Ourselves

by S. G. Redling

  “That’s my girlfriend.” Tomas spoke and immediately regretted it.

  “You brought your girlfriend to a confab?” It was the hook-nosed Chanel woman. “And left her in the lobby?”

  Tomas shrugged, uncomfortable with the attention he was getting. “I didn’t know what to do. If we would be staying. How long it would be. Mr. Albion didn’t say—”

  “Albion.” The woman snorted again, then snapped her fingers over her head. The sound carried to a young Nahan man waiting by the door who rushed to attention. “Derek, go out to the lobby and check in our lost little girl. They’ve got a room. Destry or something.”

  “Desara.”

  “Whatever. Get her out of the lobby.” She dismissed her assistant and spoke to herself in a voice meant for the room. “Doesn’t say much for our Storytellers if they can’t even check themselves into their own hotel.”

  “Lay off it, Lana.” Wilson pulled Tomas to another table. He was shorter than Tomas, and his hair was thinning on top, giving him a fragile look. “She’s like that with everyone. She’s good though. That woman could pull money out of a pig’s ass.” A heavy plastic binder slid down the table past them, caught by a girl not much older than Tomas. The noise was giving him a headache and there seemed no order or purpose to the madness.

  Then, as if a blanket had been thrown over the crowd, the sound muffled down. The people in the room grew still, papers were held in place, voices lowered to silence. Laptops were closed quietly, groups congealed and whispered among themselves as they pulled apart, leaving a clear aisle from the front door to a grouping of tables near the back wall. Wilson placed an unnecessary hand on Tomas’s arm to silence him. Tomas peered over the heads around him, needing to see what could bring quiet to this room.

  It was three Nahan, two men and one woman, who had entered the room as a group and settled themselves at the only clear table. They didn’t speak to anyone around them, murmuring only to each other as they lined up at the table facing the wall, their backs to the room. The room held its collective breath as the three adjusted their seats, poured a few glasses of water, and after passing nods among themselves, leaned back as one and placed their folded hands on the table.

  Noise returned to the room. People began to whisper, shuffle papers, then resumed business as usual. Tomas noticed people heading to the table of the newcomers and placing papers on their desk. Nobody spoke to the newcomers. Nobody looked directly at them. They simply placed their documents before them and stepped away. Wilson guided him toward their table. As they got closer, Tomas could see most of the documents on the table were photographs, close-ups of faces or tight shots of groups, many with sticky notes bearing the name of a city or company. He was trying to read some of the headings when he realized Wilson had left his side and he stood before the table alone.

  He clasped his wrists behind his back, a nervous gesture he’d picked up from Stell.

  “Hello.” His voice sounded high and childish.

  The tall man on the right answered him. “Is that your girlfriend in the lobby?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “True Family. Interesting choice.”

  The woman in the middle spoke next. “Why did you bring her?”

  “I didn’t want to leave her. With my parents, I mean.”

  “Then why didn’t you check her in?”

  “I didn’t know I had a room.”

  The man on the left spoke, his voice gravelly despite his youthful face. “You didn’t know you had a room? What did you think? This is a day school?”

  “What did Albion tell you?” the man on the right said. Tomas could not help but feel he was being interrogated by three sides of the same person. For his own sanity, he labeled them Tall, Woman, and Growler.

  “He didn’t tell me anything.”

  “What do you mean, he didn’t tell you anything?” Woman said.

  Tall said, “He must have told you something. You’re here.”

  Tomas shook his head, feeling his cheeks burning. “He handed me a note with the address and left.”

  Growler: “He didn’t say a single word?”

  “Well, he asked me a question.”

  Woman: “What was your answer?”

  Tomas felt a trickle of sweat slip down his spine and wanted nothing more than to disappear at that moment. He swallowed, trying to find his voice. “I didn’t. I started to cry.”

  He steeled himself for derision but the answer seemed to satisfy them. Tall nodded, as if pleased, then placed his palms on the table.

  “Well then, welcome. Let us introduce ourselves.” From right to left, Tall was Dalle; Woman was Vet, and Growler was Lucien.

  “And you all are . . .”

  “Yes,” Dalle nodded. “We are Storytellers.”

  Tomas felt his stomach flutter. They were different from the Nahan around them; it was obvious to all present. He took a deep breath to steady himself.

  Vet seemed to read his mind. “You’re not in the program yet, dear. Didn’t Albion tell you anything?”

  Tomas shook his head and Lucien muttered, “Typical.”

  Vet gestured to the photos before her. “Let’s throw you into the deep end, then, shall we? Before us are photos of common who need to be put on, shall we say, a different path. For whatever reason, their activities are not pleasing our companies or organizations and we are being petitioned for alternate possibilities. Do you understand?”

  Tomas nodded uncertainly. “I’m sure I’ll learn as I go along.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Dalle said, pulling out a photo, “or you won’t last long.”

  Lucien pointed a finger at him. “You do know this is just an audition? You make it through this and if you are very, very good, you’ll get to train and if you are even better than good and exceptionally lucky, you get the title.”

  “And then,” Vet said, “your luck goes right in the toilet and you rue the day you ever applied.” The three laughed and turned back to Tomas as one.

  Vet held her hands over the photographs like a hostess offering a buffet. “So what do you say, kid? Want to give it a try?”

  “Try what?” His mouth was so dry, Tomas could hardly speak.

  “Try your hand at Storytelling. Look at the pictures before you and tell us what you see. What you know. You don’t have to give us the solution; just tell us the problem.” They sat back expectantly to watch.

  Tomas could feel his hands tremble as he tried to focus on the photographs before him. They were upside down, but when he reached to turn one around, Dalle stopped him.

  “It shouldn’t make any difference, kid. Just look at them.”

  Tomas nodded, panic closing his throat. He saw nothing, thought of nothing but his own embarrassment as he skimmed over the unknown faces before him. Nothing was coming to mind but failure and the knowing smirks on the three faces before him.

  Even Lucien’s whisper was gravelly. “Getting anything, kid?”

  Tomas shook his head. He couldn’t meet their eyes until all three erupted in laughter. The sound silenced the room around them as everybody looked to see what could make the odd group in the back laugh so hard.

  Dalle was the first to recover from the outburst. “Sorry, kid, we’re just having a little fun at your expense. You’re not going to see anything here. How long have you been in training? Forty-five minutes?”

  Vet laughed, scooping up a stack of photos before her. “Yeah, it took Dalle ten years to be able to spin a decent story and Lucien nearly got an entire municipal board sent to prison.” The Storytellers laughed among themselves, swapping insults and boasts, ignoring Tomas, who continued to peer at the photos.

  “I know him.”

  They didn’t seem to hear him, so Tomas put his finger on a photograph in front of Dalle. “I know him.”

  They quieted down, immediately serious, and stared, not at the photo, but at Tomas.

  “And?” Dalle asked.

  “Who is he?” Vet asked.

/>   “His name is Kevin. I met him in Arizona.”

  Dalle looked at the photo, then shook his head. “Wrong guy, kid. He’s from Pittsburgh.”

  Tomas wouldn’t remove his hand from the picture. “But I met him in Arizona. He was on business. It was in a bar.”

  Dalle read the file on the back. “What do you know about him?”

  Tomas closed his eyes, struggling to remember. “He was in trouble at work. Some kind of money thing. And no one knows he’s gay.”

  “How do you know he’s gay?”

  “It was a gay bar.”

  “Are you gay?”

  “No.”

  “But he thinks you are.”

  “Yes.”

  Dalle passed a look to Vet, who continued to question him.

  “Did you have him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he love you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Does he love you?” She leaned on her elbows. “Did he love you? Did he want you and feel for you?”

  “I guess. I . . . I don’t know. He talked a lot.”

  “So he trusted you.”

  “Well, he didn’t think I spoke English.”

  “Why didn’t you speak English?”

  “A gay bar?”

  “And you’re not gay?”

  He didn’t know whom to answer or how, so he shoved his hands into his pockets. “It’s a long story.”

  Dalle leaned forward. “We’re Storytellers, kid. They’re all long stories.”

  Lucien flipped through the file and shrugged. “Nothing in here about being gay. Apparently our people missed that. Could help.” He looked to his colleagues, who seemed to join him in his silent conclusion.

  “Okay, let’s send these to Resources.” Lucien opened another file and began reading, then looked up as if surprised Tomas was still standing there. “That’s it, kid. We’re done here. Go enjoy a few days in Chicago on us. We’ll send a car for you when we’re ready for you. Now get the hell out of here, Desara Acte. We’ve got work to do.”

  Tomas stepped away from the table, into the busy crowd surrounding them. His ears were ringing as he tried to make sense of what just happened. Nobody paid him any attention as he pushed open the doors and stepped into the quiet hallway. The heavy hotel carpeting muffled the sound of his voice as he repeated aloud what he had heard.

  “Desara Acte.” He smiled, tasting the new word. “Acte.”

  Apprentice.

  Chapter Five:

  ACTE

  Acte: apprentice

  “Shit¸ Stell. There’s a garbage can under the desk. Why don’t you use it?”

  “I’m saving it all up so I have something exciting to do tomorrow.”

  “Ah sarcasm—that’s refreshing.” Tomas pulled two licorice whips out from under him and tossed them off the bed. His head was pounding, having spent his third day in deep meditation training. “You know, you don’t have to spend all day in the hotel. Chicago’s a big city. There’s a lot to do here.”

  “Oh, I know. I’m allowed to go to movies. I’m allowed to go to museums. I’m allowed to be surrounded by common all day as long as I stay with my escort. I had more freedom on Calstow Mountain.”

  “It’s for your own protection. You ran away from the True Family.”

  Tomas threw his arm over his aching eyes. He didn’t want to have the argument that they had been having for nearly two weeks. He knew Stell was unhappy; she was bored and she missed him. He missed her too, but he didn’t have the luxury of empty hours to think about it. After the riotous info confab, his life had become a grueling parade of interviews, physical disciplines, and meditation. It seemed someone was forever boring holes into him with their eyes or peppering him with questions. He was the punching bag of the Storytellers.

  It wasn’t just the Storytellers who picked over him, either. Accountants, doctors, and record keepers had pummeled him with questions, pumped him for facts, measured him, recorded him, taken blood and hair samples, along with fingerprints. This morning, which seemed like a lifetime ago, he’d had to practice his stillness meditation while some kid took a plaster cast of his face, hands, and feet.

  Every evening as the car drove him from the industrial complex where the training was taking place back to the hotel, his skin and nerves, even his hair screamed with overstimulation. He would fumble into the always dark hotel room to find Stell bored, prickly, and ready to fight.

  Tonight she wore just his boxers and a tank top. She looked small. And sad.

  “I’m sorry it’s like this, Stell.”

  “I’m sorry to be so bitchy.”

  Tomas laughed and rolled onto his elbow. “Bitchy? Where did you learn that word?”

  Stell nodded to the television. “Tyra.”

  “Tyra?”

  “Tyra Banks. She’s a very famous woman that people go to for advice. Experts from all over the world come on to speak with her and the people cry and dance. She had a doctor on today helping a woman who called herself a Big Bad Bitch. She has a problem with something called PSM. I’m not sure what that is but maybe that’s why I’m so bitchy.”

  Tomas stroked her thigh. “It’s PMS and I’m pretty sure you don’t have it. It’s a common’s problem. Besides,” he rolled into her and kissed her ankle, “you’re not being bitchy. I mean, not unnecessarily so. I know you’re bored and I’m never around.”

  “You’re busy. I know. This is important to you.”

  “You’re important to me too.” Tomas pushed himself forward until he lay across her crossed legs, his head resting on her inner thigh. “I promise it won’t go on like this forever. Even if I have to leave the program, I won’t live like this forever.”

  “I miss you so much.” Stell stroked his hair and his face. Her hands moved down onto his chest. “I know how tired you are, so if you want me to stop I will.”

  Tomas kissed the tender skin of her inner thigh, his hands reaching up to encircle her waist. She fell back onto the bed as he kissed his way up her body. He could feel her hesitation; he knew he’d hurt her by pulling away the last few nights.

  Tomas breathed in her hunger, could smell her blood and hear her heart pounding as his earlier exhaustion faded. Tasting the sweet saltiness of her skin, he climbed on top of her, pinning her arms over her head and kissing her deeply. She moved beneath him, wrapping her legs around his and he felt the heat from her body through his clothes.

  She tested his grip on her wrists. “If you let me go, I’ll tear you to pieces.”

  He ran his tongue along the hammering pulse of her throat. “Maybe I’ll just bite right through your skin.”

  Stell groaned and arched against him, her legs pulling him tightly to her. She raised her head and tried to bite Tomas, but he pulled back, teasing her.

  “You can’t resist me forever, Tomas. And when I get my mouth on you, I’m going to swallow you whole.”

  Tomas bit her chin, then followed with small bites along her jawline. “Swallow me whole, huh? Do I get to pick the part you swallow first?”

  Tomas sighed and dropped his head when a knock sounded at the door.

  “Tell me you don’t have to answer that.”

  He released Stell’s hands with a whispered warning. “Stay right there. Keep thinking those thoughts.” She giggled as Tomas walked to the door, adjusting himself in his pants. “If it’s Housekeeping, we’re killing them and eating them.”

  “Good. I hope it’s Housekeeping.”

  The knock sounded again. “I’m coming.” He looked back at Stell and waggled his eyebrows. “Eventually.” He opened the door to a common man and woman.

  “Good evening. I’m Nancy, this is Kanai.” She gestured to the tall, dark haired man behind her. He was well-built, with smooth brown skin and almond-shaped eyes. “The Council sent us over. They said you haven’t been able to go out.”

  Tomas came back into the room and dropped onto the edge of the bed, rubbing his face with his hands. Nancy and Kanai fo
llowed, waiting patiently for some reply.

  “Who are they, Tomas?” Stell asked, sounding worried. To Kanai, she asked “You are common, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” Kanai said. “Mr. Vartan said you find my body type appealing.”

  “Your body type?” Stell whipped around to Tomas. “Who’s Mr. Vartan? Tomas?”

  “Mr. Vartan is the Coordinator of the Council.”

  “And so he sends two commons to our room? For what?”

  “To feed you.” Nancy stepped forward in front of Tomas and slipped out of her jacket. In the crook of her left elbow was a small tattoo. Beneath the ink, a faint scar. Kanai pushed up his sleeve to reveal an identical mark. “Where would you like us to sit?”

  “What is this, Tomas?” Stell asked. “Who are these people? Get off my bed!” She pushed at Kanai, who moved to sit beside her.

  Exhaustion flooded back into Tomas. There were so many things Stell didn’t understand. It took him two days to explain television to her; this could take forever and he felt his patience wearing thin. “They’re Kott, the common who work for us. We have to feed and we can’t go out so they’ve sent someone over to us.”

  “Like the pizza we ordered?” Stell stared in disbelief at the two strangers. Kanai’s face was passive, but Nancy met her glare with a cold stare.

  “Not exactly,” said Nancy. “If you don’t find us pleasing, we’ll send someone else.”

  “No.” Tomas took Nancy’s hand. “This is fine. It’s just been a long day.”

  “This is not fine!” Stell jumped from the bed when Nancy sat down next to Tomas. She stood before Kanai, looking up into his calm face. “What did you say about body type?”

  Kanai looked at the wall behind her as he answered. “Mr. Vartan said you preferred my body type to feed. I didn’t ask any specifics. If you’d like me to leave, I will.”

  Stell turned to look at Tomas, who sat with Nancy on the bed they had just vacated. “So we’re not allowed to go out and hunt. We have to sit here and eat what the Council decides we’ll like? How do they know what body type I prefer?”