Betty believed that the establishment of the preserve was the beginning of a renewed human society, and that that required two essential components. The first and foremost was to increase the population. That was a project that was taking place all over the preserve, with a half dozen clinics in Charleston, and several clinics in the outer suburbs, all run by the pro-orgo group HOPS, the Human Organized Population Society. It was modeled on antique zoological preservation techniques that had been used to save specific animals from extinction—pandas, rhinos, tree frogs—animals that, in some cases, now outnumbered humans. The program comprised an enormous media campaign on television, in public transportation, and by door-to-door missionaries. All women were encouraged to conceive. The slogan was “A Baby in Every Belly.” The clinics ran a sperm bank with artificial insemination, a sex match program for those who preferred the traditional method of conception, where genetically compatible individuals were coupled for assignations, and sex education for self-established pairs like the Laughtons. They also provided what prenatal and obstetric care could be gleaned from old medical textbooks and manuals, trying to increase the number of successful pregnancies and the infant survival rate.
The program had been slow to catch on, many people indifferent to the prospect of the human race’s extinction, and some people outright opposed, believing that there would be no way to sustain a larger society with food production as inconsistent as it was. Betty spent a few hours at the clinic every afternoon, and then visited as many different women as she could, prospects she pursued like a salesman, making repeated visits, dragging Erica with her, almost as a sample, proof of concept.
The second component, and almost as important in Betty’s view, was school. The bywords there were “teamwork,” “compassion,” “empathy,” “resilience,” and “social responsibility.” The goal was to create good people who believed in the value of humanity and knew that survival was contingent on working together as one people. There were those that called it propaganda and inculcation, and who refused to participate. What was the point? Who even needed to know some of the subjects that were used as a medium—math, history, robotics—to teach fellowship? To the dissenters, agriculture and apathy and distraction equaled survival.
Betty’s class was composed of six children who ranged in age from two to five, and one bad apple named Marcos, who threatened the chance for success of the experiment at all.
“I’m sorry to go on like that,” she said, reaching her hand across the table and taking Laughton’s. “You look like you’re falling over.”
Laughton knew he had to tell her about Smythe—it would be in the news soon, and she’d be angry at him for not sharing it with her—but he was worried she’d take it worse than he did, the waste of human life anathema to her. Then, without preamble, he said, “There’s been a murder.”
Betty pulled her hand back, like she’d touched something hot, or maybe something disgusting, and blinked rapidly. “What do you mean?”
“Someone’s been killed. Behind Kramer’s.”
Her head fell back, her face pointing to the ceiling, eyes closed. Then she looked back at him. “And you had to listen to me talk about a damn brat. Why didn’t you say something?”
“I just did.”
“Goddamn it. Do you know who did it?”
He shook his head. The movement sent a shot of pain across his cheeks. He must have winced, because standing up, Betty said, “You better get to sleep. You don’t want to start the day still dragging today’s headache with you.”
“Yeah.”
“And you better catch the son of a bitch.”
Just then, Erica ran into the room, her hair dripping water, soaking the shoulders of her pajama top, turning the baby pink to almost magenta. She jumped on Laughton’s lap.
“Erica, you need to ask first,” Betty chastised.
Laughton wrapped his arms around his daughter; she was so skinny, he engulfed her. She flopped on his lap, the top of her head hitting his cheek. The pain was explosive, and he released her, nearly throwing her off his lap. “Fuck,” he said.
“Erica, you’ve got to be careful!” Betty said.
Laughton held his hand to his face. His shirt was soaking wet where Erica’s hair had been pressed to his chest.
“I’m sorry,” Erica said. She looked as though she was about to cry.
“It’s fine,” he said, placing a caring hand on the top of her head. “It’s fine. Let’s go to bed.”
She wrapped her arms around his right hand in anxiety, almost hanging on his arm. Usually he would have forced her to let go—she was hurting him—but tonight he dragged her along, Betty trailing behind them. This was his family.
Erica tried to pull him onto the bed as he tucked her in, but he knew if he even sat, he wouldn’t be able to get up again. He kissed her wet temple, and said, “I love you, beautiful.”
“Stay,” she said, gripping his hand tighter.
“I’ve got to go to sleep,” he said.
“Erica, let go,” Betty said. “I’ll sit with you for a minute.”
Erica didn’t let go, but Laughton wrenched his hand free, the action causing him to tighten the muscles in his face, which made his stomach turn with the pain. He stumbled out of the room, almost tripping into his room and onto the bed, where he collapsed. There was something he was forgetting to do, like the slipup in the interview at the supermarket, forgetting to try to establish a timeline. But what was he missing?
All he could do was breathe, trying to control the pain, to sleep.
* * *
The rising and falling tinkle of notes penetrated the chief’s sleep, and he was slowly aware his thigh was buzzing, an odd vibration that made him feel as though he needed to pee. He opened his eyes. The room was dark. He was mostly on the bed, his legs protruding over the edge from the knees down, and he was still dressed. His phone. In his pocket.
He rolled over, reaching into his jeans.
Betty uncurled herself from the small corner of bed that had been left to her once Laughton had collapsed. “Make it stop,” she mumbled as, still asleep, she swung her feet over the edge of the bed and started to shuffle to the bathroom. “Stop,” she moaned.
Laughton sat up and looked at his phone’s bright display, squinting at the light. At least it didn’t hurt, his facial pain and headache having retreated to little more than an annoyance, thank god. The name displayed there, however, squeezed everything in his chest—“Kir.” Only one reason he’d be calling. Someone must have talked, and the news of the murder had gotten out. Maybe Laughton didn’t have to answer it. He could claim to have missed it. But that would only make it worse later. He swiped to pick up the call.
“Hey, lazybones,” Kir said. “Sleeping on the job?”
Laughton wasn’t in the mood. “I’m not on the job.”
“The job is always on,” Kir said. “You know that.”
Kir had been Laughton’s first, and only, partner during his seventeen years on the Baltimore City Police Department. A series fourteen, class five robot, Kir was superior to humans in every way: intelligence, strength, stamina, senses. Unlike most robots, however, Kir had a great respect for humans, no small part of that due to Laughton.