Robert Reed - Due

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ROBERT REEDDUEWE REACH HIM TOO LATE, pulling him out of the curing pond,

nothing left but amelted body and a pain-twisted face. For a moment or two, we

talk about the deadexpeditor, how he was good and why he wasn't perfect, and

why he killedhimself-- because he was imperfect, but noble is why. Then we

wash his face andkiss him, as is customary, and I deliver the body to

Scrap.Our plant manager needs a report, but she doesn't want stories of

anothersuicide. She tells me that she doesn't. So I describe it as an

accident, anothermisstep from the high corundum mesh, and maybe we should

repair those railingsduring the next down cycle. But she doesn't want to hear

that, either. "Nocycles but up." She is delivering a threat. "We're too far

behind as it is,Jusk."I nod. I smile. Then I ask, "When can I have a new

expeditor?""Three shifts," she warns. Which means ten shifts, or more. Then

she gives me ahard stare, eyes and silence informing me that it would be so

lovely if thislittle problem vanished on its own.I step outside.Traffic is

scarce in the main corridor. I walk exactly as far as I can withoutleaving

home, waving at the passing birth wagons until one pulls off. The drivershows

me his cargo, but only one of the newborn is large enough to do the job. Iask

what it will take for that big one to be lost during delivery, and thedriver

says, "I can't." He says, "That's a special rush order, that one."A lie, most

likely."Wait," I tell him. I go inside, then return with a piece of raw

Memory. Memoryhas no color and very little mass, and of course it is

incomplete. It's salvage.That's the only kind of Memory that's ever traded.

Laying it flush against hisforehead, the driver sighs and grows an erection,

then says, "Deal." It's theMemory of one of His long-ago lovers -- a popular

commodity. The driver is evenwilling to help carry the newborn through the

closest door, he's so eager. ThenI give him a look, asking where he got that

Memory."I found it," he says. "I don't remember where.""Good," I say.My crew

is at work. Standing in the main aisle, I can see our entire line -- bugovens

and the furnace; the curing pond and finishers-- and I see the tiny facesthat

look over at me, curious and eager."Keep working," I tell them. Then, "Thank

you."With laser shears, I cut the newborn out of its sack. It's a big worker,

allright: shiny and slick and stinking of lubricants and newness. I unfold

thelong, long limbs, then engage its systems. There's no way to be certain

what jobit is meant to do, but anyone can be anything, if needed. All that

matters isthat we serve Him.I kick the newborn in its smooth crotch.With a

flutter, its eyes open, absorbing light for the first time."My name is Jusk,"

I tell it. "I'm your superior. This is my right hand. Shakeit with your right

hand, please."It obeys, without hesitation."Stand," I say. Then after it

succeeds, on its first attempt, I tell it, "Walkwith me. This is your

introductory tour. Pay close attention.""I shall.""What is my name?""Jusk.""On

your left is a stack of crates. Look at them. And now look at me. How

manycrates did you see?""Fifteen.""What are the dimensions of the

third-largest crate?""Point one by point one by point four standard.""Now,

without looking, tell me the serial number on the top crate."The newborn

recites twenty-three digits before I lift my hand, stopping it."Good," I say.

"You're integrating nicely."The mouth can't yet smile, but I sense pleasure.

Pride. "What do you make here?"my new expeditor inquires."Bone."Its eyes are

simple black discs, yet by some trick of the light, they seemastonished. Or

disappointed, perhaps."It's not a glamorous product," I concede, "but bone is

vital." What would He bewithout a skeleton? Without His handsome, most perfect

shape? "You'll be myexpeditor. That's a critical job. Before you begin, you'll

need to find anidentity. A name and face, and a body suit."It nods."Culture a

sense of self," I advise. "My strongest workers have the

strongestidentities."It says nothing."You'll find everything you need in

Personnel. Mock-flesh. Eyes. Everything." Iwatch it for a moment, then add,

"Most of us pattern ourselves after someonefrom His past. A trusted friend, a

lover. Whomever. Just as long as it honorsHim."The newborn is a head taller

than I, and strongly built. Simple eyes gaze at myface. At my workers.

Everywhere. Then it speaks quietly, warning me, "I'm notsupposed to be here. I

was intended for another duty.""Except you're needed here." I have given these

tours to more than a hundrednewborns, and none has ever acted disappointed.

"Come with me," I tell it. "Iwant to show you something."The stairs and high

platform are a blue corundum mesh. The ceiling and distantfloor are polished

diamond, smooth and lovely, and the walls are a rougherdiamond, catching and

throwing the light. I point to Personnel, then the backdoorway leading to the

warehouse, and I name each of the five assembly lines.Every line has its own

bug oven, squat and rectangular, the exteriors platedwith gold."You're my

expeditor," I promise. "You'll feed my oven whatever raw materials

itneeds.""Your expeditor," it repeats."Once you've got your name and face,

visit the warehouse. Ask for Old Nicka.He'll show you what else you need to

know.""How big is this place?""Huge, isn't it?" I love this view. I always

have. "It's nearly five thousandstandards long, from Assembly to

Shipping.""Yet this is all so tiny," my expeditor observes. "Compared to Him,

this isnothing."I look at the faceless face, uncertain how to respond."How

many workers?" it asks."Including you and me, five hundred and eleven.""And

who am I replacing?"Newborns never ask that question. They're too grateful to

be alive, and theprospect of anything else should be unimaginable."Was it a

suicide?" I hear."No. An accident."Beyond the eyes is doubt. Clear and

undeniable doubt."Why bring up suicide?" I have to ask.The tiny, simple mouth

seems to almost smile. "I must have overheard something.I'm sorry."New ears

might have heard one of my people whispering, yes."We run a careful clean shop

here," I warn it.Softly, very softly, it says, "Due.""What's that?""My name."

With a long delicate finger, it writes Due against its own brightchest, in His

language. "That is me.""Fine," I allow.Gazing clown at my home, and his, Due

tells me, "It's surprising. You only makebone, but look how beautiful this

is...."As if it should be anything else, I think."I think I'll stay,"

proclaims Due.As if any of us, in any large way, has the burden of choice.AGES

AGO, WHEN the construction teams were erecting our plant, there were plansto

include a large chapel where we would have worshipped Him in our sparemoments.

It would have been a glorious chamber filled with inspiring Memoriesfree for

the touching, plus likenesses of His family and trusted followers.

Butaccording to legend, a sudden decree put an end to that indulgence. Instead

of achapel, the workers were told to build a fifth assembly line, increasing

theproduction of bone by a long ways. And what's more, every existing chapel

insideolder plants were to be converted immediately, their space dedicated to

makingmore of whatever those plants produced.Time is critical, the decree

tells us.Maybe not with its words, but in the meaning that the words carry

between them.Hurry, He calls to us.Hurry."That new man --""Due?""Gorgeous."

Mollene giggles, dancing around her work station. "I just wish he'dnotice

little me!"Nothing on or about Mollene is little."So he found himself a pretty

face," I say."Not pretty," she warns. "Gorgeous. The whole package is.

Handsome andstrong...but not too strong...!""Which means?""He's delicious,"

she purrs, and that from a woman who has tasted more than afew. "Am I right,

Tannie? Tell him I'm right!"Tannie works across from Mollene. The women are

old, nearly as old as thisplant, and while they're both durable, it's a

durability built in differentways. Tannie is small, quiet and glum, not prone

to courage or her partner'shyperbole. Yet even she admits, "He's one of the

most beautiful creatures thatI've ever seen.""I told you, Jusk!" cackles

Mollene."You did. You did."The women are a good team. A great team, even. When

I was made line foreman, Ihad an inspiration, putting them together at the bug

oven's mouth. It takes goodhands and balance to handle the freshly made bone,

and it takes experience. Andnearly two thousand shifts have passed since my

inspiration. Much has gone wrongon the line, but nobody's better than Mollene

and Tannic when it comes to givingour bone its first look and delicate

touch."A glorious, gorgeous man, and he didn't look at me," Mollene sings.

"You liketo have your looks at me. Don't you, Jusk?"Her mock-flesh is old and

often-patched. The knees and elbows are worn thin, aband of softness encircles

her waist, and her big strong confident hands areshiny where the real Mollene

peeks through. Yet even still, she is spectacular.Broad thighs and hips serve

to carry her central features -- two jungles ofshaggy black mock-hair, and

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Robert Reed - Due

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