At the Foggy Acres Self-Care Residency, Albert Velasquez Montmorency is tending to Albert Velasquez Montmorency's bodily needs.
He had been given Velasquez as his middle name because his grandmother had come from Cuba, but that is neither here nor there. He is a Montmorency. That is his history and his character: independent and self-reliant, responsible and dutiful, and therefore entirely successful at every job he has ever undertaken.
Just look at him now! He has rolled the mouldering carcass up first on one side, then on the other, to brush skin flakes and loose gray hair onto the floor. He will vacuum later.
The morning news is playing on the wallscreen. Sun beams through the window to reflect off the polished wood of an antique desk. A vase sparkles. A cluster of orange roses glows.
Albert Velasquez Montmorency has carefully removed and replaced the ostomy bag and the plastic vessel into which the urinary catheter deposits an endless procession of yellow drips. These he will empty and wash and rinse with sterilizing bleach. But later.
Now he is preparing the morning ablutions: a bucket of soapy water, a soft sponge, an equally soft towel, a tube of antibiotic ointment for the inevitable sores, a toothbrush and toothpaste for the three remaining teeth, cotton swabs for excavating the wax from the ears, the sand from the corners of the eyes, and the boogers from the nostrils, an electric razor, a bottle of his long-favorite aftershave, and a comb.
He is not really listening to the news. Once he had loved the "Antiques Road Show," but that had died many years ago. He does not care about politics--local, world, or national. He is not interested in sports. Celebrities hold no charm for him. His life is now confined to little more than a single room, and he tells himself he is well rid of the world.
Yet . . . The screen fills with a fleet of spidery spacecraft, an edge of Luna to one side, a spark of rocket flare marking the track of a shuttle on its way to Moonbase. "Explorers," says a voice, and as a graphic shows a single craft centered in square kilometers of gossamer sail, "They will ride the winds of space from star to star. For now, they await their crews."
The same fleet, the same words, over and over again for months like an ad. Designed to go on and on for centuries, millennia, for as long as they can draw power from the stars and cosmic dust does not erode their substance. What will they find out there? What will they have to report when they call home? Cinder worlds like the Moon they circle as they wait for crews? Worlds as green and blue and welcoming as Earth? Alien peoples and galactic empires? Friends? Or enemies?
He sighs as usual, remembering childhood dreams. For now, duty calls. The washing up will take an hour. Then it will be time to spoon oatmeal and squirt orange juice into the lax mouth. Perhaps there will be a visitor. Perhaps not, for Albert Velasquez Montmorency had so alienated the last members of his family that they had not come even to gloat for many years.
And then it will be time to attend once more the ostomy bag--oatmeal does not dally!--and the catheter vessel.
How fortunate he is to be able to take care of himself! Human caretakers were both expensive and unreliable. They were even abusive--he had heard enough stories! But he doesn't need them. He can clean himself up. He can feed himself. He can comb his own hair, what there is of it.
How fortunate he is!
Isn't he?
Well, that's what he tells himself most of the time. In bleaker moments, Albert Velasquez Montmorency mutters "Asshole!" to himself, not quite loud enough for Albert Velasquez Montmorency to hear.
At least he doesn't have to clean that any more. It's just glands and stink and a bit of hair buried in a chubby crease.
Soap and water, scrub and rub and heave-ho the great pile of meat and bone and lard to baste the other side.
He feels like Gepetto with a mop. So much smaller than Himself, and nothing to tickle to make the great whale spit him up.
Oatmeal and juice and wipe up the slop. A cupful of pills. A needle here, another there, and the meat hardly twitches.
Change the sheets, take them to the machines mounted in what once had been the bathroom shower stall. The towels, too. Use the sink to clean the urine bottle and ostomy bag.
What a waste. Albert Velasquez Montmorency is small, half his own size, but he is strong, and he is just a few years old, really. Lots of time left, and God only knows what will happen to him when the meat begins to stink the way meat always does in the end.
Ah, hell. Waste of time to worry. Tuck the carcass in again. Pull the blanket up to its chin. Resist the temptation to pull it all the way.
The vacuum is in the closet. Plug it in and get the skin flakes, hair, and assorted grunge. Turn it off, and wish that he could smile. Albert Velasquez Montmorency is snoring just as he does every day at this time, as if the buzz of the vacuum were a lullaby.
Well, he liked to sing once upon a time. Maybe he thinks he is harmonizing.
Ha!
Now what?
Alameda Lacama Perkins is what. A cute little thing who lives in the room next door, taking care of Alameda Lacama Perkins just as he does Albert Velasquez Montmorency. Cute and friendly and who cares if she doesn't have tits.
When he hears the buzz of her own vacuum cleaner shut off, he opens the door.
A moment later, so does she.
They meet in the hall, positioned where they can keep an eye on Alameda Lacama Perkins and Albert Velasquez Montmorency, respectively. They dare go no further, for the mountains of flesh might stir and grunt, and they must attend. Adjust a wrinkle in a sheet, reposition a catheter, supply a swallow or two of juice.
Self-care never ends.
A little further down the hall, a third door opens. William McPhee Yornick looks out, sees them, smiles, waves, and retreats. He seems quite content in his self-care labors.
Unlike Alameda Lacama Perkins and Albert Velasquez Montmorency, whose hands now come together. Cool fingers curl in welcome and appeal. They steal a moment away from their duties to glance at each other's faces, eyes, lips.
He tells her about Gepetto and the whale.
"Cinderella," says Alameda Lacama Perkins. "And I am my own evil stepsister."
Fingers tighten.
"What can we do?" they murmur together.
Does the carcass have any thoughts? Well, Albert Velasquez Montmorency is not a very demonstrative fellow. Never was, really. But since the stroke, not a word, not a gesture. Just a blink now and then. The occasional tear.
And a vibrant bright red thrum of anger! He does not like the way Albert Velasquez Montmorency takes care of all those endless bodily needs. Doesn't have a gentle touch, not at all. Just heave ho, roll him over, and wipe that sponge across his hide, stick a swab up his nose, pour oatmeal down his gullet.
And never a word. Not a bit of "Upsy daisy, there we go, this won't take a second, almost done, my you're looking grand today, Mr. Montmorency!"
Not that he had ever been one for talking to himself. Not like his first wife. Natter natter natter, all day long, and what wouldn't he give to have her with him now, just for the human contact.
He thinks she is still alive.
What an asshole he'd been!
Not to get rid of her, oh, no. He really couldn't stand that much never-ending yadda-yadda. And if he had kept one of her paintings, that elegant little landscape beside the door, he didn't need a whole house full of canvas and fumes.
But . . . Self-care is all well and good. It seemed like such a great idea at the time.
But he doesn't see another human being for weeks on end. The state inspector who pops in just long enough once a month to lift the sheet and check for bedsores. Just long enough to smile and utter a single, "My, you're looking grand today, Mr. Montmorency!"
Once a fucking month.
Asshole.
Lonely asshole.
Albert Velasquez Montmorency feels quite stuck.
"You'll feel just like you, Mr. Montmorency," they told him. "If you're a nice guy who follows through on his commitments, you'll still be a nice guy. And if you're an SOB who walks away from commitments . . ."
Albert Velasquez Montmorency nodded, assured them that he was a Montmorency through and through. Responsible and dutiful, filled right up to his ears with follow-through and commitment.
"We understand." They smiled and nodded. "Just the sort of person we always used to hire for these jobs. But they changed, you know. They decided they'd had enough. They burned out. And we had to find replacements. Over and over again."
Albert Velasquez Montmorency smiled and nodded too. Yes, indeed, hard to find good help. Harder to keep them.
"You can't do that, you know."
Oh?
"This is a self care facility, you understand. You'll take care of yourself, just as you always have. And if you are ever tempted to walk away from the job . . ."
They showed him a black plastic box about two centimeters long. Red letters on its side. A couple of wires sticking out of one end. Then they used a small key to open a panel in the back of a dummy and showed him where it went.
It was just a simple switch. If he walked away, they'd push a button. Turn him off. Come and get him.
And then they'd install a little widget in his head that would forever after block any thought of walking away.
Why not install the widget in the first place?
"You are an honored client, Mr. Montmorency. We respect your autonomy and independence. We would never do such a thing!"
As long as Albert Velasquez Montmorency played along.
Albert Velasquez Montmorency lets go of his girlfriend's hand. He twists his arm behind him, arches his back, gets the tip of one finger on the keyhole.
Alameda Lacama Perkins shakes her head. "You don't have a key, dear. And if you did, I could use it much more easily."
He relaxes. Runs his hand over her back. Circles her own keyhole with a fingertip. She wriggles. "Yes," he says glumly. "And I could do you."
Just what they need, indeed. And not a chance that they will ever see one again.
"Do you know how big they are?"
"The keys?"
"No, silly!" Her tinkling, metallic laughter ripples down his back. "There!" She is pointing into Alameda Lacama Perkins's room.
He followes her gaze, glimpses the polished metal sculpture Alameda Lacama Perkins brought with her to Foggy Acres. Then he peers into Albert Velasquez Montmorency's chamber, glimpses the wallscreen and the waiting fleet of exploratory spacecraft. "Those?" Of course, the wallscreens only show a single channel, and not one of the residents ever complains.
"Yes."
Albert Velasquez Montmorency shakes his head.
"I heard them say once," says Alameda Lacama Perkins. "A refrigerator." Surrounded by winglike solar panels and the spider-leggy struts that will deploy the solar sails.
"What sort of crew are they waiting for?" A box the size of a refrigerator--a coffin! Big enough for one, or two if they were small. But even suspended animation needed some life-support systems.
She shrugs. She doesn't know. No one outside the ISEC, the Interplanetary Stellar Exploration Consortium, knows a thing. Only pictures, generalities.
Albert Velasquez Montmorency points at the rooms. "We should sign them up."
She laughs again. "They wouldn't be good for much."
"But we'd be free."
Soft chimes remind them it is time for self-care. Check the carcass, fetch juice, adjust a catheter, administer another injection or a handful of pills. Maybe produce a "My I'm looking grand today!" if the very thought of such a line doesn't turn his stomach. Or what passes for a stomach.
Albert Velasquez Montmorency snorts beneath his covers. Fluids gurgle. Gases rumble.
He is, thinks Albert Velasquez Montmorency, as comfortable as he can ever be, and squeezing such a whale into a little box to breach among the stars would not change a thing.
Except for him? Did anyone ever say what will happen when his chores are finally over, as they must someday be? Whales do not live forever, they just blow away, eh?
Albert Velasquez Montmorency tries to laugh, but the joke is too feeble, too pointed. Instead he searches his memory for what the unctuous representative of the Foggy Acres Self-Care Residency showed him. Showed just once, and briefly. But Albert Velasquez Montmorency always had an excellent memory, and that memory did not suffer a bit after he signed the paper and they did what they did.
A key, but not a fancy one. Very generic, the sort that would lock a cheap piece of luggage. The sort that hid for generations in drawers and storage boxes.
Now he searches the small desk by the window and the chest of drawers beside the bed. Opens the closet, rummages through the two suitcases Albert Velasquez Montmorency brought with him when he moved in. Four boxes too.
"Nothing," he mutters. "Nothing!"
All he finds are two copies of the will, the Foggy Acres contract, musty socks and ties and underwear. Two pairs of shoes.
A keyring makes him exclaim, "Keys!" But the keys are for long-vanished house, garage, car. Even the office he once occupied at the insurance agency.
Nothing helpful.
Albert Velasquez Montmorency is not asleep, no matter what noises his body makes. He can see what is going on in his room, watch the rummaging through drawers and closet and boxes, hear the frustrated grumblings, so very much the way he would grumble himself.
What is the goddamned robot looking for?
"Nothing!" mutters Albert Velasquez Montmorency.
Nothing to do with self-care. Never searched the place like that before. Never wanted anything that wasn't in plain sight or tucked in the cupboard with the fresh catheters and such.
"Keys!" says Albert Velasquez Montmorency.
Suddenly he knows. His eyes fly wide, and Albert Velasquez Montmorency stares at Albert Velasquez Montmorency.
He wishes he could talk, but even the remnants of that ability went with the last stroke.
He wishes he could plead: "Don't leave me!"
But all he can do is take a deep breath and let it shudderingly out while his eyes fill with tears.
The robot Albert Velasquez Montmorency stares back. The face, so much like his own (of course!), is a marvel of synthetic muscles and skin and nerves. Sensitive enough to feel a breeze or the delicate touch of Alameda Lacama Perkins's fingers. Flexible enough for expression, which now is both pitying and desperate. The posture, just as lifelike despite the underlying frame of steel and alloy, is frozen, hunched, arms lifted slightly. He has no trouble reading it at all: surprise and guilt.
No trouble at all. They have the same mind, don't they? That is the trick of self-care. Sign up some decrepit old fart while he still has his wits. Stick his head in a Xanadu scanner and read out the contents. Memory and habit, knowledge and reflex, personality and person. The mind. Put it in a look-alike, half-sized robot, and tell the robot to tend to the old fart forever after.
It would drive him nuts.
So why didn't he figure it would drive him nuts too?
He blinks: "Don't leave me. Please?"
But he knows better.
Albert Velasquez Montmorency does not want to be in this room, this bed, this sad shape. He would much rather be healthy and young again. He would much rather have a life!
So of course Albert Velasquez Montmorency wants a life too.
He understands. He really does.
But . . . "Don't leave me. Please?"
Another day, another round of the self-care routine. Eternity beside a sickbed. Taking care of himself just the way he always did. Independent and autonomous, with just a little help from the technological revolution.
But something has changed.
Albert Velasquez Montmorency cannot speak, cannot move, but a trace of tension in the muscles around his eyes, a blink, a gasp, are enough to convey that desperate plea: "Don't leave me!"
Albert Velasquez Montmorency doesn't say a word as he scrubs and changes and feeds and doses, but the set of his mouth, the extra force of his grip on tired flesh, the abruptness of his turn, all shout that he is just as desperate.
"Enough!" he says to himself, and he stares at the wallscreen when the fleet appears once more. Just as many coffin-sized ships as the day before. None have left yet. Perhaps they do not have crews lined up. More likely--surely!--the view is a recording.
Albert Velasquez Montmorency does the vacuuming, puts the machine away, and cocks his head as he hears the hum next door go silent. He stares at himself, still wide-eyed, still pleading, no snoring today, and he turns away.
But before he can take the first step toward the door, he sees that he has not yet put away the electric razor. He picks it up, hesitates--they will not have long!--and then, still holding it, heads for the hall.
Alameda Lacama Perkins is already there, waiting for him, looking worried, holding up a bit of wire.
"A paper clip," she says. "I used to use these all the time."
He almost laughs as he turns his back to let her probe the keyhole. And probe. And probe again.
A sigh. "It isn't working. Do you want to try?"
"Hold this." He exchanges the shaver for the wire, straightens it, bends the tip into a short-legged L, and motions for her to turn around. He inserts the wire in the keyhole, feels it catch on something, catch again. But nothing moves.
Albert Velasquez Montmorency swears and slumps dejectedly. So does Alameda Lacama Perkins.
They look through the doorways of their rooms. The ISEC fleet is on display once more.
"Waiting for crews, they said." Albert Velasquez Montmorency shakes his head. "Is that a recruiting pitch?"
"I don't know." Alameda Lacama Perkins leans into Albert Velasquez Montmorency. He folds his arms around her. They have only moments for their hallway meetings, never more, never enough, and this time they have wasted them all.
"We're almost out of time."
She pulls away. "Then try again, once more. Please."
He obeys but has no better luck. "Damn!" He bangs his fist on the wall and is surprised to feel something crunch. He looks at his hand. He took the shaver back, didn't he? And now it is cracked, ruined. He plucks at its case, studies its guts.
"That?" Alameda Lacama Perkins points at a bit of metal. He uses a bit of broken plastic to loosen a screw and get it free.
"Turn around," and yes, it fits the hole, but no, it doesn't turn the lock.
Soft chimes, time to go back to work, break time over.
"Let me see . . ." The metal is marked where it rubbed against the interior of the lock. "Let me have it. I think . . ."
The chimes repeat, louder now, and they both hasten to their self-care.
More oatmeal, more juice. More pills, more needles. Change the ostomy bag once more. Empty the catheter jug. Remove a few wilting petals from the orange roses. They aren't glowing anymore. The sun is down, the sky dark, the grounds illuminated only by security lights.
Albert Velasquez Montmorency does not think the managers are worried about break-ins.
Almost time to plug in the charging cable, power down for the night, join himself in something much like sleep.
But . . . A quiet rap at the door. Alameda Lacama Perkins, beckoning him to the hallway, holding up a piece of metal shaped for all the world like a key.
"How did you . . .?"
"You know I was a sculptor. I did a lot of welding." She has the cord of the shaver in her other hand. She holds it up, shows him the blackened tips of the wires. She made an arc, melted away bits of metal, shaped the key to a memory--surely they showed her too!--as sharp as his own. "Now turn around."
Albert Velasquez Montmorency obeys eagerly, feels her hand on his back, hears a scrape, a click.
And the hatch in his back is open.
"Can you see it?"
"Yes. It's right there." But then . . . Snick! She shuts the hatch.
"What . . .?"
"Shh. Try me now."
He obeys, and the key fits Alameda Lacama Perkins too.
"Don't touch anything! Just close me up."
"But . . .!" But they can be free! They can walk out the nearest door and be gone and Foggy Acres has no way to shut them down and enslave their minds.
"Trust me," says Alameda Lacama Perkins. "Tomorrow. Tomorrow night. We'll need a full charge."
Albert Velasquez Montmorency nods his head. She is right. Of course. So sensible. More so than him, more so than any of his exes.
He gives her back the key. "It's about time."
"Time for what?"
"Time I found someone like you."
Alameda Lacama Perkins's tinkling laugh is his reward.
The next day drags on and on and on. Ostomy bags and catheters, washing up and oatmeal, pills and laundry, all the usual chores while Albert Velasquez Montmorency stares at him with that endless "Don't leave me! Please don't leave me! Please!"
He meets Alameda Lacama Perkins in the hallway as usual, but they have no chance at all. She has just shown him the key--she hasn't lost it!--when William McPhee Yornick emerges from his room. He does not look happy.
"What's the matter?" asks Alameda Lacama Perkins.
William McPhee Yornick's expression is frightened. "There's blood in my urine this morning. I don't think I have long."
Albert Velasquez Montmorency winces. "Then you should leave. While you still can." He has never heard of a robot outside the Foggy Acres Self-Care Residency. What do they do when they are no longer needed? Melt them down? Empty them out and install a new mind and a new face?
"Where would I go? Even if I could . . ." William McPhee Yornick gestures toward his back.
Albert Velasquez Montmorency looks at Alameda Lacama Perkins. She shrugs and opens her hand, reveals the key.
"Turn around," says Albert Velasquez Montmorency.
For just a moment, William McPhee Yornick's eyes light up with hope. But then he shakes his head resignedly. "No. It's no use." He turns away and goes back to his room to check on himself, look for more blood, see if he is still alive.
The back-to-work chimes sound before he is out of earshot.
The fleet is on the wallscreen once more when Alameda Lacama Perkins knocks on his door again. He pulls her inside, takes the key from her hand, and turns her gently.
For a moment, she resists, stares into his eyes as if to say, "If this goes wrong . . . If they stop us anyway . . ."
But then she faces away, and a moment later it is his turn. They hold the treacherous little boxes in their hands, hardly daring to look, while the fleet drifts across the wallscreen and a voice says something about waiting for crews.
"I called this morning," says Alameda Lacama Perkins.
"You did?" Okay, he thinks, so I'm an asshole. That's what she said.
But she does not agree with his thought. She just nods. "One of those will hold us both. We're just the right size. We don't need food or water. They said they'll be happy to see us."
"If we can get there?"
Another nod, while Albert Velasquez Montmorency stares from the bed and against all expectation opens his mouth and croaks out, "Dooh . . ." "Don't leave me. Don't go, don't abandon me. Please!"
"Not the Moon, though," says Alameda Lacama Perkins. "Just Florida."
Albert Velasquez Montmorency raises one hand, half salute, half wave. Not another word, for not a word is needed. They share a mind, after all. The same memories of long-vanished dreams. The Albert Velasquez Montmorency on the bed knows what he is doing and would surely do the same if he only could.
Alameda Lacama Perkins tugs him toward the door. He follows, and a moment later they are outside the building for the first time in years, wishing for shadows they can hide in, accepting the glare of the security lights.
Expecting any moment a siren or a voice, shouting, "Stop! Don't run!"
Pausing anyway beneath a light. Finally lifting his little black plastic box to where he can see the bright red letters on the side:
ISEC.
And now he understands indeed: They are expected.
"How many of us do they get?
"Not all."
Albert Velasquez Montmorency looks back at the Foggy Acres Self-Care Residency. William McPhee Yornick is at his window, staring after them, perhaps thinking that a Montmorency--so full of responsibility and duty--should be beside him.
Not all.
Not everyone can turn their backs on the past. Break loose and walk away from old commitments.
Walk toward new adventures.