unbalanced, as if the floor is tilting. She teeters over to the sofa on her high heels and plunks herself down. She’ll be darned if she lets these mean, lying people give her grief therapy. What would they want to therapize about? The way Stan is supposed to have died or the way he really did die? Whichever, it will be a major brain mess.

“Trust me, it will do you good,” says Aurora as she disappears into the kitchen. She’ll put a pill in the tea, thinks Charmaine. She’ll blot out my memory, that’s likely their idea of grief therapy. In the kitchen the radio turns on: “Happy Days Are Here Again.” Charmaine’s neck prickles: are they playing that on purpose? Do they know about her habit of humming her favourite cheerful tunes while she readies herself to do the Procedures?

Aurora enters in her stocking feet, carrying a tray with a plate of oatmeal cookies and three cups. Not two, three. Charmaine feels cold all over: who’s in the kitchen?

“There,” says Aurora. “Girls’ tea party!”

Jocelyn saunters out of the kitchen. She’s holding a blue knitted teddy bear. Her expression is – what? Sarcastic, Charmaine would once have said. More like inquisitive. But concealing it.

“What’re you doing in my kitchen?” Charmaine says. Her voice is squeaky with outrage. Really it’s too much! Privacy invasion! Ease up, she tells herself: this woman could obliterate you with one word.

“In point of fact, every other month it’s my kitchen,” says Jocelyn. “I happen to live here when I’m not working from Positron.”

“You’re my Alternate?” says Charmaine. “So you must be …” Oh no. “Max’s wife! Or Phil, or whatever he. …”

“Maybe we should have our tea first,” Aurora offers, “before we get into the –”

“Never mind which wife is whose,” says Jocelyn. “We can’t waste time on the sexual spaghetti. I need you to listen very carefully to what I’m about to say. Many lives will depend on it.” She gives Charmaine a severe stare, like a gym teacher’s. Goodness, thinks Charmaine. Now what have I done?

“First of all,” says Jocelyn, “Stan isn’t dead.”

“Yes, he is!” says Charmaine. “That’s a lie! I know he is! He has to be dead!”

“You think you killed him,” says Jocelyn.

“You told me to!” says Charmaine.

“I told you to carry out the Special Procedure,” says Jocelyn, “and you did. Thank you for that, and for your overreaction; it was a great help. But the formula you administered merely induced temporary unconsciousness. Stan is now safely inside a facility adjacent to Positron Prison, awaiting further instructions.”

“You’re lying again!” says Charmaine. “If he’s alive, why did you make me go through that whole funeral thing?”

“Your grief had to be genuine,” says Jocelyn. “Facial expression recognition tech is very precise these days. We needed everyone watching you to endorse a reality in which Stan is dead. Dead is the only way he can be effective.”

Effective at what? Charmaine wonders. “I just don’t believe you!” she says. Is that a butterfly of hope somewhere inside her?

“Listen for a minute. He sent you a message,” says Jocelyn. She fiddles with the blue teddy bear, and out of it comes Stan’s voice: Hi, honey, this is Stan. It’s okay, I’m alive. They’ll get you out, we can be together again, but you have to have faith in them, you have to do what they say. I love you.” The voice is tinny and sound far away. Then there’s a click.

Charmaine is stunned. This has to be fake! But if it really is Stan, how can she trust that he’s being allowed to speak for himself? She has an image of him with a gun to his head, being forced to record the message. “Play it again,” she says.

“It self-erased,” says Jocelyn. She’s taken a little square thing out of the bear; she crushes it under her heel. “Security reasons. You wouldn’t want to be caught with a hot teddy bear. So, will you help Stan?”

“Help Stan do what?” says Charmaine.

“You don’t need to know that yet,” says Jocelyn. “Stan will tell you, once we get you out. Or far enough out, at any rate.”

“But he knows I killed him,” says Charmaine, starting to sniffle again. Even if the two of them do get back together outside Positron, how can he ever forgive her?

“I’ll tell him you knew it wasn’t real,” says Jocelyn. “The death drug. But then I can always un-tell him, after which he’ll hate you, and you can stay locked in here forever. Big Ed has a hard-on for you, and he won’t take giggle for an answer. He’s having a sexbot made in your image.”

“He’s making a what?” says Charmaine.

“A sexbot. A sex robot. They’ve already sculpted your face; next they’ll add the body.”

“They can’t do that!” says Charmaine. “Without even asking me!”

“Actually, they can,” says Jocelyn. “But once he’s practised on that he’ll want the real thing. Eventually he’ll tire of you, if history’s top bananas are any guide – think Henry the Eighth – and then where will you end up? On the wrong end of the Procedure is my guess.”

“You can stay here at the mercy of Ed, or you can take a chance with us, and then with Stan. One or the other.”

“That’s so mean,” wails Charmaine. “Where am I supposed to go?”

This is awful, thinks Charmaine. A sexbot of herself, that is so creepy. Ed must be crazy; and despite the message he sent, Stan must be so mad at her. Why does she have to choose between two scary things? “What do you want me to do?” she asks.

What they want her to do is easily spelled out. They want her to snuggle up to Ed, get close to him but not too close – remember, she’s a grieving widow – then report back with anything he says and anything she might come across, for instance in his bureau drawers or his briefcase, or maybe on his cellphone, if he gets careless; but that part – the carelessness part – will be up to her. Encourage him to think with his dick, an appendage not noticeably overloaded with brains. That’s in the short run, and the short run is all they’re asking for right now. Or so Jocelyn says.

“Do I have to, you know,” says Charmaine. “Go all the way?” The idea of having Ed crawl around on her naked body gives her the queasies.

“Absolutely not. In fact, that’s crucial. You need to delay,” says Jocelyn. “If he starts coming on strong, tell him you’re not ready yet. You can plead sorrow for a while. He’s part of the reality in which Stan is dead, so he’ll understand that. He’ll even welcome it. He’s never seen those videos of you and Phil – I’ve made sure of that – so he thinks you’re modest. That’s part of his obsession with you: so hard to find a modest girl these days.” Is that a twitch, an almost-smile? “If you don’t want to help us, we could show him the videos. His reaction would be adverse. At the very least, he’d feel betrayed.”

Charmaine blushes. She is modest, it’s just that … The thing with Max wasn’t her true self, it couldn’t have been. Maybe he was using some kind of hypnotism on her. The things he made her say. … All of which have been recorded. This is blackmail! “All right,” she says reluctantly. “I’ll try.”

“An appropriate decision,” says Aurora. “I’m sure you’ll come to realize that, in time. You’ll be helping me – you’ll be helping us – more than you know. Here, have a cookie.”

Dressups

In the room at Possibilibots where Budge has stashed him, Stan dozes fitfully. He’s dreaming of blue bears: they’re outside the window, peering in at him. They clamber up onto the sill, they wiggle suggestively, they stare at him with their round, inexpressive eyes. Now they’re laughing at him, displaying rows of pointed shark teeth. And now they’re squeezing into his room through the half-open window, dropping onto his bed …

He wakes with a start and a muffled bark but it’s only Veronica, shaking his arm. “Hurry,” she tells him. There’s bad news: over at Ed’s office, IT has discovered that some crucial files have been copied. That would be the files on the flashdrive Stan’s supposed to be taking out. There’s bound to be a thorough search in the morning. Luckily, there’s a rush order: five Elvises are leaving for Vegas at three a.m., and one of them will be him. She and Budge have everything ready and waiting in Shipping, but he needs to come right now.

He pulls on his clothes and follows her. She’s wearing jeans and a T, ordinary-enough clothes, though with her inside them they look like silk. Life is unfair, he thinks, as he watches her undulate through the hallways.

She has all the right passcards as she leads him through a series of doorways to Shipping. “You’ll find everything you need in the Men’s,” she says. “I’ll be in the Ladies’, getting my own outfit on.”

“You’re coming to Vegas too?” he says stupidly.

“Of course I am,” she says. “I’m your minder. Remember?”

There’s not much time to spare. The Elvis outfit is hanging in one of the stalls. Stan shoehorns himself into the costume: it’s half a size too small. Could he have gained that much weight on Positron beer, or was whoever picked this fucking outfit for him a bondage fetishist? The white bellbottoms on the jumpsuit are too tight, the platform shoes pinch his toes, the belt with the big silver and turquoise buckle just barely makes it around his waist. Did Elvis wear a girdle, or what? He must’ve suffered from a permanent case of crotch cramp. The jacket is encrusted with studs and spangles, with a little cape attached; the collar sticks up like a Dracula cloak, the shoulder pads are grotesque.

The black wig is slippery – some sort of synthetic – but he manages to pull it on over his own hair. His head is going to cook in this thing! The eyebrows stick on quite easily, the sideburns less so; he has to try twice. He applies bronzing powder with the brush supplied: instant tan.This is like Halloween, when he was a kid. It’s probably a crappy job, but who’s going to see him? No one, if he’s lucky.

All that remains are the chunky rings – he’ll leave them till last – and the fake lips, top and bottom which come supplied with their own Insta-glue. Not a total success; the lips feel precarious, but at least they stick on.

He poses in front of the mirror, does a lopsided grin; though he barely needs to grin because the lips are doing the grinning for him. Underneath them, his own lips are semi-paralyzed. He wiggles his new black eyebrows, flings back his head, smoothes his hair. “You handsome devil,” he says. “Back from the dead.” The faux lips are hard to manoeuvre, but he’ll get the hang of it. Oddly, he does look something like Elvis. Is that all we are? he thinks. Unmistakable clothing, a hairstyle, a few exaggerated features, a gesture?

There’s a discreet knock: it’s Veronica in her Marilyn getup, her hair hidden under a short blond wig. She’s chosen the black suit from Niagara, with the skintight skirt and the white scarf. Her mouth glistens like slick red plastic. He has to admit she looks terrific; she even looks like the real Marilyn. She’s got a large black carry bag, which doubtless contains her knitted blue fetish.

“Ready to go?” she says. “I’ll tuck you into your box, then Budge will do the same for me. Your cargo is in the belt buckle, don’t lose it! We have to hurry. Wait, let me even out your skin tone a bit.” She picks up the brush, powders his face some more. She’s standing way too close; this is torture, but she seems unaware of that. He longs to crush her against him, bury his nose in her Marilyn hair, smash his rubbery mouth onto her bright red lips, futile though that would be. “There,” she says. “Now you’re perfect. You look just like an Elvis bot. Let’s pop you in.”

The transport case is marked ELVIS/UR-ELF in stencilled block letters; it’s one of the set of five stacked on the loading dock, ready for shipment. Beside it are five smaller cases labelled MARILYN/UR-MLF, one of which is standing open. It’s lined with pink satin, with Styrofoam packing moulds to prevent breakage. His own packing case is lined with blue. “Is this safe?” he says as he clambers in. “How will I breathe?”

“There’s air holes,” she says. “They aren’t very noticeable because no real bot would need them. I’m tucking in this hot water bottle, it’s empty. See, it’s right beside your elbow. You should be able to move your arms enough to pee into it, if you have to. Here’s a few pills in case you get pacnicky, they’ll put you right under, don’t take more than three at a time. Oh, and here’s your bottled waters, I’m giving you two, we wouldn’t want you to shrivel up, and a couple of tear-and-shake Little Hottie hand warmers, in case it gets cold on the plane. And an energy bar if you get hungry. I’ll make sure they let you out!”

What if they don’t? Stan wants to yell. “Okay,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant.

“If there’s a booboo and the wrong person finds you, just say you were drugged, and you have no idea how you got into the packing case,” says Veronica. “As long as you’ve already made it to Vegas, they’ll find that believable. Now, have a good sleep! Here comes Budge, it’s my turn.”

She lowers the top, and Stan hears the catches being snapped shut. Now he’s in the dark. Shit, he thinks. This better work. Best case, he makes it to Vegas, then gives Veronica the slip, ditches this outfit, and travels – how? – to rejoin Conor, because a life of outlawry is a lot more appealing to him than anything else that’s going on right now. Though that wouldn’t work, because Conor, via Budge, has a contract to deliver him, so that’s what he’ll do.

Worst case … He has an image of himself inside the packing case, abandoned in a nighttime airport in, say, the wilds of Kansas, yelping to emptiness: Help! Let me out!

Or, worse yet, identified as a terrorist threat by some addled sniffer dog and detonated by Homeland Security. Sideburns and silver all over the place. What the hey! I think Elvis has left the building!

He squirms around inside the slippery satin cocoon, trying to get comfortable. He doesn’t want to take a pill, he’s had enough of drugs lately. It’s completely dark; a few hours in here and he’ll start seeing things. The air is already stuffy; it reeks of Insta-glue, from the lips. Maybe it will make him high, and therefore less anxious. When did he set out along the path that’s led to this dark cul-de-sac, how has he managed to agree to this crazed escapade, what’s become his so-called life? Will he ever manage to see Charmaine again? If only he’d stolen her sculpted head: at least then he’d have something tangible.

The image of her lovely, pale, tear-streaked face floats before him. She’s had few real choices; she’s as unprepared for all this shit and crap as he is. Lying in the satin-lined void with the Elvis collar itching his neck and the Elvis wig steam-cooking his scalp, he forgives her everything: her stupid interlude with Phil/Max, the moment when she thought she was killing him, even her obsession with slipcovers and those gnome coffee mugs. He should have cherished her more, he should have taken better care of her.

Right beside his ear he hears Veronica’s voice. She’s whispering. Hi, Stan. There’s a mic in your shoulder pad and one in my bear. It’s our own walkie-talkie, ultra-secure, just you and me. Letting you know it’s okay, I’m in my own box, we’re moving out. Signing off now. Just relax.

As if, Stan thinks, as he feels his feet end lifting into the air. Fucking hell.