The Maze: Three tales of the future

by Charity Tahmaseb

  “We did it!” She grinned at Amie. “And you need a bath.”

  Lexia filled the tub and drained it twice, and still gray scum floated to the top of the water. But at least Amie looked clean and—more importantly—now smelled like lavender and vanilla. Even better, the girl’s dark eyes glowed and although she was silent, her smile filled Lexia’s heart.

  It was after the bath, and a tray full of chocolates, that Amie pointed at the model on Lexia’s desk.

  “I get to do one every month,” Lexia said, her hand lighting on the structure. It was her best one yet, a scale replica of the first station on Mars. “Since it’s a hobby, I can’t do more than that. I always tell myself to go slow, make it last, but I can’t stop myself.”

  Amie cocked her head, brow furrowing.

  “I wanted construction, you see. I have the test scores for it, all the spatial ability. And I love geometry.” Lexia shrugged. “They keep telling me I’m too pretty, that it makes more sense to be a decorative, like my mother, and her mother. It’s a better career choice—a safer one.”

  She leaned closer, and Amie did the same, so their noses almost met over the top of the Mars structure. “Some girls even cut themselves.” Lexia drew an imaginary blade along her cheekbone. Amie jumped back and shook her head, her eyes wide and scared.

  “Oh, don’t worry. I won’t. Besides, do you see anything sharp in here?” Lexia laughed, but it was the bitter sound she sometimes heard from her mother. She clamped her mouth shut. “Do you know how hard it is to build anything without something sharp?”

  Amie’s gaze went to the Mars station, then lighted on Lexia’s face. Her hand moved again, first in the air, then on the table surface, like when she’d taught Lexia her name, but different.

  “Oh, plans,” Lexia said at last. “You’re wondering if I draw plans. I can, but—”Why hadn’t she considered this before? No, it wouldn’t be nearly as fulfilling as building a model, but it beat waiting for her nail polish to dry or dozing through yet another facial.

  She pulled up two chairs to her in-room console. She scrolled past all the social chatter, the notices for Slam Tonight! and the spa offering a “me” day, and dug into the educational programs. Yes! Design and Drafting, architecture, everything to teach her how to build virtual houses, cities, even stations that could be used anywhere in the galaxy, from research centers, like on Mars, to ones like they sat in now—a spa facility meant for rest and relaxation.

  Lexia tore her gaze from all the potential plans and speared Amie with a look. “Did you know about this?”

  Amie grinned and gave her a shrug.

  “Do you need help with something, on the outside? Is that why you’re here?”

  Amie leaned forward and pressed the keypad. On the screen, images of makeshift dwellings appeared. Amie pointed to one and then to herself.

  “You live ... there?” Lexia shook her head in disbelief. The wooden structure was little more than a lean-to. Sure, Lexia had done her time in Adventure Girls. Once, she had even slept outside, with nothing but canvas stretched over her. But at the end of the trip, the entire group had returned to a spa facility, where every pore was sucked clean, hair and nails made to shine.

  Amie tapped Lexia’s wrist. The girl pointed to the screen, and then to Lexia. With her hands, she mimicked building.

  “Do you want my help? Want me to show you how to make it better?”

  Amie gave an emphatic nod.

  “Okay.” Lexia pulled her hair into a loose bun at the base of her neck. “Let’s see what I can do.”

  * * *

  It took a week of designing, of visualizing, not just on the screen, but in her head, and when she could, in real time. Lexia took to collecting odd bits the spa guests left lying around. Old-fashioned books, empty containers from box lunches. These she fashioned into a small village. She learned, by watching Amie move stick figures around the structures, about life on the outside.

  She knew that—somewhere—her console time was being logged. Keeping up appearances meant venturing from her quarters. She’d loved school, but a girl destined to be a third-generation decorative spent most of her time experimenting with foundations rather than building them.

  But leaving her room meant leaving Amie behind. Unless ... Her fingertips lighted on Amie’s bald head. Even when the look was in fashion (and it currently wasn’t), it attracted too much attention.

  “Want to go somewhere?” she asked, feeling sly.

  Amie’s eyes went wide, but her lips curled into a smile.

  “I’ll get you a wig,” Lexia said. “And then we can really have some fun.”

  * * *

  In the gift shop, Lexia ran her fingers through the strands of a pink wig, one with spring-green highlights. A presence shadowed her steps, tall and broad. Paulo stood behind her. Paulo, who keyed in codes on the register so sloppily, Lexia often wondered if it were on purpose.

  “You going to wear that to the slam tonight?” he asked.

  “I might.”

  “Haven’t seen you at one.”

  “My mother’s been giving me fits.” Actually, she hadn’t seen her mother in nearly two weeks, at least not up close, but it was a handy excuse.

  “Sneak out tonight.” With the suggestion, Paulo winked.

  “I might,” she said again. Always keep them guessing. This was her mother’s advice when it came to men. When Paulo grinned, Lexia saw that it did, indeed, work. But it was an empty sort of victory. Why build castles in the air when she could construct real places to live? Who needed boys when she had a friend—a sister—waiting for her, one who needed her help?

  * * *

  From her vantage point in the hallway, Lexia could see the wide-open door of her quarters. When her mother’s voice barked commands, Lexia almost ran away. One thought kept her locked in place.

  Amie.

  Lexia swiped the sweat from her upper lip and considered the wig, tissue-wrapped and snug in a spa bag. Another command echoed from the room and a guard stepped out. He blinked, surprise washing across his features before he schooled them into a bland expression.

  “Ah, Mrs. Mortarri? I think I’ve found her.”

  He nodded at Lexia, and she had no choice but to enter her room.

  “You’re not in that much trouble,” he whispered as she passed.

  If he thought that, then he didn’t know her mother.

  “There you are!” Her mother whirled, hands on hips. “Where have you been?”

  “Nowhere. A walk.” Her voice sounded strained, shaky. She clutched the ribbon handles of the bag and willed herself not to search for Amie. Don’t move. Don’t glance around. Don’t breathe.

  Her mother raised an eyebrow. “Shopping?”

  Lexia cringed. Of course. No one cared if she spent hours in the educational modules on her console, but the second the charge at the gift shop went through, the system must have alerted her mother.

  Her mother held out a hand. Lexia pulled the wig from the bag and dropped it into her mother’s waiting palm. A year ago, she could have purchased three new wigs, and her mother would have laughed—and tried them all on herself.

  “Really, Lexia? You shouldn’t cheapen yourself with such trash, not to wear and not to associate with.”

  The words felt like a blow to the throat. No, she really didn’t like Paulo—at least, not in the way he wanted her to—but the boy wasn’t trash. He simply had to work and wanted to dance and drink when he wasn’t. And the wig that was oh, so pretty? And would look so nice on Amie? Well, that wasn’t trash either.

  “And what is that?” Her mother pointed at the Mars station and the replica of Amie’s village she’d built around it.

  “A model,” Lexia said, and how the words found their way from her throat, she didn’t know. “I like building them.”

  “I’m not sure it’s the best use of your time.”

  “It’s just a hobby.” Casual, not plaintive. Don’t let her see how much it means.

/>   Her mother shook her head. “You’re just so ... just so ... well, I simply don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”

  In earlier times—better times—her mother might have tried to understand. She’d sit on the floor with Lexia, both of them surrounded by building blocks, and laugh when her own constructions inevitably collapsed while Lexia’s remained standing.

  “You must get it from your father,” she’d say, “because clearly you didn’t get it from me.”

  Soft words no longer came from her mouth. Not since last year, since her last, awful marriage. She never spoke of Lexia’s father. It was as if she wished both of them would simply fade away. They no longer shared quarters. Lexia was never invited to her mother’s dinner parties; not that she wanted to eat with a bunch of adults. But eating alone, in her quarters, made everything taste the same, like salt, even the desserts. Especially the desserts.

  As if she had no more words for Lexia, her mother left, without a goodbye, a kiss, a hug. Lexia stared at the shut door. Oh, that she could burn a hole into it with just her eyes.

  “I’m what, Mother? Just because you don’t care about the things I do, doesn’t mean I’m—”

  A pair of thin arms wrapped around her, a soft sigh bathing her neck. Lexia spun, mouth wide open in wonder.

  “Where did you—?”

  Amie pointed to the bed, or rather, the platform it sat on. Lexia knelt, rapped her knuckles against the side, and listened to the hollow sound. She eased back the panel and peered inside. Beneath the bed, there was just enough room for an Amie-sized girl.

  “You’re smarter than I am,” she said. “I don’t even have your wig, and now we can’t—”

  Amie pressed a finger against Lexia’s lips.

  “I talk too much, don’t I?”

  Amie simply drew her to the console. There, she scrolled through the fashion channels until the display landed on turbans.

  “Oh, but those are for old ladies.” Lexia wrinkled her nose. “Like my mother.”

  Amie opened her mouth in a silent laugh. Then she pointed to Lexia’s collection of nail polish.

  “Oh!” Lexia jumped up, fingers tingling like they always did before a new project. “I could make it pretty.” She spun around. “I could start a trend.”

  She tore a strip from the bottom of her bed sheet. Around Amie’s fragile head it went, then Lexia sprinkled on glitter and sparkles, and dotted the material with lime green nail polish. Lexia turned her friend toward the mirror.

  “Look at you! You’re gorgeous.”

  Amie’s eyes glowed, her fingertips touching the dots that matched her nails.

  Lexia clapped her hands. “Let’s go have some fun.”

  * * *

  Only in showing Amie the spa did the oddities strike Lexia. Why, with the sun so brilliant, was the glass perpetually fogged? Why was everything so self-contained? At the last spa, she’d gone on excursions nearly every day, took lessons in the local language, and even visited the planet’s tiny moon.

  Here, there was one short day trip to an island resort owned by the spa—and nothing else. The information panel talked up the splendors of the planet, the town of New Eden, the sustainable lifestyle of the local populace, and the fresh produce brought in daily to the spa.

  Then she thought of Amie’s lean-to and all the plans she somehow hoped to give the girl. She thought of the disease that had stolen her friend’s voice as a baby. Why hide these things? The only thing on the other side of the glass was reality.

  “Is it bad outside?” she asked Amie. They’d discovered the kitchens, now deserted after the formal dinner, and were working their way through a tub of berries and cream. Here was the food of New Eden. For once, Lexia was hungry. For once, things tasted sweet, and her fingers grabbed one berry after another, as if she’d never get enough.

  Amie shook her head.

  “But it isn’t easy.”

  Amie shrugged and dipped a palm-sized strawberry into the cream.

  “Why were you trying to get inside, then?”

  Amie froze, mid-bite. Her gaze darted toward Lexia, a pleading look in the girl’s eyes.

  “For the same reason I was trying to get out? Just to see what was on the other side?”

  Amie swallowed the strawberry and threw her head back in silent laughter.

  * * *

  Maybe it was the berry-stained fingerprints left in their wake. Maybe it was the pilfered sparkling quenchers from the walk-in refrigerator. Or maybe the guards had simply tracked their every move since they had left Lexia’s quarters.

  No matter. The first guard caught Lexia unaware, thick fingers around her wrist and upper arm. Amie, though quicker, fared no better. She kicked, tried to scratch, her mouth open in a silent scream.

  Lexia screamed for her. Her cries brought officers and old, respected guests, and too many witnesses.

  “They’re hurting her,” someone said, voice ringing with indignation.

  An old woman hobbled into the center of the gathering. “Let the child go,” she said to the guards.

  The man holding Lexia released his grip on her. She rubbed his sweat from her skin and tried to wipe away the ache.

  “Now the other,” the old woman added.

  The guards released Amie as if her skin burned them. The second her feet touched ground, she scampered off. No one chased after her, and Lexia let out a sigh that shook her whole body. She turned to thank the old woman, but froze. Yes! It was the same woman, the one in the spa, with the book and the secret smile. And now that smile bloomed again on the old woman’s face. Before Lexia could say a word, a barking voice cut through the silence.

  “Lexia! What have you done!”

  Her mother parted the crowd with her voice and a hand—the same hand that, seconds later, cracked against Lexia’s cheek.

  Lexia stumbled into the guard behind her. His hands gripped her waist for longer than strictly necessary. She didn’t care. Her cheek stung, her eyes watered, her heart squeezed tight in her chest.

  “Mind that she is still a child,” the old woman said.

  “Mind your own business,” her mother snapped.

  “You could say I am. Is she not my granddaughter?”

  Her mother paled. Lexia felt all the air leave her lungs. She focused on the old woman, her soft face, and eyes that looked both sad and kind.

  “Technically, no,” her mother said. “She is not.”

  “But as long as you’re married to my son ...”

  Her mother’s mouth went grim. The old woman hobbled over to Lexia.

  “We have not met, my dear, and I suspect we won’t again. A piece of advice from an old woman, then?”

  Numb, Lexia nodded.

  “Don’t let yourself get trapped. I did. So did your mother. That’s not a sufficient reason to end up trapped yourself.”

  The woman kissed the bruise forming on Lexia’s cheek and turned down the hall. The crowd, the guards, silent and staring, parted for her. No one spoke. At last, her mother gave a frustrated sigh, collared Lexia, and dragged her through the corridors by the spa wrap.

  * * *

  When her mother engaged the override lock, Lexia pressed her hands against the smooth door. Her first impulse was to pound, to kick—just like a child. Instead, she leaned her forehead against the cool surface and shut her eyes. In her mind, Amie ran through the hallways, into the pool area, and crawled through the vent to freedom.

  She wanted to believe the pictures in her head. An icy fist in the pit of her stomach told her it was better not to.

  What had gone wrong? Why was she always wrong? She never sneaked out to slams, like the other girls, never even flirted with the spa workers. All she wanted was a friend. Lexia had never known that that hole inside her existed until Amie had filled the space. Now, nothing but an ache remained, that hole larger and darker than ever.

  Her gaze lighted on the bed, or rather, what it sat on, its hollow platform. She crawled, wrists aching, and eased back
the panel. Could she fit? She wasn’t as small as Amie. Inside the space smelled old, like layer upon layer of dust and memories. Lexia eased her feet to the farthest corner, settled her hipbone near the center, and at last pressed her cheek against the floor. The bruise throbbed, but it was a handy reminder. If she was truly going to do what she planned to, she’d need that.

  Lexia packed, weighing each item for its potential worth and inevitable weight. In went all the plans and designs she’d made with Amie. Although it was frivolous, she added the lime-green nail polish. From her bed, Lexia tugged the smallest blanket and rolled it tight. Then she curled into the hollow space again, belongings at her feet, blanket beneath her sore cheek.

  It took a very long time to fall asleep.

  * * *

  In the morning, her mother’s shrieks woke her.

  “Where is she?”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Mortarri, but there’s no record at all of anyone entering or leaving her quarters.”

  “But she’s not here.”

  Lexia held her breath. Would they search for her? Could anyone detect the panel, in place, but slightly off-kilter? Would anyone use an infrared detector, or for that matter, common sense?

  “I suppose someone could have hacked the system,” a guard ventured.

  “That boy from the gift shop. What’s his name?” Her mother snapped her fingers. “I don’t know, but find him. Find her!”

  Poor Paulo, Lexia thought. He didn’t deserve this. The stomp of boots filled the room before footfalls echoed down the corridor. She squirmed, peered through the small sliver where the front panel didn’t quite meet the corner of the headboard. Her mother wore a spa wrap and a wash of tears across her face. The urge to shove the panel out of the way nearly overwhelmed Lexia. In her mind, she saw the scene play out. She’d burst from her hiding spot. Here I am, she would say. Her mother would embrace her, kiss the bruise on her cheek, and cry even after Lexia forgave her.