Grey

by Jon Armstrong

  Then the room was silent. I wanted to peek, as if to confirm that she was there—that I hadn't dreamed it, when I heard footsteps.

  "Michael," she said, softly, "your father is coming."

  Turning over, I saw that Joelene's eyes were puffy, and her cheeks were white. She had been up all night—talking to whom I didn't know. I asked, "What's going on?"

  "I suspect he wants us to help plan the wedding."

  It took me a moment to remember the product show and Elle. Pulling the chenille up over my face, I said, "Tell Father I died of head lice."

  She sighed deeply and with obvious irritation. "They're here already!"

  Sitting up, I saw the estimator clock count down . . . three . . . two . . . The front door was unlocked from the outside and Father and Xavid came in. Father wore a blue feather boa over a jacket so yellow it made my mouth pucker.

  "We solved your shooting!" he announced. "Last night, our engineers found a worm in the code. I don't have to tell you how super-hideous and awful that is. Anyway that worm was responsible for the freeboot breach where you got shot."

  The gold-visor-wearing orange satin stepped in carrying a naked man. Stooping, the satin then plopped him onto the middle of the floor. Dark purple and green bruises colored the man's arms, legs, and chest. A line of blood ran from one of his ears. In his mouth was a wad of blue cloth. I covered my chest with my blanket.

  Pointing a finger at the man, Father declared, "This is the bastard who put the worm in our code and wanted you dead."

  He writhed against the wires that tied his hands and feet. Scooting farther back in bed, I asked, "Who is he?"

  "Ken Goh!"

  I hadn't even recognized him without his blue and orange face paint. At once I felt furious at him, sympathetic for his present suffering, and confused. "Why would he do that?"

  "We don't know!" said Father, as if I wasn't even supposed to ask. "But he did it. We caught him. End of story. And it was my hairdresser who figured out the evil plot."

  "Simple deduction!" said Xavid, as he pushed up his glasses.

  Father then snapped his fingers. "Take the prisoner to the dungeon beneath the PartyHaus." The gold visor satin picked up Ken and headed out. "You," he said to me, "get dressed. Chesterfield Kez is here, and he's brought Elle's brother to be your friend."

  "Wait," I said, "if Ken was behind the shooting, that means it wasn't mkg!"

  "Forget those puds! They're rancid lard! Besides, Elle's ratings killed Nora's. We need that hype to cover our asses."

  I asked, "Why do we have to cover anything? I don't even understand why we have to merge with anyone in the first place."

  That stopped Father. He stood staring at me for a long time.

  "What?"

  "All right!" he said, pretending to be happy. "So, what new product do you have? And what technology are you using? Frequencies? Anomaly theory? Or are you just hiding more shit in Brane-7, like your good ol' granddad?" He laughed because he knew I had no idea what he had just said. "Yeah!" he continued, "That's what I thought. And that's why it's your job to get out there and smile and wiggle your nut sack to the rhythm!" Before he stormed out, he added, "Get dressed! We'll be back in two minutes!" The door slammed shut.

  I had heard of Brane-7 before. It was another dimension and had something to do with the RiverGroup system, but that was all I knew. As the sound of the door slamming repeated in my head, I felt contrite, even useless. And for the first time, I understood how much my ignorance trapped me.

  On the tiles I saw several drops of blood. "Why would Ken want to kill me?" I asked Joelene.

  She let out a breath. "It does seem odd."

  "What's a code worm? And what's Brain-7 and those other things?"

  "A code worm . . . " she began, "is a very complicated type of leech that attaches itself to the host and can create a new entity that is formed . . . " Her voice faded, as she seemed to sink into thought.

  I waited for her to continue, but she turned, headed to her screens, and began working as if she had forgotten about me. Annoyed, I asked, "Were you talking to someone earlier?"

  Her amethyst eyes darted toward me. "No." She smiled stiffly, and then said, "I need several minutes here. Why don't you get dressed."

  "Before I woke, you were talking to someone."

  "Please," she said, returning her eyes to her screen, "I have to work."

  "You swore. And you said leave him alone. You were talking about me."

  After a deep breath, she said, "Listen to me, I am trying to secure our future. Things have become extremely dangerous. Yes, I used strong language earlier, but I am working for exactly what you want." With that she continued to operate her screens.

  I didn't know what to think. "What are you planning?" She didn't acknowledge me. "Hello? What is the plan?"

  "Will you stop bothering me?"

  Her tone was as harsh as I had heard before. Throwing off my blanket, I stood, and sped to my dressing room. After I rounded the corner, I waited for her to come after me, but heard no footsteps. I felt worse that I'd been forgotten.

  My dressing room was as big as my living quarters, and was decorated with several shiny, charcoal-hematite chairs, an unfinished hemlock plank floor, adobe walls, and both color and black-and-white iMirrors. It was a simple, meditative space where I had spent hundreds of hours observing fabric in my loupe, admiring the evenness of stitches, and reading about the histories of various fibers. Today, I just wanted to break something.

  To the left of my makeup chair was the tie rack, the underwear warmer, and shoe engine. Next sat my Mr. Renovation shirt machine, and filling most of the space were three rows of Stanley-Dior suit racks with my sixty Mr. Cedar suits. I couldn't touch them, so I grabbed a charcoal-and-burgundy-striped tie, reared back, and whipped it at the floor as though I were killing a snake.

  I felt a stab of pain in my shoulder. The tie just lay there. The gesture had been pointless and I felt ridiculous. A moment later, the tie began to smoke, and then flames appeared. I had grabbed one of my favorite Mr. Cedar ties, Love Alone, which had nitrocellulose fibers. Using the dressing room fire extinguisher, I doused it with white powder. So much for my show of fury! I'd ruined a beautiful tie, covered my pajamas with sodium bicarbonate, tweaked my shoulder, and felt exactly the same sense of futility as before.

  From the racks, I grabbed a suit at random, tore off my pajamas, got a pair of shorts and an ironed shirt from my machines, and dressed. Checking myself in the iMirror, I felt transformed. Without realizing it, I had gotten a suit titled Constant Heart. Mr. Cedar had designed it several months ago for a fashion show I hadn't attended. The fabric was a creamy moon-wool charcoal. The silhouette was slim and efficient.

  "Joelene!" I called. "What tie should I wear?" Usually, my dresser, Stefano, would have come from his servant's entrance. I guessed he was sleeping. "Joelene," I said again, "Stefano's not here. Can you please help me?" I thought I heard a bump in the main room and headed out to check.

  Xavid, Father, and his film crew were coming in. I didn't see Joelene.

  "Come here!" said Father, waving urgently. "Let's do the big RiverGroup introduction together." Smiling, he added, "It'll be fun!"

  "I'm not dressed. Where's Stefano?"

  "We let that old fart go," he said. "Cost-cutting." He looked me up and down. "You're fine. Come here." Pointing at the closed door, he said, "They're waiting."

  "I don't want to see anyone," I said, wishing Joelene could get me out of this.

  "Get over here and be nice," he growled.

  "Leave me alone."

  "Why is everything a war with you?"

  "Why are you threatening Nora?"

  "I don't want to," he said as if it were self-evident.

  "But you are!"

  "I have to because you're such a disaster of a son."

  "I hate you," I told him. "I hate the family, I hate the company. All I want is Nora and all you do is keep me from her."

  His face tur
ned purple. He looked angry and hurt, but mostly hurt. "Fuck-tastic!" he spat. "Things were going so lard six seconds ago. We caught Ken and his code worm. What do you think? That shows you I'm trying." Propping his hands on his hips, he said, "Thanks for ruining the whole day!"

  "You've ruined my life."

  He threw his hands up. "I can't believe you. I just can't deal with . . . " He kicked the air, then turned away, and while muttering, shook his head.

  "Should I introduce our visitor?" asked Xavid.

  Father said, "Whatever," with a flick of his wrist. He looked at me as if he had never been more disappointed with anything.

  "I want my own life," I told him.

  "You're not going to have anything if RiverGroup crashes and burns. And we've already crashed, and we are on fire!"

  I asked, "Why did you hire Ken?"

  For a second, I didn't think he was going to answer. His lips slowly tightened and it looked like he was going to have another outburst. "He passed all the tests! Okay?"

  "What are your tests?"

  He rolled his eyes and said, "Just shut up. All right?"

  I could only guess how ridiculous they must have been. Could Ken dance Bäng? Did he like Father's newest favorite band, like the Palladiüm Pinheads or whatever? Or maybe the tests were whether Ken would wear the company colors, and agree with everything and anything Father said.

  "They're still waiting," prompted Xavid.

  "Go ahead," muttered Father.

  Opening the door, Xavid poked his head out, and said, "Listen for your name, then come on in." Returning to our side, he held a hand beside his mouth as if shouting to a crowd of a hundred. "Introducing a new friend and brother to the RiverGroup way of life. A fantastic human being with billions of healthy red blood cells . . . "

  As he continued his useless introduction, I glanced toward the bathroom door. Was Joelene in there? Usually, she took no more than a minute. I hoped she wasn't sick.

  " . . . So," concluded Xavid, "let's bloody our shorts for one of RiverGroup's new friends. That's right! It's our new pal, the stylish and very intelligent Walter Kez!"

  A second later, a young man peered in. His baby-fat cheeks were as pale as cake flour. His watery, blue, manga eyes were ringed with red as if he hadn't slept for three days. He wore a long, slender, dust-grey suit that was short in sleeve and trouser as if he had grown or it shrunk. It looked like one of the lesser tailors—Me-Yaki, Seem, or Mix-a-Fibré. On his head he wore a wide-brim straw hat with a blue ribbon. The hat made him look like a CubeEye reader, albeit a pudgy, somewhat malformed one. He stood for a moment, adjusting the Windsor of his matching blue tie, and smiled a fidgety, nervous smile. Even from ten feet away, I could smell baby power.

  "Welcome!" said Father, now trying to crank up the enthusiasm. "Come in! Meet my son, the famous and amazing Michael Rivers. He's going to marry your sister at the big product show. That's really exciting!"

  Chesterfield Kez, his uncle, the skull-faced man whose hand I had not shaken last night at the club, strode in past his nephew. Chesterfield wore the same sort of iridescent suit and a pile of mahogany-and-teak-beaded necklaces that covered his neck, chin, and half his lower lip.

  "Hold on, Ches," cried Father, "Xavid will give you a big, fun intro!"

  "Is that a camera?" whined Walter.

  "They're filming my big, dopy, butt-tastic life!" said Father, shooting a quick evil eye my way. "'Seven hundred hours! You're welcome to start watching anytime."

  "Thank you!" said Walter, his eyes tearing. "I just can't be around cameras."

  "Kid's got allergies," explained Chesterfield. "Polyester, iron, dairy, trees, plastic, vegetables, chicken, cardboard, and . . . " Chesterfield nodded toward the documentary crew, " . . . cameras."

  "Butt rockets!" yelped Father. "Go on!" he told his crew. "Get out!" As they ran out the back door, Father said, "Xavid, grab the two security cameras!"

  Xavid yanked the little cameras from the walls, but even so Walter was scratching feverishly at his neck, making the skin red and raw.

  For the next hour—although it felt like a dozen—I sat polite prisoner before pale, powdery, straw-hat-wearing Walter Kez, as he showed me his magazine collection. His voice was whiny, nasal, and he had a habit of inflecting the end of his sentences.

  "This is a rare CubeEye issue twenty-three?" He opened it and flipped through all the pages—past dozens of photos of men in felt and straw hats. "This," he said, picking up another, "is the first issue of 118 Tones? It's very, very valuable? Oh, and this is Blot issue forty. There's a printing error on page five? So, it's worth billions?"

  Blot was actually not bad. It dealt with reproduction fibers. I asked for it and browsed while he continued to show copies of skd, Re-Ax, Salon 17, École, Inhab, and Turncoat. Meanwhile, I kept looking for Joelene. I worried that I upset her before. I shouldn't have stormed off to my dressing room like I had. She was probably mad at me.

  "I really, really like 118 Tones, don't you?" asked Walter, holding another issue.

  It was a cheap imitation of Pure H, but I said, "Sure."

  Walter narrowed his eyes at me and I felt defenseless, as though he could see how isolated and unhappy I was. Leaning toward me, he whispered, "My sister's mad at you 'cause you saw Nora."

  The strange thing was, I had forgotten they were related. "Oh," I said, "I'm sorry to hear that."

  He burst out laughing. "Don't worry! I don't like my sister." Bending farther toward me, he added, "I've seen her eat her own snot balls."

  Unfortunately, I could easily conjure the image of Elle, dressed as a cat-beaver-bunny gnawing on a dark, waxy little bit stuck under a fingernail.

  "I like Nora better," he said. "She's very alluring and enchanting."

  "Thank you," I said, not sure I appreciated his admiration.

  Reaching into an inside pocket of his jacket, he held out his hand. In his sweaty palm were two black cockroaches. "Want one?"

  "No!" I said, recoiling.

  "They're pills!" he said with a giggle. "They're aru!" His eyes were glowing. "They're illegal, but so soothing! I get them in the slubs!"

  The bug-shaped pills were hideously realistic with little eyes and painted-on legs. They were the ones Joelene had mentioned. Mother took them, and the freeboot who shot me had had something to do with them.

  "They make all bad feelings go away," he said, as he first glanced toward his nannies, then placed one of the things onto his pink tongue, reared his head back, and swallowed. "Go on," he said, holding the other toward me.

  "No," I said, "thank you."

  After he pouted for a second, he returned the pill to his pocket.

  "You go to the slubs?" I asked, since it was not just illegal and frowned upon but dangerous.

  "Some places are very fascinating." He stuck out his lower lip. "Not the bad place where you were."

  I was still shocked he went, let alone survived. "Doesn't your uncle watch you?"

  "He can't," he whispered, with a sly smile. "I have such a bad camera allergy."

  A beeping little alarm sounded in his jacket. I watched him check inside his left lapel. "Oh, gosh!" he said, all excited. "Nora is on the channels!" Turning to his nannies, he said, "Nora is on! May my friend Michael and I watch, please?"

  We had not been left alone. Before Father, Xavid, and Chesterfield headed to one of the meeting theaters, two of Walter's nannies had come in to watch us. They were older, matronly woman who wore black suits and straw hats that matched his.

  "I suppose that would be all right," said one, as she fiddled with the control Father had given her. Finally, she switched on the main screen. Against a raging forest fire were the words Heavy Profit Camp in black outlined with glittering gold.

  The titles faded and sitting before a faux campfire was Nora's father, Mr. Gonzalez-Matsu. She had inherited his fierce eyes, but little else. While her features had an uplifting feel, his were the opposite. His mouth resembled the beak of a flesh-eating bird. The botto
m edge of his nose was tilted upward so that his nostrils formed a curvy lowercase m. But his two most distinctive features were the puffy bags under his eyes, which made him look like he hadn't slept in five years, and his oily, black hair, with its shiny, pointed locks that resembled crow feathers.

  As for clothes, he wore a striped green jacket over a patterned gold shirt. The top four buttons were undone to expose a green and gold undershirt. His pants looked like a combination of woven yellow leather and maybe some sort of green vines with leaves and odd little persimmon flowers here and there. His shoes were thick soled and the leather was as so dull it looked more like pressed dryer-lint.