Plasticity Page 7

  “Baby, of course we'll always love you. And we would accept you, no matter what. You're our baby girl. Our only baby.” Marianne wasn't choked up, but she did have soft tears at the corners of her eyes. Miguel finally rose up from the couch and walked over to his wife and daughter. He pet Hayley's head a couple of times, then rested his hand on Marianne's shoulder.

  Thom almost forgot to tell them about how large the percentage increase in people's reported quality of life was, after the procedure, but when he opened his mouth to say something, Charlie pointed her finger at him, and scowled. He smiled, feeling pretty good about himself, getting the same gestures from Charlie that she gave her mother. Maybe she had forgiven him and Portland, and maybe she wanted to be friends, again. Then, she took the finger that had been pointed at him and dragged it across her throat. Come on guys, let's turn that smile upside-down, Thom thought, but was pretty sure he'd mixed that one up, too. Whatever. It fit the situation too well to worry about phrasing.

  Chapter 8: Alexander White

  Alexander White stood, high above the city, with nothing but a couple panes of tempered glass separating him from the Plebeians below. Well, that, and however much air, and his millions of dollars. Status, more than anything, he decided, separated him from them. Ethereal concepts can separate us farther than any perceived gap caused by our electronic devices, he thought. They said our phones held us apart, with no one truly interacting anymore. They saw groups of people on their phones and believed, rather stupidly, that without those distractions, people would engage with each other. “Bollocks,” Alex declared, to no one in particular. Although, on his computer screen was a man with whom he had previously been engaged in conversation. A scant fifteen to twenty seconds prior to his mind wandering, as it so often did.

  “Sir?” The man responded. He was busy scratching notes onto a tablet, and had not noticed that he had lost the attention of his interlocutor.

  “Organ Farm makes it sound like I'm running some kind of illegal smuggling operation. Or, perhaps worse, breeding humans for their organs, like medical cattle.” Alex returned to his desk, the webcam's field of vision filling with torso, then lower body. He sat down, slowly, ponderously, a falling mountain of a man, until broad shoulders, and short back and sides again filled the screen. “The service we provide is important, and we provide a safe, legal service for people who would, otherwise, be forced to seek operations in back-alleys, and in all manner of unsavory places. Backyard mechanics, and so forth. Dangerous.” His face remained severe, and would probably be intimidating to anyone in the room with him. Fortunately for the journalist on the monitor, he was in a small apartment above a maid cafe in Shibuya, and not the least bit concerned for the man's stature. Physical or social.

  “Well, Sir, I guess it's a matter of public opinion, really. From the perspective of many in the public, it appears that you charge people to transfer into a mechanical body, then you get paid for the organs you harvest from them. A bit of getting them coming and going, so to speak. Or, maybe, just a little bit literally.” Wow, he was being a smug bastard. He wasn't sure where he had gathered the nerve to be this outspoken against anyone, least of all a prominent member of a global conspiracy. Or cabal? He hadn't decided which way he was going to go with it, but he was sure it wouldn't make them sound too pretty, in the end.

  “Yes, of course, Mister Strand. Because our services are free, our doctors work for nothing, and the carbon fiber, titanium, silicone, micro-servos, and the whole electronics kit and caboodle are just given to us from third-world countries. The city has, also, been so gracious as to let us use this building and all its electricity for free.” He visibly scoffed at the words he was spouting. “Did you know that it costs more to pay the staff for a month than we get from organ sales? All organ sales combined.” Mister Strand tried to hide his balking, but it wasn't successful. Not against the stern eye of Alexander White. “Legalizing the organ trade was a boon to consumers, but it ruined the market. Do you know how much you used to be able to get a kidney for, on the black market?”

  “I would not know, but something tells me you're pretty familiar with the old prices.” Strand smirked. Each jab digging a little more of his grave than he would have liked to have known.

  “Yes, quite.” Alex White smiled, without mirth, without warmth of any kind. Predatory and powerful. Only the grossly incompetent felt safe at a distance. They never understood that time and space belonged to those with no limits. And unlimited resources, give or take a dollar or two. “Point is, my dear Mister Strand, prices are down, even though demand is still steady, and we're trying to balance an economy on a razor's edge. All-the-while paying lawyers, at least two lawyers for every doctor we have employed, to keep everything above ground. Operation costs are huge in this industry and there are less than five people at any one time getting millionaire status from this business. I am one of them. For now.”

  Alex slipped his hand into his right pocket, casually pressing the virtual hotkey on his phone, the buzz response preceding by a split second the flicker on the monitor indicating an incoming call. “If you'll excuse me, Mister Strand, this is an important call, and I must go now. It has been a pleasure talking to you, and I look forward to reading the article when it comes out.” He ended the call with the journalist, declined the incoming call, which was from himself, of course, and dialed a new number.

  You might think a person like Alexander White would have a particular disdain for journalists, or reporters in general, but you would be wrong. He actually appreciated journalists, especially the ones that did exposes. They always had just enough factual information to make their story completely unbelievable. Funny how that works; too many accuracies left unanswered questions, which, in turn, tended to eclipse the facts. Alex could almost feel a tinge of sympathy for the journalist. He was just trying to make a buck, and Alex had certainly been there himself. Although, when Alex was there, he did not step on the toes of the big guys until he had equal footing.

  Alex had struggled hard to go straight. Every sad paycheck had him fighting the urge to go back to the high-risk high-yield world he came from. Or rather, she came from. The streets are hard for anyone, probably doubly so for a girl. Everyone gets pushed around a lot, but for a girl, when you've got no money, no family, no protection, you had to be harder. So, she was. She had grown up fighting, from day one when she nearly killed her junkie mother, through a childhood she could never quite remember, but someone had to have fed her from time to time, to the ripe-old-age of ten when she left. You'd think it would be harder being homeless, than being in a bad home, and maybe, sometimes, you might be right. In this case, you would not be. Sitting in a dark house, waiting for someone to give you food, or give you a beating, you never knew which was coming, but out in the streets everything was on display for the taking. You didn't sit up all night, waiting for whatever life was going to throw at you, it had already thrown it. You never had to sit around, praying that today would be the day that your mother realized she loved you, and was going to get help for you both. All that just slid into the past. No more passively accepting whatever you got. Out there, you just took what you wanted. As long as you didn't get caught doing it, of course, unless you could pay when you were caught, but that depended more on who caught you, than on any money you may or may not have had.

  So, here she was, a very wealthy man. Fighting, whoring and grifting had given way to education, and connections. Then, by mostly luck, which is the slacker's term for perseverance, she got the opportunity to undergo the transition. A subprime candidate, no doubt, but she happened to know someone on the board and her application got pushed through. There wasn't enough money to go for a full custom job, but she had a decent selection of bodies to choose from. Flipping through like a shoe catalog, she came across a discounted unit. A custom that the owner had never retrieved. It was dark skinned, tall, broad-shouldered, slightly overweight, and it had a huge cock. She fell in love, and would not be talked out of it, so sh
e sent her organs off to starving children in Africa, or whatever, and began her life as Alexander White. Everything after that was simply a matter of working the system, insinuating himself into as many pies as he could, finally landing himself in the big chair at this hospital. Heading the division that set people free, just as he had been, and giving them their new lives. He doubted that all of them made their new lives better, but, again, that was their choice. Just because he did it, didn't mean everyone else had to.

  This did not come without a few hiccups along the way, but when you've got friends like Alex has, no problem is insurmountable. Although, some problems could be close enough to be considered insurmountable, like his problem with the plastic girl. The flesh version was living happily with her family, and didn't seem to know anything had gone wrong. The plastic girl, however, was missing. It was a miracle that he even knew about it. Whoever had orchestrated the transfer had cleared all records, except the notifications that Alex received. Fortunately, whoever did it, didn't know that Alex got a brief text with name and time stamp information for every single transfer in his hospital. After this fiasco, he had changed his notification settings to receive them when the transfer begins, instead of sending upon completed transfer. It had never seemed to be a problem before, but in this case, getting notified after the fact meant he did not have enough time to get to the hospital and to the transfer room before the plastic was gone.

  He wanted his plastic back. Not just because it was an expensive, custom unit, but more importantly, the flesh girl was still interested in the transfer. Her application for the Betterment Assistance Fund had been approved, almost from day one. She was a prime candidate, after all. Alex didn't know how much of the girl was in the plastic, but judging by the fact that the flesh girl didn't know it happened, he was certain she had been sedated when they did the transfer. A colossally idiotic thing to do, proving that whoever did it, didn't know what the hell they were doing. That poor plastic was probably a drooling idiot, unable to do the simplest of tasks unaided. He would feel bad, of course, but it probably wouldn't have the mental capacity to understand that it had to be wiped so the transfer could be redone properly.

  The security company had men on it, they assured him, but so far he had only ever heard from Cyrus. And it was never positive news from Cyrus. Well, he thought, it has been a week or so since I've had bad news. I'd better call Cyrus and get an update.

  “Cyrus, you find the girl?” He knew full-well that Cyrus had not found the girl.

  “Not yet, Sir. But, I've got a lead on some people that say they may have seen her around. I'm headed downtown today to grease some palms, rough up some undesirables, you know, the usual. I should have, at least something, to report back by tonight.” Cyrus had hoped this would be good enough, for now. Before this job, he would have never imagined it would be this hard to find one single person, but when that one person is nearly indistinguishable from another person, there was some kind of exponential difference that he had trouble wrapping his head around. He was never good with numbers, but they just kept getting bigger until he sort of fuzzed them out.

  “Yes, Cyrus, I would like a report tonight. I'd hate to have to call your boss and pester him for an update. I don't want to cause trouble for you, just because I'm curious.” Alex ended the call. Good to keep the Plebs in their place. Make sure they know you hold the power, not them. They're just tools for a job, easily replaceable.

  Cyrus did not share this world view. He hated the way people like Alexander White treated other people. Using them for their dirty work, then casting them aside. His asshole boss was good friends with Alex, too. That didn't help matters in the least. Cyrus had, many times over the course of his employment with this company, considered leaving. He didn't need to be treated this way. He deserved to be treated better. But he usually came to the same conclusion: what would he do if it wasn't this? Work in a human cafe, or something? That would hardly support a wife, mortgage and two kids. Hell, a job like that barely made a car payment and kept a roof over your head. So he stuck it out, for now. He kept telling himself he would jump ship as soon as a better opportunity presented itself. He was still relatively young, by modern standards, and he met plenty of successful people in his line of work. He was certain it was only a matter of time.

  Cyrus, who was previously engaged in trying to break the sound barrier, pulled over to take another call that was coming in. He grimaced, at first, thinking it was Alex calling back, but was relieved, maybe more than relieved, maybe full-on happy, to see that it was his wife calling. Things had been rough between them, lately, but he was trying to make it work. He believed Katie was trying, too, but he couldn't be sure. This phone call, however, would illustrate how far away from trying she really was. It would not be a pleasant phone call, and he almost, just for a second, wished it had been Alex calling back.

  Chapter 9: The Cabin in the Woods

  Well, there you are. Hayley picked up the key to the hidden door in the floor. She was pretty sure that Alan didn't even know about it. She had not seen him go downstairs, or even look in the direction of the door, at any point over the past few months, although she had found it within the first hour in the cabin. The cabin that Alan referred to as a “shack,” much to Hayley's amusement. This “shack” was easily twice the size of her suburban apartment, not including the downstairs library. She danced down the awkward stairs, stairs she had to descend so delicately, before, when they were new to her. Almost as new as her body. Way back on that day that her life ended. Both of her lives, really. The flesh body gone, and the new plastic one on the run from someone. Possibly multiple someones. She hadn't figured that out, yet. She locked the door from the inside, which flipped the latch on the outside, completely hiding it in the natural grain of the flooring.

  The people who took her from the hospital were hard to identify. They had looked like doctors, or, at least, they were dressed like doctors. It seemed odd enough that three doctors and zero nurses would be attending her, but when she saw that one of the doctors carried a cattle prod, not even trying to hide it, she knew it was time to panic. Her panic was short-lived, she imagined, though she could not actually remember much beyond the initial panic. She hazily remembered one of them touching the cattle prod to her chest. It shut down her whole system, and when she came to, she was in their van, speeding away through the night. She believed it had to have been recorded, somewhere. If not the actual abduction, then at least some footage of the getaway. Nothing she had found, to this point, showed anyone coming or going. Footage from her sector of the hospital was conveniently missing for the entire period of time from when she arrived at the hospital, flesh and blood, to the time, she assumed, that they left in the van with her plastic body in tow. The gap in surveillance she could imagine would be easy enough to have deleted from the hard drive, but there was no paperwork left, either. No record that she had ever stepped foot into that hospital, which led her to believe they were with the hospital in some capacity. No paperwork meant no mention of what they did with her flesh body, either, so she assumed they made it disappear, as well. Whoever “They” were.

  Whoever “They” may have been, they weren't fighters, that part was clear. She easily beat them unconscious, maybe more, shortly after waking up in the van. Three of them sat guard around her, but only one had a cattle prod. After seeing what she did to the other two, the one with the cattle prod waved it at her, in a sad attempt at a threat. She was pretty sure she crushed his wind pipe. He may have actually died. She wasn't sure she cared, at this point. The poor driver, though. He was crying and swerving, pleading that he was just a driver and he didn't know anything. He was pretty bloody when she left him, but she thought he would probably pull through. You know, if someone found them, in the van, on that stretch of highway, in the middle of the woods, well outside of town. At any rate, over the past few months or so, she had managed to convince herself that it would be perfectly fine with her if they all died painfully slowly in that s
tupid van. She had left it running. Maybe they got a peaceful death from carbon monoxide, or maybe it overheated and caught fire and burned to the ground. She smiled. It was pretty easy to figure out which scenario she liked better. The old Hayley would have been disappointed with this situation, and new Hayley's attitude toward it, but old Hayley didn't have a virtual eternity to think about. There would be time for anything in this new world. Even if she had to wait until everyone involved in this whole catastrophe died of old age, she would make her new life everything she had ever wanted it to be, and more.

  She had gotten lucky that night, though. Wandering, naked and bloody as a horror movie, down a dark forest highway, she met Alan Rice. He had nearly killed them both with his car, tires squealing, the wheel jerking back and forth, like he was sawing down a redwood. Of course, he was going about forty when he saw her, and he was on the other side of the road. All his panicking lasted about sixty-or-so feet. He looked ridiculous. If he had simply applied the brakes, he would have slowed to a stop, endangering no one. Hayley was sure that was a metaphor for something, but she couldn't figure it out. Or, she didn't care to figure it out. Either way.

  Alan had brought her back to his cabin, in what normally would have been an absolute, no-way-in-hell scenario, but Hayley had been feeling fairly secure after her escape. She had figured her odds of defeating Alan in a fight, and the numbers were looking pretty good. He was scrawny and frail. Not much competition for her new robot body, and her unusual sense of apathy. She had always been so light-hearted and cheerful, but after the transfer, what she had always believed herself to be seemed distant and muted. She was a rainbow turned grey and bruised, although she struggled to really picture the metaphor.