This was not where Edgar Smith went to sleep, that much was certain. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, a bed very much absent of Sarah. “Darling?” he called. No response. And another glance about the room revealed a decided lack of the Eastlake furniture with which she’d filled their bedroom. Instead, there was a sterile metal bureau and the low, narrow bed.
He looked down at himself and saw his own pajamas, blue and orange stripes that ran horizontal on the trousers and vertical on the jacket. This comforted him, at least. He stood, rolling his neck from side to side and trying to recall if last night’s dinner had included copious amounts of pineau d’aunis. Rather not, he decided. The headache was more akin to lambrusco, and a cheap one at that. And then there was a hint of a memory of a dream. War, explosions, rocks blowing up and----oh, hang it, it was all gone. Worst thing for a dream’s to try to remember it. He raised an arm over his head and tugged on the elbow, loosening up the stiffness in his rotator cuff, and then repeated the action with his other arm.
Edgar was just moving to the bureau when the door flew open and a young man poked his head in. “Oh! Oh, right, yes, sorry.” The man had a head of shaggy brown hair that fell almost to his ears. He grinned and gave a nervous laugh. “Sorry, wrong room, I expect,” he told Edgar. He waved and swept out.
“Hang on!” Edgar called. He strode to the doorway and leaned out. The room adjoined an austere hallway with plain, white-plastered walls. The young man was still visible, though he’d gotten rather farther along the corridor than Edgar thought possible in so short a time. “You there! Wait!” Edgar raised his arm and whistled. The man paused and turned back around.
“Yes?” The young man waited, but he made no move to bridge the gap between himself and Edgar. His mouth was screwed up into a small frown, and lines stood out in arcs above his prominent brow bone. “What’s the trouble, sir?”
Edgar shook his head as he approached the other man. “Ah, it appears I imbibed a bit too much last night, friend, so I’m hoping you could remind me where I am.” He held up his hands. “I know, I know, I’m a bit old to be getting up to such shenanigans, but do humor me, please.”
The other man’s frown disappeared, his expression dissolving into a wide, lopsided grin. “Good for you, sir. Good for you.” He clapped Edgar on the shoulder. “Well done. I’m surprised you were able to smuggle it in, point of fact. How’d you manage it, eh?”
“Smuggle it in?” Edgar asked. “Lad, I dare say my wife was probably to blame. She puts me under the table some nights!” Her face darted before his eyes, her pale skin bathed in candlelight as she poured herself a glass of wine. “Always sticks to seltzer in public, but that woman can polish off a bottle if left to her own devices.”
Again, the young man frowned. “So your wife brought it to you? Well, I suppose they wouldn’t check her, would they?” He got a faraway look in his eye.
Edgar snapped his fingers in front of the man’s face. “Not trying to be rude, but I need to get home.” His voice took on a stern edge.
The young man pointed to the doorway from which Edgar had just exited. “Believe you were in there, sir,” he said. He took a step backward. “I’m late, so please excuse me. I’m sure someone can assist you if you need help.” He turned around and sprinted around the corner.
Edgar frowned as the man disappeared from view. He turned the other way and was faced with a similarly blank corridor, all white and nothingness and quiet. “Oh, bother,” he muttered. He patted his pockets before remembering he had none, and was momentarily scandalized that he’d wandered out to talk with a stranger in his night clothes.
The young man had pointed at the room he’d just left. Good a place as any to return to, especially when one hasn’t his trousers on. Edgar wondered at the strangeness of a hangover free of headache. _Other than not knowing where the devil I am_, he thought, _I feel just smashing, like I’ve had a long, healthy sleep_.
Back in the room, he found unfamiliar slacks and a plain grey tee shirt but no shoes. _At least decent enough to not scandalize anyone_. Edgar returned to the corridor and headed toward the unexplored left branch. He’d found nothing else of his, no wallet amongst the clothes in the dresser, and so he felt confident leaving the door ajar as he departed.
Silence. Blank walls. No one and nothing, not even a pay telephone. He was unconcerned that he had no coins. It would serve Sarah right to get rung up collect if she’d misplaced him. He imagined her laughing and then pictured her sleeping it off next door on the Bakers’ davenport, unable to take the call. Perhaps he’d done this to himself. _Oh, such a damnable thing! Stupid man_, he thought. _Once I get home, I’m laying off the sauce for good!_
At last, he saw a hint of light around a corner. Edgar turned right and . . . still nothing. The light was just a buzzing, flickering fluorescent panel in the ceiling. There were no other rooms this way and no discernable way to the outside.
For the first time since waking, Edgar began to wonder if this wasn’t just a hangover. _Where the devil am I?_ he wondered. And then, boldly, he wondered this aloud, first in a normal tone, then louder and louder until he felt himself shouting.
“I demand to know where I am!” he called.
He heard his own voice echo in the corridor and nothing else.
The other fellow, the one with the simian brow. He had to find that other fellow and fast. Could be there was nobody else here. Could be that man was keeping him here, even. Perhaps he’d been kidnapped. He started to jog back down the opposite direction.
“Oh, darling,” he heard Sarah scoffing in his head. “I do love you, but are you important enough to be kidnapped? Who’d want a retired medical corps officer? You weren’t even a proper doctor, dear. Unless the mafia want its own paramedic on retainer, you’re likely just in the drunk tank.” She’d laugh then. “Now, _me_, I’m a _scientist_, dear. Plenty of folks want to snap me up and torture some information out of me! But you, I’m afraid . . . your true purpose in this world is to make me happy. Yes, drunk tank for you, that’s all this is, love.”
He stopped running. _Too true, too true. But was this any sort of drunk tank? Jail had bars and was stuck inside the police station, wasn’t it? This was more like—_
His train of thought was interrupted by a sudden burst of laughter. It was two different voices, both masculine, but not far off and in the same direction he was moving. Heartened, Edgar picked up his pace.
Soon, he was back in sight of his room once more. The laughter was coming from inside, and now he could make out the soft rumblings of words, indistinct conversation. Thank heavens! Perhaps Sarah’d sent ‘round their nephew to come collect him, and good old Jim was just paying his . . . bail? Oh, what an embarrassing thought. Still, if it got him home soon, he’d apologize to one and all.
“Jim! What a thoughtless old bugger I’ve been!” he called, sweeping through the doorway. “Oh!” He stopped short. “You’re . . . well, sorry, gentlemen. I thought perhaps my nephew was here.” He started to laugh at his own foolishness until he saw that the faces of the men in his room remained stoic.
“Mister Smith, is it?” The man closer to the door was short and stout, wearing an odd white costume with buttons down the front. “Mister Smith, you’ll need to stop running about. You’re agitating everyone.”
His associate nodded. “Sorry, sir. Need to stay calm for a bit.” This one was the same height but stranger in countenance. His face . . . Edgar gasped as the other man’s face seemed to almost blur in and out of clarity. That couldn’t be normal.
“What’s wrong with your head, boy?” Edgar demanded.
The blurry man’s face shifted into shadow, and Edgar felt a pin prick in his arm. Darkness swelled around the corners of his field of vision. He looked around for the shorter man. “You stuck me,” he mumbled. “You stuck me with something, and you’re keeping me . . . where?” His tongue felt thick and fuzzy, and then everything went black.
[#]
When he awoke, he was back in his pajamas, back in the bed, and alone again. Only he didn’t stay that way long. The door swung open, and the first young man he’d encountered—the tall, slender one with the forehead like a monkey—came in. “Oh! Heavens, you’re awake!” He grinned and plopped himself down uninvited on the end of Edgar’s bed. “That is good news, isn’t it? Well done, sir. Very well done indeed!”
Edgar blinked at him. “What’s everyone want with me?” he asked. His voice was low, slow, and thick. He moved his jaw around and tried to clear his throat. “Where am I?”
The young man’s face fell, and he clucked. “What a pity. And here I thought you were all better after your sleep! Sarah will be so disappointed.”
It seemed Edgar shut his eyes for mere instants, but when he opened them again, the young man was gone. _How on earth did he know Sarah’s name? I must’ve told it_, Edgar reasoned. He tried to think back to their earlier encounter--hallway, talking of drink, and then the other fellow was gone, lickety-split, scampering off on too-long legs, ankles peeking out of the bottoms of his trousers. He’d had an odd gait to his stride, Edgar recalled. Sort of a quick shambling, almost sideways way of running, as if he were on new, unsteady legs. And the ill-fitting clothes . . .
Edgar groaned as he struggled out of bed for the second time that morning. Or was it the next morning already? Confounded lack of windows! Edgar felt like shouting. He wasn’t mucking about to look for a proper outfit this time. Hang the lot of them if these strange men couldn’t handle seeing someone in his night things. He looked down at himself as he stood. Yes, still the same old stuff. Stripes and—
He frowned. Something was off. He lifted the hem of his pajama top closer to his face and bent forward until he was peering at the very fibers of the fabric.
It’s faded, he realized. Faded more than usual. And threadbare. He scrambled to unbutton the jacket and examined the inside, the lining and label. Should read “Peters Clothiers” inside, he knew. Edgar fumbled for the inside collar and was greeted with a fuzzy stub of cloth with the barest hint of lettering on it.
“No, no, no, this can’t be!” he said aloud. He felt his eyes bulge. “The words were there!” He tried to recall when he’d bought this set. It was years ago, certainly, but not so many that the label was worn away. Or was it? He cursed and wadded the top up into a ball before throwing it as hard as he could against the wall above the bureau.
“The devil take all this!” he shouted. He flung the door aside and proceeded out to the corridor. “All right, lads, where are you? Olly olly oxen free!”
A freckled head peered out from around the far left corner. It was the short man whose associate had no face. “Ah! My drug dealer, I presume!” Edgar called. He knew he was grinning madly now, but he didn’t care. “You think I’m insane, I’d wager, and I probably am.” He felt a surge of anger swell within him. “But that’s only because I’ve been kidnapped!” The last few words exploded from him in a torrent of rage. He stomped to the man, who moved out from behind the corner, his expression placid.
“Mister Smith, if you would calm yourself--”
“No!” Edgar roared. “I won’t be kept here against my will, not for one bloody moment!”
The shorter man sighed. He withdrew a small device from his pocket and spoke into it, too low for Edgar to hear.
“What on earth is that?” Edgar demanded. A thought occurred to him. “Oh, that’s it, isn’t it? The key to everything. We’re not even on earth any longer, are we?” He pointed at the man. “You’re an alien! That’s the thing, isn’t it? That’s why your friend back there looked so odd. He’s not as good as you at pretending to be human!” He looked around the blank hallway. “Spaceship, right? Or some kind of underground facility? Perhaps your air system is poor and you lot have to live in a . . . in a _dome_ or some such.” He clenched his fists. “I won’t let you run more experiments on me, do you understand? I’m going home to my wife!”
The other man sighed again. “I do wish you’d make this easier, Mister Smith. Honestly. You were just fine earlier.” He spoke into his device again, still too quietly for Edgar to hear the exact words, but his tone this time was more insistent.
Edgar feinted to the left but moved right, and it seemed to confuse the short man, who lunged in exactly the wrong direction. “Ha!” Edgar barked. He spun around the opposite way, only to find his path blocked by a large man in a black suit. He stared down at Edgar through a pair of spectacles far too small for his meaty, round face. The lenses were thick and caused the man’s eyes to look large and bug-like.
“Mister Smith, you need to do as Coyle here asks of you.” The man’s voice was deep and stern. “Otherwise, you’ll get another injection. Is that what you want?”
Edgar felt the laughter bubble up from his throat, unbidden. He tried to keep it from escaping by clamping his hands over his mouth, but still some muffled giggles erupted forth.
The round-faced man responded by snapping his fingers towards Coyle, who sprang to Edgar’s side and brandished another syringe. This time, Edgar managed to collect himself quickly enough to swat the needle away, leaving it to clatter along the floor tiles. Coyle tried to scamper after it, but Edgar shoved him farther away and tried to run past the other man blocking the hallway.
He managed to get past the large man, only to find the first person he’d encountered standing just beyond, waving at him almost stupidly. “Hey, it’s Edgar! Edgar Smith! Well done again, sir!”
Edgar stared at him, not moving even as he felt Coyle’s hands upon him once more, the needle pricking his skin. “Who are you?” he asked. “You know me . . . ”
The young man nodded. “You’re just about there, old man. Give it half a tick, I think. It’ll sort itself.”
Edgar blinked and saw the young man standing before a minister in a tuxedo, Sarah by his side. A dreadful realization set in, and then, once again, the horrible blackness took over.
[#]
In the darkness, Edgar was gifted with dreams, a full slate of them, all featuring the young man--no, _himself_, he knew now--and Sarah. Dancing, laughing, talking, drinking, loving, all of it. Somewhere during the dreams, the young man grew a little older, a little more stiffly-gaited, a little less trim and a little more grey-haired. Until, finally, it was himself, Edgar as he knew himself to look at fifty with a shaggy mop of salt-and-pepper curls and a nose made more hawkish as the decades wore on. But the browline, yes, he did look a bit ape-like even now, didn’t he? _Bloody hell, he was me all along! But then--_
[#]
“You’re not here,” he muttered as he awoke, knowing the younger Edgar was sitting on the edge of the bed. “You were never here. You’re a damn delusion, boy.”
“Oh, details, details,” younger Edgar said. “Pish. You want me here, so I’m here. I’m trying to help.”
Edgar struggled to sit up. “Help me what, exactly?”
Younger Edgar clasped his hands together and bounded to his feet. “Why, get out, of course! Hasn’t that been what you’ve wanted ever since you woke up here?” He held out his hand and waved it about until Edgar took it. “So, what’re you waiting for? Let’s go!”
“But those fellows out there--”
“What about ‘em? I’ll knock their blocks off if they try to touch you again!” Younger Edgar was now positively manic. “Just let me at ‘em. I’ll make ‘em sorry they ever locked you up!”
Edgar let himself be dragged to the hall before yanking his hand away. “Look, I don’t quite know if I’ve gone ‘round the bend or what, but if even you know you’re not real, how do you expect to harm anyone?”
Younger Edgar frowned and canted his head to one side. “Hadn’t thought of that,” he admitted. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers and raced ahead of Edgar a few feet. After a moment, he gestured for Edgar to follow him. “Look, it doesn’t matter anyway,” he told his older self, “because, at least for now, the coast is clear.”
Ahead of them was the most beautiful sight Edgar had seen since he arrived: a set of clear glass double doors leading out to a lawn. The sky was crystalline blue, and Edgar could even spot tiny white butterflies flitting atop tufts of purple-blooming moss.
“I should like to cry,” Edgar murmured.
Younger Edgar shoved him forward. “Don’t cry; just get out there, sir. That’s the spirit!” He clapped like a giddy child as Edgar wasted no time dashing for the doors and slipping through them. To Edgar’s shock, no alarm sounded, and no white-clad men lumbered from around corners to tackle him.
Outside, the air was blossom-scented and heady with mid-summer humidity. He ran past copses of young trees, flowerbeds, and a shallow pond. He ran ‘til his forehead sprouted beads of sweat that ran down his cheeks and pooled in the hollow of his clavicle. He ran and ran and then . . .
_A bus stop. Oh, sweet heavens, an honest-to-goodness bus stop!_ He heaved a breath and parked himself on the bench to wait.
No one rushed at him. No one made him leave. No one approached. But also, no bus arrived. After a few moments’ rest, Edgar began studying the stop itself. It was an ordinary enough wooden bench, some sort of pine, turned greyish from too many years of sun and rain. The rivets holding the slats together had rings of red oxide circling the edges. Some of the rust ran into the wood itself, in some spots leaving streaks of darker deposit that looked a bit too much like blood for Edgar’s taste. He ran a hand over the crimson smudges, half expecting his fingers to come away wet.
Other times in his life, he’d had his hands thrust elbow-deep into someone’s entrails. Images from his time in the war flashed, strobe-light quick, through Edgar’s mind. Damnable, futile fight to save the whole world. A bloodbath was what it was in the end. A young boy with shrapnel in his skull. A nurse who’d gone too far from the hospital losing a leg when she stepped on a mine. An officer--weeks from returning home--dying a slow and painful death from a blast to the gut. It was always worse when they were completely conscious through their last few hours. They would always get a hazy, too-peaceful, too-forgiving look on their faces just before the very end. That, even more than the sheets turned pink and the scraps of flesh hanging loose from bone, was what haunted Edgar even into old age.
_Hang about. Old age?_ Edgar’s thoughts returned to the present, and he brought a hand just a few inches from his face. His pajamas, his memory . . . his _hand_ . . .
“Last night, I was fifty,” he said aloud. Details he could not recall earlier began to grow clearer. There was Sarah, laughing and draining glass after glass of a most disappointing _labrusco reggiano_. Enough of it, though, and you barely noticed that the froth was flat. The Bakers were there as well--indeed, it was their house--proffering platefuls of soft cheese and stale crackers. Ignored on the coffee table was a game of whist left unfinished. The trumps was askew on the top of its pile, a fat thumbprint on its face revealing that there had been chocolate served at some point in the evening.
“Was there chocolate?” Edgar wondered. Didn’t matter. He knew . . . yes, he was fifty. Not newly fifty, either. Sarah was younger than he, her russet bob bearing no hints of silver yet.
But this hand, this was the hand of a man decades deeper into his golden years. The skin was loose, the bones protruded at the knuckles, and the nails were yellowed and thickened. He flexed his hand, balling it into a fist and then releasing it, over and over again until he was convinced that, yes indeed, this was his own hand, after all. And the other matched it; they were both the mitts of someone at least eighty.
“Last night, I was fifty,” he said again. Now he noticed his voice, time roughened and deeper than he remembered. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. Wasn’t a bit hoarse, not in the least. No, this really was what he sounded like.
He slumped against the back of the bench and stared, eyes unfocused, at the road before him. No traffic drove by. Still no bus. There was no schedule posted, no indication of the next pick-up time. But there was now someone sitting next to him.
“Mister Smith, are you beginning to feel better?” It was the meaty-faced man, his thick-lensed spectacles propped up atop his head. The effect made him look as if he had short, glass antennae or tiny horns sprouting from between mounds of tight yellow curls.
“I’ve grown old,” Edgar said.
“And you don’t remember me or this place,” the man suggested. “I’m Doctor Dieb. You’ve been here for some time. You came here of your own accord, because of the episodes you were suffering.”
Edgar cast a glance over his shoulder, back the way he’d come. Before, there was no one out on the lawns. Now there were several elderly people, mostly women, milling about in various states of confusion. A few were being pushed in wheelchairs. The man they’d called Coyle was among them, talking softly to an old man preparing to toss a horseshoe at a stake.
“Where were you headed?” asked the doctor, gesturing to the bus stop sign.
“Home,” Edgar replied. “My wife, Sarah--”
“Your home isn’t your home anymore,” the doctor interrupted. “And Sarah isn’t there, either.”
Edgar stared at the road. “There isn’t any bus coming.”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
“Dirty trick, don’t you think?”
“An effective one, though.” The doctor stood and extended a hand towards Edgar. “We have to keep you lot safe, don’t we?” He gave his hand a little waggle. “Come on, then. We’ll get you a spot of . . . well, what sounds good, hmm? Tell you what; we’ll have the cooks make up something special for you.”
Edgar stood, but didn’t take the doctor’s hand. “Nothing,” he said.
“Well, perhaps you’ll be a bit peckish after a rest.”
Edgar imagined himself knocking the other man down and making a mad dash for the road, just running and running and never stopping until . . .
“Until what, your heart explodes?” Young Edgar was at his side now, opposite from the doctor. He turned around and jogged a few feet until he was in front of Edgar, walking backwards as Edgar walked forwards. “Bad idea, mate. This fellow just wants you to take a bit of care now, doesn’t he?”
“Of course he does,” Edgar agreed. He cringed and glanced at the doctor.
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“Nothing,” Edgar mumbled.
“Come on, then, Smith,” the doctor urged. “We’ll get you rested up, and then tonight is bridge. You and Mister Milner surely are a force to be reckoned with!” He gave a smug little bark of a laugh and clapped Edgar on the back, pounding at his spine too forcefully. “There’s a night of fun, eh?”
Young Edgar rolled his eyes and jerked a thumb at the doctor. “Lord, if that’s what this one thinks is a night of fun, I’d hate to see what he thinks is dull!”
Edgar smirked. “Oh, yes!” he said.
“Ah, there we are! That’s the first cheerful thing you’ve said all day,” said the doctor. “Well done. Back to your old self.”
Young Edgar moved closer. “Not a bit. _I’m_ your old self, aren’t I? You want to be cut loose from this awful place, don’t you?”
“It would seem so,” Edgar said.
Young Edgar pointed to a spot on the ground a few feet in front of him. “Tie your shoelace. Right there.”
Wasting no time with questions, Edgar crouched down as soon as he reached the indicated spot. “Beg pardon, Doc.” He made a show of lacing his right shoe a bit tighter. Just before he straightened up, he saw why his younger self had wanted him to stop. A quick flick of the wrist, and he had a heavy iron horseshoe concealed between his pajama jacket and undershirt. “Don’t want to trip now, do I?”
“Certainly not,” the Doctor agreed.
As soon as the other man’s back was turned, Edgar began to bludgeon him. The doctor went down in a messy crumple with barely any fuss, though he didn’t think he’d hit him that hard. A red rivulet coursed from his ear to his neck, and the sight of it sent a chill down Edgar’s spine.
Seconds later, he was off back down the road. Though no one seemed to be racing after him, still he ran as if chased by the devil.
“Still think running’s not the best idea!” cried his younger self, struggling to keep pace with him as he sprinted. “Your heart’s not in good enough shape for this!”
_I don’t care!_ Edgar thought. If he died in his escape, at least he’d die free.
[#]
Coyle was the first to notice Dieb’s body. Immediately, he shouted to Farnon to come assist, and the two of them gazed down at the man’s lifeless body. “Smith, was it?” Farnon asked. He was two full heads taller than Coyle and a decade younger, though they both sported equally receding hairlines and identical white outfits with wide, fabric--covered buttons running down the front.
“Who else?” Coyle sighed. Around them, the elderly people to whom they’d been attending stood up, even those in wheelchairs, and moved, _en masse_, back into the building. Coyle and Farnon paid them no notice.
“Oh, spite, Farnon! Dieb hadn’t given his report today! What a run of bad luck.”
“Now, now.” Farnon crouched down and pressed two fingers to the side of Dieb’s neck. “No need to be a catastrophist, Coyle.” He looked at his wristwatch as he took Dieb’s pulse.
“Well?” Coyle demanded.
“Thready. Slowing.”
“Blast.”
Farnon’s hands moved to Dieb’s head. “Mm, bit crushed back here,” he said, indicating a spot behind the doctor’s right ear. He picked up the horseshoe discarded nearby. “Bet if I matched this up with the wound, we’d get our weapon.”
“That would’ve been painful,” Coyle said. “Heavy thing like that. Skulls aren’t so sturdy as they ought to be.”
“Could stand some improvement in that area,” Farnon agreed. “I’ll have the developers get right on that.” He flashed a quick grin up at Coyle.
“Oh, sure,” Coyle chuckled. “Yes, just tell them you’ve got some design improvements to make to human physiology. Right.”
Farnon’s laughter joined Coyle’s. “Ah, well, you never know.” He straightened up. “Best get him inside, hmm?”
“Shouldn’t we be after Mister Smith?”
Farnon shrugged. “Let’s see what the director recommends. Best to tend the doctor first.”
They picked Dieb up, Coyle at the feet and Farnon at the shoulders, and carried him into the building.
[#]
Edgar couldn’t remember the last time he’d ran so far, so long, or so fast. _That’s just par for the course, innit? I checked myself in that place ‘cause I couldn’t remember things, didn’t I?_ His younger self had long since disappeared after failing to keep pace with him. His legs burned, and yet he felt a lightness of body that was almost ethereal, the numbness of no longer being bothered by physical pain. Suddenly, however, a spasm of tightness gripped the center of his chest, and he began to slow his pace.
Nothing surrounded him. Not vehicle, not human, not swarm of orderlies bent on dragging him back. He was now far enough away from the building and its grounds that he wasn’t concerned when he couldn’t find cover. No trees or bushes lined the sides of the road. _No telephone poles_, he noticed. _No electrical wires_. Though this struck him as odd, he looked up at the sky as he slowed his pace even more, and clouds drifted overhead just as normal as ever.
_No birds, though. No stray cats or even a chipmunk running about_.
An uncomfortable squeezing sensation began to build in his torso, and at last he gave up trying to keep running. Edgar came to a complete stop and flopped down on the ground. His intention had been just to sit, but he wound up toppling over and rolling onto his back. His chest felt full and heavy, as if he’d been chain smoking unfiltered cigarettes and couldn’t catch his breath. Shortly thereafter, a tingling began beneath his left armpit, making its way down to his hand and soon leaving the entire arm throbbing.
“’S all right, this is,” he said. “I suppose I’ll get to see Sarah.”
“Sarah’s waiting, yes.” A shadowy face popped into view above him, shaggy hair hanging down about the lad’s ears.
“Good old monkey face,” Edgar muttered.
“This is _your_ face, you know,” his younger self remarked. “If I look like a monkey, so do you.” He stretched out on the ground next to Edgar. “I can take over,” he said. “This is a bit of a burden for you, I realize. I can get out a lot easier than you can, being less long in the tooth.”
Edgar started to speak, but his jaw wouldn’t work. His back flared into white-hot waves of pain. He winced at the severity of it, drawing a sharp breath in through his nose only to feel as if his lungs couldn’t expand. He closed his eyes, and he felt a gentle hand stroking his hair. “’S all right,” his younger self repeated. “They’re about to wake me up, so if you need to, you just go right to sleep, mate.”
Edgar felt sweat start to pour out of him, and he opened his eyes. “I just need a moment,” he whispered. His words sounded mangled to him, strangled as they were with his jaw unable to move. “Just give me a moment, son.”
Edgar drifted off, and this time as he slept, he didn’t dream.
[#]
“Coyle and Farnon to see you, sir.” The voice coming from the speaker on the desk was muffled and tinny, and a thin whine of feedback squeaked along with it.
“Oh, hell, what’s this about?” The director pulled off his jacket and strode to the desk. He punched the intercom button. “Send them in,” he said. He sank down into his chair.
The door swung open, and the two assistants entered. “So very sorry to bother you, sir,” Coyle started. “We know it’s nearly your time off.”
The director waved a hand at him. “Get on with it,” he said.
“It’s Doctor Dieb, sir,” Farnon said. “Mister Smith killed him and took off.”
Coyle’s mouth fell open, and he stared up at his associate. “Bloody hell!” he gasped. “That’s your version of tact? Out there, you said, ‘Let’s be tactful about this,’ and I said, ‘All right, sounds like a plan.’ And now this is what you _mean_? Good heavens!”
Farnon looked down at the shorter man and pointed a finger at him. “Look, I’m just trying to save us all some time here—”
“Enough!” The director stood up and marched to the front of his desk. “Are you sure Dieb’s dead?” He leaned against the desk, stretching long legs out in front of him and crossing them at the ankle. “I mean, you both seem fairly incompetent today, so I assume you at least _checked_, yes? Didn’t just sweep him into the incinerator still alive or something?”
Coyle sighed. “No, sir. We checked.” He glared up at Farnon. “You _did_, didn’t you?”
Farnon smacked Coyle on the back of the head.
“Did you initiate the procedures on him?”
“The replacement model’s been started, yes,” Coyle confirmed. “But we’ve had this one for a few years now. The new Dieb will only be about thirty, far more impulsive and whatnot, even with what memories we can upload from the last one implanted.” Coyle screwed up his face. “Head wound. Damn it all. We have to use last night’s back up.”
The director shrugged. “That’ll suffice. Just make sure the lab doesn’t dawdle.”
“Of course, sir,” Farnon said.
“But Smith’s gone, you say?”
“Yes, sir,” Coyle confirmed. “The sensors at the edge of the terraform didn’t go off, so we don’t think he made it that far. But Dieb went out to the bus stop to initiate the senility con, and it seems Smith didn’t buy it.”
“This one’s been a lot of trouble, hasn’t he?” the director asked. “Well, he probably died out there somewhere. Best get the next one started. Send the groundskeepers to find his body, but it’s no matter if they can’t locate it.”
“Are you sure he’s worth rebooting?” Farnon asked. “Forgive me, sir, but we keep growing versions of Edgar Smith, and this is the fourth one who’s gone rogue in his golden years.”
The director sighed. “It’s not me, lads, it’s my Aunt Sarah. She can’t seem to do without him, and if we don’t keep the lead scientist happy, none of us will be happy.”
“We had a spot of luck telling the truth to the last model,” Coyle pointed out. “Earth gone, downloaded memories, cloned hybrid bodies, the whole thing. He took it all right.”
The director raised an eyebrow at him. “He shot and killed you when we told him, Coyle. He shot your face clean off.”
“I always forget that, don’t I?” Coyle shrugged. “Fine. I’m just making a suggestion here.”
The intercom sparked to life. “Jim? Sarah’s here.”
The director leaned back and pressed the button. “Send her in.” He stood up and gestured at the assistants. “Get on those lab folks and get the new Dieb running immediately.”
The door opened, and Sarah Smith entered, young and lovely and crisply professional in her clean white lab coat. “Ah, gentlemen! Good evening!” she greeted the assistants as they left. “Hope my husband hasn’t kept you on your toes too much today.”
Coyle and Farnon exchanged a look but said nothing. They closed the door quietly behind them.
“What was all that about, Jim?”
The director sighed. “Aunt Sarah, sit down. Do you want the good news or the bad news?”
Sarah folded her arms in front of her and remained standing. “Lost another, have you? Well, there’s another wedding I have to plan for myself, I suppose.”
“We can always stop growing him.”
Sarah gave her nephew a sad half smile. “I know, lad. But dammit if I don’t love him. This time, we’d at least be the same age. Less confusion for him. We can actually be together longer.” She shrugged. “Take your time, though. I’ve got wine to make.”
Jim gave his aunt a wan smile. “Sometimes I envy what you have, Sarah.”
Sarah glanced at the photograph on her nephew’s desk. “Don’t,” she said. “You get to keep your memory pure.”
“Then let him go,” he suggested. “You could just hold on to that, if you’d prefer.”
Sarah shook her head. “Maybe someday,” she said. She took a deep breath and let it out in a ragged sigh. “But not just yet.”
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