Mash Up Read online

  “He got his cheek scraped, had some stem cells made, and grew his own gametes in a jar, then in a surrogate. Not quite in his own kitchen, although I’ll show you what it’s like before you go. You wouldn’t doubt it was a facility adequate for genetic engineering while simultaneously catering a wedding dinner for seven hundred guests.”

  “This was his house?”

  “A trivial expense to keep it habitable through peak and post. Just as it was a trivial expense to put me through the process as my eighteenth birthday gift—even though, by then, the tax penalties were exorbitant.”

  Those penalties exist to keep the immortality process exclusive. A club inhabited by the richest and most powerful—those able to afford a process and maintenance treatments that are already expensive beyond the means of most.

  The taxes can be waived by government order—and are, in the case of certain scientists, statespersons, and other “indispensables.” But Garcia will never be one, and neither will Marna—unless I talk her into letting me pay for it, which would take a bigger miracle than getting her to go to bed with me—and neither will any of Garcia’s followers. Not unless they’re on track to win a Nobel, and I doubt most of those people follow gossip blogs.

  Although… people can surprise you.

  The ducks have gotten bored with us and wandered off to pick among the tomato plants. Unlike chickens, they will not damage most vegetables. But they’re hell on soft fruits like strawberries. We still grow strawberries—fall and winter—but we grow them in hanging baskets around the edge of the porch. It’s too hot in the spring and summer, anyway.

  Marna’s glass clicks on the table. She holds up a finger, and the light in Garcia’s eye dies away.

  Marna says, “Did you know that William Jacobin was one of the people most instrumental in bringing about the exemption laws? He liked his little club exclusive.”

  Apprehension tingles in my fingertips. Garcia leans forward. “Tell me more.”

  Marna lifts her glass from a sharp, moist ring on the table top. Excitement or emphasis makes her gesture a little too sharp; the lemonade splashes over her fingers. She pauses to suck them clean. She scoffs and says, “We couldn’t have five hundred million undying middle managers cluttering up the landscape. You think housing situations and opportunities for promotion are limited now! Much better to make it too expensive for anyone who isn’t our kind of people, isn’t that right, dear?”

  She glances at me. Is she trying to make us look like lovers?

  Could we be lovers, with my father gone?

  What do I have to do to get this woman to sleep with me?

  Garcia’s glossed lips thin. I wonder if she tried to do anything else before taking herself into business as a member of the so-called creative class. (Is interviewing rich people creative? I’m surely the last person anyone should ask.)

  Marna continues, “Besides, think of the costs in terms of divorce litigation if nobody had any hope of outliving the bastard.”

  I bite my lip, fighting to maintain my deadpan. I succeed… for whole moments. Then I snort, my lip curls, and I begin to laugh hard and sharp while Garcia looks from Marna to me and back again, her angelic brow revealing the shadows of lines that will eventually crease it whether she’s puzzled or not. It’s a tiny little window through time, a glimpse of an unavoidable future.

  Marna leans back and lowers her hand. Resume transmission.

  Garcia’s still struggling with it while I stand, as hard and sharp as I laughed. I snatch up my glass and say, “Let’s take this inside, shall we?”

  We troop across a sandstone patio and through the sliding doors, where I introduce Ms. Garcia to the house. “Charmed,” the house says. It begins a series of offerings that I have to interrupt to silence. I’ll have to get Camilly to reprogram that. I prefer my domiciles unobtrusive.

  Inside, it’s dim and airy. The living space is high-ceilinged and white-walled, with solar shades drawn across the windows. This old house stays cool in the heat, with its deep porches and lazily rotating ceiling fans. The windows have been sealed and the place is silent enough that I can hear the soft creak of wide floorboards beneath the pile of thick Oriental carpets older than all three of us added together. Older than my father, too, if he were here.

  I usher my guests into a small sitting room, touch the wall to let the house know to let Camilly know where we are, and make sure the ladies are seated before I drop my own butt on a couch.

  “Where were we?” I ask rhetorically. “Oh, the elect. And my history with my father. You know what they call us in the streets? The Parasites. And I’d feel the same if our positions were reversed. Hell, our positions aren’t reversed, and I’m pretty sure they’re right about us.”

  “All right,” Garcia says. “I’ll play. Do you want to open up the Maddox Process to everyone? How would we afford it? How would we support it? What about the population curve? What about opportunities for the young?”

  “That wouldn’t be as much of a problem if people stopped having babies. Since the process results in sterility, that should be effortless.”

  But she’s on to my deadpan now, no matter how much bitterness I steep my tone in. She smirks; the chase is to be continued. “As your father did?”

  “It’s two primal and conflicting human urges, isn’t it? The desire to reproduce yourself, and the desire to live forever. What I’m saying is that maybe evolution had it right, and we shouldn’t be living forever.”

  Marna’s leaned back, an arm draped across the back of the loveseat upon which she half-reclines. She’s looking at me with pursed lips, a speculative expression.

  It occurs to me that I’ve never actually said any of this stuff out loud in front of her before. Possibly not in front of anyone. I feel brave. A little giddy.

  Congratulations, Garcia said. Congratulations.

  I’m so busy remembering what she did a few minutes ago that I miss what she says now, and have to replay it before I can answer. And once I hear it, and actually register it, I’m too stunned to gather my thoughts.

  She has drained her lemonade and set the glass down decisively on a coaster. What she asked is, “So, at least on an ideological level, you’re saying you support the assassination of people like yourself and your father?”

  “Assassination?!”

  And just like that, she’s won. I sit gaping; Garcia leans forward eagerly. She flashes me a link; I’d filtered out my feeds. And been doubly concerned with ignoring them once my attention wandered that first time.

  Federal Bureau of Investigation Takes Over Jacobin Murder, the headline says. Anti-Terrorism Squad Confident of Imminent Arrest.

  Marna holds up her finger. “They just say that to try to flush out the perpetrator.”

  “There’s not supposed to be a perpetrator!” It’s a second before I actually realize what I said. That I said anything at all. It bursts out in a kind of channeled explosion, rage and frustration. Fuel cells don’t just explode.

  Marna stands. “Ms. Garcia? I’ll show you out. The interview is at an end.”

  * * *

  When she comes back, she sits down on the sofa beside me. She reaches out and takes my unbandaged hand. She says, “Eddie…”

  “They killed him?”

  She shakes her dark ponytail. “I think that’s still up in the air. But if they’ve called in the FBI, they must think they have—at least—something. Or maybe they’re getting pressure from somebody with a political agenda.”

  I gather myself sufficiently for sarcasm. Atypically, it’s an effort. “Have you ever met somebody without a political agenda?”

  “It’s an East African Plains Ape thing to have,” she agrees.

  Somebody blew up my father. And they nearly blew up me. “Marna. You’re from a good natural family. Surely one of your many siblings or cousins or aunties must have a pronounced opinion on our relationship?”

  I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Marna look awkward before. “I let it bounce off me.�
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  “Well, I guess those must be no uncertain terms. I know you have your own opinions…”

  “I think your dad and those like him are a blight. That’s not a surprise to you.”

  “But you work for me.”

  “We all work for the geritocracy one way or another, Eddie. In my case, it’s just a little more direct than most. And it’s not like you asked to get cloned.” She pats my knee. “I was surprised by and proud of what you said today.”

  The look she gives me is a hell of a lot less exasperated than the last one. I can’t stand the curl of anxiety that rises in my gut under the steadiness of her regard. Does that mean you might consent to sleep with me?

  For the love of all that’s holy, Eddie. Get over it. An unwelcome attraction isn’t pretty on anybody, man.

  I say, “It’s not like we can escape from them. Like you can escape from us, I mean.”

  “Not without a revolution,” she agrees. Tiredness and frustration crease her face. The lines on her brow never smooth entirely away.

  “Christ,” I say. “I need a drink. You want one? This place makes a great Bohemian. I hear they grow and squeeze the grapefruit themselves.”

  “Hah!” she says. And, “Should you be mixing alcohol and painkillers?”

  As I drop a text to Camilly, it occurs to me that I might be spoiled. That doesn’t stop me from wanting the drink. I’m still thinking about it, letting my head fall back against the divan and damn the soreness where it presses my healing neck and shoulders, when the house says, “Edward Jacobin, this is the police. We have a warrant; you will facilitate our immediate entry!” in a voice I’m used to hearing only on TV.

  “House?”

  “They appear to be legitimate,” the house says. “They used a valid override to pass the gate.”

  Marna has jumped up off the divan, an unfocused look on her face. She says, “The warrant’s genuine. Eddie, I’m—”

  “Edward, open the door!”

  They could override, and I could override, and then they’ll just break it down. And it’s not as if we have anything to hide. Lemonade’s not a controlled substance yet, as long as there’s under nine grams of sugar in it.

  I think about waiting to see if they’ll actually say We know you’re in there, but some things aren’t worth experimenting with. They must think I had something to do with my father’s death. Isn’t that the way it always goes? They look first at the family.

  Fortunately, I have a really good lawyer.

  Marna beside me, I start walking toward the door. “House, let them in.”

  The door doesn’t crash, because House opens it. And then my father’s Oriental carpets are trampled under a dozen black boots as men and women broad with body armor pour into my front parlor. They have weapons. They look official. I’d shoot a quick text to Camilly to let her know not to risk coming out of the kitchen, but I’m not getting any signal.

  That’s the sickest-making, most disorienting thing of all.

  I put my hands up and keep walking toward them. “Officers,” I say to a forest of face shields, “I think this is a little extreme. If you’ll just explain the nature of the complaint, I’d be happy to come in and discuss it with you—”

  “Sir!” an officer—or an agent, I guess? They could be the FBI—shouts, “Get down!” She grabs me by the elbow and tosses me aside, a sort of whirl and a sling. I expect somebody to tackle me, hands wrenching my arms behind my back.

  Instead there’s more shouting, but nobody touches me. I cover my head with my hands reflexively; when I collect myself enough to peek out again, two men in body armor are patting Marna down. One of them says, “Marna Davies, you are under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, murder in the first degree, conspiracy to commit terrorism, and carrying out acts of terrorism on US soil. You have the right to remain silent. If you choose to remain silent, you may be subject to enhanced interrogation techniques. You have the right to an attorney but you do not have the right to private consultation with that attorney…”

  Nobody is paying any attention to me. I push myself to my knees. Her head cranes as they’re leading her out. She’s looking for me.

  She did it. She really did it. Maybe not with her own hands, but she was involved.

  “Marna?”

  She opens her mouth as if to say something. Thinks better of it. Closes it again and just smiles. She winks at me, and she smiles.

  If they dragged her out of the house, if they were rough with her, I might have hurled myself at somebody. Probably gotten myself shot. But she strides along like a queen in chains, and they… escort her.

  I follow down the steps to where cars are waiting, long and black with tinted windows. They stuff her into the back of one. An officer places her hand on Marna’s head to guide it into the car without striking the doorframe.

  She catches my eye once more before the door thuds shut between us. An officer is left standing beside me. He says, “We’ll want you to come with us, Mr. Jacobin. We have some questions.”

  I can’t make myself look at him. “You really think she killed my father?”

  He says, “You know I can’t discuss that with you.”

  But she didn’t look surprised.

  She looks too small in that big black car ever to change the world. And she is—too small alone. As are we all.

  But she’s not alone, is she? I like to think I wouldn’t stoop to murder. But I’m not sure she was wrong.

  So Marna will go to jail. And my father is dead. But I’m just getting started.

  I wonder how hard it will be to contact Ms. Garcia.

  ALLEN M. STEELE

  THE BIG WHALE

  According to some, there’s a clear distinction between literary fiction – that is, the novels and stories that belong to the canon of great literature – and popular fiction, the stuff that belongs to mass culture. However, I don’t believe there’s really that much difference. Many novels now considered to be literary classics were bestsellers in their time. Likewise, quite a few novels which came out of popular culture are now considered classics.

  I’ve always admired the works of Herman Melville… particularly Moby Dick, for which I gained an appreciation after visiting the historic district of New Bedford, Massachusetts, where that novel is set. I’m also a big fan of pulp fiction from the 30s and 40s, especially mystery thrillers by writers like Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett. So I think that, had Melville been living in the early twentieth century, he might have been writing for pulp magazines like Argosy, Black Mask, or Adventure. For me, the first line of Moby Dick – three simple, direct words – sounds like the opening of a hard-boiled detective story. Based on that notion, I decided to rewrite Melville’s masterpiece the way he might have, had he collaborated with someone like Mickey Spillane or Norvell Page.

  I had fun with this story, and I hope you do, too.

  THE BIG WHALE

  BY ALLEN M. STEELE

  Call me Ishmael. That’s what everyone does, down on the New Bedford waterfront: the longshoremen and wharf rats and sailors who’ve been away from sea for too long and are drowning their sorrows in a jug of grog. They don’t call me unless they’re in trouble, though. Trouble is my business. I carry a harpoon.

  I’d just returned from a trip to New York. The Bartleby case had been tough, but I got it done. Not that the client was grateful. When I asked him to pay me for helping him keep his job at a Wall Street law firm, he’d said that he’d prefer not to, so I stuck his nose in his ledger book and slammed it shut a few times until he finally coughed up. Never trust a scrivener.

  I was pretty wrung out when I got back to Massachusetts. I tried to sleep during the long ride home, but the carriage I’d hired needed a new set of wheels, and by the time the driver put me off in the middle of town, I could have used my spleen for a doormat. If I’d had any sense, I would have gone straight home. Instead, I decided to drop by the office first. I told myself that it was just to check the mail, but
the truth of the matter is that I missed the place. For all of its seediness – the stench of cod, the drunks passed out on the sidewalks, the painted women lounging in tavern doorways – the waterfront still has its own bleak, salt-crusted majesty. New Bedford may not be in the same class as Boston, but it’s home.

  My office was on the second floor of the Customs House, a one-room loft with a view of the wharf. As usual, the door was blocked by a small hill of mail that had been dropped over the transom, most of it bills that would have to be covered by the handful of gold I’d managed to frisk from Bartleby’s pockets after I smeared his meticulous handwriting with his face. I transferred the mail from the floor to the desk, and was searching the drawers for the bottle of Jamaican rum I kept stashed in there, when there was a knock at the door. Thinking it was the landlord dropping by for the rent, I told my visitor to come in… and that was when she appeared.

  The moment I laid eyes on her, I knew the dame was trouble. The beautiful ones always are. A vision in crinoline and wool, her lavender dress covered her from neck down, but as she levitated into the room, I caught a glimpse of a well-turned ankle, the kind of lateral malleolus that keeps lonely men awake at night. A lock of lustrous chestnut hair fell from beneath her fringed pink bonnet; I found myself wondering what it might be like to run my fingers through it. Yeah, somewhere beneath three layers of store-bought clothes was a woman with the body of a ship’s figurehead. And not a mermaid, either.

  “Pardon me,” she said, “but are you Mister…?”

  “Ishmael. Just call me Ishmael.” I beckoned to the chair on the other side of the desk. “Have a seat, will you, Miss…?”

  “Ahab… Mrs. Ahab,” she added, emphasizing her marital status a little more than necessary. If she knew my name, though, then it was a good guess that she also knew my reputation. “And thank you, but I’d rather stand.”

  She didn’t have a choice. Her dress had a bustle in the rear big enough to hide a navy crew. Not that they’d mind very much. I thought about offering her a drink, but I could tell she was the sort of lady who never had anything more than a dainty little glass of sherry once a week on Sunday. So I left the rum in the drawer and refrained from putting my feet up on the desk.