Free Robyn's Egg by Mark Souza Page B

blocking the door, his hands over his ears to muffle the noise from the chanting protesters and the hiss of the loud speakers. Someone grabbed his arm. Moyer balled his hand into a fist, tight and hard, and turned prepared to throw a punch. A tall muscular albino dressed in a brown tunic stared down at him. The giant appeared to be soldier-class, bred freakishly strong and athletic for the rigors of the battlefield. Placid blue eyes set against snow-like skin gleamed from beneath his liripipe hood. Moyer’s fist went slack.
    “Don’t go to them,” the giant said. “Let God provide. There is another way. His way.”
    Moyer jerked free and ran the last few steps into the glass cube of the Hogan-Perko lobby. Once inside, he gazed through the windows. The giant stood watching, his face expressionless.
    “May I help you sir?”
    Moyer startled at the sound of the woman’s voice. The receptionist tending the front desk repeated, “May I help you, sir?”
    Moyer turned from the window. “Yes. I have come to discuss terms for acquiring a baby.”
    She smiled. “Of course, sir. Please take a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.”
    Four large stuffed chairs near the front of the lobby bracketed a low Lucite table. A sign indicated the lobby was a free net zone so customers in the waiting area could keep entertained while they passed the time.
    Moyer sat in a chair facing the Circle. The giant had rejoined the protest line pacing an elongated oval carrying a hand painted sign – “BABIES ARE NOT PRODUCT”.
    “How bad does it get?” Moyer asked.
    “The Begat protesters?” the receptionist said. “They make our customers nervous, as do the stories on the net about bombings, but I’ve never seen them do anything to anyone other than handing out pamphlets.”
    The elevator bell softly chimed behind the reception desk. A small silver-haired man in a navy pinstripe suit stopped briefly at the reception desk and the receptionist directed him to Moyer. His movements were quick and efficient.
    “Hello, I’m Fredrick Duncan, a customer representative here at Hogan-Perko. I understand you want to discuss bringing a baby into your life – Mister ...?”
    “Winfield, Moyer Winfield.”
    “Where is your wife Mr. Winfield? I usually deal with couples.”
    “She’s at home. She tends to get overly emotional when it comes to babies. I thought it might be better to conduct the initial meetings without her.”
    “I see.” Duncan’s lips curved upward knowingly. His eyes darted toward the protesters then back to Moyer. “We should continue this upstairs in my office.”
    Inside the elevator, Moyer asked, “Are you broadcasting white noise outside to thwart the net browsers?”
    “Yes, the protesters want attention and if you give it to them, they’ll never stop. Did they give you much trouble?”
    “No, not much. I hear they bombed your Southgate outlet.”
    “Yes, they are a true menace. I wish Security Services would shut them down completely.”
    “Why don’t they?”
    “The courts. They won’t allow the group to be prosecuted. They say crimes must be attributed to individuals. It’s so shortsighted. If they arrested the lot of them, the bombings would stop. Who doesn’t want that?”
    Moyer nodded. “At least no one was hurt.”
    “I wouldn’t say that. The blast destroyed over two hundred babies in our incubator pods. All lost. Explain that to parents who have been waiting for months.”
    “What happened to them?”
    “What?”
    “The parents, do they still get babies?”
    “Yes, of course. But they have to wait another nine months or more as openings become available.”
    The elevator decelerated. Moyer started to rise off the floor and clutched the rail.
    “It takes a little getting used to,” Duncan said. When the doors opened, Duncan led the way down the hall and Moyer followed.
    Duncan’s office was stark – a desk with a phone and keyboard, three chairs, and a vid screen. A floor to ceiling