by Nya Rayne
Kyra nodded in agreement, some of the anxiety leaving her petite body. “Thank you, Dr. Lobush.”
“Nonsense. Thank you for coming to me with this. I knew you were going to be an indispensable employee when I hired you.”
As Kyra left the office with a little more pep in her step than she’d entered with, Dr. Lobush stood from her chair and stepped to her private files. After punching in her access code, she pulled out the file labeled “Zen.” Strolling back to her desk, she flipped it open, made a mental note of the home number and address, and then punched a button on the side of her desk to bring up the liquid disintegrator.
She glanced one last time at the picture of the sleeping form inside and then dropped the folder into the liquid and watched as it dissolved into a silvery mixture that looked like twisted lava. She then dropped the two LCD wafers Kyra had left with her into the liquid and watched as it, and the evidence of her guilt, melted into nothingness.
She would still need to delete the records from the mainframe, but she had time for that. Now she had to deal with Kyra’s over-achieving butt. Perhaps a transfer to the facility in California or Alaska with a hefty increase in pay was called for.
Pushing away from her desk, she stood and headed for the door. She not only needed to start the paperwork for Kyra’s transfer, she also only had three days to put together something resembling Xavier. What she came up with would only fool the purchaser for so long, but whatever time she could buy them, she hoped would be time well spent.
They were everywhere, Donté noticed from the moment he climbed onto what Phia later told him was the tram, in every nook and cranny, coming and going. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wanted to call them goddesses, but he wasn’t sure if that was right. They didn’t fit the bill of what he thought a goddess was supposed to be.
In his head, he held glimpses—or were they memories?—of beautiful, perfect women with long, flowing strands of hair, gowns of silken white, their skin the color of rich, thick milk, golden honey, dark molasses. These women were far from that. They were an imperfect bunch. Some of them were pretty; however, only a few, like Phia, could actually be described as beautiful. Many of their faces were pallid, sunburned, or plastered with manufactured coloring. Some had hair shorter than his own, some had scars and pimples, and some of them smelled of day-old fish and spoiled milk.
As he and Phia had walked through the shopping venues, slipping in and out of stores he didn’t recognize or care to be in, he’d found more than a few of them staring at him as if he were a piece of meat. To say it set his nerves on edge would have been an understatement. And that wasn’t the only thing he found disconcerting about this place he’d woken up in five days ago.
First, nothing about it seemed familiar to him, yet there were things about it he understood, like how to behave in public and how to operate certain functions of Phia’s home. He also understood he was at no time to become belligerent, and these women who were half his size and body weight held some kind of power over him.
The second thing was the manner in which he reacted to Phia. Before the day he’d laid eyes on her, he’d had no memory of her. However, since then, whenever he was near her, he felt as if they were each one half of the same whole. It was as if there was a part of him written specifically for her, to cater to her. If this was true then did it make him one of those personomale things she wrote about in her journal? Did it make him something she despised?
The third thing that perplexed him was that he had no memory of anything before he had awoken. It was as if his entire life before Phia had been scrubbed from his mind. It was a bizarre feeling that had kept him up most of the previous night. He had tried several times to think back, to draw up memories of something, of anything. As sure as he knew he needed to breathe to live, he knew something should have been there. Unfortunately, each time he tried, a steel door would slam shut, blocking him out of his own head.
From time to time, he’d hear a voice in his head or he’d see a quick glimpse of a face sneering at him. Whenever he tried to think about it, to place it, that blasted door would appear again, closing him out. So, this caused him to wonder even more about himself. If he had no memory of a past, how did he know the right things to say to Phia? How did he know he should hold her hand when walking in public? How did he know touching her the way he had that morning would cure her headache? How did he know holding her last night was the right thing to do? How did he know the best way to end an argument was with softly spoken words, gentle touching, humor, and body contact? How could he know these things, when there were so many other things that he knew in his heart he didn’t know, but was supposed to?
He felt stupid for feeling this way, because he had nothing to base it on. Regardless, he couldn’t shake the sense a piece of him, of his life before Dr. Lobush and Phia, had been taken from him, erased, clouded, subdued, and he wanted it back.
The sound of Phia’s voice from somewhere behind him drew him from his reverie, and Donté turned to her.
“What about this one?” she asked, holding up an orange, bell-bottomed bodysuit with white and red gems running up the outside of each leg.
He glanced from the toga he wore to the suit of clothing and frowned. “For you it would be fine.”
She frowned at him, looked down at the garment, and then hung it back on the rack. “A no would have sufficed. Besides, if it came in my size I would definitely get it. It’s all the rage in men’s wear.”
Donté shrugged as watched her move farther down the aisle to a glass partition, where she punched a few buttons on a transparent keyboard. There was something about this woman, Phia Zen, which tugged at him. He didn’t know her, hadn’t known of her before he’d first seen her, he was certain of it. Still, there was something about her that made him want to make all those words of despair and loneliness go away.
It made him want even more not to be a personomale for her, because then he could make her happy. He would be what she wanted. Her words were riddled with such hopelessness and longing that as he traced the pads of his fingers over the words she’d written and tried to decipher the dark smudges that were once letters, he was certain she’d been crying at certain times and angry at others while she wrote them.
As he had sat beside her the night before, drinking in her thoughts, her heartbreak and desires, he had found himself empathizing with her for reasons he didn’t understand. How could he know so little, yet where she and her feelings were concerned, be so sure he needed to make her happy?
The sound of glass splintering into a trillion pieces drew him from his thoughts, and he turned away from Phia and glanced around the small boutique. It was filled with hologram posters of men in clothing he’d never seen before, and had only a few racks with clothing on them. Most of the patrons, who were women with men, were standing at mirrored windows punching on transparent keyboards.
He’d learned in the first store, where Phia had had him try on twenty or thirty different pairs of coarse-material pants, that those windows were where they viewed clothing not on the sales floor but available at the punch of a button.
Donté spent very little time looking at the women, but found his focus homed in on the men with them. They were strange. Their movements weren’t fluid or natural. He’d first noticed it with the driver of the tram. His movements were stilted, stiff, and rather mechanical.
His eyes roamed the store and came to rest on a blue-haired man standing in the far right corner, stiff as a board, staring down at his open palm as he flexed his hand repeatedly. With the exception of the black spiked collar around his thick neck and the sarong wrapped around his waist, the man was naked. Donté’s attention returned to the man’s hand. Gazing down at his own palm, he opened and closed it a few times, balled it into a tight fist and then released it again. He couldn’t put a finger on it, but there was something off about the guy. Why did he seem to be having difficulty with such a basic task?
The object of his attention turn
ed and looked in his direction. His eyes were dark gray and flat, and his chest didn’t rise or fall. They stared at one another for a long moment, as if having a silent conversation. Donté was the first to blink. But as he continued to watch, he noticed the other man never did.
Moving toward him, Donté’s steps were sure and steady, his attention so focused he didn’t notice the woman at the end of the other man’s chain.
“Hello,” she greeted as she pushed a tuft of dirty brown hair behind her right ear. “Are you here by yourself?” She tugged at the leash which was connected to the spiked collar, alerting the man to follow her. This act annoyed Donté for reasons he couldn’t really explain.
Donté glanced down at her, confused. He stepped back, glanced over his shoulder, and wondered why he felt like he’d done something wrong.
“Are you okay?” the woman asked, stepping closer to him. She reached up and brushed her finger down the side of his neck. “Is your wiring bad?”
“What?” He stepped back again, out of her reach. “My what?”
“Where’s your mistress?”
“My…what?”
“Your mistress. Is she here?”
Donté heard Phia step up behind him. Her slender arm slipped around his waist in a lover’s embrace. Gentle jolts of something not unfamiliar raced through him, starting in the vicinity of her hand and fanning outward. Blood rushed to his dick as he stepped back closer to her.
“What about this one?” she asked, not noticing the woman.
Donté glanced down at the Lycra shirt Phia was holding. He supposed he could deal with an all-white one, but he honestly didn’t see the purpose in buying one to begin with. He found the material confining and irritating against his skin. “It’s okay.”
She noticed the woman then. Phia blushed and stepped in front of him.
“So he’s yours,” the woman stated, her tone softer than when she’d spoken to him. He dismissed her and turned his attention back to the guy standing behind her. Something was wrong with him. He was sure of it. It was as if he were a statue with skin, his movements inflexible, like a piece of steel.
Clips filtered into his head of two male faces. One was laughing. The other scowling, but both had unmistakable warmth in their eyes. They spoke to him, or were they speaking to each other? The shorter one was teasing the bigger, surly one, he deduced, before the surly one punched the other one and the two broke into a fit of laughter. Just as quickly as it had opened, the door slammed shut again, and he was left feeling dumbfounded and annoyed, and with a distinct feeling that wherever those two men were, it was home.
A soft hand brushing against the side of his face drew Donté back. “Did I do something wrong?” The question came out before he could credit why he even felt a need to ask such an out-of-character thing.
Phia smiled back at him, dropped her hand, and interlaced her fingers with his. “No, but you can’t wander off and approach FAPs. They aren’t like you. They won’t…” She stopped mid-sentence and asked in a whisper, “Were you going to talk to him?”
As they walked to the register, he said, “There was something wrong with his hand. I wanted to see if he was all right.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him, understanding in her eyes, but she didn’t respond. After she paid for the articles of clothing he’d approved of, he asked, “What’s a FAP?” He didn’t miss her soft groan.
“It’s simply adorable,” Phia’s mother gushed while walking around Donté as if taking in a new piece of deco furniture. She stepped close to him, looked him in the eyes, and continued, “Did you have them give it eyes that color? They’re astounding.”
The other patrons in the restaurant were turned in their seats now, taking in the scene, and Phia felt her face flush. “Mother, stop it. He’s not a piece of meat.”
“I certainly beg to differ,” Varonda said, continuing her perusal. “It’s nothing short of Kobe beef. And you know how hard that is to find these days. Have you broken him in yet?”
To Phia’s abject horror, her mother stepped even closer to Donté and grabbed for his genitals. “Mother,” she warned, standing from her seat. To her surprise, Donté grabbed the woman’s hand, stopping her grope-fest a mere inch from his groin.
“It is wonderful to meet you, Baroness Zen. Perhaps we should have a seat.” Donté released her hand and stepped back and to the side, away from her.
“What is this? How is it he speaks without being prompted?”
“Mother, sit down,” Phia ordered again, with chagrin. She was proud of Donté. He not only stopped her mother in her tracks, he also did it in a respectful manner. Unfortunately, this could also pose a problem. FAPs and PAPs were not unruly. They spoke when spoken to and never talked back. They were innately submissive. If it got out that Donté was willful, she’d have a lot of explaining to do.
Her mother moved begrudgingly to sit down, her eyes trained on Donté, who had taken the seat between them. “Sotophia, is something wrong with its wiring? Perhaps you should trade it in now, before your warranty expires.”
“I have wiring and a warranty?”
Phia shushed Donté, her attention focused on her mother. “There’s nothing wrong with him, Mother.”
The waiter came to take their orders and Phia asked, “Donté, do you know what you want?”
“No.”
His tone was clipped, but Phia tried to pretend she didn’t notice. She couldn’t deal with him and her mother at the same time. If she placated him, her mother would ask questions. If she treated Donté like he really was a machine she would have a lot of explaining to do later. “Well, do you want me to order for you?”
“Why are you asking it? Just order something. It’s not like he can digest it anyway. Jesus, Sotophia, we don’t have all night,” Varonda blustered, staring daggers at Donté.
“Mother, you wanted to meet him, so please stop behaving like a shrew.”
Her mother started to say something, but Donté interjected first, “I’ll have what you’re having, as long as it’s meat, but I want a California roll as an appetizer.”
Phia smiled, and leaned over to whisper in his ear. “No, you don’t have wiring or a warranty that matters.” She couldn’t explain why she needed to make sure he was fine. At the moment, it just seemed like the most important thing she’d ever had to do.
Phia ordered for herself and Donté, and then her mother ordered. She thought for a fraction of a second that maybe the night could be salvaged. Unfortunately, the minute the waiter, a FAP—one could tell by the dead look in his eyes—left the table, her mother started up again.
“I gave you enough credits to purchase three of these things, but you had to go and purchase the most broken-down, decrepit one you could find. Haven’t I told you about bringing home stray dogs? Haven’t I warned you about that?” She pulled her c-pod from her purse.
“What are you doing? Who are you calling?”
“I should have known you wouldn’t handle a purchase of this magnitude properly. As usual, I’ll fix it for you.”
Varonda glared at Donté, and Phia deduced he must have seriously insulted her for her to be behaving in such a manner, not that it surprised her. Her mother had always been the uppity-prima-donna-scowling-at-servants-banshee who got what she wanted when she wanted and had no problem throwing an outlandish fit when she didn’t get her way. So, no, her current rant didn’t surprise her at all.
Shaking off her thoughts as the waiter brought over two glasses of white wine and a glass of water for Donté, she heard her mother say contemptuously, “Lorraine Lobush, I’m appalled you would sell such a broken-down piece of…”
Phia sprang from her seat and snatched the c-pod from her mother. After disconnecting the call, she turned to her mother. “I’ve had about enough of this. You wanted me to get one, so I did. I got Donté, and regardless of how you feel about him, he’s mine and I’m keeping him. I don’t need you interfering with anything involving him, Mother. Do you understan
d me?”
Varonda’s face flushed with incredulity as her thin lips slipped from a strict line to an O and back again before she finally stated, “Sotophia, calm yourself. This thing is damaged.” She made a dismissive motion in Donté’s direction. “You can’t see it because you’ve never owned one before, but I hav,e and I know damaged when I see it.” She made a show of straightening out the napkin in her lap. “Had Elric behaved in this manner, I would’ve hauled his rump back to the nearest facility without a second thought.”
Phia clenched her fist, ground her molars, and willed herself not to blow a gasket.
Donté reached over, his large hand slipping over hers. He squeezed her hand and smiled. “Perhaps we should go home now.”
As Phia gazed back at him, she wanted to melt into a thick, creamy ooze at his feet. The anger she was feeling dissipated. She smiled at him, interlaced her fingers with his, lifted the palm of his hand to her mouth, and kissed it. “I’m fine, Donté. Thank you.” She kissed his palm again. “Really.”
“If you’re sure,” he said. “But for the record, I would prefer to eat at home. The company tonight is not desirable.”
“It tells you what to do?” her mother screeched. “This is blasphemy, and I won’t hear of it!”
Phia clenched his hand at her mother’s words and tried to maintain her calm. “Donté, could you please find the waiter and let him know I’ve changed my mind? I do want a salad before my entrée is brought out and another glass of wine as well.”
He looked at her for a long moment before he released her hand and started off in the direction they’d seen the waiter go a few moments earlier. As he disappeared from sight, his broad, powerful back swaying beneath the tan smoking jacket she’d picked out for him, she allowed her eyes to roam over the female occupants who were sitting with FAPs and PAPs. All of them, every last one of them was watching him. She swelled with pride.
“Mother, Donté is perfect just the way he is. He’s mine. I’m his mistress, not you, and there isn’t a damn thing wrong with his wiring.” She glanced over her shoulder for Donté. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this, but I had him programmed without all the extra blockage crap other personomale models have. I wanted him to have a sense of free will. I wanted him to make his own decisions. I wanted him to be Donté, okay? Not some android who jumps when I say jump or sits when I say sit. You can call him every name in the book, I don’t care, but you will not talk about him in such a manner to his face or in front of me. I won’t allow it.”