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There has never been an End Man ejected from the program. That is, of course, because until now we’ve...worked. Our bodies have made sperm, and our sperm has impregnated women. The Society long ago promised protection and every amenity made to any man who signed their life-long contract. What you signed away were the rights to your own life. If Marcus is no longer producing, will they still protect him?
TEN
PHOENIX
Due to a panda’s low sex drive, scientists have found that the combination of exercises, porn, and the occasional menage a trois have proven effective.
As we walk to the underground garage, I worry that I failed to put my car on the charger. Maintenance on my vehicle is near the bottom on my list of priorities. The garage is musty, its spaces only half full. Most people use the train, foregoing having a car. The only reason I have one is to get to my country house. The very house we’re going to now. Jewel’s eyes never stop moving.
I exhale in relief when the engine turns over.
“What were you doing to the cameras?” I ask.
“Creating a white-out.” She shrugs.
I want to ask more questions but pull out into the dark night instead and let the road take over my thoughts. The drive has always been relaxing for me at this time of night, once we’re out of the busyness of the city.
The Moyo home has been nestled in the valley overlooking the Hudson River for decades. My grandfather was still alive when I was a little girl, and some of my favorite early memories are with him, walking the paths that led from the house to the water. He was much kinder than my grandmother, whose bark had some bite. He was soft all over, his round belly jiggling when he laughed, and he was quick with the hugs and eager to share whatever sweets he carried around in his shirt pocket. For years, I avoided coming back here because it was too hard to think about how life was after he passed, but then it became too hard to leave behind that part of my life. I’m inclined to think that any semblance of decency I have comes from him.
“We’re almost there,” I tell Jewel when we’re a few minutes away.
“I’ve been watching your house for the past three days,” she says.
“Right,” I say under my breath.
The driveway is long. My car bounces over the potholes, lobbing us toward the roof. I park near the row of birch trees to the left of the house. The solar-powered lights guide our way to the door and as I place my wrist over the reader, I wonder if Jewel has already been inside. She seems a little too familiar with everything to not have been here before. She places her hat on the hall tree in the entry, and I look at her with suspicion, waiting to see what she’ll do next.
She catches me watching and widens her eyes, attempting innocence. I smirk and shake my head.
“Make yourself at home,” I tell her, walking into the old-fashioned kitchen. “When can we expect her—them?”
“An hour or two, if all goes according to plan,” she says.
“I’ll make some coffee then…”
“Real coffee?” she asks.
“Real coffee.”
“Must be nice…”
My hand stills over the machine. I am privileged—I have access to real coffee, milk, fruit—but to be called out like this itches my insides with guilt. I’ve seen how the lower end lives. How the rich ignore the problem rather than trying to help fix it.
I press the button on the coffee machine and it hisses to life.
She grins. “Don’t mind me. I speak before I think.”
I slide the mug across the table toward her and she hugs it between her hands.
“How often do you come out here?”
“As often as I can. It’s a break from...everything.” The words aren’t even out of my mouth before I regret saying them. Who am I to complain? My life is a bedazzlement of luxury. The type of life even women in the upper end covet. Jewel doesn’t seem to notice my slip. I relax a little as she sips her coffee, nodding slowly like she understands.
Before she can ask any more questions, I head to the bedroom, closing the door behind me. I need to process everything that’s happened in such a short amount of time. Turning on the light in my grandmother’s bedroom, I stare at the row of photos on the chipped green dresser.
There are photos of my mothers—their wedding day, and one of them with me at my first ballet recital. I try to imagine what they were like before I came along—free, perhaps. Before they had me, they were avid campers and often volunteered their time in the lower end. Their friends describe them as free spirits, but the only spirits I’ve ever seen either of them display are the ones in the bar. It’s like I came along and all of a sudden they turned into regimented robots.
I hear footsteps outside the door and then Jewel’s voice.
