Immunity Index Sue Burke (best way to read ebooks TXT) 📖

Stay calm, whatever happens. There were so many ways this might go wrong. She might never learn the truth. Or she might learn the truth and prefer the old fake story about herself.

Less than an hour later, her phone rang: Christopher Swoboda. She stepped outside again.

“I would love to meet you.” He was sobbing, tears dripping past his smiling lips. “Oh, Berenike, Berenike, for years we wondered about you, about what kind of woman you’ve become. Look at you!” She heard echoes of her mother in that voice and that emotion. “We have to meet! Today, tomorrow? I can’t wait.”

I, not we. Apparently, Linda really had died.

“Tonight?” he said. “Dinner! Let me take you to dinner. Linda would have loved to meet you, but she died only two months ago. She almost got to meet you! Where do you live? I can go anywhere you want.”

They agreed to a downtown restaurant. Berenike tried to sound as happy as he was, but he sounded a lot like Momma, and Momma had been dangerous, willing to do anything to get her way.

Berenike got out of work in time to go to her shared studio apartment on the Near North Side and change out of her uniform. She took a rental bike to her neighborhood because she could earn a little money repositioning it, and arrived sweaty at her building, a brick-faced box that had absolutely no architectural interest. She tiptoed into her unit to avoid waking a roommate, and after a shower, she took a bus back. AutoKar, which also owned the buses as well as the bicycles, let her ride for free, although in the event of a problem, she had to respond as an employee, on-call for no pay, so it wasn’t really free.

She hoped that her grandfather—was that the right word for him?—would pay for the meal. He seemed to have money.

What else did she hope for? She tried to keep her expectations low so her disappointments would be few. Truth was always in short supply, so that might be too much to want. Maybe she could learn just a little more than she already did—but she needed to brace for possible bad news.

She looked at all the American flags suddenly on display. Even some homeless people were holding little flags to show their love of country—the country that was deliberately starving them—as they conspicuously did not beg on the sidewalk. People and businesses were being pressured into sheeplike patriotism, although her employer might have put up the flags willingly. That’ll stop a virus. The Prez has everything under control. Sure. Three more days of his preening idiocy.

She found the restaurant in one of the old two-story brick buildings near the river. The elaborate arched windows clashed with the faux Tudor English decor inside, and she tried to ponder the aesthetic mismatch and the American flag at the door to distract herself. For some people, family meant comfort, but familial comfort would be a new experience for her, and she couldn’t expect it.

The reception robot, another period misfit made worse by the Beefeater tunic and ruff draped over it, told her that Christopher Swoboda had arrived, and it led her to his table. At the sight of her, he leaped up, smiling so wide that his eyes became slits. He wrapped his arms around her tight and held her for a long time, rubbing his gray-flecked beard on her cheek. For a little too long. She pulled back.

“Grandfather.” That seemed like a polite, conflict-avoiding title. He didn’t feel like family, despite how much he reminded her of Momma. Maybe some sort of biological link was missing, a connecting family scent she’d heard about but never experienced. He smelled of a piney cologne, pleasant but meaningless.

He gripped her hands. “You’re a full-grown woman now. I haven’t seen you since you were a baby. You look so beautiful!” He stepped back to study her from head to toe.

She felt more uncomfortable. “You look a lot like Momma.”

“How is she? You’ll have to tell me. First, I want to know about you. What have you been doing, Berenike? All these years.…”

They sat down. The table screen lit up, sensing that everyone had settled, and asked for their orders. She considered a glass of wine, which she could never afford for herself, and decided on iced coffee instead—maybe real coffee at a place like this. It would pay to be sharp. She chose simple-to-eat, healthy dishes. She wanted good food for a change, and knew she’d likely be talking a lot.

“How is your life?” he asked again.

“Fine.” She talked about schooling in general terms and how she was working in management at a busy franchise, not mentioning exactly how humble the job was, what humiliating steps had brought her there, or how her work left her disappointed with her life. “Momma died just a month ago, though. Papa is well, still living here in Milwaukee.”

“I’m retired. I used to be a doctor, an oncologist.”

News of Momma’s death didn’t bother him at all, or maybe he already knew. He kept right on talking about other things. Momma would have put on a show of sorrow and concern, even if it had been fake, and a false show would have been more comforting than indifference.

“I knew you’d be smart.” He beamed, gazing at her intensely. “That was what we asked for, a pretty, healthy, smart little girl.” A robot cart, painted in Beefeater red and gold, rolled up carrying the drinks. He handed her a tall glass of iced coffee, then picked up his glass of red wine and took a contented sip.

She had been troubled about his indifference, but what he had just said, if he had meant those exact words literally, seemed like a bigger worry. “What you asked for?”

“Yes, what we asked for.” He set down the glass and looked at her with an odd kind of