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Authors: Susan Kaye Quinn
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open. The screech makes me want to cover my ears.
He shuffles inside. I hazard a guess. “Mr. Brodsky?”
“Yes, yes. Come on.” He wants me to get into the cage with him, and now that I’m reasonably sure I’m in the right place, I’d just as soon get on with it. I have further plans for tonight, and they don’t involve Brodsky Electronics. He closes the cage, and the wooden floor of the elevator lurches us upward. The second floor lights up and then shuts off as we pass it. The flash of illumination shows a scene that’s straight out of a horror movie: hacked off arms, dangling torsos, and I’m certain I saw a head sitting on a table. It’s lost in the murk as we glide up to the third floor and jerk to a stop.
The lights flicker on and this floor is less morbid, but still creepy. Large, bulbous magnifying glasses reach out on spindly arms from shiny tables that look like they came from a morgue. The tables play host to a multitude of strangely shaped devices, some metallic, some flesh-colored. Banks of computer screens and boxes of tools, both electronic and mechanical, crowd the rest of the small space. The lights are only half-lit, a checkerboard of panels across the ceiling, making the room dim with multiple shadows.
Mr. Brodsky pulls off his telescopic goggles and places them on top of a pile of what looks like toes. I cringe as I realize the workbench is littered with them: some propped on metallic bones, some attached to feet fallen sideways, as if their owner took them off and discarded them like shoes. They look realistic enough to be my own toes, chopped off and sprinkled on the benchtop. There’s no blood, and I’m hoping they’re the cybernetic kind. That's what supposedly put the CEO of Brodsky Electronics at the top of the “high potentials” list for today.
Mr. Brodsky shucks back the hood of his bunny suit, revealing the unnaturally youthful face I first saw on Candy’s palm screen. I bring up my palm recorder to get his consent. He has one on file, but I want to send it to Candy, so she knows I paid out. Especially since I plan to drop off the grid for a while and do something my psych officer would definitely not approve of.
I hold up my palm. “I need to record your acceptance of the transfer, Mr. Brodsky.”
His eyes—green and blue—are both trained on me. Something mechanical moves within Mr. Brodsky’s green eye, and I lean away. I have the strangest feeling that he sees something I don’t want him to.
“How much do you have for me, son?” he asks.
“I… um…” Payoffs don’t usually ask about the extra weeks; they’re mostly interested in the boost from the hit. They’re addicts, just like me, only a little higher brow. “About three weeks, sir.”
“Three weeks. Three weeks.” His mumbles aren’t for me. He shoves aside some toes on the benchtop and presses his hands into the smooth black stone. “Not enough. Not enough.” He bangs a clenched hand, quietly, like he’s crushing the idea of three weeks under his fist. “It will have to be enough.”
“Enough for what, sir?”
He turns and jabs a bony finger at my palm, which is still hanging in the air, recording. “This!” He quickly touches my hand a few times before I have the sense to pull it back. “You got this when you joined the Agency, didn’t you?”
I frown. “It’s policy, sir.” This payoff is already more trouble than I expected, and now he’s asking personal questions. I grit my teeth and flip my hand over, thinking Mr. Brodsky’s light taps have messed up my recording. Instead he’s brought up a screen with a logo and some words. I stare stupidly at it. A capital S swooshes in a geometric shape with the words working today for a brighter tomorrow underneath.
“I designed that,” Mr. Brodsky says, pointing to my hand. I think he means the device, not the logo. His cool fingertips touch my right forearm, and I jerk back, not expecting it. “You have the tracker implant,
He shuffles inside. I hazard a guess. “Mr. Brodsky?”
“Yes, yes. Come on.” He wants me to get into the cage with him, and now that I’m reasonably sure I’m in the right place, I’d just as soon get on with it. I have further plans for tonight, and they don’t involve Brodsky Electronics. He closes the cage, and the wooden floor of the elevator lurches us upward. The second floor lights up and then shuts off as we pass it. The flash of illumination shows a scene that’s straight out of a horror movie: hacked off arms, dangling torsos, and I’m certain I saw a head sitting on a table. It’s lost in the murk as we glide up to the third floor and jerk to a stop.
The lights flicker on and this floor is less morbid, but still creepy. Large, bulbous magnifying glasses reach out on spindly arms from shiny tables that look like they came from a morgue. The tables play host to a multitude of strangely shaped devices, some metallic, some flesh-colored. Banks of computer screens and boxes of tools, both electronic and mechanical, crowd the rest of the small space. The lights are only half-lit, a checkerboard of panels across the ceiling, making the room dim with multiple shadows.
Mr. Brodsky pulls off his telescopic goggles and places them on top of a pile of what looks like toes. I cringe as I realize the workbench is littered with them: some propped on metallic bones, some attached to feet fallen sideways, as if their owner took them off and discarded them like shoes. They look realistic enough to be my own toes, chopped off and sprinkled on the benchtop. There’s no blood, and I’m hoping they’re the cybernetic kind. That's what supposedly put the CEO of Brodsky Electronics at the top of the “high potentials” list for today.
Mr. Brodsky shucks back the hood of his bunny suit, revealing the unnaturally youthful face I first saw on Candy’s palm screen. I bring up my palm recorder to get his consent. He has one on file, but I want to send it to Candy, so she knows I paid out. Especially since I plan to drop off the grid for a while and do something my psych officer would definitely not approve of.
I hold up my palm. “I need to record your acceptance of the transfer, Mr. Brodsky.”
His eyes—green and blue—are both trained on me. Something mechanical moves within Mr. Brodsky’s green eye, and I lean away. I have the strangest feeling that he sees something I don’t want him to.
“How much do you have for me, son?” he asks.
“I… um…” Payoffs don’t usually ask about the extra weeks; they’re mostly interested in the boost from the hit. They’re addicts, just like me, only a little higher brow. “About three weeks, sir.”
“Three weeks. Three weeks.” His mumbles aren’t for me. He shoves aside some toes on the benchtop and presses his hands into the smooth black stone. “Not enough. Not enough.” He bangs a clenched hand, quietly, like he’s crushing the idea of three weeks under his fist. “It will have to be enough.”
“Enough for what, sir?”
He turns and jabs a bony finger at my palm, which is still hanging in the air, recording. “This!” He quickly touches my hand a few times before I have the sense to pull it back. “You got this when you joined the Agency, didn’t you?”
I frown. “It’s policy, sir.” This payoff is already more trouble than I expected, and now he’s asking personal questions. I grit my teeth and flip my hand over, thinking Mr. Brodsky’s light taps have messed up my recording. Instead he’s brought up a screen with a logo and some words. I stare stupidly at it. A capital S swooshes in a geometric shape with the words working today for a brighter tomorrow underneath.
“I designed that,” Mr. Brodsky says, pointing to my hand. I think he means the device, not the logo. His cool fingertips touch my right forearm, and I jerk back, not expecting it. “You have the tracker implant,
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