Perfect People

By Robert H. Lieberman

Best-selling author & film director Robert H. Lieberman takes us into the unique underground civilization of Cretoria where the last of living humanity, genetically modified to Perfects and Nearly Perfects— Imperfects long since eliminated. Or are they? It’s a society where reproduction has long since been taken out of the hands of humans, where “boy-springs and “girl-springs” are developed in a ”Hatchery,” and sexual pleasure is provided by “flanking” machines.

Enter detective Creally Leemling, a Nearly Perfect, created in his Maker’s image, but not perfect ... still human enough to doubt, to probe dangerously close to the ultimate secret of Creatoria ... to dare desire a woman his world said did not, must not, could not exist.

We meet Wendy — an Imperfect. She was born, not made, a beautiful vibrant creature filled with passions and pain ... a wonderful exotic sexual being ... a real, not ideal, woman risking capture and death for one last love.

And there is Weems— a Perfect. Tall and imposing, Weems is a triumph of genetic engineering. Powerful as a god and lacking all physical human flaws — which made it easy for him to lie, scheme, and commit cold-blooded murder — he is the possessor of a shocking secret.

Publishers Weekly - "Suspenseful narrative and unusually sharp, evocative visual sense that speeds."

New York Times - "Mr. Lieberman has a sharp eye for the incongruous and the humor that can accompany desperate happenings."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert H. Lieberman
• Release date: Jul 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781484912188

Robert H. Lieberman

Robert H. Lieberman is a best-selling novelist and film director. He is also a long time member of the Physics faculty at Cornell University."Echoes Of The Empire" is his newly completed film and is available on Vimeo priorate its International Release. https://www.echoesoftheempire.com/#5His previous films include, "Angkor Awakens" and “They Call It Myanmar,” both New York Times Critics' Picks. The Myanmar film, which remains highly current, was named one of the top dozen films by Roger Ebert. All Lieberman's films are now available on all digital platforms.Among his earlier films are the highly praised comedy “Green Lights”, and the award-winning feature documentaries “Last Stop Kew Gardens,” “Faces In A Famine” and “BoyceBall.”His latest novel is “The Boys of Truxton.” He is also the author of “Baby” and “Paradise Rezoned, ” (which sold over 300,000 copies). His other novels include, “Goobersville Breakdown, ” “The Last Boy,” “Perfect People.” and "Neighbors." These are all available in an electronic edition from Kindle and in print from Amazon. He is presently at work developing a feature film based on his new novel “The Nazis, My Father & Me.”Currently he is at work on the new novel "Gordy" which he has worked on since 1985

Book preview

The corridor lights were still in the night mode as second-rank Peace Monitor Creally Leemling hurried on his way to work. Walking down a circumferential corridor, its curvature disappearing into the near distance, he watched a new day begin to dawn. The light was at first faint, barely outlining a few puffy clouds projected out into the holosky above. Then it began to increase in intensity, mimicking perfectly the dawn of a terrestrial day except for one thing. The color was wrong. It was green. A sharp bluish green that caused Creally, despite his lingering sleepiness, to laugh. For the first time in memory the Mainframe had screwed up, giving the holosky the ghoulish cast of raw plank.

Passing through an airlock that irised open at his approach, Creally reached the intersection of a radial corridor and took a sharp left, heading to the ascendor that would take him down to the eighth-level tube transport. As he walked toward Creatoria’s central core, he found himself joined by other men and women, mostly Perfects, hurrying to work. They were high-level government workers, executives and accountants, the midlevel cream of Creatorian society granted the rewards of spacious peripheral dwellings for service and dedication and just plain hard work. Creally took a right turn back onto a peripheral and, as he continued his trek, the stream of people joining him rapidly thickened, the sound of their hurried footsteps and muffled voices layering itself on that humming medley of vibrating machinery and rushing air and moving humanity that penetrated every crevice and invested itself in the very life of the subterranean city.

Nearing the bank of ascendors that he knew lay just beyond the peripheral’s curvature, it suddenly occurred to Creally that no matter where one was in Creatoria, one could never see far. There were no vistas. Everything had limits. Even on the most peripheral corridors where the circumference was measured in tens of kilometers there was always that gentle curve, limiting sight. Nowhere in Creatoria, he thought, wedging himself into a packed ascendor that plunged dizzily into the Earth, nowhere can you get any sense of distance.

The relevation continued to haunt Creally as he stood in one of the silent orderly queues waiting for a capsule in the tube station. Though hatched and raised in Creatoria—having, in fact, spent his entire thirty-five-year existence with but one exception in this vast metropolis beneath the surface—Creally found himself this green morning forced to view his city with new eyes. Creatoria, it dawned on him as he climbed into a capsule and was whisked down a tube at blinding speed, Creatoria was enormous in reality, enormous but yet paradoxically small and limited in perception, the long view always obscured by a wall.

By the time Creally reached the government complexes of Central Lambda sector, all he wanted was to get to his office at P.M. Headquarters. The central corridors and plazas were clogged with throngs of early-morning workers, and Creally had to hug the walls just to keep from being drawn away from his destination. Passing through the endless series of holocon commercials assaulting him in the long corridor, Creally jostled his way toward the edge of the large government plaza. When he reached it, he plunged without pause into the swirling crowds, the smell of a thousand freshly sanitized and perfumed bodies drowning his senses. Though not a disproportionately short man, Creally was half a head shorter than any Perfect and he soon disappeared in the teeming mass, surfacing only near the entrance to Headquarters where the crowd thinned. As he neared the familiar double port, two Toxes staggered into his path and, without giving them a second thought, Creally gently nudged them aside.

At Headquarters Creally rode the high-speed ascendor up to the third level. Passing Aarendeno in his booth, he gave the dispatcher a quick nod.

Hey, you’re in early. What’s up? asked Aarendeno with a big, toothy smile.

Creally gave a wave but hurried on, almost colliding with another officer.

Morning, said Sneeling. A third-rank P.M. from Vice, Sneeling was something of a corridor rat who always seemed to be hanging around Creally’s Domestic Affairs Division. Sneeling flashed his predatory smile and Creally reciprocated, but kept moving until he reached his office. At the port he hastily punched in.

Hi, boss, said a passing young female Perfect. She was one of the rookies who had just been assigned to Creally’s squad, and one of the best-looking Perfects he had seen in years. Did you see? A green morning! she exclaimed.

Look, I can’t talk now, he said. Catch you later, okay? And as his port swished open, he quickly slipped into his office, leaving her behind in the hallway.

In an instant Creally was leaning over his console, bringing his holocon up online.

Punch up last night’s log in total, he ordered, and make it snappy.

CLEARANCE GRANTED, responded the holocon, identifying Creally by his voice.

Creally slumped down and waited.

Come on. Come on, he said, drumming his fingers impatiently on the console. What’s taking so long?

ASSEMBLING

Don’t give me that plooma. Just spit it out. Hurry up.

A moment later the file was projected out into the space above the desk and Creally’s eyes eagerly swept down the list. As usual the log was littered with domestic complaints. There were numerous cases of offspring abandonment and disputes between neighbors, claims of mate desertion, and reports of spring abuse. Also recorded were incidents of voucher fraud, tobacco plants found growing under a light in a swanky level-7 dwelling, and mention of intoxicants being seized in an early-morning raid. A young boy-spring was reported missing from Central Eta sector; P.M. Headquarters was still looking for a twenty-six-year-old Nearly Perfect for questioning in regard to an alleged double mating case; another Nearly Perfect had tried to force his way onto a suborbital transport. None of it, however, was what Creally was looking for. As he continued to scan the reports of antisocial behavior and petty crimes, he suddenly stopped. There it was. Buried innocuously almost at the end of the file. Another incident at a solar farm on the fringe of the North American desert. And it matched all the others that had occurred over a period now stretching more than three terrestrial months: the damage not only in the same district and on the same farm, but also limited to precisely the same four sections of domes. Something very strange was certainly going on out there. Placing his finger on the appropriate menu line, Creally again addressed his holocon.

Give me the detailed report, he said.

The holocon flashed red. NOT DOMESTIC AFFAIRS.

Override, he ordered, and was presented with the three-dimensional image of a damaged dome. There was a jagged hole in the dome’s hard, crystalline surface. Located just above ground level, it was crudely circular and looked to be fifty, maybe sixty centimeters in diameter from edge to shattered edge—just like all the others.

Next. Next. Creally visually thumbed through the different shots. Next … and next.… Good … good, he said, feeling pleased with himself. It was this, this heightened anticipation of another incident, that had, in fact, gotten him up so early; this that had prompted him to fight the early rush-hour crowds when rank allowed him a more leisurely entry. Of course, this whole matter was well out of his jurisdiction, had absolutely nothing to do with him. None of his lousy business, as Veena might say. Yet there was something about these incidents that, when he had first discovered them in the nightly logs, had grabbed him, had piqued his curiosity, had grown to near obsession. What was it that vexed him? Perhaps the pattern. Its non-randomness. The ruptures always near a seam. Always at ground level. Always about the same size and shape and always occurring at night. And always, always in a dome filled with plank, never one of the empties. Who or what in the world could be doing it?

Creally leaned far back in his seat and let out a big yawn. No, it was not just the pattern but probably the fact that the whole affair remained studiously unnoticed by anyone else on the Force. Those who should have cared. Those on outpost duty. The people in Fraud. Or Theft. Not even Weems, who ran the whole show, seemed concerned. Perhaps it’s this, thought Creally, staring at the image of the shattered dome, this neglect, this indifference, that keeps tugging at me. Or is it just an excuse to break routine? Was he bored? Flank, yes! But he had been bored before. Countless times. There were days when, faced with the seemingly endless onslaught of spring abuse cases, Creally thought he would go out of his skull. Yet he had dutifully kept plugging on. So why was he worrying now about a solar farm a continent away? No, boredom wasn’t the answer. It was more. Perhaps an inkling of change. Something was going on out there. He knew it. Just knew it. Yet … yet, after fifteen years on the Force, he also knew better than to open his mouth. It could bring him nothing but trouble—and he surely had had enough of that already. For a moment longer Creally debated back and forth with himself. Then, before he could change his mind, he went with his gut decision.

I want all similar incidents assembled. Place them in reverse chronological order and—he took a deep breath—and transfer the file to first-rank P.M. Weems. Also, request entry clearance for me. ASAP.

ASSEMBLING

Rising from his seat, Creally stretched and rubbed his neck. That irksome point between his shoulders at the top of his spine was giving him trouble again. While he waited for a signal from the chief, he reached over to his console, brought the stima spigot to his lips, and took a deep draft of the warm, mildly sweet gas. Within seconds he could feel the stimulant surging through his body, his heart picking up speed, his skin starting to tingle. Last night had been misery. He had tossed and turned, awakening in the morning groggy and exhausted. The last thing in the world he wanted was for Weems to see him blitzed like this. The stima got Creally going, but it gave him a false sense of alertness, masking the stubborn lethargy that hung over him like a veil. Insomnia. That, he thought to himself, was one of the curses of being a Nearly Perfect. Like Veena and her monthly bleedings.

Creally paced his office waiting for Weems. Damn, he thought, what in the Creator’s name is wrong with me? Was he, C. forbid, starting to go erratic? Or was it age? Depression? Whatever it was, he knew he had to keep it to himself, buried deep, invulnerable even to the probings of the vleemer as it ostensibly exercised his body but—as any high-level P.M. knew—kept sampling his thoughts.

Minutes later, a green-admit flashing on his holocon woke Creally from his reverie. After a quick second draft of stima, he walked down the long radial corridor leading to the chief ’s office, slowing his stride to calm himself.

At the open port he stopped. Weems sat at his console, absorbed in work, tall and imposing even seated. The chief ’s features had Perfect written all over them: high cheeks; small nose; large almond eyes; lips full, but not too full; ears unobtrusive and flat against his head—not like Creally’s. Nor did he ever slouch. Dressed in a fresh, pale-blue skin Weems looked like a model taken right out of those holocommercials—the sleek, silky fabric covering his broad shoulders and muscle-rippled body as if he had been hatched with it on. By contrast, Creally’s skins always seemed to hang askew at some point on his compact frame. Standing by the door, Creally self-consciously straightened his garb and, with a few quick pats, smoothed down his hair. He knew that he often went about his business with a patch of hair standing on end, making him look more like a frazzled rooster than a high-level P.M.

Looking up, Weems spotted Creally.

Don’t just stand there, Creally, he gestured with a quick nod, Come in.

Attempting a smile, Creally entered the large, plush office. Inside the air was cool and there was a hint of fragrance. On the wall hung a large tapestry, the silvered visage of the Creator embedded in its thick, burgundy pile.

Sit down. Weems motioned to an air-recliner that slid up to the console at his beckon. I’m in the middle of something. Be with you in a second. He turned back to his holocon, waving his finger in the air to rearrange the text. Creally remained standing, waiting, trying to decipher the display as it hung in the air above the console.

Take a load off your feet, said Weems, catching him in the act and smiling. The smile, as ever, was neither smug nor false. Creally had never seen these features reflect anger or malice or despair. To Creally, the chief ’s face, flushed with its golden glow, seemed to epitomize that final generation of people, those true Perfects, who had reached a level of emotional control he could only envy.

Weems cleared his holocon.

So tell me, he asked. What’s up? What’s so urgent?

Nothing urgent, really. Just … Well … Despite himself, Creally fumbled for words.

Then what’s this ASAP business? Weems took a good second look at him. Hey, what’s the matter? You look tired. Come on, Creally. Out with it. I know you well enough. What’s your trouble?

Positioning the back of the recliner, Creally sank into its softness with a grunt. Weems looked askance at him.

No trouble. Nothing except this flanking neck of mine. Creally squirmed, trying to relax. Even after all these years he never felt completely comfortable in Weems’s presence—or probably any other Perfect’s.

You should have it looked after, said Weems, sounding solicitous.

You kidding? You know how many times I’ve been to the soma stations? How many quacks I’ve tried over the years? Naw. He arched his back and grimaced. Looks like I’m stuck with it, sir.

Ah, the curse of the Nearly Perfect.

Come on, don’t rub it in, Creally forced a laugh. He was sweating, he realized, and wondered if it was showing.

It was really just a joke, said the chief. It was an unnecessary thing to say, but Weems, like any other decent Perfect, always went to extraordinary lengths not to offend those less fortunate than he— especially Nearly Perfects. Seriously, there’s no need to suffer. You ought to go down to the infirmary. Give our new somatron a try. It’s state-of-the-art, so they tell me. And our new somatist, Doc Waaber, is supposed to be a genius.

He may well be, but I’m not going to let that thing carve me up, Creally laughed.

Suit yourself. Sneeling seems to think it works.

Sneeling, he muttered.

Well, he used to have a real shoulder problem. The doc had the somatron install a new shoulder and today it’s better than any Perfect’s. Matter of fact, Sneeling swears it made him a new man.

Take more than a shoulder to make Sneeling a new man, said Creally, and immediately regretted opening his mouth. Anyway, I didn’t come here to talk about my neck.

Yes. So I gathered. The solar farm, Weems prompted.

You saw the assemblage?

Certainly.

Doesn’t it strike you as odd?

No. What really strikes me as odd is that you’re even concerned with something like this. Don’t you have enough work as it is?

Creally didn’t answer.

Look, Creally, your job is protecting little springs, keeping them from being abused or neglected—and you’re darn good at it—not worrying about some nonsense continents away.

Silence. Creally could feel the sweat beginning to trickle down his side. It was so quiet he could hear the recycled air hissing in through the louvres above Weems’s console.

Sir, I’ve got a hunch something extraordinary’s going on out there.

Fine. I’ll have someone look into it.

No. Let me do it.

Weems raised an eyebrow, then smiled a big, indulgent smile that irritated Creally.

Creally, you’re understaffed in Domestics as it is. I can’t have you boosting off—

Someone can cover for me.

Who?

Let Sneeling. He’s always wanted my job. Let him try it on for size.

He’s assigned elsewhere.

Then Moorty. She’s—

Not enough experience. She can’t head a squad.

Creally licked his lips and swallowed. He wondered why Weems was being so difficult when a simple yes would suffice.

Look, sir, I’ve been following the reports for over a month now. I think it’s serious. I’d like to find out what’s behind it.

It could just be an animal.

No animal of any size lives on the outside.

So it’s a disgruntled worker.

They’re all Perfects.

Perfects can go erratic. Why, I remember a case about two years ago—

Sir, in the last months there have been three different teams of workers out there. All of them Perfects. All of them with high-level clearances. You’re not going to tell me that there are three different—

Creally, what is it you want from me?

Permission, sir. Permission to boost over there and poke around a little.

Silence.

Look, I’ll do it on vacation time, okay? Creally tried a different tack.

What vacation? The vacation you lost?

All right, all right, Creally conceded, recalling the reprimand and vacation penalty. Then—

"Then what? Look, the reason you’ve been in trouble lately is that you’ve gotten too involved in your cases. You’re doing the same thing again. Only this isn’t even your case. And when you get into trouble, I get into trouble. And believe me, I’ve got enough of that."

Okay. Then I’ll go on my own, on my own time and at my own expense. I think it’s my duty to go, sir.

And of course you’ve discussed this with Veena. Naturally she has agreed to let you forgo salary. Pay for the boost. For a craft on the other end. A—

It doesn’t concern her. This is my work.

No, it’s not your work. And it’s not your job, or your jurisdiction. You know that as well as I do.

Silence. Weems leaned back and, steepling his fingers, stared up at the ceiling as if gathering himself. For a long moment Creally waited, watched. He saw a tiny twitch, a tic at the corner of the chief ’s mouth. Weems had a tic. A human tic. A trace of imperfection where only perfection was supposed to reside. The chief shifted his eyes back down at Creally.

Okay, he said quietly.

Okay what?

You’re assigned. You can go.

Can go? echoed Creally incredulously. Just like that? You mean—

No. Not without conditions. First, regardless of what you find, I want you back here in five days. That’s all you have. And I don’t want to hear anything more about it. Five days.

Creatorian days or solar days?

Come on, Creally. Give me a break. Five days. Days. Our days. Also, you report back to me. Personally. Daily. Understand? The corner of Weems’s mouth was twitching madly and Creally could hardly keep his eyes off it.

Understood, said Creally, getting up.

Fine. Now, do me a favor. Take that plooma-eating grin off your face and disappear.

Right, sir. You won’t regret this. Creally was already making for the port.

What do you mean, I won’t? I already regret it.

Don’t worry, said Creally. My ass is on the line, too. And he tried not to smile as he hurried out the port.

Chapter 2

After holding a quick morning briefing with his Domestic Squad, Creally left his assistant Moorty in charge and headed for the tube station and home.

Outside in the corridors the day was corrected, the noon light amber, the ceiling a high faint blue streaked by long whisps of white, a touch of autumn in the air. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Creally felt alive and excited, though he found himself at a bit of a loss to explain it. Just because he was getting out? he wondered, standing impatiently at an airlock, waiting for it to open. It was less than a month before Creation Day and even the areas away from the central districts were crowded with shoppers—Perfects and Nearly Perfects with their little Perfect offspring in tow—clogging the ascendors, moving briskly along the halls in dense but hushed crowds, the only sounds being the high-voiced whispers of the springs, the faint chorus of clearance bleeps coming from the airlocks, the swish and hum of sliding ports, ascendors rising and falling in the busy pie-shaped sectors of the Infrastructure.

Creally walked along the curved eighth-level corridor leading to the tube station. In the cross corridor behind him, he heard the high-pitched beeps of an ambulance moving down the red-streaked emergency lane, its strobes flashing. In front of him, a trio of Zeroes was trying to wash down the permaplast walls with a wet-vac. Tracing out crazy, overlapping patterns that covered spots twice and missed others, they were making a mess of things. As Creally passed through their puddles, he found himself laughing at what would ordinarily have irritated him. When he finally got to the station, there was only a single capsule left and a middle-aged man who looked like a Perfect was hoisting a heavy kit into it. He must have noticed the disappointed look on Creally’s face, because he called to him.

Which way you boosted?

Peripheral Upsilon sector. Around corridor two thirty-five.

I’m going over to central Chi. If you don’t mind a little detour, we can share a capsule.

Creally hesitated. Then he noticed that the man had a slight bump on his nose. So, he isn’t a Perfect, thought Creally.

I’d appreciate it. If it’s no trouble?

No trouble at all, the man waved Creally in. In fact, I’m glad for the company.

Creally entered the capsule. The stranger punched in his coordinates, and the unit sealed itself, then eased forward into the vacuum tunnel.

Geez, I’ve been on the boost so long my ears don’t even pop any more, said the man, trying to adjust to the pressure as they waited for the congested transport system to give their capsule clearance. Ahead of them, at the entrance to an express radial, stood three other capsules awaiting their turn. Four weeks. Four weeks on the boost out in the boonies.

That’s a long time, said Creally, trying to make small talk.

You can say that again. But that’s the nature of the beast. I’m in business. A salesman, said the man. Their capsule pulled forward, moving up another notch in the queue. Domes. Take care of sales and installation, actually. Used to cover maintenance too but—

Domes? repeated Creally, his interest heightened. What kind of domes?

Any kind. You name it. For sporting events, farms, craft races. We also sell a whole new line of hermetic domes used for storing plank, processing, fermentation. You must have heard of our outfit—Creatorian Domes Ltd.

No, I can’t say I have. Of course, I’m not in the business, explained Creally, and couldn’t help but wonder at the coincidence of the meeting.

Well, we’re by far the biggest. Founded almost two centuries ago by the Creator of Creators Himself. The man reverently made the sign of the helix with his index finger.

That so? Creally feigned an interested smile.

Leaders in the industry, the man went on effusively. Fact of the matter is, we sell more domes than all the other companies combined. Of course, I’m just a little plankton in a sea of dome salesmen, he said with transparent modesty. But I’ll tell you, I sure hold up my end of the quota. Even got a sales award last year.

No kidding.

Me and the mate got a whole new sanitizer. Free!

Wow! said Creally. Tell me, what do you know about solar domes?

Solar domes? he laughed. Why, that’s my specialty! What do you want to know? Just ask me.

"You know anything about the farms at the edge of the Great

Desert?"

Which edge? he asked as the capsule, now at the head of the queue, stood poised while a seemingly endless line of linked capsules whizzed past, heading out to the peripheries. Will you look at this traffic. What a ploomy mess!

Let’s say the northeast edge, said Creally, trying to sound casual.

"Huh? Oh, right, northeast. Yeah, that’s part of my territory. Fact is, I cover almost a fourth of our two hundred eighteen outposts. Even helped with the design of those domes. They’re continuous-edge modules, actually constructed as a series of semicylindrical— Hey, how come you’re asking me about those domes?" The man suddenly turned to take a closer look at Creally.

Creally shrugged and feigned an amiable smile. Whoops, here we go, he said as their capsule lurched forward into the tube, rapidly picking up speed and linking up to the end of the train. Behind them, other capsules were pulling up and linking to their rear.

For a long moment they traveled in silence, the only sound in the capsule the steady whoosh as the transport flew above the magnetic track. The silence seemed to make the man edgy and he again filled it with talk.

Oh, man, he said, stretching expansively, "will I ever be glad to get back home. Back to my old lady. Oh, you should see her. We were mated eighteen years ago and she looks as good today as she did then. What a dream! She’s a