“Oh, Sniper, the makeup is incredible!”
“Are you going to sell this one?”
“How much?”
“I want one!”
“I want one in kid-size, six or eight!”
Sniper slung his arms over the shoulders of two fans. “Of course, of course, the Frankenstein Lifedoll and the Classic Monster Costume Series hit stores next week, in doll-size, six, and full.”
“Series?”
Sniper made a mock gun of his right hand, his signature gesture, and ‘shot’ a signal to his techies, who threw open the laboratory set, revealing the dolls within. There was the Frankenstein monster model, so like the living being that, had Sniper held his breath, one could not have guessed which was flesh and which plastic. Beside it sat another Sniper costumed as a werewolf, another as Dracula, another as a mummy, draped in bandages which left many parts enticingly bare. Beside the life-size models sat the small dolls, twenty-five centimeters but like Sniper to the life, and also the life-sized six-year-old models, the adorable werewolf pup with pointed, fuzz-covered ears, and little Dracula with fangs just peeking out between child-round lips.
You have seen Lifedolls before, but have you touched them? Each bone, tendon, and muscle of a human body is reproduced precisely, so a hand squeezed folds just as a friend’s hand folds, and ingenious systems even keep it warm. Lifedolls are the pinnacle of man’s long quest to craft synthetic love. A child with a Lifedoll cries less when ba’pas head out for an evening; a twentysomething with a life-sized Sniper stashed at home rebounds faster when love turns sour. You may call it sick when grown men and women hold these dolls as dear as bash’mates, or, with the fully anatomical Sniper-XX and Sniper-XY models, lovers. And you may be right to call it sick, but should a sickness be cured if makes its sufferers happier than healthy men? When the Lifedoll labs first decided to mass-produce a version of the vice director’s two-year-old, they thought no more of it than that the child was exceptionally cute, good therapy for lonely kids and childless couples, especially because his hybrid face, mixing Asia, Europe, and South America, let small changes in costume make him seem like almost any couple’s child. When it proved their best seller ten times over, they marketed the child again at age four, again at six, at eight, and it took only one fan to recognize the original on the street to open the doors to young Sniper, instant celebrity.
With the fans distracted by the new designs, Sniper disentangled himself and came to the front of his portable stage. “I thought this was a party! Let’s dance!”
Sniper’s techies took up their instruments. It was a parody remix of the year’s top love songs with wolf howls and zombie moans for ambiance. Not to be outdone, Ting Ting Foster joined in, improvising countermelodies, and the Royal Belgian String Quartet followed, making the instrumental fabric as rich as Handel. Even we down in the kitchens danced.
Sniper himself joined in just long enough to get the crowd well energized, then descended to pose for the mob of photographers that had gathered, begging for close-ups.
The youngest of the Junior Scientist Squad frowned up at Sniper he descended the stairs. “Are you a good monster or a bad monster?”
Sniper smiled, gentle as an elder ba’sib. “I’m whatever kind of monster my creator wants me to be.” He turned to Igor, who followed, her gait athletic now that she no longer faked a hunch. “What am I tonight?”
Igor smiled through the scraggles of her dripping wig. “A mostly good monster.”
“Mostly good. That works.” With a smile that made the patchwork face feel somehow both cherubic and roguish, Sniper leaned toward Igor for a kiss.
“Ewww.” Fleeing the ‘kissy-part,’ the Junior Scientist cowered toward Cato Weeksbooth, whom the other club members were escorting down the steps.
Cato was still short of breath from the ordeal. Up close he seemed, not less, but more authentically Frankenstein, his face sun-starved and pallid even without makeup, his motions very accustomed to the white lab coat. “Can I go home now?”
“Home?” Sniper clapped his shivering ba’sib on the shoulder. “The party’s just starting.”
“Yeah, we want our cake!” one of the little scientists cried.
“Sniper promised cake!”
Cato frowned, but not at the kids. “You shouldn’t have dragged me out here, Cardigan.” He hid his shaking hands in his lab coat pockets.
Sniper leaned on Cato’s shoulder, inviting photos of Frankenstein with his monster, which enjoyed a brief spike among Sniper’s top-selling posters. “I don’t question your judgments about science, Cato. Don’t question mine about panache. Now enjoy yourself. You were asking me to help your kids meet movers and shakers who could fund their projects, and I didn’t use all my special passes on them for nothing.”
Cato’s face brightened. “Oh! Oh, yeah. Yeah, that … I…”
Sniper gave Cato a second pat. “You’re welcome.”
Striding forward now, Duke President Ganymede smiled on Sniper, as on a wayward but successful son. “Sniper, welcome. Well performed.”
“Good evening, Member President,” the little monster greeted. “Sorry I’m late as usual.”
Ganymede nodded his graceful welcome. “And whose are you tonight?”
Sniper presented Igor. “Let me introduce Mycroft Isabel Senabe, Mizzie for short, one of the stars of our Blue football team for this summer.” With only 124 days until the Games, no Humanist needed to follow ‘summer’ with ‘Olympics.’
The Duke President kissed the hunchback’s hand, his alabaster touch deepening the blush beneath her ruined makeup. It couldn’t deepen much, though, not while Mizzie had her Sniper in her arms. Golden Ganymede is a particular kind of perfection, glorious but overpowering, unable to be anything but Sun King. Sniper has the more versatile perfection of the all-accommodating toy. Childlike and sexless, you can dress him as a monster, a princess, a Cousin, a Mitsubishi, a good boy, a bad girl, whatever your desire. Think of the nonthreatening fantasy lover every budding teen invents when not quite ready for the first time. Setting out to bring that fantasy to life, Sniper invented his own profession, Earth’s first and only professional living doll. Tonight he is Mizzie’s living doll, and Mizzie picked monster, but tomorrow Sniper will be remade again by the next fan in his loving queue.
“You remember Doctor Cato Weeksbooth.” Sniper shoved the doctor forward. “And let me introduce the brave members of the Junior Scientist Club from the Chicago Museum of Science and Industry. Cato runs the kids’ events at the museum, an amazing program, right, Cato?”
Cato could not stop trembling as he shook his President’s hand. “He-he-hello.”
“It’s been too long, Doctor Weeksbooth. We hear excellent things about your work on the system, innovation after innovation. Admirable. We all sleep the safer knowing the Hive has you guarding its interests.”
“Ye-es. Tha-ank you, Member President.” I think that was the title Cato used, but it was so mumbled it might have been anything.
“If you wish to retire briefly to some private space to recover from your performance, ask any staff for the Cabinet de Colombes.”
Cato’s voice had real force behind it this time. “Thank you!”
“Poor Cato.” Sniper mussed his ba’sib’s hair. “You were great! No one could have lived the part better. But the spotlight really isn’t your place, is it? Don’t worry. I’d never mix you up in any real trouble. Cross my heart.” Sniper spoke the last words, and made the gesture, looking not at Cato, but straight at Ganymede, holding his President’s eyes with a rare expression of true gravity. Back in the kitchens, I almost laughed. Ganymede would not need my skills to translate this message. If Sniper had wanted to bring the world’s attention down on Cato, Ockham, and the others, he would have done something far more ostentatious than stealing a Seven-Ten list.