IGMS Issue 8 (9 page)

February 8, 2039

The latest round of experts have looked at the DNA samples and come to the same conclusion: they're identical. That makes four confirmations in just over eight years.

I suppose I should be upset, but I'm philosophical. I've come to expect it. I don't know why I keep trying anymore. Marie and Paul certainly wouldn't care; they don't even know I'm doing it. And none of these doctors will contravene Aiken's findings; in a field that's still viewed with so much suspicion and antipathy, they all stick together. The tests have become a hobby of mine, for lack of a better word. Every time I get another team of scientists to do the comparison, I have fresh hope that some technological advance will lead to a breakthrough, that some idealistic young clinician will have the courage to stand up to his or her peers, that I'll finally get an answer, and some closure.

I need to put it aside for now. I have Paul this weekend, and Sunday night, I have a business dinner with Eric. He's flying in for the occasion. He says he wants to discuss my career. It seems somehow wrong that some hotshot agent fifteen years my junior gets to give me career advice. Still, I have to admit he's done all right by me thus far, so I suppose I'll put that aside, too.

I'm hoping for some good news. I could use it.

He met Eric Kramer for dinner at Ferlinghetti's, in the downtown market district. Eric had already been seated by the time John arrived. The hostess escorted him to a table in a darkened corner of the dining room.

Eric sat sipping at his customary Scotch. Instead of his usual power suit, he wore a white button-down shirt, open at the collar, and dark slacks. His thick head of curly hair and mustache, so completely devoid of gray, always reminded John of the way his own hair got more snowy every day. He had confessed this nowhere but in his diary.

Grinning, Eric stood and shook John's hand. "Running a little late?"

"Had to drop Paul off at his mother's."

"Oh." Eric's grin tactfully downshifted. "Everything all right?"

They sat. A waiter approached the table and handed John a menu. He ordered a martini, and the waiter departed.

"More or less," John said. "We got into an argument when I kicked him off the computer so I could work. He sulked the rest of the weekend. And Marie seemed a little irritated that I brought him home a day early." In truth, she'd looked very tired, her face pale and deeply lined.

"He has an interest in computers now? That's encouraging."

"He's already tried cracking the school network with a handheld. Somehow he got hold of encryption-breaking software. Wanted to wipe the network with a virus, I understand. Marie had to take his handheld away from him."

Eric's smile faded. "Sorry, John."

The martini arrived. The two of them ordered their dinners. After the waiter departed, John took a bracing swallow of his drink. "It's all right. At least when he's hacking, he's not getting into fights." From a breast pocket, he produced a golden optical disk. "Here. Finished the draft yesterday."

He could have just transmitted it, but he enjoyed the way Eric's eyes lit, so like a child's, when he handed him a new novel.

Eric's grin resurfaced. "You finished it, eh? That's terrific. I'll transmit it to Kelso tomorrow morning."

"See if you can get him to ease up a little this time, will you? He was awfully heavy-handed editing the last one. Proofing the galleys was a nightmare."

Eric took the disk from him. "I'll take care of it. No problem."

"You know, you always say that. How do you stay so positive, working in this business?"

"Simple. I have one of the best writers in the country as my client."

"I'll bet you say that to all your clients."

Still grinning, he put the disk in his briefcase. "Keeping writers happy is my job." He returned the briefcase to the floor. "Let's talk about the future. How do you like working with Fidelis Media?"

"Aside from Kelso's overactive blue pencil, you mean?"

"Your overall impression."

"Their advances have been a little stingy. But it's a good house with a good reputation. I don't have any complaints about distribution or royalty payments."

"I'm glad to hear you say that." Eric nodded toward his briefcase on the floor. "This is the last book under the current contract. You're right; Fidelis has been a bit stingy. But that's only because at the time we hammered out that deal, you were just getting back into the business after a long layoff. You didn't have a recent track record. So Fidelis hedged their bets. I knew it then, and I advised you to sign, anyway. As you said, Fidelis is a solid house." He leaned forward. "But the situation's different now. The last two novels have been bestsellers. If this new book sells like I think it will, we'll have all the muscle we need to push Fidelis for a deal that will guarantee your security."

John inhaled deeply and took another drink. "What does that mean?"

"It means going for a six-book deal. Somewhere in the eight-figure range."

John set his martini down hard enough to slop some of it onto the table. "What did you say?"

"The negotiations will take several months, maybe as much as a year. Fidelis will drag their feet, stall, try to sweat us out. But in the end, I think they'll give us what we want."

John only stared at him.

"Or we could go wide. You could undoubtedly lock up a quicker deal elsewhere -- possibly a very good one, maybe seven figures -- but no other house has the resources Fidelis has, or as much willingness to invest for the long term. Fidelis is my recommendation, but it's your choice."

A strange numbness suffused John, as if he'd been detached from his senses. In the ensuing silence, the waiter brought them their salads. The bowls of greens sat untouched.

John said, "Have you ever negotiated that kind of deal before?"

"I've nailed a couple of big ones, but this would be the biggest by far."

"You seem very confident."

"Writing is what you do, John, and you do it very well." He cocked a thumb at himself. "Negotiating is what
I
do, and I'm telling you that the time for this move is now. Give me your go-ahead to start laying the groundwork."

John thought of Marie and Paul, of the emotional roller coaster he had ridden during the divorce, of the way he had almost given up writing for the second time in the dark months after they had left. It all felt like a different life, one led by another man. The feeling somehow comforted him.

He raised the remains of his martini. "Make me proud, Eric."

They clinked glasses and drank, then dug into their salads.

May 12, 2039

No. Please, no.

John emerged from the shower that morning to find the message light blinking on his phone. Still dripping, a towel wrapped around his waist, he played the message back -- a voice mail from Jackie, Marie's sister. Hearing her voice gave John a turn; he hadn't spoken to Jackie since the divorce.

"John, Marie's been in the hospital since last night. Paul is with her. She wants to see you. You should probably get there today. She's at Saint Joseph's, room 1430."

John throat closed. Marie hadn't looked at all well the last time he'd seen her.

He called Eric to let him know he had to cancel the trip to New York, then hastily dressed and headed for Saint Joseph's. He got to the hospital around 9:30. The fourteenth floor, he discovered, housed the oncology unit.

He found Paul in a waiting room, seated alone in a corner, watching a television running old cartoons. Jackie was there, too. She had gained a lot of weight since he'd last seen her; she looked to be well over 250. But then, she'd had four children. Two of them were with her -- one a toddler and the other perhaps five years old. They made a lot of noise fighting over toys in the play area. Jackie wasbusy trying to quiet them, and could only glance at John when he entered. The older two were in school, he guessed.

As usual, Paul was dressed all in black. A cluster of acne marked one temple. He'd gotten so tall lately; his long legs stuck out awkwardly. As John sat next to him, he stiffened, scowling, his mouth drawn tight.

"Paul? How are you doing? Are you all right?"

He crossed his arms, glowering at the television. "What are you doing here?"

"Your aunt told me your mom was here."

"So? What do you care?"

"I care a great deal if your mom's sick. How is she?"

"She's fine. She'll be out of here tomorrow. You can go home."

Jackie had corralled the toddler -- Amy, her name was, if John's memory served -- and told the older one in a stern voice to settle down.

"I don't think they'd put your mother in the oncology unit if she were fine. Talk to me."

Paul scowled in silence.

John touched his arm. "Paul, please."

Paul shook the hand away and for the first time turned to him. His features twisted; his eyes shone. "She's dying. She has breast cancer. All right? Happy now?"

John's breath stopped for several seconds. Jackie's five-year-old complained that he was bored, when could they go home?

"Cancer?" He could think of nothing else to say.

"She's had it for the past two years. It got into her -- what do you call 'em -- lymph nodes. The frigging doctors are telling us she won't last the week. They got her doped up on morphine. She sleeps a lot."

John covered his eyes with one hand.

He heard Paul stand. "I'm gonna get a soda," he said. Then he was gone.

John remained seated with his eyes covered for an unknown time. Commercial jingles emanated from the television.

A hand touched his shoulder. He looked up.

Jackie stood over him, her round face grave, her eyes bloodshot. She still held her wriggling toddler in one arm. "Thanks for coming so fast."

"She never told me, Jackie. Two years and she never told me. Why?"

"I kept telling her that she should, but she never listened. Now, of all times, she's changed her mind."

"How is she?"

"She's heavily medicated for the pain. She fades in and out. But she keeps fighting it. When she's awake, she's lucid."

"What . . . what can I do?"

"If you'll keep an eye on the kids for a few minutes, I'll check on her. See if she's awake."

"Sure." He held out his hands for little Amy. She shook her head and clung to her mother. Jackie peeled her off and set her in John's lap. Amy promptly climbed down and headed toward her brother in the play area. Jackie favored John with a tight smile and exited the waiting room.

The children took an interest in large colored blocks from a toy box. The five-year-old -- Isaac, was it? -- attempted to build towers, while Amy just banged them against the carpet and each other.

Shock settled into John's bones. His mind blanked.

Paul returned, a bottle of cola in one hand. When she saw him, Amy promptly raised her arms to be held, but Paul shook his head and took his seat, turned pointedly away from John.

Normally, he wouldn't try to engage Paul, but he needed to talk. He voiced the first inanity that came to mind. "How's school?"

"We're doing
Frankenstein
in English class."