The Heart Goes Last

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“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.