Reclaimed

by Madeleine Roux

  Swiveling at the hip, he gave Senna a pursed little smile, bringing her in on the joke. Senna wasn’t interested. She had seen Zurri in ads even while cloistered on the compound. Paxton Dunn was a household name on the station. Suddenly, she was acutely aware that the only thing she had in common with these people was that they were all carbon-based life-forms.

  Zurri propped the heels of her hands on her hips, then jutted those to one side. “I think my demands were clear, Dunn. Crystal. This?” She nodded vaguely to the ethereal, plant-filled dome glittering with moisture and artificial light around them, a technological and horticultural marvel plonked down on a far-distant moon, and said, “Total bullshit. When is the next shuttle back to the satellite? I’ll be on it.”

  “Missed the red lights and the sirens, did you?” His tone had taken a turn, the humorous smirk vanishing. Senna noticed a muscle jumping in his neck. “The rover is magnetically anchored to the ground outside right now. If it weren’t, it would be in about a million pieces, scattered across the ice fields of Ganymede. Would you like to be scattered in a million pieces?”

  Zurri snorted, but Senna shivered. The way he said it, viciously, like he had imagined it, made her squirm.

  “Well then.” Zurri sighed. “Have one of your fembots here consult the stars or the charts or whatever it is they do and let me know when I can depart. We had a deal, Dunn. I’m Zurri. I do not compromise. I don’t need to.”

  Paxton took off his thick black spectacles and rubbed at his eyes, then replaced them and gestured for Anju to come closer. “Can you get something to put our guest here at ease, please? You’re a vodka woman, right?”

  Flicking her eyes skyward, Zurri gave a single, furious nod.

  “Great. Beautiful. Vodka, neat, on the rocks for Zurri, and Ms. Slate here will be sticking with water.”

  “Miss?” Anju prompted the model politely, in a mollifying tone that told Senna it wasn’t her first time dealing with temperamental diva types. “There’s a bar this way.”

  Zurri made sure to pin Paxton Dunn with one more enraged glance before falling into stride with Anju and disappearing around one of the nude statues. Her eyes had lingered on Senna briefly, too, a squint indicating that some memory had been triggered. Senna got that a lot. Everyone tended to recognize her. Judge her. She wilted, wishing she had been the only civilian there for the experiment. If they took her memories of the crash away, would the hot, shameful flutter in her chest that came every time she was recognized vanish, too?

  Around them, the Dome gradually returned to normal. The blast shields remained in place, but the light twinkled down around them now with a slightly amber twinge, as if afternoon were waning. Somehow, he had managed to simulate the flow of time so seamlessly that the oncoming threat of twilight and darkness felt real, too, the birdsongs emanating from the plants shifting almost imperceptibly.

  “How are you feeling?” Paxton asked, gazing down at her.

  Senna sipped her water and shook her head. “Better, I think. Maybe starstruck?”

  “Ha.” His smile returned. “You’re a star, too.”

  “Not for the right reasons.”

  “You should never back down from the spotlight,” Paxton told her. “You should run toward it.”

  Senna knew that would never be her. She gulped down more water, hoping it would give her time to think of something witty to say. “But you live in isolation.”

  His smile was electric. “Yes, but I had the spotlight first, and now it follows me. You need power to do good. To do the most good you need the most power.”

  That almost sounded like something Preece would say, but Senna didn’t mention that.

  “Here, let me send you a packet,” he said, crouching and bringing his left hand close to hers. His VIT was a design she had never seen before, extremely low profile and sleek, steel gray. “You’ll want a map of the Dome, and your treatment schedule, of course.”

  “I don’t really know how to use it yet,” Senna admitted. “I’ve only set up the mail feature. It’s . . . it’s not something I grew up with, and I never got the implant. We weren’t allowed.”

  Paxton didn’t seem surprised at that. “Ah, our Luddite.”

  “Not for the right reasons,” Senna repeated, blushing. “Anyway, it’s beautiful and interesting here, right? Why would I want to stare at my wrist all day?”

  “You know, that’s the first complimentary thing I’ve heard from any of you,” he replied, clucking his tongue. “I’ll send the data packet anyway. I want you to have the map, and it will give you a gentle buzz when our third guest is near. You may want to avoid him if you can, at least until he’s had a few rounds of the treatment.”

  Senna frowned, watching her VIT screen light up as Paxton sent the data across to her device. “Why would I do that?”

  Without a hitch, he settled into a deeper crouch and found her gaze, holding it for a moment long enough to make her start shifting around on the bench again. “The Dohring-Waugh? The ship your people hijacked?”

  Senna swallowed noisily and nodded, feeling her hands go numb.

  “His mother was on Mars when it hit, she was at the impact zone,” he said, venting a quiet, sad sigh. “The Dohring-Waugh crash obliterated her.”

  8

  Han was buzzing. This was it. The Dome. The Dome.

  He paced back and forth in front of the window in his assigned room. On the station, those views were always phony, but Paxton Dunn let them choose whether they wanted a more calming, simulated window vista or the real deal. Han let the swirling silver plains of Ganymede glow bright, hot white against him while he composed a message on his VIT.

  i’ll never forget this, lucas. thank you, thank you, thank you thank you

  When Han tried to hit send, nothing happened. An instant later, a three-dimensional, augmented-reality exclamation point shot up from the VIT screen. Storm activity meant there was no connectivity to anything but the interior Dome Wi-Fi, his message to his brother would be saved for later, apparently, held on the server and then released once the connection was solid once more.

  He just hoped Lucas got it, because he meant every word of it. His older brother could be a completely boring loser, but he finally caved and signed the consent forms. As Han’s legal guardian, he needed to give the program his blessing. Lucas was old enough that he had met their father, Shui, before their parents split. Typhoons were ravaging their home, but Shui refused to go. Lucas only ever described him as short, bullheaded and loud.

  “When he laughed,” Lucas would tell him, “it was like someone was clapping in your face.”

  Han managed to secure Lucas’s permission after assuring him about fifty times that he wasn’t going to Ganymede to forget their mother, only to delete the memory of her voice message, and her last, ragged words to him. The goodbye he had missed because he refused to pick up . . .

  “It’s like hypnosis,” Han had assured his brother. “Or therapy.”

  “You’ve tried therapy,” Lucas had reminded him, annoyingly. “You hate it and it doesn’t work.”

  “This is different. This is Paxton Dunn’s therapy, bro. He can do anything.”

  More and more, Han was truly believing that. The Dome was a marvel, more than Han could’ve even imagined. It was simple, clean, elegant, not an over-the-top bachelor pad like the gossip podcasts on the station liked to claim. They were obviously jealous, Han thought, just haters.

  He was buzzing. He was giddy. The Willy Wonka virtual reality experience at the arcade on the station had been the highlight of his birthday the year before, but this was like that cranked up to one hundred.

  You’ve won the golden ticket. Now what?

  Antsy, he kept pacing. Now what? Obviously, he wanted to meet Paxton Dunn, get the grand tour, but first . . .

  “Starving,” Han muttered, leaving the window and going back toward th
e front door to his quarters. He had been given spacious accommodations, a nicer, more stylish apartment than what he lived in with his brother and his Servitor nannies. Occasionally, their father back on Earth shelled out some cash to keep them going, and their mother’s life insurance policy hadn’t been much, so Lucas put in nonstop hours in the Merchantia legal department. His division was still fighting some big case after the Foxfire incident the previous year, so he glimpsed Lucas for breakfast twice a week and heard him come home or leave or turn on a vid in the living room. Less of a brother and more of a familiar haunting.

  But this? This was nice. Roomie. A big, wide hall that led onto an open-plan kitchen, with a circular dining table. Then came the living room where Han had been pacing, with a flash vid console setup and a huge, squishy couch. He had dropped off his bag on the bed through the door next to the vid monitor, and let his hand sink down into the cloud-soft mattress. The walls were tiled with programmable slats, currently cycling through a series of russet and purple shades. Han would tinker with that later through his VIT and program the tiles for soothing morning, day and night colors. In fact, after meeting Paxton Dunn, his next goal was to dive into the controls he could find through his VIT. The facility was obviously heavily automated, and he was curious if he could find his way into the guts of the system. What would the smartest man in the galaxy’s programming look like?

  Artistic, he hoped, like when his mother took him to see an actual Monet at the university. He hadn’t given a rat’s ass about the painting, but everyone oohed and aahed over it, and that? That’s how he would feel finally getting to see Dunn’s mind at work.

  “What do you have for me?” he wondered aloud, crossing into the kitchen and pulling open the refrigerated drawer beneath the smooth, white countertop.

  “Hi,” a friendly male voice said. Han turned. On the circular kitchen table, he saw a stack of rings light up, pulsing in a rhythmic sequence. He hadn’t given the thing much thought before, assuming it was just a lamp. When it spoke again, the lights grew brighter, following the cadence of the voice. “It sounds like you might need assistance. How can I help?”

  Han frowned, leaning over the refrigerator door but looking at the glowing device. More than hating unknown automated voices, he hated being surprised by one. At least it isn’t hers. “You’re the facility AI?”

  “The facility designated Altus Quasar-1277 also known as the Dome is outfitted with the GENIE in-home operating system, version oh-point-seven,” the voice told him.

  “You’re a GENIE?” Han almost forgot all about his hunger and irritation, straightening up. “Those are still in beta . . .”

  “Correct.” The voice sounded like it might be gently laughing at him. The intonations were so lifelike it sounded like he was speaking with a man hidden beneath the table. “You can call me Genie. Do you have questions about the food options available to you?”

  Han smirked. “Yeah. Sure. What do you got?”

  There was the briefest pause, as if the system were searching some database. “All right, here’s what I got: Your recent search terms and station delivery choices indicate a strong bias for Mrs. Bao’s Slurp Shack, Fish Delish, Chicken A-Go-Go and Centauri Snacks. Accordingly, this unit has been stocked with a number of hot and cold noodle options, vegetarian sushi rolls, snack cakes, chicken nuggets in pleasing shapes, carbonated beverages, and sugar-free energy syrups. Further options are available at the dining hall in Zone Seven, approximately a five-minute walk from your current location. Can I help you with anything else, Han?”

  Han glanced back at the drawer and then reached in, fishing out a packet of his favorite white chocolate and hazelnut snack cakes. Tearing open the biodegradable packet with his teeth, he chuckled. “What does GENIE stand for?”

  The pile of rings lit up again, this time pale blue. “General Intelligence Entity.”

  “What temperature is it?”

  “The current exterior temperature of this facility is one hundred and sixty degrees Kelvin, or one hundred and thirteen degrees below zero Celsius. The current interior temperature of this unit is twenty-three degrees Celsius,” Genie replied.

  After a few bites of sweets, Han spun around looking for the recycling bin.

  “The receptacle you require is in the drawer two spaces to the left of the refrigerated box.”

  Han snorted and checked Genie’s directions before swearing under his breath. “How did you do that?”

  “Audible crinkling and your hesitation indicates an empty wrapper. This is your first time entering the kitchen in this unit. The conclusion was obvious.”

  “You’re spying on me?” Han tossed his wrapper.

  “My intervention and observation settings can be adjusted if you are dissatisfied with current methods of assistance,” Genie replied, this time sounding serious. Maybe even offended.

  Han glanced around, finding no visible cameras or recording devices hidden along the edges of the cabinets. Still, he felt naked. Watched. “Are you recording us?”

  “For your privacy, there are no security camera devices in this unit,” Genie said. “The corridors, medical quadrants, dining hall, Dome courtyard and offices are monitored continuously. Would you like to adjust your privacy settings now, Han?”

  “No,” he said, walking by the light-up GENIE unit but keeping his eye on it as he passed. “Not yet. Genie?”

  “Yes, Han.”

  “Where is Paxton Dunn?” he asked.

  The system hesitated. Was it pinging Dunn himself and asking for permission? Han held his breath.

  “Paxton Dunn is currently in Zone One, Dome courtyard. Would you like directions?”

  “No,” Han replied, hurrying toward the door. “I’ll find my own way.”

  9

  So. She was trapped in an overdesigned crystal ball with the weird Kool-Aid cult chick from the news and a guy who looked like an accountant going through his second midlife crisis. Incredible. Zurri would have to kill Paxton Dunn, and then Bev, and then herself. It was a disaster. Worst of all, there was nothing harder than vodka on the entire premises.

  At least according to the resident fembot.

  She glared at the Anju woman in icy bewilderment. “No Rikter? No Rapture or Kill Switch or coke? Not even synthetic CB-fucking-D?”

  Anju handed her a squat glass with the vodka and ice. No cubes here but perfect circles, twee little mimics of the Dome. “There are medical sedatives and several neuroleptics developed for emergency responses to our proprietary treatment but that’s all,” Anju assured her, sounding more bemused than cross. “And you really don’t want to try the antipsychotics for recreational purposes. Trust me.”

  “Just level with me: How long until the next shuttle?” Zurri pressed, knocking back the drink and handing the cold glass back to Anju for more. She was surprised there wasn’t some splashy Servitor bartender. Instead, it was just a simple, recessed set of shelves behind a motion-sensored barrier. When Anju’s hand came close to the plexiglass, it flinched away, a cool blast of air rolling over them.

  “Even the most advanced MSC algorithms can’t predict weather windows with perfect accuracy,” Anju said. “A windstorm can last for sixteen minutes or sixteen hours, so some patience will be required.”

  Anju was pretty enough to land a modeling contract back on Tokyo Bliss. Even Zurri had to admit her dark brown skin was flawless, borderline enviable. She would be in the background of a campaign, sure, but Zurri couldn’t imagine what Anju was doing rotting on a moon of Jupiter being some jerk-off’s assistant. Or if he was anything like the other men Zurri knew, some jerk-off’s babysitter.

  “Huh. What are you for?” Zurri asked, tearing the second glass of vodka out of the girl’s hand.

  She was met with a prim, frozen smile. “Excuse me?”

  “What do you do here, sweetheart? Besides serve cocktails, I mean.”

 
“I’m the staff coordinator,” Anju replied, with the steady roteness of someone who had endured a bad attitude millions of times. She had an even, robotic manner about her that grated on Zurri. People like that always had a button, and Zurri would find it, and push it, because that was how you got what you wanted.

  “What staff?” Zurri laughed. “I’ve seen exactly two of you plus the cult chick. This place is empty.”

  “Brea and Dr. Colbie will be at the reception dinner this evening, you may see a few unskinned Servitors around, too, as they perform maintenance functions for us,” Anju told her, collected. “I’m sure Paxton made it clear in his pre-arrival materials that there is a limited on-site staff for security and privacy reasons. The facility is outfitted for independence and convenience. It’s not a smart home, it’s a genius one.”

  Zurri wouldn’t be called stupid, implied or otherwise. She would find that damned button. Tapping her middle finger on the glass anxiously, she slowly looked Anju up and down. “Paxton, mm?”

  “Yes,” Anju replied. “What about him?”

  “First-name basis with the boss? Come on, you’re fucking him, aren’t you?”

  Anju had to be made of steel. Her lip didn’t even twitch. Not a dent to be seen. That placid, calm demeanor didn’t waver as she tilted her head to the side and reached for the vodka bottle to refill Zurri’s emptying glass. “I’m not, no, though we do subscribe to a more casual work environment philosophy here. Anyway, I believe he’s unattached, but you’re not his type.”

  She poured exactly a shot as Zurri waited, and wondered, and calculated. “Uppity?” she asked.

  “No.” Anju put the bottle back in the chiller, then began to walk away. “Unhappy.”