The Heart Goes Last

XI | RUBY SLIPPERS Flirt

Charmaine and Ed are having dinner at Together, which is the very same restaurant where Charmaine had dinner with Stan that first night they were at Consilience, before they’d actually signed in. It had been so magical then. The white tablecloths, the candles, the flowers. Like a dream. And now here she is again, and she must try not to remember that first time, back when everything was still simple with Stan, back when she herself was still simple. When she’d been able to say what she really felt.

But now nothing is simple. Now she’s a widow. Now she’s a spy.

She’s finding this date with Ed a little difficult. More than a little: she doesn’t know how to play this, because it’s unclear what he wants, or not what: when. Why can’t he just blurt it out?

“Are you feeling all right?” Ed says with concern, and she says, “I’ll be fine, it’s just …” Then she excuses herself and goes to the ladies’ room. Grief must be expected to overcome her from time to time, which it does, truly, only just not right now. But the ladies’ is a reliable place, a place a girl can retreat to at moments like this. The dinner hasn’t even started, and already she needs a time-out.

It’s soothing in here; luxurious, like a spa. The countertops are marble, the sinks are long and made of stainless steel, with a line of tiny faucets endlessly shooting thin streams of silvery water. The towels aren’t paper, they’re soft white cotton pile, and happily there’s no air dryer that blows your skin into flesh ripples up as far as your wrists; she hates those, they make you realize that your skin could be peeled off like an orange rind. When there are no towels, she’d rather take her chance with the microbes and wipe her hands on her skirt.

There’s lotion that claims to be made from real almonds: Charmaine rubs it on her inner arms, breathes it in. If only she could just stay in here, for ever and ever. A woman place. Sort of like a nunnery. No, a girl place, pristine, like the white cotton nighties she had at Grandma Win’s, when she could be clean, and not hurt and afraid. A place where she feels safe.

The toilets play a tune when you wave your hand in front of the toilet paper dispenser. The tune is the theme song of Together; it’s from some old song about not having a barrel of money and wearing white-trash clothes, and having to travel along, side by side all of which was more or less the way it had been when she and Stan were living in their car; but in the song, none of that matters because the two of them are together, singing a song. A song about being together, for the restaurant called Together.

It’s lying, that song. Not having any money does matter, and having to wear those worn-out clothes. It’s because all those things matter that they signed into the Project.

She checks herself in the mirror, refreshes her lips. Why is it she’s finding Ed so hard to be with? It’s because he’s like that weirdo psycho nerd who admired her so much in high school, what was his name …

Get real, Charmaine, her reflection says to her. He didn’t just admire you. He had a nauseating sexual crush on you, he used to slip anonymous notes into your locker, to which he seemed to have the combination even though you changed the lock twice. Those notes – typed, but not emailed, not texted, he was smarter than that – those notes listed your body parts and which ones he most wanted to slide his hands over or into. Then came the day of the damp tissue left inside her jacket pocket, reeking of jerkoff; that was truly icky. Why had he thought she’d find it in any way attractive?

Though perhaps the goal was not to attract her. Perhaps the goal was to repel her, then overwhelm her despite her aversion. The wet dream of a boy who hoped he was a lion king but who was really just a slimy loser.

She returns to the dining room. Ed stands up, holds her chair for her. The avocado with shrimp appetizer is in place, and a bottle of white wine in a silver bucket. He raises his glass of white wine and says, “To a brighter future,” which really means “To us,” and what can she do but raise her glass in return? She does it modestly, though. Tremulously. Then she sighs. She doesn’t have to fake the sighing. Sigh is what she feels.

She blots the corner of her eye, folding the trace of black mascara up in the serviette. Men don’t like to think about makeup, they like to think everything about you is genuine. Unless of course they want to think you’re a slut and everything about you is fake.

“I know you must find it hard to believe in a brighter future, so soon after … ,” he says.

“Oh yes,” she says. “It is hard. It’s so hard. I miss Stan so much!” Which is true, but at the same time she’s pondering the word slut. Just one letter over from slit. It was Max who’d pointed that out, pinning her to the floor, Say it, say it … She presses her legs together. What if she could still … ? But no, Jocelyn stands between them, with her sarcastic look and those blackmailing video. She’ll never let Charmaine be together with Max, ever again.

That’s over, Charmaine, she tells herself. That’s gone.

“He died a hero,” Ed says piously. “As we all know.”

Charmaine looks down at her half-eaten avocado. “Yes,” she says. “It’s such a comfort.”

“Though in fairness,” he says, “I have to tell you that there are some doubts.”

“Oh,” she says. “Really? What kind of doubts?” A wave of cold sweeps up from her stomach. She flutters her eyelashes. Is she blushing?

“Nothing you need to be troubled with right now,” he says. “An irresponsible rumour. That Stan didn’t die in that fire but in a different way. People will make up some very malicious things! Anyway, accidents do happen and data gets mixed up. But I can take care of that rumour for you. Nip it in the bud.”

You jerk, she thinks. You’re bribing me! You know I killed Stan, you know I have to pretend he died saving chickens, and now you’re twisting my arm. But guess what, I know something you don’t know. Stan isn’t dead, and pretty soon I’ll be together with him again.

Unless Jocelyn is lying.

“You still working on that?” says the server, a brownish young man in a white dinner jacket. At Together they want everything to look like a movie, an old movie. But no one in an old movie would ever have said, You still working on that? as if eating is some kind of a job. He forgot to say ma’am.

“No thank you,” she says with a quavery little smile. Too sad, too refined, too battered by fate, to do anything so hearty, so greedy, so gross, as chewing: that’s her story. She can pig out when she gets back home. There’s a packet of potato chips in the cupboard, unless Jocelyn and Aurora have helped themselves the way they’ve helped themselves to everything else in her life.

The server whisks the plate away. Ed leans forward. Charmaine leans back but not too far back. Maybe she shouldn’t have worn the black V-neck. It wouldn’t have been her choice, but Jocelyn had selected it for her. That, and the push-up bra underneath. “You have to suggest that he might be able to look all the way down,” she’d said. “But don’t let him actually do it. Remember, you’re in mourning. Vulnerable, but inaccessible. That’s your game.”

Working in secret with Jocelyn like this – it was like being on TV. She’d made her face up carefully, with a little extra powder for the pallour.

“I respect your sentiments,” says Ed. “But you’re young, you have a whole life ahead of you. You should live it to the fullest.” Here comes his hand, planing slowly across the white tablecloth like a manta ray in one of those deep-sea documentaries. It’s descending onto her own hand, which she shouldn’t have left so carelessly lying around on the table.

“It doesn’t feel like I could do that,” says Charmaine. “As if I could live it to the fullest. It feels like my life is over.” It would be shockingly rude to remove her hand. It would be like a slap. His hand covers hers: it’s damp. Pat, pat, pat, squeeze. Then, thankfully, withdrawal.

“We’ve got to get the roses back in your cheeks,” says Ed. Now he’s being fatherly. “That’s why I ordered steak. Bump up your iron.”

And here’s the steak in front of her, seared and brown, branded with a crisscross of black, running with hot blood. On the side, three mini-broccolis and two new potatoes. It smells delicious. She’s ravenous, but it would be folly to show it. Tiny, ladylike bites, if any. Maybe she should let him cut it up for her. “Oh, it’s so much,” she breathes. “I couldn’t possibly …”

“You need to make an effort,” says Ed. Will he go so far as to pop a morsel into her mouth? Will he say, “Open up?” To head him off, Charmaine nibbles a sprig of broccoli.

“You’ve been so kind,” she says. “So supportive.” Ed smiles, his lips now glossy with fat.

“I’d like to help you,” he says. “You shouldn’t go back to your old work in the hospital, it would be too much of a strain. Too many memories. I believe I have a job you might like. Nothing too demanding. You can ease yourself into it.”

“Oh,” says Charmaine. She must not sound eager. “What sort of job?”

“Working with me,” says Ed. “As my personal assistant. That way, I can keep an eye on you. Make sure you’re not overstrained.”

You don’t fool me, thinks Charmaine. “Oh, well, I’m not sure … That sounds …” she says as if wavering.

“No need to discuss it now,” he says. “We have lots of time to do that later. Now eat up, like a good girl.”

That’s the role he’s chosen for her: good girl. She feels a sudden wave of longing for Max. Bad girl was what she was for him. Bad, and deserving of punishment. She leans forward to cut up a potato, and Ed leans forward too. She knows exactly what the view is from his vantage point: she’s rehearsed the angles in the mirror. A curve of breast, with an edging of black lace.

Is he sweating? Yes, make that a definite. Is that his knee, giving her own knee the gentlest of nudges under the table? Yes, it is: she knows a knee under the table when she feels one. She moves her own knee away.

“There,” she says. “I’m eating. I’m being good.” She looks at him over the rim of her wineglass: her blue-eyed look, her child’s look. Then she takes a sip of wine, pursing her lips into a pout. Maybe she’ll leave a lipstick kiss on the glass for him, as if by accident. A pale kiss, a shadow of a kiss, like a whisper. Nothing too blatant.

Shipped

Stan wakes and sleeps, wakes and sleeps, wakes. He’s taken one of the pills Veronica gave him, which conked him out though not for long enough, and now he’s hyper-alert. He doesn’t want to take any more pills, because what if the plane lands soon? He can’t be asleep for that: he may need to spring into full-throttle action, though he’s got no image of what kind of action. Saving the world in a blue cape and an Elvis ducktail doesn’t convince him, even as a fantasy. But it would have an element of surprise if the enemy thinks he’s a robot.

What enemy? Back at Positron the enemy is Ed – control-freak body-parts salesman, potential baby-blood vampire –, but who will the enemy be once he gets to Las Vegas? In the pitch-blackness a parade of potential enemies marches across his eyeballs. Corrupters of Charmaine, kidnappers of Veronica, platoons of slavering men much more lecherous than he is, with scaly skins and clawlike fingernails and slitty-pupilled lizard eyes. In addition to which they have superhuman strength and can walk up the sides of skyscrapers as if they were human silverfish.

There goes one of them now, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, Charmaine under one arm, Veronica under the other. But it’s Stan to the rescue. Luckily his blue Elvis cape and his silver belt buckle have magic powers. “Drop those women or I’ll sing ‘Heartbreak Hotel.’ It won’t be pretty.” The monster shudders and clutches a hand to either pointed ear; while he’s distracted, Stan presses his silver buckle and a lethal ray shoots out of it. The monster screams and disintegrates. Both scantily clad beauties tumble, their diaphanous garments fluttering. Stan vaults forward, flies through the air, and catches the wilted lovelies in his outstretched arms. They’re too heavy, he’s losing altitude, they’re about crash! Which wilted lovely should he save? And which will therefore go splat? He can’t save both of them. Considering that Veronica will never hump anyone but a stuffed animal, maybe he should stick with Charmaine.

So much for that daydream, which lands him right back in the breakfast nook with him and Charmaine fighting over which one of them has cheated the most, and then whether Charmaine really wanted to kill Stan, and then tears. “How could you believe that about me! Don’t we love each other?” Yes or no? Maybe isn’t allowed. No matter how he plays it, he’ll come out an asshole. Or else a wimp. Are those his only choices?

He eats the energy bar, which tastes like coconut-flavoured sawdust. It’s freezing cold in here. How long is this fucking flight going to go on? Why doesn’t he have a light-up watch? It’s totally dark, not to mention noisy. He knows – he knows with the rational part of his mind – that he’s inside a satin-lined shipping crate, which in turn is strapped into place, along with four other Elvises, inside an aluminum Unit Load Device, which in turn is in the cargo hold of a transcontinental plane; but with the other part of his mind – by far the larger part at the moment – he thinks he’s been buried alive. Get me out! Get me out! he screams silently. As if in answer, there’s the muffled barking of a dog. Some gloomy pet, the slave and toy of a bejewelled concubine, herself no doubt the gloomy pet of a sadistic plutocrat. He sympathizes.

Like a fool, he’s drunk both of the bottles of water packed for him by Veronica, and now, of course, of course! he needs a piss. Veronica’s instructions were that he was to pee into the empty hot-water bottle, but where the fuck is it? He gropes around, locates it snarled up in his cape, unscrews the top. Why didn’t they give him a flashlight? Because he might forget to turn it off, and then the light beams coming through the air holes would give him away, and they’d unsnap his cover, guns at the ready. Yo! Bro! This Elvis is not a robot, this Elvis is alive! Undead Elvis! Get the garlic and the spike!

Calm down, Stan, he orders himself. Next contest challenge: unzipping Elvis’s fly. He fumbles around. The zipper sticks. Of course! Of course! “Fuck, shit,” he says out loud.

“Stan, is that you?” comes the whisper in his ear. Veronica, over their Virtual Private Network; her voice, even her whispering voice, sends a jolt of sexual electricity through his spine. “Keep your voice down, there may be monitor bugs in the cargo hold. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” he whispers back. He’s not about to tell her he couldn’t get his dick out of his white flares, result being he’s just wet himself.

“Why are you awake? Are you worrying?”

“Not really, but …”

“It’s all arranged. They won’t ask you anything. Just follow the plan.”

What fucking plan? Stan wants to ask but doesn’t. “Okay, cool,” he says.

“Did you take a pill?”

“Yeah, I did, earlier. But I don’t want to take another, I need to stay alert.”

“It’s okay, take one if you want to. Take two, it’ll be fine. Are your hands cold? Remember you’ve got those Little Hotties. You just tear the package open and give it a shake, and it heats up.”

“Thanks,” he whispers. Even now, with things really not going so good, really going quite terrible in here, since he’s squelching around on warm, damp, aromatic satin that will soon be cold, damp, smelly satin, he can’t help picturing Veronica as she lies inside the ULD beside his. Sculpted perfection, so smooth, so curved, so inviting. Little Hottie. How he’d like to tear her package open – well, tear her dress open, at any rate – and give her a shake, and feel her heat up.

Stan, Stan, he tells himself. This is a mission you’re on. Can you stop thinking like a pre-human sex-crazed baboon for maybe just one minute? It’s his hormones, it must be his hormones. Is he responsible for his hormones?

“How much longer?” he whispers.

“Oh, maybe an hour. Go back to sleep, okay?”

“Okay,” he whispers back. He drifts into a semi-doze, but then, right in his ear, he hears her whispering voice again.

“Oh, honey. Oh, yes. You’re so soft!”

For one instant, he thinks she’s talking to him. No such luck: she’s making out with the blue knitted bear. She must have forgotten to turn off the mic at her end, or else she’s torturing him for some obscure reason. Because it is torture! Is it worse to listen in, or not to listen? Wait, wait, he wants to shout. I can do that better!

“Yes, yes … oh, harder …”

This is obscene! In desperation he swallows three of the handy pills and plummets into oblivion.

Fetish

The morning after Charmaine’s dinner with Ed, Jocelyn arrives at the house in her sleek black car. No chauffeur this time, no Max/Phil: she must have driven herself. Aurora’s with her.

Charmaine watches the two of them out the front window as they come up the walk, each in a tidy businesslike suit. She’s at a disadvantage: in her housecoat, no makeup, her hair every which-way. She feels like she has a hangover, even though she drank almost nothing: it’s the toxic effect of Ed.

Jocelyn does Charmaine the courtesy of ringing the doorbell even though she has a key, and Charmaine says, “Come in” even though they’ll come in anyway.

“I’ll make some coffee,” Aurora says, using her most efficient voice.

“Thanks, you know where everything is,” says Charmaine. This is supposed to be a rebuke to Aurora for the way she’s snooped all over Charmaine’s life, but either Aurora doesn’t pick up on that or she pays no attention. Jocelyn follows Charmaine into the living room.

“Well?” she says. “Get the hook in? Not that he wasn’t up to the gills already.”

Charmaine describes her evening, including the food, and everything Ed said, and everything she said in return. She includes the job offer, but Jocelyn already knew about that, because Ed asked her advice about it. She’s more interested in the body language. Did Ed take her arm as they left the restaurant? Yes, he did. Did he put his arm around her waist, at any time? No, he did not. Did he try to kiss her goodnight?

“There was a moment,” says Charmaine. “He kind of loomed forward in that way they have. But I stepped back and said thank you for the lovely evening and for being so understanding, and then I slipped inside the door.”

“Excellent,” says Jocelyn. “ ‘Understanding,’ good choice. Right up there with ‘I think of you as a friend.’ You need to keep him at arm’s length without actually pushing him away. Think you can do that?”

“I’ll try,” says Charmaine. Then she just has to ask, because why else is she doing all this: “Where’s Stan? When can I see him?”

“Not yet,” says Jocelyn. “You’ve got a few cards to play for us first. But he’s safe enough, don’t worry.”

Aurora comes in with the tray and three mugs of coffee. “Now, about your new job,” she says. “Here’s what we want you to wear.” They’ve been through her clothes, they’ve added a couple more outfits; they’ve got it all planned out.

Aurora makes her nervous. Why is she in cahoots with Jocelyn? Why would she risk her job? Has she done some criminal thing Jocelyn knows about? Charmaine can’t imagine what.

For her first day as Ed’s personal assistant, Charmaine has on a black suit with white trim and a high collar. There’s a white blouse underneath; it has a frilly white bow at the neck, a cross between angel feathers and underpants. She sits at a desk outside Ed’s office and does nothing much. She has a computer on which she’s supposed to keep track of Ed’s appointments, but his onscreen calendar seems to run itself and he adds things to it without consulting her. Still, she has a good idea of his whereabouts most of the time, for whatever that’s worth. He asks her to email a few people and tell them he can’t see them because he has prior commitments; he asks her to look in his address files for some contact numbers in Las Vegas. One of them is at a casino, one seems to be a doctor’s office, but one is at the new Ruby Slippers headquarters they’ve opened there after buying into the chain, which makes her go all nostalgic. If only she still had her old job, in the Ruby Slippers local branch where she’d been so content, before they closed that one down.

Or she’d been content enough. Being nice to the residents and planning special entertainment events for them wasn’t what some people would call exciting, but it was rewarding to be able to shine a ray of happiness into people’s lives, and she was good at that, and she’d felt appreciated.

Ed walks past her desk, says, “How’s it going,” goes into his office, shuts the door. A trained dog could do this job, she thinks. It isn’t really a job, it’s an excuse. He wants me where he can get his hands on me.

But he doesn’t get his hands on her. He doesn’t take her to lunch, or make any moves on her at all, apart from some benign smiling and an assurance that she’ll soon get used to things. He doesn’t even ask her to go into his office except to bring him coffee. She’s had a little daydream – a little nightmare – of Ed cornering her in there, and then locking the door and advancing on her with a leer. But that doesn’t happen.

What’s in the drawers of her own desk? Only some pens and paper clips, that kind of thing. Nothing to report there.

There’s one other thing, she tells Jocelyn, who’s come over in the evening to debrief her. There’s a map on the wall behind Ed’s desk, with pins in it. Orange pins are the Positron Prisons that are going up. Ed has told her it’s now a franchise: there’s a basic plan, there are instructions; it’s like hamburger chains, only with prisons. Red pins are for the Ruby Slippers branches. There are more of those, but that company has been going longer.

Ed seems very proud of the map. He made sure she was watching him the day he stuck a new pin into it, near Orlando.

On the fifth day of her job, three state governors called and Ed got quite excited. “They want one in their state,” Charmaine heard him saying on his phone. “The model’s proving itself! We’re cooking with gas!”

At the end of the week he went to Washington for a meeting with the president – Charmaine arranged the tickets and booked the hotel – but although he seemed pleased when he came back, he didn’t tell her what happened.

“Did you go into his office while he was away?” asks Aurora.

“It’s bugged,” says Charmaine. “He told me that.”

“I’m in charge of the bugging, remember?” says Jocelyn. “That’s how I know your house is clean. Next time go in. Have a look around. Not on his computer, though. He’d know about that.”

In the middle of the second week, Charmaine says, “I don’t get it. According to both of you, he’s mad for me …”

“Oh, he is,” says Aurora. “He’s at the moping stage.”

“But he hardly looks at me, and he hasn’t asked me out again. And the job’s a nothing. Why does he want me there?”

“So nobody else can get you,” says Jocelyn. “He’s asked me to shadow you to and from work, and to report anyone – any man – who visits you at home. Needless to say I don’t report myself. Aurora, yes, I report her. She’s supposed to be doing grief therapy with you.”

“But what … I don’t see where this is going,” says Charmaine.

“I don’t exactly myself,” says Jocelyn. “But he’s got his double of you almost finished. Have a look.”

She brings up a window on her PosiPad: grainy footage of a corridor, Ed walking along it. He goes in through a door. “Surveillance footage,” she says. “Sorry about the quality. This is over at Possibilibots, where they’re making sex robots.” Charmaine remembers Stan saying something about that, but she hadn’t paid much attention, she’d been too preoccupied with Max. Real sex with him was so, was so … Divine isn’t the word. But if you could have that, why bother with a robot?

Inside the room, bright light. A couple of men are there, one with glasses, one without. They have green smocks on. There are a lot of wires and gizmos.

“How’s she coming?” Ed asks the two men.

“Almost ready for a trial run,” they say. “Just the standard prostibody for now, with the regular action. We can’t make the custom body without the measurements, and some photos for detail.”

“That’ll come later,” says Ed. “Let’s have a look.”

Segue across to a table, or is it a bed? A flower-patterned sheet over a body shape. Ed turns down the corner of the sheet.

There’s Charmaine’s head, her very own head, with her very own hair on it, slightly dishevelled. She’s sleeping. She looks so lifelike, so alive: Charmaine would swear she can see the rise and fall of the upper torso.

“Oh my god!” she says. “It’s me! That is so …” She feels a chill of terror. On the other hand, it’s thrilling in a strange way. Another one of her! What will happen to her?

Ed leans over, strokes the cheek gently. The eyes open, widen in alarm.

“Perfect,” says Ed. “Did you program the voice yet?”

“Just put your hands around her neck,” says one of the men, the one with the glasses. “Give a tender squeeze.”

Ed does so. “No! Don’t touch me!” says Charmaine’s head. The eyes close, the head is thrown back in an attitude of surrender.

“Now kiss her neck,” says the man without glasses. “A small bite is okay, but don’t bite too hard.”

“You wouldn’t want to break the skin,” says the other. “You could get a short. Malfunction.”

“Those can be ugly,” says the one without glasses.

“Okay, here goes,” says Ed as if he’s about to jump into a swimming pool. His head goes down. The camera sees two white arms come up, encircle him. There’s a moan from underneath Ed.

“You hit it out of the park,” says the one with glasses.

“The moan means you’re on target,” says the other. “Wait till you try the main action.”

“Genius,” says Ed. “Exactly to spec. You guys deserve a medal. When can I take delivery?”

“Tomorrow,” says the one with glasses. “If you’re willing to go with this iteration. There’s only a couple more deets.”

“You don’t want to wait for the custom body?” says the other.

“This one will do for now,” says Ed. “When I’ve got the stats and the pics I’ll send it back to you for the replacement.” He bends over the head, which is sleeping again. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I’ll see you very soon.”

The film ends. Charmaine feels dizzy. “He’s going to have sex with her?” She feels strangely protective of her fabricated self.

“That’s the idea,” says Jocelyn.

“Why doesn’t he just … I mean, he could ask me instead. He could practically force me to do it.“

“He’s afraid of rejection,” says Aurora. “A lot of people are. This way, he’ll never be rejected by you.”

“By the way, heads-up,” says Jocelyn. “He’s asked me to plant some cameras in your bathroom, to take the pictures for the custom body.”

“But you won’t do it,” says Charmaine. “Will you?” Displaying herself for an unseen camera, pretending she doesn’t know it’s there … that’s the kind of thing Max might have asked her to do. Did ask. Turn this way. Raise your arms. Bend over. The joke was that there really were cameras.

“It’s my job,” says Jocelyn. “If I don’t do it he’ll know something’s wrong.”

“Fine. I just won’t have any baths,” says Charmaine. “Or showers,” she adds.

“I wouldn’t take that attitude if I were you,” says Aurora. “It’s not helpful. Think of it like acting. We want him to go through with his plan.”

“It’s partly business,” says Jocelyn. “You’re like a demonstration model. Can you imagine what a market demand there would be for customized robots like this, once they’ve got all the kinks worked out of the process?”

“In addition to those, we think he’s working on a sort of blend. Not that we know for sure,” says Jocelyn.

“A blend of what?” says Charmaine.

“Heavens, look at the time!” says Aurora. “I need my beauty sleep!”

“I think I’ll pay a visit to Possibilibots,” says Jocelyn. “Just to make sure the security is tight, around Ed’s special project. We wouldn’t want a malfunction the first time he takes it out for a drive around the block.”

“A what?” says Charmaine. “Why are you talking about a car?”

Jocelyn actually laughs. She doesn’t laugh much as a rule. “You’re terrific,” she says to Charmaine. “It’s not a car.”

“Oh,” Charmaine says after a minute. “Now I get it.”

Malfunction

The next day Ed isn’t at the office. There’s nothing on his schedule to suggest where he might be. Charmaine takes the liberty – or else the chance – of knocking on his door. When there’s no answer she goes in. No sign of him. Desk neat as a pin. She peeks quickly into a couple of his desk drawers: there are a few folders, but all they have in them is expansion plans for Ruby Slippers. No receipts for plane tickets, nothing. Where could he have gone?

She isn’t supposed to contact Jocelyn during the day, not by text, not by phone or email: no snail trails is Jocelyn’s motto. With no orders to follow, she occupies her mind by painting her nails, which is a very soothing thing to do when you’re anxious and keyed up. Some people like to throw objects, such as glasses of water or rocks, but nail painting is more positive. If more world leaders would take it up there would be less overall suffering, in her opinion.

After so-called work, she goes straight home. Jocelyn’s waiting for her in the living room, sitting on the sofa with her shoes off and her feet up. Charmaine is pained by the sight of those feet. As long as Jocelyn keeps all her clothes on it seems improbable that Max/Phil could ever have made love to her, but with the shoes off, displaying feet with real toes … And she has terrific legs, Charmaine has to give her that. Legs that Max/Phil’s hands must have stroked, in an upward direction, many times.

Charmaine can’t imagine Jocelyn in the grip of passion, she can’t imagine her saying the kinds of words Max likes to hear. She’s always so in control of herself. Nothing short of a thumbscrew could make her lose it.

“I’m having a scotch,” Jocelyn says. “Want one?”

“Why, what’s happened?” says Charmaine. Is there a shock coming? “What’s happened to Stan?”

“Stan’s fine,” says Jocelyn. “He’s relaxing.”

“All right then,” says Charmaine. She flops down into the easy chair; she’s so relieved her knees feel weak. Jocelyn swings her feet over and onto the floor, pads across the room to pour Charmaine’s drink. “Water, I think,” she says, “but no ice.”

It’s not even a question. Darn it, Charmaine thinks, when will she stop bossing me around? “Thank you,” she says. She kicks her own shoes off. “There was a funny thing today,” she says. “Ed wasn’t there. At his office. And there’s nothing on his calendar, no appointment. He’s just vanished.”

“I know,” says Jocelyn. “But he hasn’t vanished. He’s in the Positron hospital infirmary. He’s had an accident.”

“What sort of an accident?” says Charmaine. “Is it serious?” Maybe it’s a car crash. Maybe he will die, and then she won’t have to worry about whatever was supposed to come next. But if Ed dies, she’ll lose whatever power she’s got. She won’t have any function for Jocelyn She has a quick thought: why not do what Ed wants? Become his whatever. Mistress. Then she’d be safe. Wouldn’t she?

“Painful accident, I expect,” says Jocelyn. “Judging from the video surveillance records. But temporary. He’ll be back to normal soon enough.”

Whatever he calls normal, Charmaine thinks. “Oh dear,” she says, “did he break something?”

“No. Not break. But he got a little bent out of shape.” Jocelyn smiles, and this time it’s actually a friendly smile. “He got tangled up with you, as a matter of fact.”

“Me?” says Charmaine. “That’s not possible. I never …”

“Okay, your evil twin,” says Jocelyn. “That prostibot with your head. He got carried away. He squeezed your neck too hard, and then he bit you.”

“Not me,” says Charmaine. Jocelyn’s being mean. “It’s not me!”

“Ed thought it was,” says Jocelyn. “Those things can be convincing when combined with a personal fantasy, which is always the magic ingredient, don’t you agree?”

Charmaine blushes, she can’t help herself. So Jocelyn hasn’t forgiven her: she’s still holding it against her, that time with Max. With Phil. “What did I … what did it do?” she asks. “To Ed?”

“Some kind of electrical short,” says Jocelyn. “Those circuits are so sensitive; the smallest thing can throw them off, such as a foreign object – such as, oh, a pin – or a maladjusted setting. Maybe it was sabotage. Some resentful functionary. Who knows how it could’ve happened?”

“That’s awful,” says Charmaine.

“Yes, it’s terrible,” says Jocelyn. Would you call that a grin? It’s not exactly a sweet smile. But Jocelyn’s not in the habit of those. “Anyway, the thing went into spasm, trapping Ed inside it, and then it started thrashing around.”

“Oh my goodness,” says Charmaine. “He could’ve died!”

“Which would have been a business disaster for Possibilibots if the news leaked out,” says Jocelyn. “Luckily, I was keeping tabs on him, so I sent the paramedics in before too much damage was done. They’ve got some ice packs on him, and they’re using anti-inflammatories. There shouldn’t be too much bruising. But don’t be surprised if you see him walking like a duck.”

“Oh my goodness,” says Charmaine again. She’s got her hands over her mouth. Whatever she thinks of Ed, it wouldn’t be nice to laugh. A person is a person, however creepy they may be. And pain is pain. Just thinking about that pain makes a tingly wire shoot up her back.

“He was fairly mad at you, though,” Jocelyn continues in her detached voice. “He sent you back to the shop. He ordered you to be destroyed.”

“Not me!” Charmaine says. “Not actually me!”

“No, of course not. You know what I mean. The boys at the shop said they were sorry, and they’d tested it beforehand, but as he’d been informed, it was a beta and these things happen. They said they could debug it, but he told them not to bother because he’s through with substitutes.”

“Oh,” says Charmaine. Now she has a sinking feeling. “Does that mean what I think? You told me not to let him …”

“That still goes,” says Jocelyn. “He’ll be back on his feet again soon, and then you’ll have to keep yourself in view but out of reach. It’s crucial; I must emphasize how important that is, and how important you are. We’re absolutely depending on you. Play the piece of cheese to Ed’s rat. You’re clever, you can do it.”

It’s not very nice being told you’re a piece of cheese, but Charmaine is pleased that Jocelyn has called her important. Also clever. Up till now, she’s had the impression that Jocelyn thinks she’s an idiot.

Unpacked

Stan jolts awake. It’s still dark, but he’s moving rapidly through the air, feet first. Then there’s a bump. Muffled voices. Snap, snap, snap, snap: the fasteners on his casket. The lid lifts, light streams in. He blinks in the dazzle. White-clad arms reach for him, hoist him into a sitting position.

“Upsy-daisy!”

“Wow, what stinks?”

“Get him some other pants. Make that a whole other outfit.”

“Don’t be harsh, he didn’t do it on purpose.”

“All together now! Heave-ho!”

Stan is lifted out of the satin coffin, stood on his feet. How long has he been asleep? It feels like days. He shakes his head, tries to unslit his eyes. The room is lit with a bank of overhead LEDs – hyper-bright, but that’s because he’s been in the dark so long. He seems to be in an office; there are filing cabinets, a couple of desks. A computer terminal.

Two Elvises, in white and silver with blue capes, are holding him by the arms; three more are surveying him. Each has the hairdo, the belt buckle, the epaulettes, the lips. The fake tan. Propped against the walls there are seven or eight more, but those don’t seem to be real.

“Don’t let go of him, he’ll fall over!”

“Oh dear, his mouth fell off!”

“He looks like the walking dead.”

“Make yourself useful for once, get him some coffee.”

“I’d say a sports drink.”

“Why not both?”

Another Elvis bustles in, carrying yet another Elvis outfit. Stan blinks. Cripes, how many Elvises are there?

“Here we go,” says the tallest one; he seems to be the leader. “Let’s get you into something more comfortable. Don’t be embarrassed, everyone here’s wet themselves at least once in their life.”

“And most of them weren’t locked in a packing crate,” says another. “There’s a washroom over there.”

“We won’t peek!”

“Or maybe we will!” Laughter.

Fuck. They’re all gay, Stan thinks. A roomful of gay Elvises. Is this a mistake, is he in the wrong place? He hopes they’re not expecting … How can he tell them he’s straight as a Kansas highway without sounding rude?

“Thanks,” he mumbles. His lips are numb. He starts toward the washroom. His legs wobbly; he pauses, leaning against a desk. “Where’s Veron … where’s the Marilyn I came with?” Better not to mention Veronica’s name until he can figure out what’s going on. How do these gay Elvises fit into Jocelyn’s plan? Or are they just a way station? Maybe Veronica was supposed to collect him but didn’t make it, so he got delivered here by mistake.

Maybe he could lie low for a while with the Elvises, then head for the coast, blend in with the local population. Say he’s doing a tech startup. Get a job as a waiter. After that, figure out how to reconnect with Charmaine, supposing that’s possible.

“That Marilyn? She’s with the Marilyns,” says the chief Elvis. “They don’t live here.”

“It’s quite a different clientele. It’s all men, with the Marilyns. Help yourself to the bronzer in there, touch yourself up. Stick your mouth back on. Oh, and there’s a box of sideburns.”

Stan wants to ask about the clientele for the Elvises, but that can wait. He totters into the washroom, shuts the door. He peels himself out of his damp, whiffy white pants, dumps them into what he assumes is a laundry hamper, sponges himself off with one of the towels. He changes his jacket and cape as well, but he keeps the belt he came with, along with its buckle. He runs his fingers over it, back and front – if it has a document dump inside, there must be some way of opening it – but he can’t find any button or catch.

He does the belt up – after his time in transit, at least he’s thinner – then checks his face in the mirror. What a wreck. Dangling sideburn, smeared tan. He repairs his mouth as best he can – there’s some Insta-glue in with the spare ‘burns – and adds bronzer. He lifts his top lip, tries for a signature sneer. Grotesque.

Outside the door they’re discussing him. “What do you think? Is he UR-ELF material?”

“Can he sing?”

“Let’s find out. He’d have to do the full bump and grind, it doesn’t work without that.”

“You’re telling me!”

“Oh stop it for once, try to be helpful.”

Stan makes his exit from the washroom. The Elvises are encouraging.

“Much better!”

“A new man!”

“I love a new man!”

“Here, have a coffee. Sugar?”

The Elvises sit Stan in a desk chair, watch him while he takes a few sips of coffee. He dribbles: the fake lips are hard to manipulate. “You have to go like this,” says one of the Elvises, pushing his mouth out into a kind of snout. “You’ll get used to it after a while.”

“Thanks,” says Stan.

“Try that in lower register. Thu-hanks. Project from the solar plexus. More like a growl … Elvis had an amazing range.”

“Now,” says the chief Elvis, “what position do you see for yourself? Here at UR-ELF we have a wide choice. We’ve got Singing Elvis – dances, parties, anything that needs a little showtime; we charge the highest fees for them. Wedding Elvis, you’d need to get certified so it’s legal, but that’s not hard around here. Escort Elvis – that’s for going to events, taking them out to dinner and maybe a show.”

“And Chauffeur Elvis, if that’s what they want,” says one of the others. “Sightseeing around town and like that; they might want you to take them shopping. I like that the best. And Bodyguard Elvis, for the heavy gamblers, so no one tries to snatch their purse. Oh, and Retirement Home Elvis; we do the hospitals too. It can get depressing though, I warn you.”

“Singing Elvis is the most fun,” says a third Elvis. “You can really express yourself!”

“I can’t sing,” says Stan. “So that’s out.” Expressing himself is the last thing he wants right now. He’d only howl. “Which is the least demanding? To begin with?”

“I think maybe the retirement homes,” says the chief Elvis. “In there, they won’t know the difference.”

Do they think I’m gay too? Stan wonders. Shit. Where the fuck is Veronica, and why didn’t Budge prepare him for this part? Nobody ever said he would have to perform in this Elvis racket? Are they laughing at him? They don’t seem at all curious about why he was in a packing case, so that’s one good thing.

Maybe he can take this opportunity to run away. But run away to where? For starters, he doesn’t have any money.

Ruby Slippers

The Elvises have prepared a space for him in the Elvisorium, which is what they call the fifties split-level bungalow shared by several of them. He sleeps on a fold-out cot in the laundry room, a tacit admission that he won’t be staying forever. “Just until your Catcher in the Rye shows up,” says the chief Elvis. “That Marilyn of yours should be along soon.”

“Meanwhile we get to take care of you,” a second one chimes in. “Lucky us!”

“We’re doing it for Budge,” says the chief Elvis. “Not that he doesn’t pay well. Full room and board.”

Stan asks how long he’s supposed to wait, but the Elvises don’t seem to know. “We’re just your cover, Waldo,” says the chief Elvis. “Keep you fed, blend you in, give you some bookings, make you look real. We get to play the Seven Dwarves to your Snow White!” They think this is funny.

They give him a few days of leisure while they decide how to book him. They tell him he should explore the street life, see the strip, so worth it! Though they insist he has to wear the full costume every time he goes outside. He’ll be less conspicuous that way: Elvises are a dime a dozen in this town. If anyone comes up to him and wants their picture taken with him, all he has to do is pose and smile, and accept the crumpled bill they might offer. He must resist all invitations to sing. He should nod at any other Elvis he might meet– a courtesy – but avoid conversation: not all the Elvises he might see are from their agency, UR-ElvisLiveForever, and it wouldn’t be good if those other, inferior Elvises started asking him questions.

These Elvises – his own Elvises – know he’s hiding from something, or that someone might be looking for him; shady business, anyway. But they’re discreet and don’t ask him for any details anything. Not even where he came from. Not even his last name.

He wanders the streets an hour at a time, taking in the sights, posing for the odd photo. He can’t stay out any longer: everything’s too hot, too bright, too gaudy, too supersaturated. Many jovial tourists stroll here and there, making the most of their absences from reality, shopping and bar-hopping and taking selfies with the impersonators. On the main drag there’s at least one of those per corner: white-gloved mice, Mickey or Minnie; Donald Ducks; Godzillas; pirates; Darth Vaders; Greek warriors. There’s a fake Roman Forum, a miniature Eiffel Tower, a Venetian canal complete with gondolas. There are other replicas, though Stan can’t make out what they’re imitating. The place swarms with vendors: balloon animals, street food, carnival masks, souvenirs of every kind. Several old women dressed as gypsies shove postcards at him, showing barely dressed young girls, with phone numbers.

Back at the Elvisorium, he takes frequent showers and dozes a lot. At first he has trouble sleeping in the daytime because the singing Elvises like to practise their acts, accompanied by backup tracks turned up way too high. But he’s soon acclimatized.

Nobody comes to collect his belt buckle, with its precious, scandalous data. He sleeps with it under his pillow.

He’s chewing on a a hot dog at a street café, sheltering from the sun as best he can, when a Marilyn slides onto the seat beside him. “It’s Veronica,” she whispers. “Everything okay? Guys treating you right? Still got that buckle?”

“Yeah, but I need to know –”

“Holy shit, look, both of them together! That is so fabulous! Can we get a picture?” Red-faced dude in an I Heart Vegas T, his grinning wife, two bored-looking teens.

“Okay, just one,” says Venonica. She throws back her head, does the Marilyn smile, links her arm with Stan’s; they pose. But several other camera-wielding couples closing in on them. This could be a mob scene.

“Catch you later,” she smiles. “Gotta dash!” She kisses Stan on the forehead, leaving – he supposes – a big red mouth. She doesn’t forget the almost-limping Marilyn ass wiggle as she moves away. She’s got a new red carry bag; he can only suppose her gigolo of a teddy bear is inside it.

His first official postings are to the terminal care wing of Ruby Slippers; it’s the same chain that Charmaine used to work for before they both lost their jobs, so it has a familiar feel to it. He doesn’t allow himself to think too much about what went wrong with them, or where Charmaine is now. He can’t afford to brood. Day by day is how he has to play it.

The job isn’t hard. Once he’s been ordered up by a friend or a relative, all he has to do is get himself into costume and then into the role. Then he delivers bouquets of flowers to elderly patients – elderly female patients, since the Marilyns do the men. The palliative care nurses welcome him: he’s a spot of brightness, they claim: he keeps the patients interested in life. “We don’t think of the clients here as dying,” one of them said to him on his first visit. “After all, everyone’s dying, just some of us more slowly.” Some days he believes this; other days he feels like the Grim Reaper. The Angel of Death as Elvis. It kind of fits.

For each delivery he shows his identity card with the UR-ELF logo at Reception, passes through Security, and is escorted as far as the patient’s room door. There he makes a dramatic entrance, though not too dramatic: a noisy surprise might be fatal. Then he presents the flowers with a bow and a swirl of his cape, and just a suggestion of pelvic action.

After that he sits beside the hospital beds and holds the frail, trembling hands, and tells the patients that he loves them. They like to have this message delivered in the form of Elvis’s hit song titles – “I Want You, I Need You, I Love You,” or “I’m All Shook Up,” or “Let Me Be Your Teddy Bear” – but he doesn’t have to sing these songs, just whisper the titles. Some of the patients hardly know he’s there, but others, less feeble, get a kick out of him and think he’s a fine joke.

Yet others believe he’s real. “Oh Elvis, you’re here at last! I knew you would come,” one old woman exclaims, throwing her matchstick arms around his neck. “I love you! I always loved you! Kiss me!”

“I love you too, honey,” he growls in return, placing his rubbery lips on her wrinkled cheek. “I love you tender.”

“Oh, Elvis!”

When he first began he felt like a shit-for-brains fool, capering around like this in a phony get-up, pretending to be someone he isn’t; but the more he does it, the easier it becomes. After the fifth or sixth time he really does love these old biddies, at least for a moment. He brings such joy. When was the last time anyone was so truly happy to see him?