Atwood Margaret - The Heart Goes Last

“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.”