Two
What appeared to be the same green dot hovered before me in a vast nothing, like a single jade-colored star in a night sky. I wasn't sure if just a few seconds, hours, or days had elapsed, but I felt I might be in a different place. Concentrating on the green point of light, I felt it was me or was just like me—a tiny entity in the middle of nothing. I wanted to reach out to it and comfort it, if such a thing were possible.
Then another green pinpoint of light emerged and gradually became as intense as the first. I felt glad because the first star wasn't alone. It had a companion.
Then a third dot appeared, and I hated it. I didn't want it to interfere. But soon more dots bloomed from the darkness. Clumps appeared, then dozens, and finally hundreds filled in. The first two were lost in an emerald cloud that looked like the vapors of a nebula. The cloud became opaque and filled my vision from top to bottom, left to right.
Without warning, slashes of yellow and gold cut the cloud to shreds. Molten masses of bloody reds and petroleum blacks bubbled up. The brutality and vividness frightened me, and from whatever state of sleep or dream I had been, my consciousness rose a level.
The mass of glowing dots was actually a huge screen hovering inches above my nose. From the black a lavender froth emerged and then hundreds of orange abscesses erupted like a disease.
"No," I said, squinting into the blinding light, "stop!"
Grape vortexes swallowed up the orange and vomited acid greens.
"Relax, Mr. Rivers," said an amplified voice.
"Get this thing away of me!" I said. My fingers touched cold metal as I tried to push the screen away, but couldn't budge it.
"Quiet please. And do not touch the equipment."
"Where am I? Where's Nora?" The greens mutated into a brittle red, like a giant scab. I slapped the screen and the pain in my hand jarred me further awake.
This was color therapy! Father ranted about how wonderful it was. I was in some sort of a hospital or spa—which explained the medicinal and alcohol tinge in the air—being exposed to the glaring horrors of photochromism. Then I fully woke, and as if remembering who I was, closed my right eye. The atrocious hues became a thousand soothing shades of grey.
"Mr. Rivers," said the voice, "open both eyes. The therapy will be more effective! Mr. Rivers do as you're told. Open your right eye, please."
The giant screen slowly faded to black and pulled away. I relaxed. At least I didn't feel like it was suffocating me.
Footsteps approached. A bald man in a long emerald coat appeared beside me. I could see thick black hair in his nostrils. Leaning down, he peered into my right eye with a lit device. "Tsk!" he said, as if admonishing me. "Burning the cones is illegal."
Only those few who are fully committed to grey have the procedure. Last year, without my father's knowledge, I found a neuro-ophthalmologist in Saru Pauro who performed the delicate operation. While I lay sedated, a microscopic sodium laser destroyed all the cones in my right retina. When I healed and the bandages were removed, my right eye, with only its rods intact, perceived nothing but the creamiest black, white, and grey.
I told the man with the hairy nose, "I want out of here." Instead of answering, he examined my left hand with another device. "Where's Nora?" I asked. "Is she all right? What happened?"
"All I know," he said, still peering through his contraption, "is that the bullets were also illegal. Curiously, they released drugs that healed the wounds they caused." He eyed me angrily, as if all of these infractions were my fault.
As he moved to my feet and examined them, I sat up and saw that I was naked except for a green cloth with some complicated orange and gold logo that covered my crotch. "Where am I?" I demanded. "Where are my clothes?"
Touching his ear, he seemed to listen to something. "Someone is here to see you." With that he headed across a yellow floor so polished it looked like he was walking on his upside-down twin. The room was round and the walls were covered with enormous photos of people who looked like they were in terrible pain. He exited through a door covered with the face of a woman whose mouth was wide open and had blood splattered over her forehead and cheeks.
"Can you bring my clothes?" He disappeared through the bloody woman's face without acknowledging me. "Hello? My clothes please!" Shouting drained me. I felt dizzy and flopped back. I would rest for a moment, I told myself, then get up, and find my way out of here.
The door opened. I expected the man with my clothes, but Joelene and her upside-down yellow twin came in. Both wore long dark coats, high-necked shirts, and held bundles under their right arms. Her change of clothes made me wonder how long I had been here. I was going to ask, but when she came to the side of my bed, I saw tears in her eyes.
"You look good," she said, suppressing a sob. "I have your clothes."
Joelene had never cried before. She had always been strong and efficient. As she laid out a slim, silk-goat wool charcoal suit, a pressed, white cotton shirt, black briefs and socks, and a new pair of shoes, I asked, "What's the matter?"
She shook her head. "I'm sorry to see you like this." Her violet eyes met mine, and then she glanced down at her hands. "I'm very sorry."
"Thank you," I said, touched. "Is Nora okay?"
"Everyone is fine." She straightened the collar of the jacket. "Healthwise." Running a finger over the fabric, she added, "Isé–B ironed this for you." Isé–B was my favorite competitive ironer. The shirt was beautifully done, and while I could see his trademark creases, I felt she was avoiding something.
"Healthwise?" I asked, worried that there was something else.
She shook her head quickly, and said, "Last night millions of girls held a candlelight vigil. They're drawing pink dots on their hands and feet." Her smile lasted for an instant and then a melancholy returned. I could see circles beneath her eyes, and her cheeks paled. However long I had been here, she had probably been awake, gathering information, answering questions, and figuring out what to do. "You and RiverGroup are the only news on the channels."
"But what happened?"
"It was a breach."
Every six months or so a bomb exploded in a distant hospital, a little-known ceo was kidnapped, or an illegal blimp was shot down in Europa-9. But breaches rarely happened to the strongest families, and they never happened to RiverGroup. We were the ones who established all identities and kept track of all the information. I said, "That can't be."
"The gunman . . . " she began, her finger still traveling back and forth on the collar of the shirt, "was . . . a . . . freeboot."
Freeboots had been the worst outlaws. They were people—if you could call them that—who didn't have identities, names, families, numbers, papers, or anything. When I was a boy, new stories of them popping up in boardrooms and bedrooms circulated weekly. "But aren't they all gone now?"
"Despite the official declarations," she said, "they exist. I doubt there are more than a hundred, but it's impossible to tell. They live off the system, completely beyond the laws. Forty years ago, though, they helped defeat the Pharmaceutical Warlords and allowed the families to take control of the cities. At that time they were admired. They were the artisans of anarchy." She stopped fiddling with my shirt, straightened, and faced me. "The slubbers and the warlords are the official enemy, but the freeboots are worst. And from all the information I've been able to gather, I believe your shooting was an act of retaliation."
"What did I do?"
"I don't think it was about you in particular—although RiverGroup's role in security and identity is fundamental to the families—you were just a high-level target in retribution for a series of fierce attacks on the freeboots last year." She exhaled and her eyes fell again. "I am sorry."
"Well," I said, not quite sure what all of this meant besides a huge nuisance, "what happened to the freeboot?"
"At first, the reports were that the freeboot was killed by family satins, but now it seems he escaped."
"How?"
She shook her hea
d. "They're very elusive. And no one was prepared."
Whipping a hand around the room—the awful images and the now black therapy screen, I said, "I want out of here. I want to see Nora."
She didn't move.
I waited several seconds for her to speak then began to panic. "She wasn't shot was she? Please don't tell me that!"
"No! She's fine. She's perfectly fine . . . " Her voice trailed off. Joelene was not usually this reticent.
"Is there something bad?"
She took a breath, looked me in the eyes, and said, "The marriage is off."
My marriage to Nora was to signify the merger between RiverGroup and her family's company, mkg. Father had invented the scheme a couple of months ago. Although RiverGroup was still number one, we were losing customers because we hadn't introduced anything new in years and our market share had slipped to just below fifty percent. Our biggest rival, mkg, had an innovative approach, and Father's idea was that together, RiverGroup and mkg would dominate the market. As for me: I didn't care for business, or code, or promotions, or money, or any of it. And in the beginning, I didn't want anything to do with his marriage-merger scheme, but when Joelene and I began to research Nora, I couldn't believe how intelligent, beautiful, and serene she was. And then we met and I learned that she was colorless, that she was the epicenter of grey, that she was my conclusion. "Well," I said, saddened, but not devastated, "that's not good, but when can I see her?"
"The marriage-merger is off," she repeated.
"I heard you! I just want to see her as soon as I can."
She spoke slowly, as if reluctant. "You cannot."
"I have to see her!" I laughed because I was so unused to Joelene not understanding. "Marriage or not. Nora and I are one. You saw what she did with her hand. We're grey. We're perfect together!"
"Let's get you dressed," she said, with a sigh. "We're going to meet your father back at the company compound."
"I demand to see her immediately!"
"The merger is off!" She spoke louder than she ever had before. An instant later, I thought she was going to cry again. "Sorry," she said, dabbing her eyes, "I didn't mean to raise my voice. It's just very difficult. And please understand that we won't be able to monitor her on the channels, send messages, or communicate in any way. Her family's company is now RiverGroup's enemy."
When what she said sunk in, I felt like I might weep. I had survived the bullets, only to find my world ruined. An old photoS7 from Pure H came to mind. It was of a man suspended in a vat of clear balls and his whole body was held in place and dimpled like a giant golf ball.
"I'm very sorry, Michael," she said, softly. She started to reach toward my foot, as if to stroke it, but then pulled back, probably because I was still undressed. "Listen," she continued, "after such a devastating security breach, mkg can't merge with us. It would be a public relations disaster. Frankly, RiverGroup is in great trouble. The company's stock has fallen from 63,000 a share to less than 300. We're teetering on collapse." After pursing her lips, she added, "As for mkg, there is no communication between the two family companies. Nora's father, Mr. Gonzalez-Matsu, held a press conference just minutes ago and announced their new direction."
I met Nora's father for a few seconds before our train-date. He was like my father—one of those loud, old-fashioned men who was almost impossible to embarrass, obsessed with volume, speed, money, and the culmination of everything bright, garish, and vulgar. He wore a glowing violet suit, a shirt that blinked green and gold, and large, gold, oil-burning earrings that left smoke contrails when he moved.
"He did this!" I said, sure. "Before we got on the Bee Train, I bowed my head to him, but he just glared back like he hates me. He had the freeboot shoot me!"
"I don't see it," she said, shaking her head. "There must be a weakness in RiverGroup security code. After all, it is supposed to track and monitor information that should have prevented this very thing."
Slapping a hand onto the bed, I said, "I just want Nora."
Joelene lifted my legs and spun me on my butt like a mother maneuvering a baby. Picking up the black underwear, she said, "Your tailor has improved the cloth's temperature control system." Joelene slipped my underwear over my left foot and then the right.
"No, it can't be," I said, imagining Nora floating away.
"It can change from indoor temperatures to outdoor heat in one point three seconds," she continued. "That's a third of last year's model, and for the wearer, it means complete comfort." She sounded like a brochure. Respectfully turning her head, she pulled up the shorts and simultaneously flicked the color spa's green logo-cloth away. "He's also improved the wrinkle control."
"I want to see Nora!" I said, as if mounting one last attack. "I want to be with her, Joelene, I have to see her now!"
She glanced toward the system camera in the far corner of the room. "We're going to survive," she said, soothingly. "Things will work out, Michael. I promise."
Although I didn't know how things could work without Nora, I trusted Joelene. She was the reason I was in a position to meet Nora and understand her significance and brilliance. Until my heart attack when I was fourteen, I was barely a person, let alone a fashionable and grey one. Until then, I danced at the PartyHaus every night before the cameras and what were said to be ten billion fans. Then, on one particular Saturday night, while performing my famous routine, I died.
Wearing gold leaf pants and a hunter green, sheer shirt with gold epithets and ice buttons, I rode an elevator to the center of the polished dance floor. When a spotlight hit me, I began by slowly raising my hands and face to the burning light.
As the massive crowd cheered, the dj transitioned to my anthem, Adjoining Tissue, by HammørHêds. During the intro, I rolled my arms, legs, and head like I was a bit of seaweed undulating in a gentle current. It was a tease and the tens of thousands of partiers on the fifteen balconies of the PartyHaus knew it. They screamed my name as if they couldn't wait. Finally, when the cannon drums started firing, I began.
Back then I had a choreographer, two wardrobe consultants, several hair and makeup stylists, and a team of strength and agility trainers. Because of the forces from the massive, fifty-foot Cold-Flame speakers on the dance floor, the untrained were regularly knocked unconscious, maimed, and even killed by the percussive blasts. I had mastered the beats like a karate-surfer riding tsunami waves.
In my routine, I did splits, hand-twirls, punch backs, double-triples, and my own triple and a half front. Before Adjoining Tissue finished, the dj started transitioning into Kuts by Dr. Ooooo. The fx for this part of the routine called for a shower of razors, like deadly snowflakes from far above, and as I deftly avoided them both in the air and on the floor, a few other brave partiers began to join me.
One, a young woman known as Elinor W, wore a brilliant blue costume that covered her from head to toe except for cutouts for her eyes, chest, and crotch. I remember how she got into her groove, then looked up to smile at me. In that split second, she lost her concentration, and like an ax cleaving a block of wood, a razor sliced into her left eye. She screamed and fell as more razors lodged into her legs and body. I continued my program while paramedics dragged her away.
When I think of myself back then, especially, how I didn't even slow my routine for an instant, let alone stop to help, I can see how hollow and unhappy I was—a boy who was very good at one thing, but derived no pleasure from it. Worse, down deep I think I despised the world that adored me, as I was little more than a marionette in Father's marketing schemes.
But soon after Elinor W was taken away, something happened. What I like to think is that the guilt and self-hate built up so much in my chest that my heart began to seize. In the middle of Engraved Blööd by The Bürning Spines, the ice buttons had melted and my shirt hung open, revealing my puffed chest. Admiring dancers surrounded me like worker bees. Each time a drop of sweat flew from my forehead or torso, they dropped to the floor, and shoved and pushed for the chance to lick it
up.
The first sensation of my heart attack was in my jaw. A strange, cool numbness made my teeth buzz, but I ignored it and figured it was the strength drugs or some odd harmonic from the speakers. But gradually, the coldness traveled into my eyes and brain like a slow, thick liquid. Then the chill traveled into my arms and legs and turned dark and leaden. I slowed, lost my rhythm, and one of the beats slammed into me hard. I tried to regain my groove, but was knocked back and forth like a pinball. As I lost consciousness, the colored lights high above grew so bright they seemed to shine through my skin and into my emptiness.
They say the crowd rose to their feet and screamed in adulation, until they realized that toppling over backward and slamming my skull on the floor wasn't my newest move.
Grey Page 2