by Lyn Forester
The top of my desk flickers and lights up with a request for a passcode. My mind blanks. What passcode would Father have assigned me? Or would Nikola have set this up, too? Do I need his assistance to use my personal computer?
The message flashes at me with impatience. Hesitantly, I type in my passcode from the desk-port I left behind in my old room. The desktop flashes green, and my heart soars as the built-in monitor displays my old interface, complete with neatly organized files. Past recording of disc-bike races and research on how to build my own converter coils wait, just where I left them.
Not everything of my old life went into the incinerator.
My fingers itch to dig through the files, to fall back into the one familiar point of contact in the upheaval of my life. But, the flashing red circle in the upper right corner reminds me of my original purpose.
With another quick peek over my shoulder, I select the icon. A folder with two files inside opens. The first one I select pops up with a headshot of a sandy-haired young man, his vibrant blue eyes intense as he stares back at me from the desktop. His name and age show beneath the holo-image. Garrett Latven, twenty-one.
Older than Nikola by a year, and my senior by three. I study the image once more. His square jawline and broad shoulders hint at his familial connection to Grandmother’s secretary. We would form a stunning pair, his golden hues combining with my vibrant red hair to mimic the dual suns.
I scroll farther down the document, skimming over his list of academic excellence, the rewards earned in sportsmanship. His interests lean toward music, literature, and gardening. Not a lot we share in common. I can see why Grandmother favors him, though. She spends most of her leisure time in the south parlor where the holo-ceiling is always set to sunny and padded benches provide the perfect place to rest beside carefully maintained herbs in decorative pots.
Closing his document, I open the next one.
A young woman fills the screen. Serious, wide set, brown eyes stare up at me, her wavy brown hair left loose to flow around her shoulders. A pointed chin and high cheekbones give her face a heart-shaped, elfin appearance. When I check her height, though, I discover she tops me by a good five inches. She would offset my smaller frame, making me appear all the more delicate in comparison.
I read the label beneath her holo-image. Erinhale Reed, age twenty-two. Her grades match Garrett’s in skill, and her family history includes positions within the Spencer House, the family who’s held the third council seat of Level 12 for five generations.
When I scroll through her interests, the robotics studies catch my eye. I scroll back up to her classes and spot a list of electrical engineering classes she took as electives. Then, her past dalliances draw my attention. Only four, but all women.
A hard ball forms in my stomach. So, she’s acceptable because she also aligns with how Lonette House chooses their secretaries, to fulfill every need of their Councillor. Not every house follows the same practice. Some fill the spot with family, assuming the bond of blood creates a stronger pact than any contract. Those houses allow their Councillors a concubine.
But Lonette House likes to tie everything up into neat little packages, minimal fuss for maximum result.
If I planned to stay, I would fight more to change the practice. My intention to run makes things easier, though. I simply need to continue putting off the decision until after I turn twenty. Then, I can slip away, and Lonette House can engineer themselves a new puppet to fill my place.
PLAY THE PART
Not for the first time over the last two hours, I stifle a yawn. Agriculture discussions, in practice, interest me even less than they did in my Environmental Quality Demands class at APA. After only a day, my life in the glass bubble on Level 13 feels more like a dream, the rigid strictures of Lonette Manor settling back over me like a second skin, tight and claustrophobic, but all too familiar.
My head pounds, the headache brought on by the tight coif Nikola yanked my hair into to keep it off my neck. Thousands of tiny pins stab against my skull and make it nearly impossible to focus on the presentation.
Who cares about apples? Did Father really believe this was a meeting worthy of his time? Am I missing something here that’s important?
I try not to shift too often in my seat, thankful for the cushion that offers some respite from its hard surface. The presenters who wait off to the right were offered no such comfort, their chairs made from clear, rigid plastic.
The room they reserved in the Level 11 Convention Center holds a table designed to sit twenty with a refreshment table at the back and room at the front for the presentation. Large enough to not feel claustrophobic, but small enough to make the mingling perfumes of my fellow guests cloying. Beneath the musks and citruses comes the faint hint of food that waits at the back for our first break, and an astringent cleaner used to wipe down the room before our meeting.
“Every time he looks down and to the right, he’s lying.” Nikola’s quiet voice fills my ear through a tiny microphone hidden behind it, bringing me back to alertness. “People will look to the left for memory about sensations. He’s lying about the beautiful aroma of this new produce.”
Nikola’s quiet observations throughout the night have at least been informative. I wish I had a notebook to write them all down.
Around the large table, the ten other attendees face the front, their expressions ranging from avid interest to extreme boredom. It’s an odd mix of demi-Councillors, retired Councillors, and natural resource representatives. Five empty chairs reveal an expectation of more guests had the upheaval of Black Corporation not pulled them away.
Closed folders sit on the table in front of each seat, documentation designed to be handed off to those with more authority. Secretaries stand against the walls, three paces back from our seats as they wait to be of use.
The presenter, a tall, narrow-shouldered man, draws my attention as he gestures to holo-charts displayed on the wall behind him. A holo-projection displays a graph from a blind taste test that shows a drastic preference for the new sapphire apple over the current strain of apple. “Our goal is to revolutionize the apple industry with a produce that can go from flower to edible fruit in only one week. Not only that, but our new fruit will also provide an entire sensory delight which goes beyond simple nutrition.”
My gaze drifts once more to the empty seats. Felix might have enjoyed this meeting. His passion for food would fit in well here. I hoped to see him, Connor, or Declan here and can’t help the disappointment that fills me at their absence. Being able to see them every day at school spoiled me. I’ve allowed myself to become too reliant on their presence, to the point that their absence forms a hollow ache in my chest after only a day.
A perfectly round, blue fruit appears over the center of the table, startling me out of my thoughts as it rotates in mid-air for everyone to admire its unusual size and color. “As you can see, this new apple is simply stunning. It’s twice the size of the current emerald apple, which means high juice output. Agex Aromatics is already seeking patents on its delightful fragrance.” As if on cue, the representative’s gaze drops to the right. Now that Nikola pointed out the tell, I can’t help but count the number of times his gaze shifted throughout the last two hours.
He clicks to the next image, this one of a cartoon happy face. “We’ve also opened discussions with HappyUs for an exclusive line of Apple-Flavored GoGoNow energy drinks to be made available only on Level 11 and above for now.”
Down the table, a languid hand lifts, cutting off the presenter. Demi-Councillor Richards, heir to the sixth council seat, drawls, “Agriculturalist Trebble, if your new apple is so superior, why are you seeking to take over sections of growth at the Rim that currently provide substantial rice output for the lower levels? Why not simply replace the current apple fields?”
I keep the smile off my face. It sounds like a question Myrrine would ask in class. Around the room, the more enthusiastic attendees nod in agreement.
Ni
kola’s voice once more fills my ear. “He’s about to lie again. Notice the way he’s stopped fidgeting. He’s uncomfortable with the question and taking the offensive.”
Trebble folds his hands at his waist. Throughout his presentation, he stayed in constant motion, his hands fluttering between the graphs and images. Now, his sudden stillness looks unnatural.
“A valid question, demi-Councillor Richards.” He bows his head in respect, the motion made stiff by ridged muscles. “While the sapphire apple is superior in every way, it also needs more sunlight, which is why we are asking for the land allotment.”
Demi-Councillor Richards’ hand lifts once more. “Then why not suggest a simple parcel swap? Would that not make more sense for the Agriculturalists than to take over a much-needed resource for what amounts to a vanity fruit?”
Trebble’s gaze darts to his left where other members of his team sit. An older man rises from his clear plastic chair, straightening the cuff on his jacket as he steps forward. His clothes shimmer slightly under the overhead lights, the material displaying a depth of wealth that few in the food industry can obtain.
The older man smiles as he glances around the room, his body at ease among the representatives of the ruling class. “It’s time for our first break after which we will return to answer further questions. Please enjoy a sampling of this season’s first harvest.”
He waves to the servers at the back of the room, who stand at the ready behind a long table laden with silver hooded trays.
Nikola appears at my elbow, hand on the back of my chair to pull it out as I rise. Standing proves difficult in the outfit I let him buckle me into earlier. My waist aches with the release of pressure from the tightly cinched belt, the thick band of leather digging in just below my ribs as I sat. Doubt fills me that I’ll be able to force any food past the torture device. I don’t care that it gives me an hourglass figure; I want it gone.
Nikola’s fingertips touch my elbow, a mere brush of nail against my tight sleeves, and I force myself not to lean on him for support. I can’t be seen struggling, no matter how much I may need the assistance. He smiles and nods as he escorts me toward the table at the back.
His voice fills my ear, so quiet I wouldn’t hear him without the microphone. “How are you doing? You look pale.”
We pause to let the Patriarch of House Vanderby go ahead of us as I murmur, “Just a slight headache.”
The Patriarch nods his thanks as he limps past, his hand tight on the silver tip of his cane. Only after retirement from a council seat did it become acceptable to show weakness. When we arrived and Nikola whispered the names of the other guests to me, I was surprised to hear his position. Why wouldn’t they have sent Archie, our student representative and current demi-Councillor of the eleventh house, in his place? Even his familiar face would have been welcome at this point.
We join the line at the table, and Nikola’s face remains pleasantly neutral, though concern fills his voice. “Do I need to make an excuse for us to leave?”
The urge to accept wars against family obligation. No decisions will be made today, and my say in the matter will mean little to Father. But if I leave early, it will reflect badly on our house.
Resolve steels my spine. I must act the part and not give my family a reason to question my resolve. “I’m fine, but thank you.”
Nikola remains silent, but approval radiates from him. Leaving would have looked bad for him, as well. My actions reflect on his abilities and vice versa. It’s a delicate dance within our society, one I’m ill-suited for.
We reach the front of the line, and Nikola takes a gold edged plate, his arm at a perfect, ninety-degree angle. The line at the table moves quickly, the servers efficient as we walk down the line, and I accept or reject the offerings. Slices of fruit slide onto the plate in Nikola’s hand, along with small pastries filled with jelly. Meat and protein cubes are left behind.
At the end, jars of water form pyramids, and Nikola selects one marked triple purified. We return to the table, and Nikola sets my plate down, assists me back into my seat, then returns to his place at the wall. It rankles that the secretaries aren’t provided food as well or seats to ease the burden of long meetings.
We eat in silence, without even the click of fork against plate to break the oppressive atmosphere. At other gatherings, socializing with my neighbors would be required, but not here, for which I’m grateful. I lack the desire to discuss the meeting thus far.
After the servants clear our plates, Agriculturalist Trebble steps once more to the front of the room. Before he can start, though, the doors at the back swing open. Along with everyone else in the room, I twist in my seat at the disturbance.
A broad-shouldered man strides into the room. His wavy brown hair, brushed back from his face, leaves his square jawline and straight nose on display. Cold, pale-brown eyes sweep over the room from beneath up-tilted eyebrows.
A sense of familiarity rushes through me, and it comes as no surprise when Trebble says, “Councillor Arrington, I’m so glad you could make it.”
My pulse trips with excitement as I focus past him on the taller man at his back. Declan wears the suit far better than his older brother, despite the lower grade of material. My legs tremble with the need to rise and go to him, to demand to know why he’s been silent for the last twenty-four hours. But social protocols keep me rooted to my seat. Even if we weren’t in the middle of a meeting, a demi-Councillor doesn’t speak to another Councillor’s secretary.
Instead, I try to catch his eye as they sweep across the room, and Councillor Arrington takes one of the empty seats across from me. Declan performs his duty flawlessly before he steps back to take a position against the wall.
Councillor Arrington pushes the informative packet off to one side before motioning to Agriculturalist Trebble. “I am aware of where the meeting currently rests. Demi-Councillor Richards is still awaiting an answer to his question, yes?”
“Yes, of course,” Trebble stammers, but his voice sounds far away, drowned out by the rush of blood through my ears.
My focus remains on Declan as I wait for the moment he’ll glance at me, for the warm flare of affection in his whiskey-colored eyes. I crave it more than my next breath, the acknowledgment that the last month wasn’t a dream. Instead, he stares straight ahead, his face a stony mask of indifference.
Nikola’s voice brings me back to reality, a quiet reprimand in my ear. “Caitlyn, I know he’s one of your classmates, but please try to contain yourself.”
I haven’t moved a muscle, but shame floods through me, and my cheeks prickle with heat. My eyes close for a moment as I reorient myself. This is the part we play, I remind myself. It’s all pretend. We’ll not be assimilated.
But when I open my eyes once more, I find Declan still in my line of sight. With his squared shoulders, stiff spine, and expressionless face, he fits the role of robot all too well.
SMALL DREAMS
I slide gratefully into the back seat of the sedan, dragging my tired legs inside so Nikola can shut the door. Five hours is too much time spent on a discussion about apples. I’m sure Councillor Arrington’s arrival dragged the meeting out longer than it needed to go, as the Agriculture committee latched onto the possibility of pitching their plan to someone who had actual sway in the final decision.
During our second break, I tried to catch Declan’s eye once more, but he stayed close to his brother. While he nodded to the other secretaries, he never once acknowledged my existence. In my mind, I knew he acted within the guidelines of his duties, but the dismissal stung.
My entire body aches, the torture belt like hard steel digging into the tender flesh beneath my ribs. The headache pounds against my temples, and my fingers twitch with the need to rip the pins from my hair to give my scalp some relief.
The back passenger door opens, and Nikola folds his lanky body into the space beside me. I can’t even imagine how he feels right now after being forced to stand all that time. He shows n
o sign of fatigue, though, as he instructs the chauffeur to take us back to Lonette Manor.
A gentle vibration moves through the car as it lifts, and the propulsion system silently glides it away from the curb. The drive from Central Plaza, where the Convention Center resides, to the vehicle lifts, should only take us six minutes at this time of night. I cross my fingers that we don’t run into traffic at the Rim.
Every city stack has the same structure; thirteen cities, designed as circles, stacked one on top of the other. Central Plaza hosts most of the public offices, as well as the Halls of Justice, while the Rim, the outer-most part of the disks, utilize the exposure to real sunlight to grow the food distributed throughout the city. The Rim also holds the only lifts large enough to shift vehicles between city levels.
I argued to use the portals instead. The curved structures are crafted through the combined scientific efforts of halion clans, Riello and Rothven. As if by magic, they transport a person from one location to the next in a matter of seconds. But while the general public utilizes the portals every day, their one in thirty million chance of malfunctioning makes them too risky for the ruling class. I’d take the risk to get out of these clothes and into a hot bath faster.
I lean my head back against the seat, then flinch forward in the next instant as hard needles stab into my scalp.
Nikola’s hand lifts to a panel of buttons on his door, and a solid barricade rises between the chauffeur and us. When he turns to me, he gives a tired smile. “You did well today. Your father would be proud.”