Robyn's Egg: A Futuristic Thriller

By Mark Souza

In a dismal future driven by corporations, where most citizens are human billboards focused on status and entertainment, Moyer and Robyn Winfield struggle to attain a baby. Moyer doubts he will make a good father. His wife Robyn, however, is frantic for a child, and Moyer wonders how long his marriage will survive without one. In an age when babies must be cloned and purchased, the high cost almost makes the point moot.

When his wife learns their friends negotiated the price of their baby, she sends Moyer to Hogan-Perko, a corporation with a monopoly on human cloning, to negotiate for their child, and Moyer finds himself face to face with Viktor Perko - The Father of Mankind. The cost for their baby, all of their savings and the promise of a favor. Moyer agrees and is soon asked to spy on Perko's enemies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Souza
• Release date: Aug 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476044781

Mark Souza

I lead a pretty boring life, really. During the day, I build jet aircraft - well, not all by myself - I do my part. At night, I create monsters and new worlds for them to play in. I write fiction - horror mostly, but my interests are broad and I will not be boxed into one genre. The only thing I can promise readers is a commitment to keep them entertained. I hope to become one of your favorite authors.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Monday, 10 October

Moyer Winfield’s father once said, if a man wanted to know who he was, all he had to do was look at where he was and what he was doing and he would know. And as Moyer rode the tube to work, jostled by strangers and largely ignored, he realized he was invisible as air, and like air, barely existed. He was a cog in a great machine that abraded men and women to dust, and an insignificant cog at that. The great machine would continue to churn with or without him without missing a beat. Without a lick of remorse. Without acknowledgment or recognition he’d ever been.

He wondered what would happen if he screamed; screamed so hard his throat bled. Would he even be noticed? But of course he wouldn’t scream. Ever. Sticking out from the crowd was too dangerous.

Those around him stared ahead blankly, tuned into the net, disconnected from the world, oblivious to anything else. Their clothing flashed with an array of ads delivered through fiber optic threads, the content selected based on proximity metrics, what might appeal to those nearby. A Hogan-Perko Birthing Center ad scrolled across the chest of a man seated near a group of married women. Global Brands Lo-Cal Beer appeared on a couple of riders seated amid a cluster of men. Moyer’s coat flashed with an ad for diarrhea medicine probably aimed at the man across from him, which was more information than Moyer wanted.

Moyer clutched the rail to keep from toppling over as the train slowed. Those around him snapped out of their trances and readied for the rush for the doors. When they opened, Moyer allowed himself to be swept out of the car and up the stairs by the crowd.

Above ground, tiny white flakes fell from a clear blue sky dusting Moyer’s clothes as he rushed with the throng of commuters for Freedom Circle. He attempted to brush the flakes away and left a smear on his sleeve. It wasn't snow; they were the ashes of the dead. Freak winds pushed the effluent from incinerators in the Northern Labor Housing ghettos back into the city, ghosts returning home.

Years ago, complaints from the city’s elite closed the downtown incinerator and prompted construction of a new facility at the outskirts of the metropolis among those with little money and less influence. But even the wealthy couldn’t control the wind, though they were certain to complain about it. When the winds blew strong from the north it meant only one thing, a storm was coming.

An advertisement for umbrellas and another for dry cleaning cropped up in Moyer’s head, as well as campaign ads for the candidates up for election to the Consolidated Board of Directors. It was an intrusion Moyer resented. He hated how messages could be inserted into his brain as if they were his own ideas, and despised the effort involved to keep the constant bombardment of advertisements and propaganda from polluting his thoughts, to differentiate between his own and those uninvited placed inside his head by someone else. Then similar ads appeared on the clothing of those around him. Messages of discounts for cleaning cropped up, and maps for the nearest location to pick up an umbrella. When the net detected a commercial opportunity such as the ash fall, it wasted little time taking advantage.

Moyer trudged toward the Circle lost in a school of people, head down, collar up against the ash fall. Walking an instinctive weave through a maze of human traffic, avoiding collisions and eye contact, he moved without identity, a sardine among a massive ball of indistinguishable brothers and sisters flowing like a liquid amalgam. He felt safe. When they parted ahead of him, he moved with them and dodged an open manhole, its cover askew over the shaft, a rusted relic from another era forged with the city’s old name, INDIANAPOLIS, printed in raised relief in an arc around the edge.

Government crews in tidy blue coveralls were out removing fresh Begat graffiti from buildings and off the bricks of the Circle. The sharp tang of chemical paint stripper filled the air. Half the letters had already been burned away, but even so, a faint watermark remained legible. Moyer didn’t have to look to know what it said. The slogans were always the same and everyone knew them.

These read HP is not God – obviously aimed at Hogan-Perko headquarters across the Circle. Trinity Corp was another favorite target. But graffiti wasn't the only tactic employed by the religious extremists. They had recently added bombings to their repertoire. If the intent was publicity, it was working. But they weren't winning any sympathy. Fortunately for the general populace, Begat limited their bombings to Hogan-Perko birthing centers and churches while the city slept. At least for now.

Advertisements splashed across the glass facades of the buildings and skyscrapers bordering the Circle. Liquid crystal sandwiched between panes turned windows into giant video monitor billboards. In the center of the Circle stood the pillar-like structure of the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument. Its terraced reflecting pools altered the course of those traveling north and south. On warm days, the sound of cascading water and sunlight dancing off its surface was a delight. On windy days, the flying spray was a nuisance.

As Moyer approached Digi-Soft, security agents by the dozen amassed for some kind of drill, falling into rank, a perfect square in shiny black armor and reflective visors, giant men facing a single officer with a silver chevron emblazoned on his chest plate. The massive human bait ball ushering Moyer across the Circle reacted as if a shark had entered their midst. The crowd cleaved giving the agents a wide berth. Moyer followed the flow toward his building, and kept the security agents in view from the periphery of his vision, careful to conceal any outward interest. A common saying went, look into an agent’s visor and you will likely see a criminal staring back.

He had never really done anything illegal, at least nothing serious – nothing more than what others routinely did; some shopping on the black market, commerce crimes mainly. But just the same, he had an innate phobia and overwhelming guilt that manifested as a tingle in his chest in the presence of security agents. It was as if, if they scrutinized closely, they would see the outlaw hidden inside him below his very average façade. As a result, he remained ever vigilant and fearful trying to ride the ragged balance between caution and nonchalance, which, perhaps, was a wise thing where agents were concerned. Locate and avoid was his philosophy. No point in tempting fate. Never stand out from the crowd. Lone fishes get swallowed up. Everyone knew that.

Moyer swiped his wrist over the security reader at the main entrance to Digi-Soft. In a fraction of a second, the computer recognized his hologram and the lock clunked open. Moyer released a long sigh when the lock safely snapped closed after him.

Inside the foyer, Moyer shook the ash out of his hair and dusted off his clothes prior to heading into the subbasement. He turned and watched for a moment as the security agents continued their drills. There was comfort behind a locked door and the obscurity of smoked glass. Perhaps the additional security patrols were to guard Hogan-Perko from the extremists. Though if Begat had wanted to bomb HP headquarters, couldn’t they have done it last night instead of painting slogans on walls?

Downstairs, Moyer draped his coat over the back of his chair and checked the productivity board dominating the front wall. The central computer had added his name to the display when he swiped in at the door, but his status was still dark. He was early. The board registered twenty-four minutes, and counted down. Nine minutes before morning calisthenics, plenty of time for coffee.

Petro Martinez was holding court in the break room, the Brazilian’s hands moved wildly as he spoke; a wild grin tattooed to his animated face. Moyer pretended not to notice while he filled his cup, but wondered what it was about Petro that made him so engaging. The man always had an audience. Around the office they jokingly called Petro and Moyer the twins. Though they had the same build, dark hair, and olive complexion, they couldn’t be more different. With his foreign accent and gregarious nature, Petro was seen as exotic and charismatic. Moyer, on the other hand, was dull, ordinary, invisible, the guy whose name no one could quite recall.

Petro’s eyes brightened when he spotted Moyer. Come on over, Moyer my man, he called across the room.

I really shouldn’t. I feel another cold coming on.

"Did you see last night’s Anything for Baby?" Petro asked.

No, I missed it. What Moyer didn’t say was that he couldn’t bear to watch the popular game show, couples publicly humiliating and demeaning themselves. Perhaps it was that the contestant’s desperation for a baby hit a little too close to home, but he’d preferred to think it was that he wasn’t the type who derived entertainment from the misery of others.

You really missed out this time. One guy had his wife fire him from a cannon to impress the judges. It all went wrong, but oh how he did impress. He was trying to set a distance record and must have set the charge too high; shattered his legs. They reported on the net this morning that they had to be amputated.

Moyer found the glee in Petro’s voice repulsive. Did he win a baby?

No, that’s the ironic part. He lost the popular vote. The audience didn’t like him. He came across as an intellectual, all cold and superior.

Moyer forced a smile. I guess I did miss out.

He glanced at the clock and continued on his way. Time was wasting. He stopped by the restroom to assure an unscheduled bathroom break wouldn’t result in a productivity mark against him.

As he stood over the toilet, it was comforting to see his face reflected in the bowl. Today was a water-free day in his apartment block, and Moyer disliked using the powder, electing instead to hold it until he arrived at work. He would not behave like some cat burying its waste in the sand if he could help it. Some people, it was rumored, used the powder for bathing, a thought which made Moyer’s skin crawl.

Moyer carried coffee back to his desk and set out his things. Organization was the key to productivity and staying in the green. He placed a pad of paper and three pens in a neat line. If one quit working, which given their shoddy construction was practically a guarantee, its replacement was near at hand with no risk of going into the red searching for another. You can’t get to three strikes if you don’t get the first. Words of wisdom. Words to live by.

Workers filtered to their desks as the status board countdown neared fifteen minutes. Hugh Sasaki, the corpulent head programmer, settled onto his chair in the cubicle right behind Moyer’s and smugly kicked his feet up on his desk.

Winfield, he said, did you see that Begat bombed another birthing center last night?

Moyer didn’t know why Sasaki felt obligated to tell him such things. Moyer didn’t follow the news, Sasaki had to know that. Was it meant as small talk, or was he highlighting Moyer’s ignorance? Why bring up something like that just before the clock reached fifteen?

They’re extremists seeking attention, Moyer muttered. I choose to deprive them of the satisfaction.

So you believe Begat did it?

Moyer’s face tensed in confusion. Was Sasaki hinting at something, or testing Moyer’s gullibility?

Are you voting in the election? Sasaki asked.

Of course.

Do you think it matters?

What?

What I mean is, by the time any candidate can reach the point of running for election to the board, they’ve been bought and paid for several times over. You only have the illusion of choice. You get to decide between the two candidates they put in front of you, but it doesn’t matter which you choose, they’re already in someone’s pocket.

"Another conspiracy theory, Sasaki? In your world, who are they?"

Sasaki grinned. Look around you. Who runs everything? Who owns everything? Who owns you? You’re a slave and barely even know it.

The bell sounded and Moyer had run out of time for Sasaki’s mind games. In unison, the basement pledged allegiance to the Consolidated Americas and their trust and devotion to the CEO and Consolidated Board of Directors. The image of a woman appeared on the screen at the front of the room. She was severely lean and unattractive. She flashed a salesman’s smile and started exercising, the grin on her face never wavering. Everyone followed suit, mimicking her actions, everyone but Sasaki.

As calisthenics began, Sasaki smiled and raised his coffee mug to Moyer in a mock toast. Sasaki had a doctor’s note and was the programming equivalent of God at Digi-Soft. His non-participation was overlooked, a privilege no one else in the basement could claim. Sasaki logged in while everyone else engaged in mandatory exercise. The sound of his fingers striking keys spurred a few annoyed glares.

Live long and prosper, he said. It was some obscure saying from an ancient vid series Sasaki collected. He thought it amusing. No one else did. Sasaki already had a healthy head start before the board hit zeroes and the workday officially began.

Shortly after calisthenics, the office settled into the monotonous hum of work. Fingers rattled keyboards in a soft drum line. People engaged in conversations without pausing from work. Air hissed from the heating vents. And Moyer tried to screen it all out, the din, the distractions, anything that might disrupt his concentration and flow.

An explosion rang out from the back of the basement. Moyer reflexively snapped his head toward the danger. Security agents poured from the elevator and stormed the basement, dispersing in coordinated columns to surround every cubicle.

They hadn’t been drilling in the Circle after all. They had been amassing, organizing. Moyer glanced up at the agent stationed at his desk blocking his escape. Dressed in glistening black armor with a reflective visor concealing his face, he looked more machine than man. The tip of the agent’s wand glowed blue with charge. Moyer removed his fingers from his keyboard and faced forward as he had been trained. This wasn’t a drill.

Darting eyes stole glimpses of what was happening. An agent passing down the aisle bumped Moyer’s desk. One of the three pens kept in a neat row rolled away. Moyer compulsively pushed it toward its clones and peeked at the agent to see if there would be a reprisal. The agent eased his wand closer to Moyer’s face. Moyer heard it crackle, and felt the electric prickle against his skin. He worried how close the wand could get before current arced across the gap, and feared leaning away might be deemed a final transgression.

Somewhere under the shiny black armor, Moyer knew the agent was grinning. He could feel it. When the raid was over and the agents talked amongst themselves, Moyer was sure this one would brag to his comrades how he scared the skinny little programmer half out of his wits. He might embellish, adding a lie about how the programmer pissed his pants.

Up on the status board, lights turned red as productivity monitors detected the lack of keystrokes. Moyer was tempted to start typing to keep his light green. Three reds in a month was cause for rehabilitation. But he knew if he moved again, the agent would let him have it. As Moyer’s light turned red, his heart fell. He hadn’t had a red in over two years. The leash was that much shorter.

The booming voice of Louis Berman, the project supervisor, signaled a rare appearance on the floor. Everyone remain at your desks and cooperate. We should be able to return to work shortly.

Four agents converged on Hugh Sasaki’s desk. Sasaki screamed, No, I didn’t do anything. An agent prodded Sasaki with his wand and Sasaki convulsed to the floor. A pair of agents lifted his limp body under the arms and dragged him away. The heels of his shoes traced out a faint pair of marks across the tile from his desk to the elevator – a reminder.

Time seemed to slow as events unfolded. Moyer’s thoughts drifted untended. The surreal scene reminded him of antique comic books his father had given him, mementos from a time when images and stories were recorded on paper. Colorful superheroes lived among fragile yellowed pages, poised to thwart dark armies. He hoped then to be a superhero one day, to discover powers he didn’t know he possessed, to be the object of admiration.

He juxtaposed the bravery of his juvenile fantasies against his current posture, hands on desk, eyes forward, a frozen rabbit hoping it won’t be seen. In his youth, he would have thought himself capable of challenging the agent guarding his desk, capable enough to go to Hugh Sasaki’s aid. Right and wrong were simpler concepts then. Now, straightening his line of pens was all the rebellion he could muster. A layer of shame coated his fear like rancid icing on a moldy cake.

Agents retreated in formation as if they expected a counterattack from the programmers and engineers cowering at their desks. Within minutes they were gone. Hugh Sasaki’s chair sat empty.

An eerie silence and the fetor of terror hung in the air thick as smoke. A lone set of fingers clicking on a keyboard broke the stillness. More joined in, creating a swell. Soon, everyone was typing as if a flurry of productivity could wash the scene from their minds. No one spoke. The atmosphere was astringent.

Tension had been building at Digi-Soft for quite some time as the project deadline approached, but Sasaki’s arrest raised anxiety levels to a new high. Who would be next? Moyer knew he wasn’t the only one thinking it.

Chapter 2

Before lunch, Petro Martinez stopped by Moyer’s desk. Let’s go out and get a bite on the Circle, he said. Moyer nodded. He was grateful for the distraction. The office remained tight-lipped. Fear and stress were building to a head. But Petro, given enough space to talk would speak his mind, and Petro had sources. If anyone knew why Sasaki was apprehended, it was him. Moyer locked up his things and followed Petro up the stairs.

Sunshine warmed a cool October day. The sex shops and nightclubs ringing the Circle were dark, hibernating until the end of shift when the glare of neon and call of the barkers would seduce the bored. Restaurant owners swept away the ash in preparation for the lunch crowd. A few restaurants put out cheery bistro tables and chairs, but with the ash still falling, there were no takers despite a welcoming sun.

Tucker's Restaurant was opposite Digi-Soft, and as far from work as one could get on Freedom Circle. Most of the lunch crowd took the long way around, along the buildings, under awnings to keep the ash off. Moyer and Petro walked directly across the Circle and conversed along the way.

Petro said, That was quite the scene this morning, wasn’t it?

Moyer craned to see that no one else was nearby and spoke in a low voice. Do you know what it was about? Have you talked to your friends upstairs?

Petro shook his head and leaned in close, I talked to them, but they didn’t know he’d been taken. They’re more in the dark than we are.

The whole thing was handled badly if you ask me, Moyer said. They should have waited and nabbed him later at his apartment, privately. Now because of the spectacle, the entire office is scared out of their wits.

Petro raised his brows and gave Moyer a look. I think they want us scared.

At first, Moyer didn’t want to believe it. But it did address why such a show was made of Hugh Sasaki’s arrest. The more he considered, the more he sensed it was true. It fit with the increasingly oppressive environment at work. Deadlines were looming, and the fear of leaks heightening.

I don’t enjoy this project anymore, Moyer said. There’s too much pressure, too much scrutiny. I don’t even know what I’m working on. I have a piece. You have a piece. Sasaki had a piece. And none of us knows what the other is doing, or what the program will do when it all comes together. Moyer glanced at Petro who had his lips clamped into a tight line.

You know, don’t you? Moyer said.

Petro shook his head. I don’t. I just have a guess.

More information from upstairs?

No. Nobody is talking, at least not about the Worm. I’ve pieced things together from talking to you and Sasaki, and from things I’ve heard in the rumor mill.

So out with it, Moyer said.

Do you know what really happened this morning? Petro asked leaving no gap for a reply. Moyer my man, the thud of Sasaki’s fat carcass hitting the floor was the sound of opportunity knocking.

What?

Petro grinned, seemingly amused at Moyer’s confusion. With Sasaki gone, the lead programming position is now open. They’re going to need someone to take his place. They can’t go outside. It would take too long. And you have the most experience. You’re a natural fit. The way I figure it, you are now on the fast track. Petro leaned forward, a crooked grin on his face. He checked for eavesdroppers before settling his dark eyes on Moyer. And as you advance, you might bring along a friend each step of the way, someone you can trust to watch your back.

Moyer thought it over. There was a certain logic to it, and, he had to admit, a certain appeal. The extra money would certainly make Robyn happy. They might finally afford a baby and perhaps she could quit her job.

But there was no forgetting what happened to Sasaki. Would the person who stepped into Sasaki’s shoes face the same problems and suffer the same fate? The cleverness of Petro’s plan didn’t escape Moyer. He had concocted a scheme to advance on Moyer’s coat tails with no risk to himself. All the risk would be Moyer’s.

I’m sure the company already has a plan, Moyer said.

Petro looked surprised. Don’t wait on the company. Go straight to Berman. Let him know you want it, that you have the drive.

I don’t know.

Come on Moyer, that’s your problem. You are too much of a straight arrow. You play everything up the middle. You lack flair. You’ll never advance that way. You need to show initiative, that you can think outside the box. What’s the harm in letting Berman know you’re interested?

Moyer let out a deep sigh. I’ll think it over.

At Tuckers, patrons sat elbow to elbow at the bar when Petro and Moyer pushed through the door. Petro found a corner booth. As the crowd of regulars filed in and the noise level rose to a din, Moyer saw the tension ease in Petro’s face.

Moyer examined the menu. Look at the price of meat, he said. It’s up again.

Kelsey and I have sworn off for awhile, Petro said, We can’t afford it with the new baby.

Moyer nodded as though he understood, though in reality he didn’t. Petro’s baby announcement a couple weeks before came as a surprise. He had never asked Petro about his salary. They both held similar positions working on the same project, but Moyer had seniority so he assumed he made more. That was until Petro announced that he had a baby. Babies didn’t come cheap. Moyer and his wife had been saving for years and still weren’t half way there.

Petro hired in at Digi-Soft a year after Moyer. Moyer questioned the hire at the time. Petro had Jobe experience, a visually based programming language. He was illiterate when he interviewed and Digi-Soft didn’t hire illiterates or use Jobe. The company trained Petro to read, and to program in Ultima, which was the first time Moyer heard of the company doing such a thing for anyone. Petro’s gregariousness helped until his skills came up to par, and so did his uncanny ability to get inside information to fuel the office gossip mill. It didn’t take long for Petro to fit right in — a talent Moyer envied more than he would ever say. Moyer suspected Petro was related to someone in the company with a title and an office, a nephew or second cousin perhaps. It was the only explanation.

Oh hell, that reminds me, Robyn has us scheduled for a poke-and-prod-fest tonight.

I beg your pardon? Petro said.

She has her sights set on a free baby, and the government has a call out for DNA.

Ah, the Deep Seas Initiative.

You got it, Moyer said. I've tried explaining to her that we don't stand a chance. When the government puts out the call for genetic material, they’re searching for the elite. What do Robyn and I have to offer? Neither of us is particularly athletic, nor brilliantly smart. But I can't talk her out of it. Her mind is set. And because of it, I have to endure hours of testing and probing, standing naked in front of a battery of technicians.

"I feel for you, my man. Kelsey had me go to a few of those during the Mars Initiative. After all the testing was done, I was able to get my hands on our ranking. We were so far down the list it was embarrassing. But it’s better than winding up a contestant on Anything For Baby."

I suppose. Still, you should have seen the way the techs looked at me last time, Moyer said. I’m standing there naked as the day I was decanted and could see the disdain on their faces. I was wasting their time and they wanted me to know it. A pair of them smirked, barely able to contain their laughter. I wish you could talk to Robyn. Maybe she would listen if it came from someone else. After a moment, a short bitter laugh escaped Moyer’s lips. Who am I kidding? We argued about it last night, her term for it, not mine. I barely got a word in. Did you know she lost her job as a result of the Mars debacle?

No, I didn’t. Is she working?

Yes, though not in her field. It’s rather a sore subject.

A young waitress clad in a pink acetate uniform sidled up to the table to take their orders. Petro leered, taking full advantage of the garment’s translucence. His eyes moved over the waitress’ body, gleaning as much detail as he could manage. Moyer directed his attention to the shifting images of menu specials shown on the video wall. They ordered food and Petro continued leering as the waitress walked away.

The waitress returned a short while later with their meals and a scanner. Petro picked at his food as if its arrangement was more important than its flavor or nutritive value. Moyer checked his ticket to assure the order was correct, and held out his arm, pulling back his sleeve to expose the hologram on his wrist. After scanning in the code, the waitress gazed at the screen. Her smile faded. Sir, it says you have insufficient funds.

No, that’s impossible, Moyer insisted.

It must be a misread, Petro chimed. It happens all the time.

Moyer offered his wrist again. The girl scanned the code, waited a moment and wagged her head.

How can this be? Moyer muttered.

Petro extended his arm to the waitress. Here, add it to mine.

A torch of pain braised Robyn Winfield’s knees while she scrubbed travertine floors with a brush. The seams between tiles cut into her flesh like hot wire. A month earlier, she had her own office and people cleaned her floors and emptied her trash; that was before the recession and the last wave of job cuts, before Robyn had been repurposed and put to productive use – the phrase the Labor Counselor used during their meeting. The counselor was a prim, humorless woman in a masculine suit with a plaque on her desk that read Productivity is next to Godliness. In less than an hour, she had reduced Robyn from a respected computer encryption specialist to a cleaning woman.

Robyn stood and threw her scrub brush across the room. It clattered across the floor and smacked the wall with a satisfying thud. She pressed the heels of her hands into her knotted back and arched to try and loosen her muscles.

Scrubbing a different section of the same floor, a young woman whose name Robyn could never remember called to her in a harsh whisper. What are you doing?

I quit, Robyn said. Her words echoed in the expansive library and sounded satisfying when they returned to her.

Keep your voice down or Big Mona will hear.

I don’t care, Robyn said.

The woman worked her brush even harder as if she could scrub Robyn’s words from the air. Her dark hair swayed in rhythm with her efforts. She blinked rapidly. Her expression turned pensive as she cast her eyes toward the door. The heavy clop of sturdy heels on stone alerted Robyn that someone was approaching.

Lollygagging again, Princess? What seems to be the problem this time? asked the crew supervisor, a woman the others called Big Mona. She swaggered into the room, her swollen face stern, patience at an end.

I shouldn’t be here, Robyn said. I’m a programmer and not cut out for this work. It’s…

Beneath you? Mona finished. We get that a lot with you repurps. A wry, condescending smile tickled Mona’s lips. I will make this plain to you. The Judge will be back in a couple hours. These floors will sparkle when he arrives. That is your job. Pick up your brush and get back to work.

Or what? Robyn challenged.

Big Mona’s eyes glowed with delight as if Robyn had led her just where she hoped to go. Well, then I call Security Services and you get rehabilitated. It’s your choice and makes no difference to me. Productivity is next to Godliness, and one way or another you will wind up productive. Are we clear, Princess?

Robyn muttered to herself as she crossed the room to recover her scrub brush under Mona’s glare. After she returned to her knees and started scrubbing, the heavy clop of heels departed the room like a team of Clydesdales. Damn repurps, the big woman spat as she left. Something soft bounced off Robyn’s shoulder. On the floor beside her rested a pair of red kneepads. Thanks, uh…

My name is Serafina, the girl said. "It means heavenly angel. I’ll want those back. Get yourself a pair of your own tonight."

Why is she always such a bitch?

Big Mona? Her husband divorced her last year, Serafina said.

What a shock.

She didn’t see it coming. They had a little girl and her husband wanted custody. It was nasty. He had a better paying job and could afford child care. And he had a better lawyer. The judge awarded him full custody.

Robyn rode the tube home from Freedom Circle. She waited more than an hour, jostled by the throng on the platform every time a new train came into the station. When she finally found a car with space, her patience was frayed. Bodies poured through the doors until the aisle filled chest to chest. Robyn took one of the last open seats and avoided eye contact. These were what her father referred to as low people, those that live by brawn, not brains, and those who lived in the dirty outskirts beyond the civil part of the city. Packers on the platform forced on a few more passengers. A man in the aisle was driven back and stepped on Robyn’s foot. She yelped and clenched her jaw to keep from cursing.

Robyn sat with her eyes closed and let the pain of the workday ooze from her shoulders. A buzzing sting radiated from her chapped hands. She kept lotion in her purse, and rubbed a dab into her palm. The lotion burned where the fissures in her skin penetrated down to exposed flesh. While she waited for the pain to subside, the subtle aroma of roses filled her nose. She supposed that if her hands weren’t in such bad shape, the sensation might actually be pleasurable.

She glanced up and noticed her reflection in the far window. The fiber optic strands woven into her work uniform radiated an advertisement for Global Brands Beer. Powered by her body heat and ambient light, images selected to cater to those nearby appeared in her clothing downloaded via the net. As ads went, this one was tame. If she was in a car full of men, it could just as easily be an ad for One-Eyed Pete’s Sex Shop. It had happened before. Being a walking billboard was the tradeoff for affordable clothing. What she resented was having no say in what was posted there.

Robyn noticed a woman watching her. The woman’s eyes met Robyn’s and her lips curled to one side in a rueful grin. The woman was old and tired from more than just the day, but from decade upon decade. She was obviously labor class born and bred, hard working and beaten down. And yet her expression said she felt sorry for Robyn. Sorry for what, Robyn wondered? And then she grasped that it was for what lay ahead; pity for the decades to come. But maybe the pity in the old woman’s face was for something else. Robyn supposed the woman thought she was also low people and trying to cover the fact by applying lotion to make her working class hands soft, pretending to be better than she was. The old woman must have presumed she was a status jumper. And if Robyn tried to explain her situation was only temporary, would the old woman believe it? When Robyn got off the tube in the Professional Quarter instead of riding all the way out to Labor Housing, what would the old woman think then? That Robyn was embellishing the lie by pretending to live someplace she couldn’t afford, or that she had screwed her way to a better part of town and was some professional schlub’s mare. Explaining her

Reviews for Robyn's Egg

[maryann12_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I enjoyed reading this book from start to finish. What some people would be willing to do for a baby. It had it's twists and turn which kept you wanting more and not laying the book down. Very interesting read. Thumbs Up!

[madstitcher_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Others have stated that this book is similar to other futuristic novels. I am new to this genre so the originality aspect is not a factor for me. I found this book to be really interesting and thought provoking. I can imagine our world exactly like Moyer's world and it scares me. It makes me truly grateful for the freedoms that we enjoy. I cannot even imagine wanting a baby so much and not being able to have one (even by adoption) but I know there are people out there who do.I found this book to be well written and the characters to be well developed. At first I felt that Robyn was very selfish and inconsiderate of Moyer's feelings but as the book progressed I found both of them growing and changing. I really enjoyed reading this and I know that other people who enjoy this genre will enjoy it also. I look forward to reading more books from Mr. Sousa.**Disclaimer: I received this book in exchange for an honest review. It did not affect my opinion in any way.

[ms.finny · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I received an e-copy of this book from the author, Mark Souza, through a LibraryThing member giveaway. Thank you!This book definitely felt a lot like an amalgam of 1984, Fahrenheit 451, and Brave New World. Usually I would feel this makes a book unoriginal and not worthy of a five star rating. In this case I feel it was done perfectly. Souza took all of the best parts of these books (which were written between 62 and 80 years ago) and mixed them with the knowledge of the way some things are today (such as the nets between labor housing) and came out with a wonderful dystopian novel.There were some points in the book that I felt it was getting a little slow, but everything picked up again quickly. I found it very hard to put this book down. I found myself reading in every spare 5 minutes I had! There were other times I thought there were too many side plots going on for things to get cleared up, but in the end everything came together nicely. Everything was answered nicely but there wasn't a lot of unnecessary detail. All-in-all, if you enjoy the dystopian genre, especially dealing with genetics or corporate control, I definitely recommend giving this book a try!

[lizasarusrex · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

In the future we will become fertile, and unable to have children. You are controlled by the net which is extremely guarded. If you fight against it, or the all powerful Perko authority, you will find yourself in rehab or even killed.Robyn is desperate to have a baby, you can feel the need in her that wants to procreate. Every bone in her body tells her it is what she is missing, and what she needs. She convinces Moyer to spend all of their money in the savings to find a baby.Moyer foolishly makes a deal with Perko, that he ends up not being able to hold up to. This is just the beginning of a horrible trip for two people who just want a baby to love. After twists and turns that come up with nothing but dead ends, the couple finds themselves on the run to Beget. I won't spoil the whole book for you, but the roller coaster of thrills and conspiracy don't stop here.Robyn and Moyer are such true and believable characters that you can feel the pain that they have to endure. They both share the spotlight of main characters, and neither of them over powers or controls the other. They are a team relying on one another equally as a partnership.All through this book, I found myself contemplating such a society, and with Mark's great writing skills, it wasn't hard to imagine.Robyn and Moyer go thorough such a life altering experience, that they come out on the other side completely different people.Although the premise of the book might be similar to other dystopian books or movies, the characters is what really shows Mark Souza's unique creativity.

[dpappas_25 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I really enjoyed this book. This book definitely had shades of 1984 and Farenheit 451 but with a fresh spin. I was hooked from the start of this book right until the end. I found Moyer and Robyn's journey and relationship to be compelling and thought-provoking, and I immediately connected with them. I do have to say that I was kind of disappointed with the ending, it felt a bit rushed and quite a few questions were left unanswered (I'm hoping that it was this way because there will be a sequel but I don't know). Overall this was a really good dystopian book that I would definitely recommend to friends and family.I received this book from a Librarything Member's Giveaway, that does not affect the content of my review in any way.