Grey

by Jon Armstrong

  Even after all the hard work we had put in, we were struggling, and without something daring and dramatic, I doubted we would make it another year.

  "It's just not good," said Mom, quietly. "It really isn't. You know how you felt . . . how you still feel."

  I thought of Father's last moment, the confusion and bewilderment he must have felt as the jacket flew toward him. Sometimes I thought I was being sentimental to imagine that things would have changed between us. But documents that Xavid had left indicated that he had issued the order for the freeboot to cut off Nora's toe. I don't know if that truly exonerated Father, but maybe it had in my heart.

  "RiverGroup will be fine without retaliation," she continued. "I know Mr. Gonzalez-Matsu is not a good man. Everyone knows that, but where will it end?"

  As I had before, I wished that the morning I'd heard Joelene's cursing I'd told Father, and that somehow together we discovered that she was working for mkg. What we would have done, I wasn't sure, but anything that changed the past seemed preferable. "Gonzalez-Matsu planned it for years," I said, as if that made it doubly bad.

  Mom whispered, "Think about her."

  "That's all I used to do," I said, trying not to raise my voice. "That was exactly the problem. I only thought of her. If I had done something else, just once, then Father would still be here."

  "Don't blame yourself!"

  Whipping around, I told Rex, "Go ahead! Kill him."

  Rex nodded once and turned to go.

  "Wait," I said, as I pictured Nora alone in her dressing room after she had gotten the news of her Father's death. "Hold on . . . I don't know . . . "

  "I'll go ahead," said Rex. "If you want to stop, let me know within two hours."

  The Intel-Sunbeam Ironing and Renovation Invitational was being held in the new massive single-crystal ConEmFuKo building in Ros Begas. Ninety-five thousand fans had gathered. Most sat below in theaters seats; the balconies were filled with corporate boxes. The RiverGroup boot was on the far right, mkg's, was in the center. Through the black glass, I could see nothing, but this was the closest I had been to her in a year. I thought I could feel her presence, her warmth, her being, her heart, but the truth was, I wasn't sure.

  Mother sat on my left, Mr. Cedar, right. In the seats in front of us were Mason, Ari, Walter, and another of my half brothers.

  We had arrived just in time for the opening ceremonies, and now, far below, Maricell sang. She wore a long, creamy yellow dress, which highlighted the black speaker in the middle of her chest. Her hair was arranged elegantly, her eyes, glowing. She looked gorgeous and happy. When I invited all of Tanoshi No Wah to the compound, I offered to pay for corrective surgery. Later, Mom explained that that was an insult. What worked out, after I apologized, was my proposal to let them stay in the compound if they worked for RiverGroup.

  Maricell was singing the Intel-Sunbeam corporate anthem, and while it wasn't a favorite—corporate songs all sounded the same to me—her interpretation was warm and emotional. We, and many below, stood and cheered at the end.

  "She looks so good," Ari said to Mom, tearfully. "And she's so happy now!"

  "She is," she replied as she massaged Ari's shoulders, tenderly. "It's wonderful how someone can grow in a positive and healthy atmosphere."

  I suspected her remark was pointed at me.

  "I don't like it either," I told her, again. "But I think it must be done."

  Mom ignored me. Now her tactic was silence.

  As the stage was prepared for the ironing, Walter and Ari headed off to get snacks. The rest of us sat quietly for several minutes. On the stage, I saw the silver-hair director. Tomorrow, he was going to produce our product show.

  "I just hate it," said Mom, as if she couldn't hold it in any longer.

  "Yes," I said, wishing we didn't have to keep discussing it. "I hate it, too."

  My tailor twisted his beard hair, sadly. "What do you think her reaction will be?"

  I hadn't yet even tried to fathom it. "I don't know."

  "She could use it against RiverGroup."

  "She'll hate you," she said. "Who wants their father killed? Even the fathers you two had. She's got to be loyal to him, even if she detests everything else."

  "All right!" I said, louder than I meant. Closing my eyes, I said, "I'm sorry, Mom, but please, this isn't easy. I am wrestling with it."

  "Obviously, you're not."

  Rubbing my face, I just wished everything would go away.

  "Who's who?" asked Mason, turning toward us.

  He asked because the two ironers had come out on the stage. They were, of course, Fanjor and Isé–B. Only a point separated them, but unlike all previous times, Isé–B was ahead. All he had to do was tie Fanjor in the final race, and he would be crowned the new champion.

  While Mr. Cedar explained the ironing to Mason, I gazed down at Isé–B in my powerglasses. Before, I had completely identified with him. I was still a fan, still wished for the clarity for competitive ironing—in fact working my own iron was one of the few relaxing things I did anymore—but the complexities of business had taken me from attending many competitions.

  Putting down the powerglasses, I told myself I couldn't do it. I couldn't have Nora's father killed. It was awful, especially for her. As soon as I'd thought that, though, I felt livid that he had been the cause of so much pain and wrong, and I felt like I wanted to strangle him myself.

  "We miss anything?" Walter wanted to know, when he and Ari returned.

  Eyeing his snacks, Mother asked, "Should you be eating those?"

  After popping several redheads in his mouth, Walter said, "These are the new Frix mini sluts." Quoting their slogan, he added, "Forty percent less tar and saturated fat, but all the original debauchery!"

  "You're so weird!" said Ari with a giggle, as she sat beside him. Her voice was filled with that sort of faked disgust that hides affection.

  A horn blew. The ironing was about to begin. And seconds from now, I would be meeting her. My fingertips began pulsing my heart beat so hard.

  "Who's who?" asked Mason again.

  "The black one is Isé–B. The other in yellow is Fanjor," said Maricell, as she came into the booth. She sat beside my tailor as we all congratulated her on her singing.

  The starting gun fired. The ironers grabbed their shirts and headed to their boards.

  Mr. Cedar tugged on his beard hair twice. That was the signal. I stood.

  Maricell asked me, "Where are you going?"

  "Uh . . . er . . . restroom," I stuttered.

  Exiting our booth, I turned left, rushed past the concession stands and souvenir shops, and headed through a door labeled equipment. Inside was a series of control panels and several workers watching various screens. On one I could see the two ironers working. Black smoke chugged from Isé–B's Schiaparelli-Firemaster, but Fanjor's short jabbing motions made it look like he was already ahead.

  Through an unmarked door at the other end of the equipment room, I started climbing metal stairs. After ten sets, I came to a roof exit. Outside, in the blazing heat and light, stood Pheff in a near-white suit. He held up his hand.

  "What's the matter?" I asked.

  "Wait," he said, peering into a small screen. "Hold on . . . be patient . . . "

  "Pheff!" I said, frantic, "tell me. What's going on? She on her way? She not coming? There something wrong?"

  "Wait for the system to be shut down." Lowering a hand, as if timing it, he said, Aaaand . . . go!"

  Running as fast as I could, I sprinted for another rooftop doorway one hundred yards away. There, I tore open the door and flew down the stairs. Finally, I came to a platform before metal elevator doors.

  As I tried to catch my breath, I wondered what would happen. A year stood between us. I knew I had changed. Maybe she wasn't the same either. And then there were my terrible plans for her father. Should I tell her? What would she think? What would she feel? Would she slap my face or try to choke me to death right here?

&
nbsp; The doors weren't opening. Why was this taking so long? This wasn't good. They were supposed to open immediately. I began to panic that I had been double-crossed or that her father had discovered the plan.

  From below, deep in the building, I heard a roar. It was the audience. Someone had just won the coveted Intel-Sunbeam. Maybe it was Isé–B.

  The doors opened. Jumping back, ready to hit the floor and try and roll away from fashion gun fire, I saw that it was just her.

  Inside the scratched utility elevator she stood in a beautifully simple near-black dress. The fabric looked like a plutonium glazed 2x2 alloy twill, and a bias carbon ribbon finished the scooped neck where, from a rhodium chain, hung two black satellite pearls. Her hair was like it had been on Celebrity Research—shorter and with tinges of black as though she too had escaped fire. On her feet she wore matt-black, handmade hifi pumps. It pained me that the right was obviously thinner than the left.

  Tears ran from her dark eyes down her cheeks, and at first I thought she was hurt or sick, distraught, or that something was terribly wrong. But as I parted my dry lips to speak, to tell her how much I missed her, how I loved her exactly as before, she smiled, and I understood that the tears were for joy.

  Bending, slowly, she picked up a charcoal bassinet. Beneath a soft, nano-wool blanket, she had brought our baby.

  THE END

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  Grey

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Epilog