“I appreciate your support, Mrs. Donovan,” he says, biting back his true feelings, then he waves off into the distance at no one in particular. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I don’t want to hog all your time.”
He’s got to get away from this mayhem for a moment—his mother flaunting him around like a winning lottery ticket; his father speaking with that incredibly annoying baritone swagger that he reserves for occasions such as these. Stoker clings to the edges of the room, seeking refuge from both the glare of the gaudy chandeliers overhead and his mother’s calculated gaze. He ducks behind the foliage of the oversized ferns and extravagant flower displays adorning the room and does his best to avoid eye contact with everyone except for those guys with clip-on ties carrying trays of hors d’oeuvres and sparkling wine. He musters up enough courage, then makes a run for it, snagging an entire bottle of perfectly chilled Silverthorn—it’s a time for celebration, is it not?—and heads for the men’s room.
You say I’m pretty, yeah that’s true
Not gonna make me fall in love with you
I might shake my booty on the dance floor, boo
But I’m not going home with you
Said I’m not going home with you
Fool, I’m not going home with you
’Cause to you I’m just a piece of ass without a name
Tough boys like you, they always think the same
With a face like mine, we’re playing different games
So go screw yourself, I’m not an ass without a name
Councilman Stoker sings to himself. The acoustics are excellent, and for a moment while perched on his porcelain throne, Stoker closes his eyes and imagines how wondrous it will be to sing in front of thousands of screaming fans. Riya’s fans, that’s true, but he’ll perform for them like they’re his own, and hopefully some of them would be soon. It’d be the chance of a lifetime, and yet he can’t help but wonder if he should pursue the art more seriously. It’d mean giving up his political career, turning his back on being the leader that the Eastern Cape needs right now. The thought threatens to bring him down. It doesn’t seem fair that he has to choose.
Stoker does a shuffle step as he leaves the stall, then looks up to see Gregory Mbende standing there.
“Good evening, Mr. Mbende,” Stoker says, maintaining his composure. “I didn’t know there was anyone else in here.” He heads to the sink and concentrates hard on washing his hands, trying to avoid Gregory’s appraising stare. “I thought you’d be off enjoying your weekend by now.”
“I wish that were the case, sir. But I’m actually here on an urgent work-related matter.” Gregory steps forward and holds out a folder. “These are the preliminary data points for the sterilization project. I think you’ll find the results are rather encouraging.”
“You work fast, Mr. Mbende,” Stoker says, drying his hands with a paper towel before flipping through the documents inside. Six-month, twelve-month, twenty-four-month population projections for “active sterilization” versus administered sterilization versus nonaction. Short incubation times and a 100 percent transference rate in a small sample of dik-diks. Direct mucus transfer yielded the quickest effects, but just sharing a confined space for an extended amount of time was enough for the virus to jump to a new host. Stoker notices that there’s not one mention of the words virus or infection, or any sort of nomenclature that would suggest they were dealing with gene-altering pathogens.
Stoker had ordered his alpha bot to do a little research on his three-hour drive from Bhisho to Port Elizabeth, enough to learn how the virus had been engineered to surge through the body and tweak three gene sequences that dramatically reduce the chance for deer to conceive.
“Yes, well, I’m afraid time is not a luxury we have at the moment. Every minute is precious.”
“Mr. Mbende, I’m sure this is something that can wait the weekend.”
“Even if we act now, the production process would have to be rushed.”
“And that doesn’t concern you? This doesn’t seem like the sort of project that should be rushed. We’d be tinkering with Mother Nature, and that’s always asking for trouble.”
“And what about Zed hybrids? Look how popular they are. It’s not any different.”
“We’re talking about a virus, Mr. Mbende. Once that’s out in the general population, it’s never coming back. It’s a done deal. I don’t feel comfortable making a decision like that. What if it jumps to other animals? What if it wipes out the antelope or the zebras?”
“But in the States—”
“We don’t live in the States. This is South Africa. Look, Mr. Mbende,” Stoker says grimly, laying a compassionate hand on Gregory Mbende’s chest. “I really do appreciate your efforts in this, and I can tell you’re committed to finding a solution to our dik-dik problem. But this virus, it’s just too unpredictable.”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t carefully weigh this option, sir. And I really do think you should reconsider.”
“I’ve made my decision,” Stoker says, deepening his voice in that intimidating way his father does. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got guests waiting.” Stoker pushes past Gregory, but he’s stopped by Gregory’s firm hand.
“I didn’t want to have to do this, but you leave me with no other choice.” From one of his alpha bot’s compartments, Gregory Mbende pulls out a small envelope and hands it over. “Despite this, I respect you, sir. You’re a great leader with great heart. It’s why I want to see you as premier, and of course, when you have to appoint someone to fill in your position, I hope you’ll remember how well we’ve worked together, current differences aside.” He pauses, fingers still clamped to the envelope, looking remorseful, then finally lets it go.
Stoker opens it to find two photographs of him in drag.
“I figure you’ve got two choices, sir. Declare your interest for the premier’s seat, and when you’re appointed, put me on your Executive Committee. These photographs will disappear forever, I promise. Otherwise, I know several very influential people out there who might be interested in learning more about your extracurricular activities.”