Scuzzworms (31 page)

Imelda sat at her desk wondering what she should say to
Caldwell.  CHA had to be fully informed.  The risks were enormous both for Iagans and for human beings.  She felt so tired, so... nothing.  Her monthly pill allotment sat in her apartment untouched. Not that it mattered. Pills couldn’t help her now, anyway.

She started as the door behind her opened.  It was Trefarbe, eyes glinting.  Imelda turned to face her cautiously.

“Dr. Imelda, we need to have a little talk.”

Imelda nodded slowly.  “Did you have something in particular you wished to discuss?”

Trefarbe sat down, a co-conspirator’s look on her face. “This, ah, little accident of yours.  I am sure that Biotech appreciates your honesty and all that, but I really think that you have gone too far.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.  I talked it over with Kreiss, and we feel that the problem has been a bit exaggerated.”

“Exaggerated?”  Trefarbe had completely lost her mind.  She was a raving lunatic, harping on the same tired theme song, begging to be exterminated.   

“Yes, you see, we talked about it and we feel that the borgettes could have some commercial value.”

“Commercial value?”  .

“Oh yes.  You may not realize it, but it is very expensive to grow babies in vitro, and the procedure has never been completely satisfactory in outcome.  The borgettes seem to do a much better job.  They could be used as hosts for human babies.  You know, surrogate mothers.”

Imelda’s jaw dropped.

“Don’t you see?  The borgettes that we pick up are contaminated anyway.  If we irradiate their ovaries and destroy their tumors, then we could feed them with cells that we want reproduced and produce fetuses commercially.”

Imelda stared at her aghast.  “So we sacrifice all the Iagan species stored in the borgette’s ovaries, huh?  We don’t worry about the ecological damage?”

Trefarbe smiled.  “They’re going to be lost anyway.  CHA would agree, I’m sure.”

“Think so, huh?  Once we start production, how many copies of a particular human fetus do you think we will need?  The borgettes don’t seem to have an ‘off’ button.”

“Oh, I don’t know.  We can work all that out later I’m sure.  You will ruin this for Biotech if you keep whining about how terrible the contamination is.  We have it completely under control.  It’s very simple.  We transport up the borgettes that develop tumors and develop them for commercial use.”

Imelda was having trouble believing her ears.  “Kreiss went along with this?”

“Well, he said he would do whatever was best for the company.  I’m sure that you will too, won’t you?”

Imelda’s expression firmed.  “You’d better get out of here, Trefarbe.”

Trefarbe straightened.  “And you’d better keep your mouth shut.  Let me handle this with CHA and there won’t be any problems.  Do you understand me?”

Imelda glared back.  “I understand you,” she answered tightly.

Trefarbe sniffed and left. Imelda hung her head.  Another battle.  Always another battle.  She stood up with difficulty and headed for her apartment.  This was the last straw.  She was tired of battles.  She refused to fight this one; she had done enough already. Trefarbe was an idiot if she thought that she could fool CHA anyway.  They would see right through her and probably hang Biotech from the same branch.

#

Jamison stared at her, uncomprehending.  “What do you mean, take Igor?”

“He likes you.  He hates me.  Simple.  He needs happiness.”

Jamison shook her head slowly.  “He doesn’t hate you, Imelda.  He misses you.  He always perks up when you’re around.  You’re hardly here anymore.  He acts depressed when you’re not here.”

Imelda glanced at the sleeping cat.  “See what I mean?  I’m never around.  I’m keeping him constantly depressed.  He needs to reattach, reconform his psyche.  With you he can find happiness.”

“Imelda, don’t be ridiculous.  You love that cat.”

“My old psychiatrist made me buy him because he didn’t think I was capable of human friendship.  Just because humans are biologically classified as a social species, psychiatrists get upset when someone isn’t sociable.  I’m a workaholic.  Igor isn’t.  We’re totally incompatible in our work habits.”

Jamison shook her head.  “I am not taking your cat, Imelda.  You NEED him.”

“For what?  You just don’t want him.  Tell the truth, Jamison.  You hate cats.”

Jamison frowned back in irritation.  “I do not hate cats.  Igor is a dear.  I am very fond of him.”

“So take him.  If you don’t take him, I’ll give him to Post.  Post hates me.  He’ll punish Igor.  He might put his paws into little kitty thumbscrews or something.  You don’t want to be responsible for that.”

“Post?  Why Post?”

“Igor let him pet him once.  It’s a major clue to Igor’s psyche, a level of acceptance I rarely see.  I am willing to let our differences slide if it will get Igor a home.”

Jamison sat back, peering at Imelda.  “I know you two do not get along, but he’s been a tremendous help to you with the borgettes.”

“He wants to get his name up in lights.  He plans to ride on my reputation.  I let him do scut for me only because he has the credentials.  Are you going to take Igor or not?”

Jamison frowned angrily.  “You are an idiot, Imelda.  I will take care of Igor for now only until you get your senses back.  He will always be your cat no matter what you think.”

Imelda heaved a sigh of relief.  “Thanks.  Good riddance.  I’ve got to get back to my workstation now.  Keep him in your apartment if you don’t mind. The less he sees of me the better.”  Imelda stood up to go.    

“Don’t you want to..,?”

Imelda left her apartment hurriedly, before Jamison could finish.  Imelda did not want to talk about it.  Igor was not going to forgive her.  At least he would have a good master now. 

Imelda continued down the hallway aimlessly, feeling a bit lost.   She needed time for final thoughts, final planning.  Maybe she could go to her office.  She would be alone.  No one ever bothered her there.

Calliope sat at her desk.  “Oh, hi, Dr. Imelda.  Did you get in touch with Trefarbe?  She left you a message.”

“I’ve talked with Trefarbe all that I intend to.”

“She has prepared her presentation for CHA and the face sheet instructs them to restrict inquiries only to administrative personnel because the scientists are all too busy containing the contamination.  She says that your work is ‘critical’ and you should absolutely not be disturbed.”

Imelda winced.  It didn’t matter.  CHA would see right through that trick too.  At worst there would be an additional fine to Biotech for attempting to obstruct the investigation.

She entered her office in relief.  Her gait came to a dead standstill.

“Post.”

He looked up distractedly.  “Oh, Hello, Imelda.”  His gaze narrowed.  “You look awful; what’s wrong?”

She frowned.  “Nothing.  Are you finished with the report for CHA?”

He continued to stare at her worriedly.  “Yes, except for the contemporary surveillance reports.  Where have you been lately?  No one has seen you in weeks.”

“I’ve been around.”

“Barely.  When you sit at your workstation you slam a privacy sphere around it so fast we’re not even sure it’s you in there.  Camille told me that you’d lost weight, but,” he paused, frowning.  “You look awful, for crying out loud.”

“Stress.”

“Have you talked about this with Fish?”

“Yes.  He agrees that I am suffering from stress.”

“Well, can’t he DO anything about it?”

“He told me to prepare for CHA’s arrival.”

Post opened his mouth and shut it.

“Show me the report,” she commanded.  Her voice was clipped, unfriendly.

He hesitantly turned back to the computer, recalling the graphs and forms he had completed.

She surveyed the reports hungrily.  Good!  It was all good!    She turned back to him, her face pinched, tired.  “I don’t need you any more.  Scram.”

“What?”

“Get out of my face.  Beat it.  Your job is finished.  Input your sign-off and split.  Trefarbe is on the warpath. I’ll take it from here.”

“But...?”

Her voice rose slightly.  “Get out.”

He stared at her in disarray and slowly rose.

She opened the door for him.  “Don’t come back,” she said quietly.

He paused to argue.  “Imelda, I’m not finished with the contemporaries.  I have twenty more station checks and then I’ve got to get with Kellogg on the botanicals and...”

“GET OUT!” she shouted.

He stared at her in amazement.  “Imelda, what is wrong with you?  I’m only trying to help, for god’s sake!”

“Don’t you hear?  I said OUT!”

Calliope was looking on in alarm.  “Doctor Imelda, do you need help?”

Post looked back and forth between the two of them in confusion.

“He is leaving right now.  Make sure he keeps going, okay?”

Calliope stared at her worriedly.  “Sure.  Do I need to call someone?”

Post’s face turned bright red.  “No!  You don’t need to call anyone!  You needn’t worry about me coming back at all!  You are crazy, Imelda!  Go see Fish!  Maybe he can figure you out, ‘cause I sure as &*&* can’t!”

Post stamped away irately, swerving to miss Trefarbe who was standing at the corner listening.

Trefarbe simpered.  “Is there a problem, Doctor Imelda?”

Imelda glared back.  “Not anymore,” she growled.  She whirled around and went back into her office, the door silently shutting behind her.

She could still feel his aura.  The seat was warm. 

She stared at her console for a long time, unable to touch it, unable to move, half afraid that someone else would burst into the room and penetrate her growing shell, wreck her hard-won privacy.

Alone.  She was finally alone.  She sat alone silently, shivering with a strengthening, feverish chill.

Depression. 

A funny word.  People seemed happier if they could call it a disease.  Then it sounded curable.

Endogenous depression.  Innate, self-generated, self-limited, an inability to tolerate day-to-day life with a smile.  The scourge of the timid of spirit.

Situational depression, now there was a real challenge for a psychologist.  That meant that the patient really was having a tough time.  Life really was grim. The only way to handle that particular malaise of spirit was to train the patient in the nuances of the ‘Pollyanna approach to life’s deadly missiles.’ In other words, grin and bear it.  Don’t bellyache.  Don’t let anyone see how much you’re hurting.

Imelda stared at the bottle of pills in her hand.  Three months she hadn’t taken her medicine.  She grasped within her fingers three months of protection from ... what?  God’s angry punishment for adolescent stupidity?  The tragic penalty for adolescent innocence?  Society’s ultimate ‘I told you so?’ 

Anger and hate and regret had fought within her for so long that she felt like a dried up husk of her former self.  Even tears couldn’t find their way out of her eyes any more.  ‘No’ was such an easy word.  You said it and you meant it.  So why couldn’t she learn how to say it?

Pretty and pliable.  That’s what she had been as a teenager.  The prowling male’s favorite target.  She had played hard to get but she hadn’t meant that either.

She hadn’t been in love, had been more curious than anything else.  Well, almost anything else.  More ignorant, perhaps, or blind and trusting.  A happy lamb awaiting easy slaughter.

Even now she couldn’t understand his psychology.  He had known.  Maybe his twisted mind had thought that he could claim her as his private property in this way.  Saying ‘no’ would have prevented it.  For ..., even a look at his health certificate would have wised her up.

She had trusted him and thought that it wouldn’t matter.  The rage that had consumed her at first could only cynically snarl now.  That time she had signed her
own death warrant by not saying ‘no’. This time it had been the death warrant for an entire planet.

She had thought herself wiser, more careful now, yet she had allowed Trefarbe to outmaneuver her, trick her into a major foul-up.

No matter.  She had discovered a solution for the problem on Iago IV.  Now she held the solution for herself.  She yearned for it.  God, peace would be nice.  Hell was only a continuation of her present existence.  If there really was a god, she hoped he would have mercy on her soul.  He hadn’t shown any so far so she figured she had nothing to lose.

She emptied the pills into her hand.  Not so very many really.  She hesitated, wondering if there was anything else she should do with her life while she still had it.  Her entire body ached.  Even the effort of pouring out the pills was taxing.  Her skin looked gelatinous, glued to her bones.  She was going to die soon anyway.  She didn’t want to partially die and end up dangling from a life support unit as a massage for society’s ego.  ‘We saved her.  Maybe someday she’ll breathe on her own again if we can find a cure for brain death.’

The door to her apartment opened.  Imelda started, then hastily tried to slide the pills back into the drawer.  Her hands were weak, clumsy.  She couldn’t get the drawer open.

Post walked in and, seeing her fumble, casually put down the large bags he was holding.

“What are you doing here?  I thought I told you to get lost?”

Post stared at her, edging closer.  The drawer remained stuck.  “I’m here under orders,” he answered.  “Guess who Trefarbe assigned as your new roommate?  The ship with the CHA committee has arrived, and we were told to double up to make room for the examiners. There must be a couple hundred people in business suits on that ship.”

Imelda felt like spitting.  Trefarbe had enjoyed watching their fight apparently.  She must be hoping for a rematch.

Post reached over just as she managed to pull the drawer open and caught her arm.  “Need some help?”  Imelda could not suppress the tremor in her hands.

“Goddamn it, Postman!  Why the devil can’t you knock?”  Her voice sounded reedy, thin to her ears.  She cursed herself violently for hesitating, indulging in her philosophical fancy, blowing it again.  Now the entire research station could end up contaminated.

Post took the pills from her, pouring them out in his hand.  “What are these?”

“Nerve pills.  I’m an addict again.  Can’t you tell by looking at me?  I figure I’ll never get another research post again after this fiasco so I may as well get a government subsidy for something.”

“Imelda, the accident was not your fault.”

“Save your breath, Postman.  I was responsible.  I led the team.  I should have taken better precautions.”

“What better precautions?  What else were you supposed to do?”

Imelda could feel her sickness down to her bones.  “Tell Trefarbe to space herself.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I could have punched her out.  I could have punched you or Lunders.  I would have been thrown into the brig and the borgette capture would have been cancelled until Caldwell came back.”

Post frowned disapprovingly. “That’s crazy, Imelda.”

“I did it before.  It worked just fine.”

“Is that why you assaulted Grimsley on Exchequer?”

“You’ll never know.  That was between me and Grimsley.”

Post was contemplative, rolling the pills around in his hand. “You never do routine crazy stuff, do you?  You always have some sort of convoluted reason.  These aren’t psychotropics, Imelda. Those are always clearly labeled.  What are they?”

“Pills.”

Post nodded slowly and walked back to his bags.  He picked them up with his empty hand and tossed them into the small closet in the sparsely furnished living room.  He sat on the couch facing her and leaned forward.

“Where’s Igor?”

“I gave him to
Caldwell.”

“
Caldwell just came back on today’s ship.”

“I gave him to
Caldwell’s girlfriend.”

Post’s eyebrows rose.  “I thought YOU were
Caldwell’s girlfriend.”

“I never said that.”

Post grunted.  “Everyone else did.”

Imelda shrugged.  “Everyone else has attacks of stupidity.  You should ignore rumors.”

Post was silent, contemplating the pills.  There was a peculiar sadness to his look.  Imelda decided that maybe he needed a visit with Fish, he looked so depressed.  Of course Fish hadn’t helped her much, but Fish had badly missed her diagnosis.  He would probably have better luck with the Postman.

“Imelda, why won’t you talk to me?”

“I’m talking.  My lips are moving.”

“You know what I mean.  You talk circles around the truth.  You never say what you’re really thinking.  Am I that repulsive to you?”

“You take me too personally, Postman.  I never talk to anyone, remember?”

“Why not?”

“I’m a bitch, an ice queen.  Ask anyone.”

“No you’re not.  Ice queens don’t cry.”

“I had something in my eye.”

Post glared at her in frustration, his face turning red.  “Damn you, Imelda!  What the devil is your problem?”

Imelda was a little surprised at the force of his outburst.  “How much did you bet?” she asked.

“What?”

“How much did you bet Kellogg?  That you’d get me in the sack?”

Post leaned back, his eyes narrowed, watching her.  “He bet me two thou’ that you’d jump in the sack as soon as I walked in the door.  I said you wouldn’t.”

She smiled crookedly.  “You minimize your charms.  Most women would welcome the chance.”

Post’s frown did not change.  “Why don’t you?”

“I’m a bitch.”

“Are you in love with someone else?”

“Only myself.  Ask Fish.  He’ll agree.”

Post shook his head, shutting his eyes painfully. “Damn you, I love you,” he said.

Imelda’s eye’s widened.  She was immediately and disconcertingly upset.  “No, don’t!” she said quickly.

He looked at her quietly, still not understanding her but tired of trying.  “Too late.  I do.  For a long time.”

The tears came back.  She hadn’t thought they could but they were still there.  She blinked them back hastily. 

“You’re crazy, Post.  What is there to love about me?  The way I insult you every chance I get?  The cute little way I sneer?  Go see Fish.  He’ll change your mind.”

“I don’t want my mind changed.”

“What about Zelda?  I thought you liked her?  Why don’t you move in with her if you’re so lonely?”

He frowned, chiding her gently.  “Zelda?  I assumed that you knew.  We never had that sort of relationship.  Zelda is my sister.”

Imelda’s eyes widened.  “Your sister!”  His confounded sister?  She groaned, angry at herself, her shriveled heart aching doubly now.  How had she let this happen?  All this time she had been working beside him, assuming that he and Zelda...  How could this be happening to her?  Weren’t things bad enough already? 

He looked again at the pills and pulled out his PC.

Imelda watched with a mixture of dread and resignation as he searched for their identification.  There WAS a god, she decided, and he hated her.

He stared at the description of the drug contained in the pills for a long time without speaking.  She could see the muscles in his jaw tighten and clench.  Finally he sat back staring blankly at the wall.

Her back was aching and she felt dizzy, nauseated.  She stood shakily and walked towards the single lounge chair, wanting its softness, its comfort.

Post’s voice froze her.  “The scuzzhogs.  There won’t be any more babies, will there?”

She stood silently a long moment, considering her response, her expression immobile.  “Fate’s hands,” she answered quietly, continuing to the chair.

She sat down gratefully.  Post was quick, she had to admit.  He had it all figured out now.  All of it.

“Do you hate me?” Post asked.

Imelda glanced at him, puzzled.  That was an odd question, considering.  It really didn’t matter how she felt about him, not at all.

“No.  I feel no emotion towards anyone.  I can’t.”

Post nodded.  The pills still lay in his hand.  He popped the entire fistful into his mouth.

“No!” Imelda screamed and lunged for him.  He was terribly strong and she most definitely was not.  She grabbed for his mouth anyway, trying to force his jaws open, rake the pills out. 

“You goddamn fool!  What are you trying to do?  Don’t you for god’s sake bite me!  You *&%$#, spit the damn things out!  I wasn’t committing suicide!  It’s called euthanasia!  I’m dead anyway!  For chrissake don’t you realize how contagious I am now?  This is not a game!  I can’t walk out of this room safely!  Spit ‘em out, Post, please!  I don’t want your death on my conscience!  Keep your hand away from my face!  Getting it yourself won’t help anything!”

Post managed to pin her against the couch.  In a shouted mumble that scattered a few pills on the floor, (but not enough, Imelda noted frantically), he answered.  “Tell me everything, Imelda, or I eat them.  If you’re dying, I don’t care if I die too.  Just tell me!”

Imelda glared at him a long minute, her tense muscles frozen as she considered what he had asked.  There was really no reason to keep things hidden now.  The truth would be out soon enough.  “Okay.”

He slowly relaxed his grip and she sat up.  “Just spit them out in your hand, okay?  I don’t want you to change your mind and then have them dissolve in your mouth.”

A crooked grin covered Post’s bulging cheeks.  He spat.

Imelda hurriedly wiped tears from her eyes and noticed that they were blood
-tinged.  Post saw it too and his eyes widened.

“Godammit Imelda!”  His voice was almost a wail.  They could both see angry unnatural
-looking bruises spreading on her arms and legs from their scuffle.

Imelda shrugged.  “My platelets are down,” she said matter
-of-factly.  She pointed to the refrigerator.  “I’ve stored some in there, if you don’t mind.”

Post was shaking in anger and something else.  He brought a bag to her and helped her hook it up to a cannula she revealed in her arm.  “Not too close, Post.  You need to be disinfected as it is.”  She pointed to a decontamination pack lying in a corner.  He ignored it.

“So, you want to hear my confessional?”

“In its entirety.”

Imelda glanced at the emptying bag of platelets.  “Fine,” she growled.  She rubbed her eyes, grimacing.  “It’s all rather tawdry, really.  I was a dumb kid.  Lots of people told me I was pretty, destined for great things.  I assumed that that meant I was invincible.  I went out with a guy named Gerald Golden.”

“The video star?”

“The same.  His career had just started to skyrocket and he was an impressive date for a sixteen-year-old girl who had never been out before.  He got me drunk, rip-snorting.  I assume we made out.  I don’t remember too well.”