Reclaimed
Page 14
Another warm gush into her mouth. I’m going to die here.
And then she saw him: the man on fire, the body bursting into flames, gouts of red flowers growing at warp speed from his chest. Ash in her mouth, heat rising, bathing her face . . .
“Tony!” She screamed his name as if she could stop him, like she wanted to stop him. Maybe the fire made sense. Maybe it was cleansing. No . . . he had hurt her and broken her trust, given her far too much to carry around; she didn’t know what he deserved. She only knew what she deserved: to be free from the pain he had caused her.
He came to you, LENG said. Its too-long fingers stretched out toward her, and Zurri became rooted to the chair. Give, give unto me, and I will take it. I am hunger. I am always hunger. I am hungry for the inadequate feast of your sorrow.
Memories forced their way to the surface like steam hissing through the cracks of widening fissures. Weeks before he broke into her condo, Tony had arranged a birthday dinner for Zurri. All her friends would be there. Her favorite Italian place on the top level of the station. The reservation, even with the power of her name behind it, had to be made six months in advance. She actually dressed up, actually tried. Her favorite space peridot necklace, a spritz of discontinued perfume from a long-gone French atelier, heels that lengthened her already sky-high legs . . . Then she glided into the private room reserved for the party and discovered it would just be her and Tony. The first appetizer arrived, sweetly divine watermelon salad, her glass of Nebbiolo untouched as her stomach tied itself into strangling knots. She had to fire Tony, she thought, listening to him guzzle wine, listening to the loud, wet breath of an overexcited, oblivious man.
Zurri pretended to take a call. “This is really sweet,” she had told him through pinched lips. “But I have to take this.”
I have to take this, LENG repeated. Its presence, the sense of its weight and size, the threat it posed, pinned her to the chair. Its fingers reached her eyes and entered, and Zurri felt it searching through her thoughts. Seeking, seeking . . . Then the scooping, the taking, skittering pinpricks of untold needles tickling raw nerves.
The pain was incredible. Is this cleansing? No, no, no, God, it’s agony.
This wasn’t what she wanted. This wasn’t what Paxton told her to expect.
She gasped and gasped, and couldn’t find enough air in the room. Then its fingers retracted, Zurri blinked her watering eyes, and when she opened them again, LENG was gone. She slumped forward, emptied, a brittle shell. Her hands shook on the armrests as the star field overtook the wall again, white blobs placidly and predictably traveling on their paths, going nowhere.
For a moment, Zurri fell into a meditative state, her mind completely blank. She had attempted to achieve such a thing at a Buddhist retreat once, but sitting in a hot, crowded room in an itchy, cheap wrap dress was boring and she hated it. But if this was where it led . . . if this was nothingness . . . She raised a trembling hand and placed it over her chest, and waited to feel her wildly beating heart. Instead she felt a steady rhythm, a thumping that told her the emptiness was just fine.
The door to her right wheezed, the heavy bolts released, the seal breaking. She climbed to her feet, still in a trance. Vaguely, she knew there had been fear, that something strange had come to visit her and taken bad things away. Now she tested those vacant spaces, exploring them like the shiny skin revealed below a scab. Had she been frightened before? What had she seen?
If she couldn’t recall, did it really matter at all?
17
A prettily sparkling chime woke Senna from her sleep, a sound like someone had learned to play a waterfall as a musical instrument. She had gotten to the leather sofa somehow, and now peeled her cheek away from the supple ivory surface, her head lead-heavy and throbbing. The blue pill bottle sat on the coffee table in front of her, the cap jauntily poised on top but not screwed, half of a pill and a few telling crumbles just beside the bottle.
Gingerly, she prodded her temples, and found that the pain had gone. The chime sounded again through the lifting fog of grogginess.
“I am sorry to disturb you, Senna, but Anju is at the door. Should I allow her to enter?”
“One second,” she murmured, stretching stiff arms over her head. “How long was I asleep?”
“Approximately four hours.”
“Whoa.” She frowned and carefully gained her footing, then shuffled across the carpet to the hallway leading to the door. “What time is it?”
“Dome time three forty-seven p.m.,” Genie replied. “Would you like me to arrange lunch, or would you prefer to choose from your refrigerated options?”
“I’m not hungry, thanks.” Senna pushed the hair from her eyes and hoped she didn’t look like too much of a mess as she approached the door, and it slid open to reveal Anju, all radiant smiles in a black, fitted frock and jangling gold earrings.
“Oh!” She cocked her head to the side. “You poor thing, did I wake you up?”
“I took a nap,” Senna admitted. No use denying it when the proof was right there smooshed across her face. “I was tired and a little headachy after my session. Did you need something?”
“I brought these for you,” said Anju brightly, holding her arms out flat in front of her, several clothing items folded neatly over them. “They should be your size!”
“O . . . kay.” Puzzled, Senna took one of the garments and held it up, finding a baby-pink dress not much bigger or different than Anju’s. “What is this for exactly?”
“For tonight,” she said simply, as if Senna were a wayward child being reminded of schoolwork. When Senna’s only response was a blank expression, she added, “For your dinner with Paxton?”
“Right.” Senna had completely forgotten. “About that—”
“He can be fussy about these things, he likes to dress up,” Anju raced on, ignoring Senna as she placed the pink dress back across Anju’s arms. “His one embarrassing concession to station life, I guess.”
“It’s just dinner?” Senna asked. “It’s not . . . it’s not like a date or anything, right?”
Anju stared at her in wide-eyed terror. Meanwhile, Senna stared back, wondering who exactly this woman was, how she had come to be on Ganymede. The impending dinner and the dresses Anju had brought as some kind of sisterly offering didn’t seem so important anymore. The man she had met, Efren, seemed disparaging of Anju and the other staff members, skeptical. She couldn’t yet tell if that was earned. And here Anju was being very thoughtful, or thoughtful in the way that she knew how.
“Where did you grow up?” Senna asked.
Anju wasn’t prepared for that one, clearly, her eyes going unfocused as she continued holding out the clothes. Weren’t her arms getting tired?
“On the station,” Anju replied through a tentative smile. “Like you.” Then she scrunched up her face and sighed. “Sorry, I’m sure that sounded creepy. Paxton gave us dossiers on all of you so we wouldn’t bring up anything that could trigger a memory relapse. I spent most of my time in Sector 3.”
“There’s housing there?” Senna felt more at ease. She absolutely did not want to talk about dinner, but she was genuinely curious about where Paxton’s staff had come from, and how they wound up so far from home. “I thought that was the tech and manufacturing sector.”
“There’s housing if you work insane enough hours.” Anju chuckled. “And my parents did. So did—do—I. But I’m not here to talk about—”
“And your parents? What were they like?” Senna pushed. “I didn’t really know mine, but I suppose you must have read that in your dossier, too.”
At last she lowered her arms, holding the dresses to her stomach with a defeated hunch to her shoulders. “I didn’t see mine much, they were hooked into the MSC promotion pipeline hard. Mom was from Kerala, Dad is American. He was off station a lot, running science missions out of the satellite HQ.”
“No,” Anju agreed. “I never get home. Here.” She thrust a different dress, a darker mauve one, into Senna’s hands without asking. “You should wear this one. It’s a nice shade with your hair.”
“Anju, I’m sorry, but I don’t remember agreeing to dinner tonight. I can’t remember him asking, and I don’t remember saying yes.”
She nodded and took a step back into the hallway and away from Senna’s door. “That will happen with the memory stuff. I should go.”
“I’m sorry for all the personal questions—”
“We’re just not supposed to get close with patients, is all,” Anju assured her, giving what felt like her first genuine smile of the interaction.
“But it’s okay for me to dine alone with Paxton?”
The smile vanished. Anju left quickly, one notch below a full-out gallop. “Dinner’s at seven in his office, try not to be late. He hates when girls make him wait.”
* * *
—
Three hours later, Senna put on the mauve dress and her same shapeless shoes and shuffled out the door. Things remained fuzzy in her mind, but three things stood out as true: Anju had gone to the effort; she wanted answers or at least clarification from Paxton; she didn’t know what else to do.
The dress, stretchy and clingy and not at all her usual style, was the nicest thing she had ever worn on her body after the fancy VIT from Agent Tiwari. Senna had stood inspecting herself in the bathroom mirror, hair curling around one finger while she twisted back and forth, realizing she had the wrong underwear for the outfit, but none better to change into. Over the dress she wore a loose, cottony beige jacket that hid the obvious outline stamped around the butt of her dress. She felt more like herself once she pulled on the jacket, swaddled and undefined.
On the way out the door, she passed the paints still on the kitchen table and stared at them longingly. She would have preferred to stay in and just paint. Images burned to flow from her heart to her hand, but they would have to simmer awhile longer.
Just to make sure she had things right, Senna checked the facility map on her VIT and then navigated to the balcony outside the dormitories. A walkway wrapped around to the right that would get her to Paxton’s officer faster, but she chose to go down the ramp and through the courtyard instead. The “sun” was setting, and the rosy-orange glow smoldering through the Dome seemed like it deserved to be experienced. If she was going to paint again, she would need to fill herself up with color, get drunk on it, remember what it was like to speak only in that bright and imperfect language.
The courtyard was full of inspiration, empty of people. Empty, that is, until Senna reached the bottom of the ramp and let her eyes wander up toward the walkway. She saw the hint of a shadow there, and hands wrapped around the railing. Following the pale-blue-and-white-mosaic trail to the right, she turned and shielded her eyes, and caught sight of Zurri standing in the center of the suspended walkway, frozen and staring. She didn’t look well.
Twenty minutes to seven. That was enough time. Senna took the stairs up to the catwalk as quickly as she could, and even then it felt like she was moving through oxygenated pudding. Everything was in slow motion since her nap. It would get easier, both Paxton and Dr. Colbie had assured her; healing the brain took time.
“Hey,” Senna called as she reached the top, out of breath. She saw a tendon jump in Zurri’s jaw at her greeting, but nothing else. “Are you all right?”
She approached with her hands out in surrender, loath to startle her, sensing the fragility of a wounded animal, and one perched on a precarious ledge. The fall was long and while probably not fatal, certainly painful. None of the architecture was exactly up to standard Tokyo Bliss Station code—this was Paxton’s house, and his rules, and nobody had come to inspect and scold and levy fines.
“Zurri?” The whites of Zurri’s dark eyes were dyed crimson. She wasn’t blinking. “Should I get Dr. Colbie? Zurri?”
For a moment, Senna stood with her in silence, watching the deep pull of her lungs, her chest rising and falling like she had just sprinted. Leaning toward her slightly, Senna craned to see what Zurri was staring at, and found herself looking directly toward Paxton’s office. The once-transparent doors there were now darkened, frosted a deep maroon.
“This sky,” Zurri finally said, and Senna breathed a sigh of relief. “Doesn’t it remind you of fire?”
Senna chewed the inside of her cheek, choosing her response carefully. They were all there for different reasons, but Senna had seen part of Zurri’s reason on the live Daily Bliss broadcast. That man had jumped right in front of her and set himself on fire. If Zurri had entered the program to forget that, then it wouldn’t be right to remind her of the trauma and damage the process.
“I think it’s quite pretty,” Senna said, with exploratory gentility, as if she were talking her, quite literally, down from that open ledge. “Are you feeling okay tonight?”
“I don’t know,” replied Zurri, and her right cheek flinched. “I keep trying to remember. It’s like gathering string, I chase after it, bundle it all up, then when I finally have it in my hands, it just falls to the floor again and unravels. Then I’m chasing it again, trying to remember.”
“We’re not supposed to do that,” Senna reminded her. “When I tried to remember, it just made my head hurt, it got so bad Dr. Colbie had to give me medicine.”
Knuckles tightening on the railing, Zurri swiveled to face her. Her eyes had become so dry that tears welled in the irritated corners, glossy and ready to spill. “What kind of medicine?”
“Um, I think it was called Talpraxem or something. I only took half of one and it knocked me out for hours. The side effects didn’t sound great either, or the warnings. Do not take while pregnant, take at mealtime, store in a dry place . . . ,” she rattled off.
“Talpraxem is serious stuff.” Zurri blinked, and Senna felt like she had won a small victory. “Can I have it?”
“Have it? A-All of it?”
“Sure, or whatever you’re willing to spare.”
Senna scratched the back of her neck, glancing toward Paxton’s office. It had to be almost seven. He hates when girls make him wait. “I suppose I could share, but maybe I should clear it with Dr. Colbie first.”
“No, don’t do that,” Zurri laughed. “Don’t snitch. I’ve taken it before, Senna. I’ve taken everything before. I’ll come by your apartment later.”
Senna didn’t see herself winning the argument and nodded. At the very least, someone would be checking in on her. That made her feel better about going to dinner with Paxton, in fact . . .
“How about in two hours?” Senna said, giving herself a clear-cut time limit for the meal.
“Sure.” Zurri smirked, then looked her up and down. “Why are you dressed up?”
“I’m not,” Senna insisted, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.
“That’s a twenty-thousand-yuan Bethany Li bandage dress. The spring 2268 collection. I know because I wore it in the campaign.” One of her dark, well-sculpted eyebrows lifted. “You are one weird mystery, Cult Girl.”
“Don’t call me that.” Senna grimaced, pushing away from the railing and storming off.
She could practically hear the gears churning in Zurri’s head while the model landed on something suitably mean to say. Instead, she just called, “I’m sorry, okay? I won’t call you that. We’ll pick this up later, Senna. I want to know where you got that dress.”
And I want to know where Anju got it.
“And, Senna?”
“Yes?”
“Girl code stuff, just be careful with Paxton. I’ve known a lot of men like him. They’re takers, and they don’t take rejection well. If he gives you any trouble,
you come to me and I’ll sort him out, all right?”
Senna looked down at the dress she was wearing. So Zurri thought this was a date, too. She simply nodded, and frowned, and decided it was good to have someone as worldly and intimidating as Zurri on her side. Girl code stuff. That was a new one for her. Senna ran her hands down the fine fabric of the dress. What was Paxton paying these people? Maybe that was a totally normal item for someone with Anju’s job to have. After all, Paxton was astronomically famous and wealthy, maybe he expected all of his staff to wear high-fashion clothes to work.
Or maybe your brain isn’t so soft after all, and you know exactly why she has it. Because it was a gift from him.
That wasn’t fair. Anju was a competent woman in a high-powered job; if she wanted to save up her money to splurge on clothes, then that was her right and her business. Judging her for it was the exact bullshit Senna had spent a year drumming out of her head. That kind of indulgence, that kind of consuming, was everything Preece hated and railed against. On the compound, members of the brood wore their plain, scratchy pants until thin knees broke through thinner fabric. Then those holes were meticulously mended, and the process began again. Without a VIT, without a life outside the compound, Senna onced marked time that way, by the give on the knees of her trousers, by the proximity of fresh air to knee skin.
She toppled to the left, holding herself up by the stairway railing. A hot, white knife of pain shot through her eyeball, stabbing back into her brain. I’m remembering, she thought. I’m not supposed to remember.
Life on the compound and Preece remained, but when she tried to picture the faces hovering above the thin patched pants, her mind throbbed, furiously bereft. Nothing. They were gone. Gone because . . . because . . . Senna slid to the stair below her and sat. Gone because she had asked Paxton to rip them away. They all wore blurry masks, voices garbled nonsense, ghoulish half-human golems wandering the vanishing corridors of her memory. Preece remained, the lone face in a sea of half-remembered personalities.