Reclaimed

by Madeleine Roux

  “No, no,” Paxton chuckled weakly, draping an arm across Han’s shoulders and steering him back around and toward the black clinical lab door. “Even I couldn’t have seen that one coming, but that’s why we do trials, right? I couldn’t have known LENG would . . . well. Or that her protocols were that weak. That’s my bad. It doesn’t matter. Anyway, I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Glad?” Han frowned. “You lied to us, Paxton. What was that shit with Efren on the footage? Why didn’t Anju fight back against him?”

  Pausing, Paxton rearranged them, standing in front of Han, both hands perched on his shoulders, staring down at him with the fatherly sternness of someone about to deliver a lecture. “Jesus, you remind me so much of myself, it’s actually creepy.”

  “I do?” Han smirked. “Really?”

  “You’re observant and clever. You’re fearless. You see a problem and you don’t think, ‘Whoa, okay, slow down, that’s too big for me to tackle.’ You just throw yourself at it. It makes you reckless, too. Which, sadly, is now a problem.” He grimaced and tossed a scathing look toward his office doors. “Too many problems. But it’s fine. It’s all fine. I’m handling it. It’s going to be a long, long, fucking long night, but tomorrow it’ll all be handled, and we can finally do things right around here. Get some peace and fucking quiet.”

  Han shook his head. “What’s going on around here, Paxton? I’m . . . honestly, I’m scared. First Anju, and these shadow things. I keep seeing shadows everywhere, a shadow like . . . like a creature. Senna saw it, too. What does it mean? Is it a side effect?”

  “You’re a Cecilia Fan fan”—he chuckled breathlessly at the stupid repetition—“right?”

  “Yeah, but what does she have to do with—”

  Paxton slung his arm around Han’s shoulders again and continued guiding him toward the door. Han tried to drag his feet, but Paxton pushed, insistent. “Her 2268 speech at Yang Hall. Classic. Beautiful stuff. Practically poetry. I met her a few times, you know? She didn’t realize it was me, but she was nice. Didn’t have to be. Some of those lecturers are real assholes, but Fan is all right. Anyway, she likes to theorize about the capabilities of the smallest perceivable black holes. You must have your own theories . . .”

  “I’m a teenager not an astrophysicist,” Han protested, the black door growing closer. “I guess it would just bend light and warp space but on a small scale. Listen, it’s cool, you know? You talking about this stuff with me, but I still don’t understand what—”

  “And if it was small enough,” Paxton barged into his question. “Let’s say really tiny, we’re talking Planck length, could you contain it?”

  They didn’t go through the door, and Han tried not to make his relief too noticeable. Paxton swiveled to face him head-on again, waiting for his answer. When Han hesitated, eyes shifting to the empty gallery and everywhere else but Paxton, the man asked again, “If a black hole was small enough, could it be contained?”

  “Theoretically? Um, sure.”

  Paxton nodded, slowly at first but building speed. “And if you could contain it, what could you do with it?”

  “I don’t know,” Han replied, squinting. “What could you do with it?”

  To Han’s right, the black door slid open.

  “You already know, Han,” Paxton said, weaving from exhaustion, his eyes bright and irritated, shot through with crimson. “But I’ll be happy to show you again.”

  25

  Zurri tore out of sleep like someone had waved a wand over her and a curse had been lifted. She hadn’t dreamed. She hadn’t, she realized with a jolt, even been aware of her own body’s existence until she came abruptly awake.

  Where am I? she wondered, examining her surroundings. They felt brand-new, but tingles ran from her fingers up to her scalp as she ran her hands over the luxe blankets. Cozy. Tasteful. It matched her minimalist, haute aesthetic. Right at home. She placed a hand over her chest, feeling her breath rise and fall, the automatic and unthinking miracle of a living body, so intrinsic that thinking about it too hard made her feel clumsy, like she would bungle it if put in charge of actually directing her own lungs to expand and contract.

  Gradually, a sense of familiarity spread across her. Right. Ganymede. She had arrived at the facility just two days ago. Day three. How long was she meant to stay? Zurri stretched and yawned, pointing her toes, raising her VIT to check the time and consult her calendar. More and more it all came back. That must have been one hell of a night of drinking, though she didn’t feel a booze hangover coming on. What could make her sleep like that? She’d find the evidence soon enough, she reasoned, strewn about the kitchen or the living room sofa.

  Good morning, Zurri! It’s another beautiful day on Ganymede.

  The Dome scheduler on her VIT greeted her, pink text sprayed with glitzy confetti.

  It’s recovery day, please practice meditation or mindfulness. If you need guidance on these methods, please contact Dr. Colbie in the clinical labs. The hard part’s over! Now allow your mind to heal. Your appointment with our PR specialist, Brea, is scheduled for Dome time 1:00 p.m.

  In a black peignoir trimmed in lapis-colored marabou feathers, Zurri found her way down the hall to the living area. A kaleidoscope of pale stars played on the vid monitor there, a tray of food waiting for her, a vivid green matcha latte steaming steadily beside an egg-white omelet and roasted brussels sprouts. She crossed to the coffee table, eyes sweeping the ground for bottles, booze or otherwise, but the apartment gleamed. Spotless. The kitchen, too, showed no evidence of recent debauchery.

  Zurri squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, trying again to recall the events of the night before. If she was having this good a sleep and morning because she was sober, then why couldn’t she remember much?

  Her food was getting cold. She decided to sate the pleasant stirring hunger in her stomach, and ate until she was full. Afterward, she only felt better. Was waking up always this easy? Gradually, she became aware of an ache in her neck, and when she massaged it, the pain radiated out in startling waves. That was a deep bruise. Weird. Zurri wiped her mouth and strode briskly to the bathroom across from her bedroom. It emulated a clean Japanese onsen aesthetic, bamboo lamps glowing in the corners, the pebbly floor and spa tub done in slate gray speckled with blue. A wide, arcing fern soared across the doorway, shading it like an awning. Just inside the door and to the left, two floor-to-ceiling mirrors flanked the stone sink. Frowning, she inspected herself, turning to try to appraise the tender spot on the back of her neck and scalp.

  Slightly shiny. Greasy. She smelled the pads of her fingers, detecting a faint medicinal twinge. Her knuckles seemed scuffed and peeling.

  “Genie?” she asked slowly, the word occurring to her before its function did.

  “Yes, Zurri, how may I assist you?”

  “Did I get black-out drunk last night?”

  “You did not,” Genie replied.

  She lifted a brow. “Are you sure? Did I fall down in here or something?”

  “You did not fall down in your rooms, no. Would you like me to notify Dr. Colbie of any injuries?” the in-home assistant asked.

  “No . . .” Zurri shrugged, the area between her shoulder blades tender but bearable. “No, I guess it’s nothing.”

  “Your health and comfort are our highest priority,” Genie continued. “If you require assistance, do not hesitate to ask.”

  It was odd. Why couldn’t she remember how she got that bruise? Thinking about it too hard made her woozy, and she grabbed for the sink, steadying herself. “You know what? I think I will go see Dr. Colbie. Is she available?”

  “Yes, Dr. Colbie can see you, her agenda is open until after lunch.”

  A moment later, dressing in the bedroom, Zurri felt another stab of pain coast down her spine as she pulled on her shift dress.

  “Shit,” she muttered, reaching to cup her lower back.
“That’s vicious.”

  In the medicine cabinet she found only over-the-counter pain medication. Not even fixings for a mimosa in the refrigerated box either to take the edge off. That didn’t seem right. She would’ve asked for a full liquor cabinet. Her rider, via Bev, would have made that explicitly clear.

  “Genie?” she asked, toiling over this question in the kitchen, tapping her foot in its faux suede moccasin impatiently. “What happened to my booze?”

  “You asked to have it removed, Zurri,” Genie replied flatly. “Would you like me to have that decision reversed? Sixteen can deliver whatever you require in a matter of moments . . .”

  “No? No. Huh. I’ll be damned.” Past Zurri was either smart as hell or crazy. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to lay off the sauce until she sorted out what was going on with that bruise. And why she felt dazed in a vaguely euphoric way, like her toes weren’t quite touching the ground. Breakfast had been good but not that good.

  As she reached the door, a message alert chimed on her VIT. She checked it as she stepped out into the hall, distracted.

  COMPLIANCE REQUIRED: INDICATE BELOW YOU HAVE READ AND RECEIVED

  This is a Dome-wide update—the following topics have been deemed sensitive. Please avoid discussing these items with your fellow patients, as it may hinder their recovery process.

  With Senna Slate, do not discuss the following:

  The Dohring-Waugh Cult, and her association with it or its leader, Preece Ives

  With Han Jun, do not discuss the following:

  The crash of the Dohring-Waugh passenger craft onto the surface of Mars

  Close family associations, such as parents or siblings

  Criminal activities related to cyberattacks and hacking

  Zurri indicated that she read and understood the instructions, receiving an immediate message of gratitude from the system. Right, the program. Her fellow inmates. No, fellow patients. The place between her shoulder blades throbbed again, a tight line running from there to the top of her skull. Senna existed in her mind only as a general idea, a small, sad thing with a sad past and sweet, unsteady nature, cotton candy ephemera with a tragic haircut. And the kid, Han . . . skinny nerd with big heart eyes for Paxton. A mini mogul and, she seemed to remember, a fan of hers.

  Even before she could lower her wrist and take another step, she was intercepted by a flurry of yellow fur and slender, flailing limbs.

  “Watch it!” She jumped back, the door to her apartment hissing back open before she could tumble against it. Fur and limbs resolved into two distinct forms—one a fluffy golden dog and the other a teenage boy with a mop of dark hair. Han. They both skidded around to regard Zurri, although only the dog looked somewhat contrite.

  “Oops, sorry!” Han was holding a bright red ball. “Paxton gave me this AR dog, new tech, totally proprietary and Dome exclusive. Isn’t she incredible? So lifelike, it’s wild. I’m teaching her to fetch! Check this out . . .” He threw the ball down the hall, and the dog gave a single excited bark, spun around and then leapt after it, bouncing down the hall with as much elastic energy as the ball. She cornered the ball, missing it six times before at last snapping it up and returning to them with her head held high, tail swishing proudly. When she dropped the ball into Han’s hands, it disappeared, just an illusion of the augmented-reality app Paxton had designed. He was right, the tech was unbelievably lifelike. Surreal.

  “Best part? No allergies and no drool,” Han said with a laugh. “How are you feeling?”

  “Feeling?” Zurri frowned.

  The kid made a fist with his hand again and when he opened it, a ball appeared, the dog coming forward to close her jaws around it. They gently wrestled for the ball while Han peered up at Zurri. “You were sick. Paxton said you needed a few days to rest so we left you alone.”

  “Oh.” She reached instinctively for the bruise on her neck, trying to solve a puzzle with too many missing pieces. “I guess I’m better now. I mean, I feel fine except for this weird bruise. Why did he give you a dog?”

  Han beamed, giving up the fight for the ball and letting the dog have it. He patted her big, broad head fondly while she gummed the ball and covered it in slobber. “It’s Paxton’s code, jacked right into my VIT. He always wanted a dog but couldn’t because of his allergies or something. I’m the first person to have it. Technically it’s his dog, but now she’s mine.”

  Her eyes slid between him and the dog and back again. “Are you sure about this? Paxton gave you his dog?”

  “Yeah, why not? It’s just an AR dog, I can handle it. Lula even leaves AR poop behind, and you’ll see it, too. Paxton is going to update the Dome VIT parameters so even you guys can see it. Wild.”

  Zurri snorted. Right, he had a huge ego, this kid. Not as grand as hers, but few could aspire to those heights. “You know dogs, even fake ones, are a lot of work. Tons of responsibility. They shit, like, all the time, and you have to be the one to clean it up. You cool with that? Because I am not cool with stepping in virtual poop.”

  “Whatever.” He shrugged. “I’ll get one of the Servitors to ‘clean’ it.”

  “Oh? You rule this place now, huh?” She had to laugh; he seemed completely at home. Zurri didn’t know what she felt. Sore, for one. She eyed the hallway behind him, still anxious to grill Dr. Colbie about that mystery bruise, and now her illness and the days of convalescence it required. She knew she was there for memory treatments, but this forgetfulness struck her as extreme.

  “Sort of.” Han tossed the ball up and down in one hand while Lula wiggled with anticipation beside him. “Paxton said I can stay on for as long as I want, even after the program is done. Like a mentorship. She’d really be our dog.”

  That was less amusing than his strutting peacock attitude. Her teenage years had been full of misadventure, getting drunk with fellow models in their cramped Tokyo apartment, chasing boys and sometimes girls, sneaking into bars they were way too young for, flirting with attendants to get into VR parlors showing racy matinees. Eighteen-year-old Zurri would have gone completely mad trapped in a tiny moon compound with only adults for company. “How long would you stay?”

  “Maybe forever, I don’t know.”

  “Forever?” Zurri shook her head. “You’re joking.”

  Han crossed his arms over his narrow chest. “Why? I’m not joking. I’m smart enough, Paxton says I’m a genius, that I’m wasted on the school back on the station.”

  “What about your friends?” Zurri replied without thinking. “And your family?”

  She winced. Shit. One of the forbidden topics. She decided not to fumble more by trying to cover up what she had said or blurt out an apology; that might only make it worse. Hopefully he just wouldn’t notice. But Han did notice, and he paused, gazing up at her with dark and distant eyes. Then he gave her a lopsided grin, the consternation vanishing in a blink. “Stupid. What family?”

  26

  “You don’t need to do that.” Senna scrambled out of bed, shorts and shirt and hair rumpled. She slept so deeply now that every sunrise felt like a clap of thunder, a snap of the fingers right in front of her face. Even before she could orient herself or stretch, corn-yellow light had begun to suffuse the walls, creeping up from the bottom edge and gradually making the room glow like a lantern.

  She reached for the nearest sock on the floor and held it tightly to her chest, as if that one little action could ward off the embarrassed flush bleeding across her face. But the sock went unnoticed by Anju, who had just bustled into the bedroom and begun pacing and tidying.

  You’re his personal assistant, thought Senna. Not his maid.

  “Really,” Senna added. “I’m perfectly capable . . .”

  “It’s fine,” Anju snapped at her, bending to scoop up Paxton’s black jeans and fold them neatly over her arm. “It’s totally fine.”

  Her br
own hair was swept up into a seashell shape on her head, her bright, perfectly tan skin dusted with coral-orange rouge. Heavy golden hoops dangled from her ears, though to Senna one looked a little misshapen, not quite a perfect circle, as if someone had trampled on it.

  “I . . .” Before Senna could finish her thought, Anju strode up to her and shoved a clean dress into her arms.

  “Should I have the rest of your things moved here?” Anju asked, her smile tight and stretched. “I already cleared it with Paxton. You brought so few items, I doubt he’d even notice them in the closet.”

  “No.” Senna frowned and shook her head. She still wasn’t sure why she was there, or where “there” was. A bedroom . . . Paxton’s. When she took the dress from Anju, the woman spun and retrieved a few more socks, then disappeared into the walk-in closet across from and to the left of the bed. It was a simple, clean room, minus the rogue socks, with walls that could be calibrated to show any scene or project any light, an orb-like black fixture hanging from the center of the ceiling. Below it, a mirror-black circle of a rug opened up like a hole in the otherwise white tiled floor.

  Two dark cubed tables flanked the goliath of a bed, but his bedroom was otherwise empty.

  While Anju clattered around in the closet, Senna held the dress to her abdomen with one hand and ran her palm over her shoulders with the other. She was feeling for evidence, for traces of what had happened the night before. Closing her eyes, she sank back into her thoughts, letting the room around her go quiet. Paxton. Had they kissed? She touched her own lips, but they didn’t feel any different. Were they lovers? What was she doing in his bedroom?

  She shivered, cold at heart. If she was there, if she was waking up in his bed, then she must feel something for him. Out of the strange cavern of her thoughts, a single refrain rose to comfort her: The most brilliant man in the universe wants you. He’s chosen you.