Джош Малерман - Inspection

He doesn’t believe in the Parenthood like he used to.

Did he ever…used to?

He certainly believed in the money he was making from it.

And now?

Now I’m unsure.

Bad word for the Parenthood.

And how did Gordon know this? What brought him to this conclusion?

He didn’t sit down for the entire meeting.

And?

That’s what you do when you want to appear big, big as you can be. You stand. You stand, too, when you’re close to walking.

Richard watched the boys happily crossing the whitening grass, wearing their newest winter coats.

Almost teenagers now.

Growing up.

Soon to be men.

The Delicate Years.

“You’ve got to clothe your kids,” Richard said, alone in his quarters. “You’ve got to feed them, too. And”—he reached a hand to the glass and cupped the boys, as if their distant smaller forms could fit easily into his palm—“you’ve got to make sure they’re telling the truth.”

As the four boys grew even smaller, walking the long border of pines, Richard’s mind traveled back to the Basic Years. It was a flaw of his, he admitted, that he’d long considered the past with a raven’s eye but often assumed the present was in working order. He knew he had the Inspections to blame. The daily reports that his boys were clean, the daily reminders that things were going according to plan. Had he always leaned too hard on the Inspections? Put too much stock in them? Could they tell him…everything?

They certainly reaffirmed for him the most important thing: the lack of knowledge in the boys…the absolutely vacant and seemingly endless acreage of once-loud distractions, the earth now scorched of…

…woman.

Soft string music played from his antique hi-fi radio, loud enough to mingle with the sound of the winter wind outside and the faint ripple of the Corner below. Richard thought back, not searching, not looking for any mistake now, just back to images of the boys as toddlers and their incredible potential.

In those days, he’d believed he could tell which boys were more apt to shine. Which would develop into the scientists and engineers his experiment promised. But he was never exactly right. And these slight errors in his predictions worried him mercilessly.

One incident from the Basic Years caused him particular concern now: a routine patrol he’d conducted himself one evening, his black boots echoing off the brand-new, shiny floors, the distant clink of dishes in the kitchen. He’d looked to his watch that night and frowned. The rules of the Parenthood had been drilled into the minds of the money-hungry staff, mostly ex-cons happy for the clandestine gig. Yet…someone was up. In a place they weren’t supposed to be. Perhaps sneaking a snack? The kitchen had long since been shut down; dinner was many hours over. He quickened his pace to the beat of an increasingly angry inner monologue—preemptive chastising of the dishwashers and cooks.

The tower’s décor was different then, over a decade ago, and the halls were only partially lit, by English tavern lanterns Richard had foolishly insisted upon. The black-painted doors of the storage and equipment rooms unfortunately resembled open doors (another mistake on Richard’s part), and Richard turned to look at each one, expecting a face to look back, someone who knew more than he did about who was making that racket in the kitchen. Someone who knew the mistakes that Richard had made and the mistakes he would make down the road. Someone who saw, in whole, the failures of the Parenthood long before they came to be.

Now, in his quarters, Richard wondered if he’d lost the paranoia he’d possessed in those early days. And he wondered, too, if he should find it soon.

Paranoia, Burt once said, is probably the only thing that’s going to make this experiment a success.

He remembered…

He’d taken the glass walkway to the Body Hall, through its doors, and arrived at the kitchen’s swivel doors, pausing to compose himself. If he were seen fretting, especially in those early years, who among the staff would still believe in him?

This was paramount then, as it was now: Pay the staff enough money to make them happy, but in the end they had to buy in. Had to think they believed in the Parenthood on their own.

Outside the kitchen that night, he polished the top button of his coat.

He entered.

C, hardly more than a baby, was alone on the kitchen floor, his back to the door, lifting plates from the open drying rack and stacking them on the floor to his right.

Richard stepped back into the shadows created by the wheeled plate racks and watched the small black boy in diapers carry out his task. He didn’t know if he should smile or scream. The boy’s methodology was beyond impressive.

Richard noted the resolve with which the boy studied the greater kitchen, possibly eyeing what else he could arrange. C was expressing key personality traits. Fearlessness: He’d crawled here alone. Productiveness: He’d completed a task. Ambition: He was looking for more to do. Imitation: He’d seen the dishwashers stacking the very same plates.

And free will, to boot. Richard felt proud as a parent.

But there was something terrible about it, too.

If C, as a baby, could so genuinely surprise him…what might happen when he grew up?

Enjoy this, for fuck’s sake, Richard thought. Enjoy the first signs that your experiment is working.

But how could he? C had made it out of his crib and into the kitchen. What would stop him, or any of the Alphabet Boys, from one day…going anywhere they pleased?

Anywhere at all?

Now, his nose to the cold glass of his quarters’ window, Richard stared far, to where the pines gave way to an open snowy path. Beyond that, Q, J, D, and L were walking through the Orchard.

Right?

“Spoiled,” Richard said aloud. But, no, not that. None of his boys were spoiled. And the two that had gone bad had been taken care of.

There was only one solution to spoiled.

Yes, Richard’s last line of defense. His ultimate deterrent for staff and boy alike. Just thinking the name of the room calmed him, reminded him that, if ever a boy learned of the existence of women, the Corner was there to be opened.

Paranoia…

He remembered…

Richard stepped out from the shadows of the plate racks and approached the boy.

C, hearing his D.A.D., looked up at him.

Richard smiled then as Richard smiled now, the sweet sounds of the cellos lubricating his nerves.

Study my face, C, for if ever your curiosity leads you astray, it will be this face that weeps, these lips that send you to the Corner.

He picked C up and brought the boy’s nose close to his own.

You’ve made your father very proud tonight.

But he wondered if the boy could detect his lie. He wondered if all the Alphabet Boys would one day detect his many lies….

But paranoia, Burt had also said, will be the Parenthood’s undoing in the end.

Now Richard made a fist and pounded the glass. He gave it one solid thwack and stepped from the snowy sight of the Yard.

He crossed his quarters, past his large oak desk, went to the bar, and quickly fixed a gin martini.

Burt had also suggested a dry tower. But Richard downed it in two swallows. Energized, he turned to face the windows again, the weather, the world he’d created.

Oh, the Basic Years were such beautiful days!

In Richard’s memory, the early epoch glowed. The illumination in the halls of the Parenthood was softer. The elevators ran quieter. The faces of the boys were the faces of the future. Richard’s vision had come to life.