Zombie Robot Apocalypse - what I have so far
On Wednesday, he ran over someone's dog.
The owner, an old lady, started to cry, but Melissa helped her and the dog into the car, and they drove to the emergency vet and then, somehow, he never saw the lady again - he thought the Conclave had probably taken care of it, because Melissa was involved.
“Listen,” he said, trying to keep his voice modulated below the level of various upset cats and dogs, “What did they do to you?”
Melissa regarded him, placid as an ancient statue. “We have entered phase two. I am to act as human as I know how.”
“But I thought you don't remember how you were when you were alive,” he said. “How do you know?”
“I have been observing,” she said.
Jon thought about this for a few moments, trying to ignore the baleful stare of a cat with a plastic cone around its head.
She was getting better at reading his facial expressions, because she touched his hand, more carefully than she had in the car. That was what had caused him to miss (so to speak) the dog in the first place. “You believe observation is not sufficient?”
“I just... I think the office isn't the best place to pick up social cues...” He found it difficult to meet her eyes. They were the same eyes, he told himself. You didn't look into them and see an abyss or tiny Matrix numbers scrolling past. They were just eyes, and he forced himself to meet them, because that was what he was supposed to do, react to her normally. Probably the other people in the waiting room thought he was distressed about the dog and she was comforting him. Maybe they even thought she was his girlfriend, even though Melissa was visibly much older -
“I have been practicing,” she said, and in her voice there was the right amount of reassurance, of concern for his opinion. Jon did not move or dislodge her hand.
“Oh... well, you did good with the dog.” That much was true. She had been gentle.
Melissa smiled. It was not too wide, nor unnatural. “They gave me a dog to practice on,” she said, and sounded happy.
“What? Seriously?” Hastily, he corrected his reaction. “What's its name?”
“I call it Blackie.” Now she paused, which was more familiar, and he knew what would come next. “It is black.”
But that kind of thing could be shrugged off as eccentricity or a pedantic nature. Off of five minutes of conversation, no one would know the truth.
“That's a good name,” he said, pretending he had to scratch the side of his face so he could move his hand out from under hers. “Maybe you should put a picture of it on your desk. So when they ask what's happened to you, you can say the dog makes you happy. Because people are gonna notice, you know? Maybe they should have eased you into phase two?”
Melissa offered no comment or judgment. Doubtless the Conclave had its reasons, none of which would ever be conveyed to Jon. She had been instructed never to answer his questions about them. They gave him only two things: instructions and money.
“Will you have a special treatment on Friday?”
“No, it will be Wednesday, as usual.”
So they must be confident in Melissa's ability to pass. Or they were crazy. Jon had never been able to deduce which. It did not really matter to him. They had promised he would never be held accountable for anything. Still, from time to time, unease would set in, like now - now, with Melissa offering her dead fingers to a curious dog and the dog eagerly licking them. Shouldn't they be able to smell something about her? Dogs could detect tumors and seizures and shit like that, so why not her? But he knew next to nothing about the processes that animated Melissa. Perhaps it didn't matter to animals either. A human, a robot, a dead person - as long as it fed and walked and petted them, how would they know the difference?
“It's getting late,” Melissa said.
“The lady has my phone number... let's just go.”
* * * * *
“Hey, so what the fuck's up with Melissa.” It had been four minutes since their arrival. Jim was hanging over the edge of the cubicle, tie askew.
“We just carpool, dude,” Jon said without looking away from his screen. “We don't have heart to hearts.”
Jim smirked and waited.
“She got a dog,” Jon said at last, still not looking up.
“Woooow, a dog.” Jim drawled it with exactly the kind of sarcasm he probably thought was super witty. He was a walking parody. He belonged in a Dilbert strip. He was, Jon thought suddenly, less real than Melissa now, who was giving every appearance of being a functioning human being capable of both empathy and sympathy. Right now Jim was droning on and on, and Jon could mentally replace his voice with that of every adult in a Charlie Brown cartoon. Wah wah wah, who drank all the coffee, wah wah wah, why do women only like jerks, I'm too nice, wah wah wah.
“Got some work to do, man,” he said, vague and indistinct because he was good at tuning Jim out.
“Nose to the grindstone, wah wah wah,” Jim said, and left.
* * * * *
Jon was passing the break room when he heard someone say, “A dog coated in LSD, maybe!” Cue halfhearted laugh. It wasn't even Jim, it was some other asshole he spoke to as little as possible.
Instead of walking in to make everyone shut up and feel awkward, he just imagined Melissa at home with the dog. She lived in an apartment, but he had never even seen the inside of the building, he only dropped her off every night and picked her up every morning. He imagined the apartment was not decorated much, but the Conclave probably stuck some fake pictures on the coffee table and non-perishable food in the pantry. They seemed thoughtful and thorough like that. He imagined the bed was neatly made and had never been slept in, the toilet never cleaned because it too was never used, a TV that Melissa watched intently, learning mannerisms from late night advertisements and pet food commercials. Her secret life, or lack thereof.
As if sensing his technically prohibited line of thought, he returned to find an e-mail from the Conclave waiting for him. To: jonathanzielinski@diareindustries.com
From: donotreply@conclavia.org
Subject: Report #54
This week marks the beginning of Phase Two. Please submit a detailed report by Monday 12:00 AM, paying special attention to differences in workplace dynamics.
Some weeks he had very little to send them. The office had, over the past year, become accustomed to Melissa’s general lack of emotion or sociability; they probably appreciated her greater efficiency and reliability. There were jokes, then as now, but only Jon and the manager were aware of what was going on. In fact, he wasn’t entirely sure the manager knew, either. She was the one who had chosen Jon as the proxy, but she seemed to think Melissa was disabled or autistic. The few people with whom he’d discussed Melissa thought that, too. Who would believe otherwise? He had looked at the Conclave’s website once, reading their promises of a brighter future full of medical processes to regenerate tissue, enhance cerebral activity, and create better prosthetic limbs. It was funny how little press they got. Perhaps everyone who worked for them had to sign non-disclosure agreements, as he had. Perhaps everyone who worked for them really needed the money that badly, as he did.
What will you do for money when the Melissa experiment is finished and thousands of Melissas flood the work force? That voice sounded a little like Jim. But he answered himself as he always had: Melissa needs someone to direct her. She might be able to do the same job a living person does better and more reliably and also for longer hours and no sick days or vacation or need for insurance or safety regulations, but…
But she’s expensive. This won’t happen for years, they can’t make enough like her. And she can only follow instructions, she can’t think for herself. And anyway, I need the money now, I can’t worry about what might or might not happen in a couple of years.
Look at her telling Anne about her dog…
* * * * *
“Jon, I require your assistance.” The formality of her wording made him turn sharply toward Melissa, who stood in the doorway of his cubicle, dumpy and sad-looking as usual. The Conclave dressed her appropriate to her appearance, which was somebody’s mom. She would have looked at home in a kitten sweater, though in fact it was just a dull gray pantsuit.
“Are you…?” It wasn’t like smoke was pouring out her ears, but she looked tired, which was, as far as he knew, not actually a possible state for her. So probably this was acting.
A few cubicles down, he heard Jim talking loudly. “Cillian Murphy? You like ‘em girly, huh?”
Anne said, “He was pretty scary in that zombie movie.” Her tone of voice said: scarier than you, Jim.
Melissa said, “I need to go to treatment.”
“That wasn’t really zombies, you know. That was some disease.”
“Well, he was pretty tough there.”
“Okay, let me go tell Karen.” Jon said, trying to block out the other conversation.
Melissa nodded as Jim said, “You know, he was probably covered in shit.”
“What?”
“I mean he wasn’t really a zombie, so his body was still functioning, right? But he was crazy so he probably never went to the bathroom, he probably just shit his pants.”
No, Jon thought as he passed his co-workers, the Conclave would have instructed her otherwise.
“I think you will find, Jim, that it is you who are covered in -”
Karen was out of the office, so Jon left her a note.
* * * * *
He spent the first half hour in the car, but eventually he actually entered the lobby to see if there were any magazines.
The receptionist did not look up until almost two hours later, when Jon approached the desk.
“Excuse me,” he said, hating the tentativeness of his voice.
The man looked at him without expression, expectant but silent.
“Should I just leave, and come back later? Or do you know how long this will take?”
“I’ll call in and ask.” Turning away from John, the receptionist adjusted his headset and spoke in a low, clipped voice, quite briefly. “Yes, you may leave. After Melissa’s treatment, we will transport her home. We will contact you if there are any delays.”
Jon nodded, a little annoyed he hadn’t been told this two hours ago. “Okay, thanks. Do you know what’s wrong?”
“That’s not your concern.” The answer came smooth and clear, like the man had been expecting it. “Please review your contract if you have any further questions.”
“I mean that people may ask where she’s gone and why she left,” Jon said, more sharply than he’d intended.
“Use your own discretion. It is not our concern.”
The man met his eyes and did not blink or waver.
“I think, as the person who’s been looking out for her for the past year, I have a right to just a scrap of information about whatever the fuck’s going on.”
“You are incorrect.” The receptionist said it without the slightest hint of snottiness. It had been neutral and calm. “Excuse me, I have a call.”
He turned away again, and after a moment, Jon left.
* * * * *
Karen would not know, and possibly not care that he could have come back to work; Conclave matters tended to get him a pass at work, something which he tried not to take too much advantage of, and it was a Friday anyway. He went home, still irritated by the stonewalling. By a receptionist! Who spoke as if he represented the entire fucking company. How much skill did you need to be a receptionist? People used automated systems to answer phone calls all the time, and computers with maps. Maybe the receptionist was dead, too. That would be the world’s most expensive automated response system, but great marketing.
Not that the Conclave did much of that. In fact, only a few articles came up on Google, and most were just paraphrased copies of one or two original ones by the same journalist, someone named Jamie Swanwick. With a bit more searching, he found an e-mail address.
Within a few hours, Jon received a response. Swanwick was unwilling to share information over e-mail or phone, but he could meet Jon for a drink after work the following Monday.
The contract had said simply that his questions would not be answered. It did not say that he would be penalized for doing investigation of his own. And Swanwick lived in the same city. It would be stupid not to at least ask him some questions.
* * * * *
He’d expected a bar, but the address actually was a sidewalk café. It was busy, full of enough young couples to make him feel awkward. As he got out of his car, he noticed a dog lying at a woman’s feet, staring at him. The woman, a lady with short black hair, glanced up from the menu.
“Jonathan Zielinski?” She was brisk but polite, and stood up to shake his hand once he nodded. “Pleased to meet you. I don’t know how much help I’ll be, but I’ll try.”
“Well, thanks anyway. It’s not really important, I guess, but it’s difficult to find information about the Conclave.”
Jamie nodded, looking back at the menu. Despite her insistence on meeting in person, she did not seem tense or nervous. “Yeah, there’s a reason for that. Before we get into that, though, I’d like to ask you what your interest in the Conclave is. Other than the bullshit you put in that e-mail, I mean.”
He looked down at the dog as if he were trying to figure out the breed rather than avoiding her eyes. “Uh… “ Definitely some kind of mix. It was really generic-looking, the kind of dog he’d seen a thousand times before. “It wasn’t really bullshit. I do want to know if they’ve been in legal trouble and everything, it’s just that - well, I work for them.”
She nodded again, unsurprised. “And they won’t give you any info.”
“That’s the agreement, I knew that when I signed on, but I’ve been working for them for over a year now, and I’m just. Worried.” He was surprised to realize that was true, even if he was also annoyed.
“Because they’re doing some big things but nobody’s talking about it.” Jamie continued, signaling a waiter.
“Yeah.”
“Because it’s a good paycheck but maybe you feel guilty about what’s to come.” Now he couldn’t look away, though there was nothing judgmental in her gaze. When he didn’t answer, other than to make a vague noise of agreement, she leaned across the table to speak in a lower voice. “Well, I’ve spoken to people like you. I think I have a pretty good idea of what the Conclave does, but not that much more than you. The fact is, I got all my information from an inside source. I think he’d be willing to talk to you.”
Jon was startled enough that he shook his head at the waiter, waiting for him to leave. “Someone… would actually talk to me about what they do? Why?”
“He doesn’t work for them anymore, and he’s sympathetic to the people that the management is going to screw over. He’ll talk to you.” She took a folded piece of paper from her blazer pocket and pushed it over the table toward Jon.
“Just call ahead and ask. I don’t think I have to tell you to be discreet. You probably need whatever they’re paying you, right?” Jamie smiled, an odd and slightly bitter expression, and her gaze slid away for a moment. “We all need things. You talk to him. He’ll tell you what you want to know.”
* * * * *
Sam Arctor had sounded like a grandfather on the phone, and looked like one too, welcoming Jon into his cluttered but expensive apartment with offers of coffee or tea.
“My goodness, I should just make a PowerPoint presentation,” he said with cheerful dismissiveness, leading Jon to a comfortable leather armchair before disappearing into the kitchen for many awkward minutes. When he returned, it was with the promised coffee and an honest to god plate of cookies.
“So this… happens a lot?” Jon tried not to feel let down. Like he was so fucking clever that he’d be the only one who ever tried to figure out what went on in the Conclave.
“Oh, no, no, not too much.” Sam made a vague, self-deprecating gesture. “But as they grow closer and closer to phase five, they of course have to use more and more people -”
“Phase five?” It had been a week since he hit the dog.
“Yes, phase five for the overall company,” Sam said with pleasant obliviousness. “Mass socializing a great number of potentials to ready them for various industries. Not all of them will pan out, of course, and those that don’t will be relegated to less socially-dependent work… or would you prefer oatmeal raisin?”
It took Jon a moment. “No, uh, these are great,” he said, knowing he sounded completely unenthusiastic. “Wait, so you were pretty high up in the company? Didn’t you sign non-disclosure agreements too?”
Sam smiled, again with a hint of self-deprecation. “Legally, I cannot give you this information, no. It will never be published and you will never share it. But the management… understands, I think, that the wheels of progress do require, from time to time, a little grease. If I speak out, I will be discredited and ruined. If you speak out, you will lose a great deal of money you need very badly, and you’d find it difficult to get another job, for mysterious reasons. So we will stay quiet. But between you and me, it would be nice to know some things, don’t you think?”
Jon stared.
“I had my friend who's still with the company pull your file,” Sam continued, taking a slim folder from the coffee table. “I'm retired but I still keep abreast of what goes on, you see. It's very sad, about your mother. One day, pancreatic cancer will be more easily detected much earlier... but in any case,
ROUGH OUTLINE FOR THE REST:
- The retired scientist answers some of his questions and provides dialogue re: ramifications of golems/robots/zombies like Melissa.
- The Conclave offers (not directly) to kill and revive Jon’s mother, who is dying of pancreatic cancer, and Jon accepts.
The owner, an old lady, started to cry, but Melissa helped her and the dog into the car, and they drove to the emergency vet and then, somehow, he never saw the lady again - he thought the Conclave had probably taken care of it, because Melissa was involved.
“Listen,” he said, trying to keep his voice modulated below the level of various upset cats and dogs, “What did they do to you?”
Melissa regarded him, placid as an ancient statue. “We have entered phase two. I am to act as human as I know how.”
“But I thought you don't remember how you were when you were alive,” he said. “How do you know?”
“I have been observing,” she said.
Jon thought about this for a few moments, trying to ignore the baleful stare of a cat with a plastic cone around its head.
She was getting better at reading his facial expressions, because she touched his hand, more carefully than she had in the car. That was what had caused him to miss (so to speak) the dog in the first place. “You believe observation is not sufficient?”
“I just... I think the office isn't the best place to pick up social cues...” He found it difficult to meet her eyes. They were the same eyes, he told himself. You didn't look into them and see an abyss or tiny Matrix numbers scrolling past. They were just eyes, and he forced himself to meet them, because that was what he was supposed to do, react to her normally. Probably the other people in the waiting room thought he was distressed about the dog and she was comforting him. Maybe they even thought she was his girlfriend, even though Melissa was visibly much older -
“I have been practicing,” she said, and in her voice there was the right amount of reassurance, of concern for his opinion. Jon did not move or dislodge her hand.
“Oh... well, you did good with the dog.” That much was true. She had been gentle.
Melissa smiled. It was not too wide, nor unnatural. “They gave me a dog to practice on,” she said, and sounded happy.
“What? Seriously?” Hastily, he corrected his reaction. “What's its name?”
“I call it Blackie.” Now she paused, which was more familiar, and he knew what would come next. “It is black.”
But that kind of thing could be shrugged off as eccentricity or a pedantic nature. Off of five minutes of conversation, no one would know the truth.
“That's a good name,” he said, pretending he had to scratch the side of his face so he could move his hand out from under hers. “Maybe you should put a picture of it on your desk. So when they ask what's happened to you, you can say the dog makes you happy. Because people are gonna notice, you know? Maybe they should have eased you into phase two?”
Melissa offered no comment or judgment. Doubtless the Conclave had its reasons, none of which would ever be conveyed to Jon. She had been instructed never to answer his questions about them. They gave him only two things: instructions and money.
“Will you have a special treatment on Friday?”
“No, it will be Wednesday, as usual.”
So they must be confident in Melissa's ability to pass. Or they were crazy. Jon had never been able to deduce which. It did not really matter to him. They had promised he would never be held accountable for anything. Still, from time to time, unease would set in, like now - now, with Melissa offering her dead fingers to a curious dog and the dog eagerly licking them. Shouldn't they be able to smell something about her? Dogs could detect tumors and seizures and shit like that, so why not her? But he knew next to nothing about the processes that animated Melissa. Perhaps it didn't matter to animals either. A human, a robot, a dead person - as long as it fed and walked and petted them, how would they know the difference?
“It's getting late,” Melissa said.
“The lady has my phone number... let's just go.”
* * * * *
“Hey, so what the fuck's up with Melissa.” It had been four minutes since their arrival. Jim was hanging over the edge of the cubicle, tie askew.
“We just carpool, dude,” Jon said without looking away from his screen. “We don't have heart to hearts.”
Jim smirked and waited.
“She got a dog,” Jon said at last, still not looking up.
“Woooow, a dog.” Jim drawled it with exactly the kind of sarcasm he probably thought was super witty. He was a walking parody. He belonged in a Dilbert strip. He was, Jon thought suddenly, less real than Melissa now, who was giving every appearance of being a functioning human being capable of both empathy and sympathy. Right now Jim was droning on and on, and Jon could mentally replace his voice with that of every adult in a Charlie Brown cartoon. Wah wah wah, who drank all the coffee, wah wah wah, why do women only like jerks, I'm too nice, wah wah wah.
“Got some work to do, man,” he said, vague and indistinct because he was good at tuning Jim out.
“Nose to the grindstone, wah wah wah,” Jim said, and left.
* * * * *
Jon was passing the break room when he heard someone say, “A dog coated in LSD, maybe!” Cue halfhearted laugh. It wasn't even Jim, it was some other asshole he spoke to as little as possible.
Instead of walking in to make everyone shut up and feel awkward, he just imagined Melissa at home with the dog. She lived in an apartment, but he had never even seen the inside of the building, he only dropped her off every night and picked her up every morning. He imagined the apartment was not decorated much, but the Conclave probably stuck some fake pictures on the coffee table and non-perishable food in the pantry. They seemed thoughtful and thorough like that. He imagined the bed was neatly made and had never been slept in, the toilet never cleaned because it too was never used, a TV that Melissa watched intently, learning mannerisms from late night advertisements and pet food commercials. Her secret life, or lack thereof.
As if sensing his technically prohibited line of thought, he returned to find an e-mail from the Conclave waiting for him. To: jonathanzielinski@diareindustries.com
From: donotreply@conclavia.org
Subject: Report #54
This week marks the beginning of Phase Two. Please submit a detailed report by Monday 12:00 AM, paying special attention to differences in workplace dynamics.
Some weeks he had very little to send them. The office had, over the past year, become accustomed to Melissa’s general lack of emotion or sociability; they probably appreciated her greater efficiency and reliability. There were jokes, then as now, but only Jon and the manager were aware of what was going on. In fact, he wasn’t entirely sure the manager knew, either. She was the one who had chosen Jon as the proxy, but she seemed to think Melissa was disabled or autistic. The few people with whom he’d discussed Melissa thought that, too. Who would believe otherwise? He had looked at the Conclave’s website once, reading their promises of a brighter future full of medical processes to regenerate tissue, enhance cerebral activity, and create better prosthetic limbs. It was funny how little press they got. Perhaps everyone who worked for them had to sign non-disclosure agreements, as he had. Perhaps everyone who worked for them really needed the money that badly, as he did.
What will you do for money when the Melissa experiment is finished and thousands of Melissas flood the work force? That voice sounded a little like Jim. But he answered himself as he always had: Melissa needs someone to direct her. She might be able to do the same job a living person does better and more reliably and also for longer hours and no sick days or vacation or need for insurance or safety regulations, but…
But she’s expensive. This won’t happen for years, they can’t make enough like her. And she can only follow instructions, she can’t think for herself. And anyway, I need the money now, I can’t worry about what might or might not happen in a couple of years.
Look at her telling Anne about her dog…
* * * * *
“Jon, I require your assistance.” The formality of her wording made him turn sharply toward Melissa, who stood in the doorway of his cubicle, dumpy and sad-looking as usual. The Conclave dressed her appropriate to her appearance, which was somebody’s mom. She would have looked at home in a kitten sweater, though in fact it was just a dull gray pantsuit.
“Are you…?” It wasn’t like smoke was pouring out her ears, but she looked tired, which was, as far as he knew, not actually a possible state for her. So probably this was acting.
A few cubicles down, he heard Jim talking loudly. “Cillian Murphy? You like ‘em girly, huh?”
Anne said, “He was pretty scary in that zombie movie.” Her tone of voice said: scarier than you, Jim.
Melissa said, “I need to go to treatment.”
“That wasn’t really zombies, you know. That was some disease.”
“Well, he was pretty tough there.”
“Okay, let me go tell Karen.” Jon said, trying to block out the other conversation.
Melissa nodded as Jim said, “You know, he was probably covered in shit.”
“What?”
“I mean he wasn’t really a zombie, so his body was still functioning, right? But he was crazy so he probably never went to the bathroom, he probably just shit his pants.”
No, Jon thought as he passed his co-workers, the Conclave would have instructed her otherwise.
“I think you will find, Jim, that it is you who are covered in -”
Karen was out of the office, so Jon left her a note.
* * * * *
He spent the first half hour in the car, but eventually he actually entered the lobby to see if there were any magazines.
The receptionist did not look up until almost two hours later, when Jon approached the desk.
“Excuse me,” he said, hating the tentativeness of his voice.
The man looked at him without expression, expectant but silent.
“Should I just leave, and come back later? Or do you know how long this will take?”
“I’ll call in and ask.” Turning away from John, the receptionist adjusted his headset and spoke in a low, clipped voice, quite briefly. “Yes, you may leave. After Melissa’s treatment, we will transport her home. We will contact you if there are any delays.”
Jon nodded, a little annoyed he hadn’t been told this two hours ago. “Okay, thanks. Do you know what’s wrong?”
“That’s not your concern.” The answer came smooth and clear, like the man had been expecting it. “Please review your contract if you have any further questions.”
“I mean that people may ask where she’s gone and why she left,” Jon said, more sharply than he’d intended.
“Use your own discretion. It is not our concern.”
The man met his eyes and did not blink or waver.
“I think, as the person who’s been looking out for her for the past year, I have a right to just a scrap of information about whatever the fuck’s going on.”
“You are incorrect.” The receptionist said it without the slightest hint of snottiness. It had been neutral and calm. “Excuse me, I have a call.”
He turned away again, and after a moment, Jon left.
* * * * *
Karen would not know, and possibly not care that he could have come back to work; Conclave matters tended to get him a pass at work, something which he tried not to take too much advantage of, and it was a Friday anyway. He went home, still irritated by the stonewalling. By a receptionist! Who spoke as if he represented the entire fucking company. How much skill did you need to be a receptionist? People used automated systems to answer phone calls all the time, and computers with maps. Maybe the receptionist was dead, too. That would be the world’s most expensive automated response system, but great marketing.
Not that the Conclave did much of that. In fact, only a few articles came up on Google, and most were just paraphrased copies of one or two original ones by the same journalist, someone named Jamie Swanwick. With a bit more searching, he found an e-mail address.
Within a few hours, Jon received a response. Swanwick was unwilling to share information over e-mail or phone, but he could meet Jon for a drink after work the following Monday.
The contract had said simply that his questions would not be answered. It did not say that he would be penalized for doing investigation of his own. And Swanwick lived in the same city. It would be stupid not to at least ask him some questions.
* * * * *
He’d expected a bar, but the address actually was a sidewalk café. It was busy, full of enough young couples to make him feel awkward. As he got out of his car, he noticed a dog lying at a woman’s feet, staring at him. The woman, a lady with short black hair, glanced up from the menu.
“Jonathan Zielinski?” She was brisk but polite, and stood up to shake his hand once he nodded. “Pleased to meet you. I don’t know how much help I’ll be, but I’ll try.”
“Well, thanks anyway. It’s not really important, I guess, but it’s difficult to find information about the Conclave.”
Jamie nodded, looking back at the menu. Despite her insistence on meeting in person, she did not seem tense or nervous. “Yeah, there’s a reason for that. Before we get into that, though, I’d like to ask you what your interest in the Conclave is. Other than the bullshit you put in that e-mail, I mean.”
He looked down at the dog as if he were trying to figure out the breed rather than avoiding her eyes. “Uh… “ Definitely some kind of mix. It was really generic-looking, the kind of dog he’d seen a thousand times before. “It wasn’t really bullshit. I do want to know if they’ve been in legal trouble and everything, it’s just that - well, I work for them.”
She nodded again, unsurprised. “And they won’t give you any info.”
“That’s the agreement, I knew that when I signed on, but I’ve been working for them for over a year now, and I’m just. Worried.” He was surprised to realize that was true, even if he was also annoyed.
“Because they’re doing some big things but nobody’s talking about it.” Jamie continued, signaling a waiter.
“Yeah.”
“Because it’s a good paycheck but maybe you feel guilty about what’s to come.” Now he couldn’t look away, though there was nothing judgmental in her gaze. When he didn’t answer, other than to make a vague noise of agreement, she leaned across the table to speak in a lower voice. “Well, I’ve spoken to people like you. I think I have a pretty good idea of what the Conclave does, but not that much more than you. The fact is, I got all my information from an inside source. I think he’d be willing to talk to you.”
Jon was startled enough that he shook his head at the waiter, waiting for him to leave. “Someone… would actually talk to me about what they do? Why?”
“He doesn’t work for them anymore, and he’s sympathetic to the people that the management is going to screw over. He’ll talk to you.” She took a folded piece of paper from her blazer pocket and pushed it over the table toward Jon.
“Just call ahead and ask. I don’t think I have to tell you to be discreet. You probably need whatever they’re paying you, right?” Jamie smiled, an odd and slightly bitter expression, and her gaze slid away for a moment. “We all need things. You talk to him. He’ll tell you what you want to know.”
* * * * *
Sam Arctor had sounded like a grandfather on the phone, and looked like one too, welcoming Jon into his cluttered but expensive apartment with offers of coffee or tea.
“My goodness, I should just make a PowerPoint presentation,” he said with cheerful dismissiveness, leading Jon to a comfortable leather armchair before disappearing into the kitchen for many awkward minutes. When he returned, it was with the promised coffee and an honest to god plate of cookies.
“So this… happens a lot?” Jon tried not to feel let down. Like he was so fucking clever that he’d be the only one who ever tried to figure out what went on in the Conclave.
“Oh, no, no, not too much.” Sam made a vague, self-deprecating gesture. “But as they grow closer and closer to phase five, they of course have to use more and more people -”
“Phase five?” It had been a week since he hit the dog.
“Yes, phase five for the overall company,” Sam said with pleasant obliviousness. “Mass socializing a great number of potentials to ready them for various industries. Not all of them will pan out, of course, and those that don’t will be relegated to less socially-dependent work… or would you prefer oatmeal raisin?”
It took Jon a moment. “No, uh, these are great,” he said, knowing he sounded completely unenthusiastic. “Wait, so you were pretty high up in the company? Didn’t you sign non-disclosure agreements too?”
Sam smiled, again with a hint of self-deprecation. “Legally, I cannot give you this information, no. It will never be published and you will never share it. But the management… understands, I think, that the wheels of progress do require, from time to time, a little grease. If I speak out, I will be discredited and ruined. If you speak out, you will lose a great deal of money you need very badly, and you’d find it difficult to get another job, for mysterious reasons. So we will stay quiet. But between you and me, it would be nice to know some things, don’t you think?”
Jon stared.
“I had my friend who's still with the company pull your file,” Sam continued, taking a slim folder from the coffee table. “I'm retired but I still keep abreast of what goes on, you see. It's very sad, about your mother. One day, pancreatic cancer will be more easily detected much earlier... but in any case,
ROUGH OUTLINE FOR THE REST:
- The retired scientist answers some of his questions and provides dialogue re: ramifications of golems/robots/zombies like Melissa.
- The Conclave offers (not directly) to kill and revive Jon’s mother, who is dying of pancreatic cancer, and Jon accepts.