by Rysa Walker
“Which is he?”
“Special request, I think?”
“No. Server or companion?”
“He’s listed as companion, although he seems embarrassed about that. Campbell requests him, just to have someone to talk to, and Campbell has special status with the group running the place. Tate says they treat him and the dog kind of like mascots. Check out the girl just behind him. Does she look familiar?”
“Um . . . no. Should she?”
“I think she’s the one with the wings. That we saw watching the stable point set at that party. See the way her cloak sticks up in the back?”
“What’s with all the cloaks anyway? It’s kind of hot.”
“You joked about the propriety police back in 1905? Apparently that’s a thing in this reality. Red cloaks for the women applying for escort positions. The female server candidates—there aren’t many of those, because they usually hire men—are in the black cloaks.”
I don’t point out that there’s a double standard—no cloaks for the men. Most are in tuxedos, applying for server positions, but some near the middle of the line are shirtless and oiled like bodybuilders, probably hoping to catch the eye of a screener and steal an escort spot from someone like Tate near the front. Tate is still in jeans—which look identical to men’s jeans in my time—but he traded his T-shirt for a gold mesh tank top clearly designed to draw attention to his chest and abs, so I don’t think he’s as confident about getting back into the building as he pretended. He said the shirt—what little there was—would give him an edge, but it’s clearly not his preferred attire, judging from the Simonesque sneer when he pulled it out of his pack.
“Tate’s part of the Cyrist gene pool, isn’t he? He looks like . . . what Simon could have looked like, if things went right. Except his nose, but that’s familiar, too, for some reason.”
“June’s the only one who knows for sure,” Kiernan says, “except maybe Saul. The nose looks like Conwell to me, except it doesn’t look quite as oversized on Thor’s face.”
“Yeah. He mentioned Patrick, but I didn’t understand it. And he asked Pru if she’d found some baby. I got the sense from what you said before that she didn’t want anything to do with motherhood.”
“With the surrogate babies, I know that was the case. But . . . maybe she felt differently about that first one. And I’d say it’s a safe bet that Tate was directly involved in that pregnancy from the way his hands were traveling all over you last night.”
The last words are clipped, his mouth firm and judgmental.
“Hey! I’m walking a very thin line here. Do you think—”
“No. I’m sorry.” He actually does sound a little apologetic. “If anything, you probably need to be a little more enthusiastic. Because Pru would be.”
“I thought you were the one Pru was interested in?”
“Convenience,” he says, with a little shake of his head. “I was there, easy access. But I wasn’t her first. Never asked who was because I was worried the answer might be Saul, and if so, that’s a scar I didn’t want to disturb, you know? But sometimes, during . . . well, I got the feeling she was imagining I was someone else. Fair enough, since I was doing the same.”
I don’t really want to meet his eyes after that, so I pull up the local point outside the club. Tate’s still in line.
“You think you can trust Tate?”
“To help us fix this? Oh, yes,” I say. “Absolutely. He doesn’t want to stay in this reality. Do you still have the tux you wore as Boudini?”
“It’s in the loft at the cabin. Why?”
“You’ll need it in order to pose as a server. Unless you’d rather be a male companion?”
“No thanks.”
An evil little part of me is dying to say he has more experience as a companion, given his time with Prudence, but I bat it down.
Five minutes later, he’s dressed in the tux. That involved me jumping back to the cabin twice because I couldn’t find his stupid shoes. The cut isn’t identical to the tuxedos I saw on the prospective workers outside, and I’m certain it’s not the same fabric, but unless someone decides to give it a thorough inspection, it’s close enough.
We walk around the pool to the row of doors on the other side. For some reason it doesn’t feel like it’s a swimming pool to me. Maybe it’s the lack of chlorine smell. Usually with an indoor pool this size the fumes are really noticeable, but I can’t really smell anything.
“So we wait in the dressing rooms?” Kiernan asks. “Do they lock?”
“They’re not exactly dressing rooms. Tate called them . . . Juvapods? And I don’t know if they lock, but I viewed ahead and we’ll be fine. A cleaning crew—automated, not human—comes through in about an hour. But they don’t clean inside the pods. Tate said they’re self-maintaining.”
“So if they have robotic cleaning crews, why not robotic servers?”
It’s a good question, and one I asked Tate earlier.
“Tate says it’s a class thing, and it’s apparently not something new to this timeline. It was the tradition here at the club since the beginning, over a hundred years ago. Anyone can be waited on by robots, and there are also robots with AI who can serve as companions, or escorts, or whatever you want to call them. But some people prefer to boss real live humans around. And from what Tate’s seen, jobs are scarce throughout the East Coast—or EC, as they call it now. It’s one big economic region, not separate states. There are plenty of people who’ll take whatever work they can find, so they’re willing to put up with a lot of crap from the patrons.”
He huffs and glances around the room. “I guess it’s not as much fun to degrade a machine.”
“Yeah.” We’re now in front of the door at the end of the row—a Juvapod Delux, based on the label. I set an observation point directly in front of it, and Kiernan does the same so we can keep watch, just in case. And that way, I’ll see when Tate is coming, too—he said around nine, but that line still isn’t moving. And there’s no guarantee he’ll get in. Once Tate picks me up, Kiernan will find a moment when he can step out unobserved and head to one of the dining halls to see what information he can uncover.
I touch the door to my pod, and it slides upward to reveal an oval-shaped interior about the size of a broom closet. It reminds me of a sarcophagus, except it’s padded with a thick layer of gelatinous-looking goop. The back wall is formed into a chair and there are two shelflike nooks carved into the walls. A slight warmth radiates outward. The walls look blue, although I think that’s the reflection from our CHRONOS keys. Only the floor looks normal . . . well, if you consider the sand-stuff under our feet normal.
“And you’re sure no one uses these?” Kiernan reaches a tentative finger toward the wall, but I pull his hand back.
“Don’t touch the inside. Tate said that’s how you activate the pod, and it’s connected to the computer system. And no, these are empty until later in the day. People take the newer models first.”
“Not sure I’d want to touch them anyway.” Kiernan drags the toe of his shoe through the faux sand beneath our feet. “It looks a bit like this crud, just wet and shiny. Like a big green mouth . . . or stomach.”
The fact that he said green rather than blue confirms my guess that the walls are just reflecting the light from the CHRONOS key. And he’s kind of right about it looking like a mouth. That ramps up my anxiety about entering the thing by several levels.
I paste on a brave grin. “Into the belly of the beast, I guess. Be careful, okay?”
Kiernan grabs my arm, a worried expression in his eyes. “You be careful, too, Kate. I’m not entirely sure I . . . like . . . you walking around with everyone assuming you’re for hire. It sounds . . . risky.”
His voice is hesitant, as well it should be. I’m so close to saying I don’t really care what he likes. His attitude over the past few days is beyond baffling. I never know if I’m going to get the worried friend-who’d-like-to-be-more or the aggressively indifferent co
lleague. His mood swings are worse than Katherine’s.
But I bite my tongue.
“I’ll be with Tate. If anyone questions us, he’ll say I’m part of a . . . package request. From Campbell. And you’ve seen Tate. I don’t think anyone would dare approach me if he’s nearby.”
Kiernan looks like he’s going to say something else, but I push his hand off my arm. The door slides between us, and I flip the latch to secure it.
To be honest, I think my bigger challenge may be keeping Tate’s hands to himself. His relationship with Prudence was most definitely not platonic, and he wasn’t happy when I rebuffed some of his more fervent advances earlier. The multitude of stable points in the old couple’s bedroom—which used to be Tate’s bedroom—make a lot more sense now. Pru was watching him. Was she spying on him? Or maybe it’s just her version of having Tate’s picture on her phone?
And then Woodhull snatched her key with this set of stable points, severing her link to Tate and essentially ending whatever plans they were making to fix the mess she’d helped Saul create. Assuming that Prudence ever really planned to fix anything. Tate clearly believes she intended to restore a future that included CHRONOS, but would she have done that if it entirely erased the Cyrists? And where does this mystery kid he mentioned fit into the picture?
I sit cross-legged on the floor, being careful to avoid the sides, and jump forward a few hours to 9 a.m. No point sitting here in this hot box any longer than necessary. A quick check of the observation point outside my pod shows a number of people in various stages of undress swimming, “sunning,” and chatting with friends. The stable point outside shows Tate, waiting in the line that hasn’t budged. Maybe the alarm going off last night means tighter security?
And even though I try really hard to resist the urge, I check on Trey at the hotel, and Dad and Connor back at Katherine’s.
All still safe.
After fifteen minutes inside the Juvapod, the goop isn’t the only thing sweating. It’s wicked hot. No wonder Tate smelled like week-old gym clothes when he greeted me last night. I feel like I’m going to melt. A bead of sweat trickles down the side of my nose, tickling my nostril. I reach up to flick it away, but before I can, it triggers a sneeze.
And instantly, the pod springs to life. The walls glow a bright, sterile white that’s almost painful to the eyes. “Welcome, guest! I’m Alisa. Please survey the treatment menu while I pull your account information.” The voice has a bubbly, too-cheerful quality, like the actress who played Glinda in Wicked.
A holographic “Treatment Menu” pops up in front of me. Choices include Vitamin Infusion, Skin Resurfacing, Stress Reduction, Weight Mitigation, Eye Correction, Hair Restoration, Hair Coloring, and maybe a dozen others. A few seem to be trademarked, because I haven’t the slightest clue what the words mean. The ones that puzzle me most are Aerobic Conditioning and Muscle Tone. Does the goop just reach out and whip you into shape?
The chipper voice is back. “I’m sorry. I can’t locate your client record. Now scanning DNA for family membership.”
DNA? I didn’t touch the walls. Other than the latch on the door, I haven’t touched anything. How did I manage to activate this thing, let alone give it DNA?
Oh.
The drop of sweat.
The sneeze.
Damn, damn, damn.
The discovery that someone with DNA not in the system is in one of their Juvapods is bound to trigger an alarm of some sort, so I need to hide somewhere else until Tate arrives.
I search the menu for a cancel button. No luck—just the menu items and a line at the bottom, Powered by ALISA. So I shove upward on the door. It’s also lined with the goo, which actually isn’t wet to the touch, just warm and pliant like bread dough.
“The door must remain locked until treatment cycle is complete.”
I shove again.
“I said, door must remain locked until tre—” The voice halts abruptly, and then continues in a less annoyed tone, “Client DNA linked with a sixty-one percent probability to account Rand02. If this is correct, please state your name and disrobe for treatment.”
I freeze, and for a moment, I can’t even breathe. Tate said that this section of the complex is new. It didn’t exist in his time, so I don’t think Prudence could have had an account.
Then the voice says, “Please state your name to begin new client record.”
I’m pretty sure I’m screwed no matter what I do, and I need information. “Prudence K. Rand. Account information, please.”
“Welcome, Prudence! I am Alisa, and I will be your host today. Please disrobe for your treatment while I process the file.”
I wait a few seconds and then repeat, “Account information, please.”
“I’m processing that request. Please wait.”
It may be my imagination, but I’d swear Alisa’s voice has taken on a decidedly snarky tone.
I wait silently, and when Alisa speaks again, her usual chirpy tone is back. “Account information Rand02. Active and in good standing.”
“Thank you, Alisa. Please list members included in account.”
A list pops up in place of the menu. “Account Rand02 has four primary members. Arturo Rand, Leamon Rand, Eryssa Rand, Saul Rand.”
Saul? If CHRONOS never existed, then Saul couldn’t either. But . . . his family could still exist. And maybe even someone named Saul? In fact, I’m pretty sure my grandfather would try to ensure that some version of himself not only continued but prospered in this brave new Cyrist-designed world.
“Account Rand02 also has nine affiliated members.” The voice proceeds to reel off names in rapid succession. Most of the guest names appear to be female. The last one is the name I just gave her, Prudence K. Rand.
I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. It’s not just that this could complicate matters. I suspect that it will, but leaving that aside, the fact that the system connected me to the Rand family at all is a blunt reminder that I inherited more than just the CHRONOS gene. I shake my head to clear it of the image of Saul standing near the altar at the Six Bridges chapel, blissfully surveying the rows of bodies before him.
“Please disrobe and select a treatment. Do you need assistance reading the menu?”
“No,” I say, matching her snide tone. “I can read.”
“Do you need assistance disrobing?”
“No! Account history, please.”
“I don’t understand. Please restate your request.”
I think for a moment and then just spit out exactly what I want to know. “Are other members of account Rand02 in the club today?”
“Yes.”
I wait, but apparently Alisa wasn’t programmed to be forthcoming, so I prod again. “Locate members of account Rand02.”
“Arturo Rand and Saul Rand are in the Redwing Dining Hall. Eryssa Rand has a treatment scheduled for sixteen hundred hours in Juvapod unit seven. Please disrobe and select a treatment. Other clients are waiting.”
Well, that’s a lie. Other clients may be waiting for the Juvapod Ultra Mega Supreme or whatever the spiffy newer model is called, but no one is waiting for this one. The observation point outside the pod is clear, except for a middle-aged man diving into the pool.
I wait until the diver hits the water and say, “Cancel treatment.”
The door slides up, and I step out. Once I’m in the observation point outside Kiernan’s pod, I wave and mouth the word open.
He does, and I’m surprised to see he’s bare-chested, holding the shirt and jacket in his hand. I guess his pod was as hot as mine.
“Sorry. Tate’s not here, so you need to stay put. My pod was triggered when I sneezed.”
Kiernan gives me an exasperated look.
“I couldn’t stop a sneeze, okay? Anyway, the system linked my DNA to an active account—one that includes a member named Saul Rand. It’s probably not the same person . . . not exactly. But I didn’t want you to be caught unaware. He and some other Rand, maybe his dad or grandfathe
r, are in Redwing Dining Hall.”
“Do you know where that is?”
“No. That didn’t seem like a question to ask the Juvapod answer . . . person. Or bot, or whatever. Just avoid the room if you can. And close the door. Tate could be here any second.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Avoid it? I’m looking for it!”
“Why?”
“Because I’m guessing someone with the last name Rand will have a better idea than anyone as to where we’ll find those bloody keys!”
∞18∞
OBJECTIVIST CLUB
WASHINGTON, EC
October 15, 2308, 10:12 a.m.
The door to Kiernan’s pod glides shut, and I stare at it, more than a little stunned at my own stupidity.
Okay, in my defense, steering clear of anything related to Saul Rand is very logical from a self-preservation standpoint. But Kiernan is right. Following Saul, even this alternate version of Saul who—as far as we know—hasn’t killed anyone, seems more likely to lead us to the keys than blindly poking around the building in search of a CHRONOS field.
I take a step toward my pod, thinking it might be best to go back inside for a few minutes, even if it means another chat with Alisa. But Tate rounds the corner and motions for me to join him.
“Saul is here,” I say in a soft voice when I reach him. “Or at least someone with his name is here. In one of the dining halls. Did you know that?”
Tate shrugs. “Yeah. He’s a resident. One of the older Rands lives here, too. I haven’t seen either of them. Campbell calls him Pseudo-Saul. Doesn’t look or act like him. His family tree would be different, since the Culling probably wiped out so many people. He probably made provisions to preserve that line and for there to be someone here with his name. But over that many generations, there was bound to be some slippage. And this Saul didn’t get the specific genetic boosts from CHRONOS. He probably got a half-dozen black-market boosts, given how much his family is worth . . . but I guess those aren’t black market now. Anyway, you won’t recognize him.”