by E. J. Noyes
At precisely nine a.m. a helicopter lands on the concrete slab, the heavy whump-whump-whump of the rotors making the habitat shake. I shoulder my backpack, close the door and walk away from my life without looking back.
One thousand, two hundred and sixty-five days. A little more than six months short of my four-year goal.
I tried. I really did.
Chapter Eighteen
I nap on the helicopter, waking at the sound of my name and with the realization that we’re on the ground again. A sweet woman in a figure-hugging houndstooth-patterned dress leans over me, and the hint of exasperation in her voice makes me feel like she’s been trying to wake me for a while. When I ask why she didn’t just shake me awake, she smiles and tells me she thought I might not like being touched unexpectedly and without permission. That’s kind of them.
A fancy black car is waiting to take me to the place where I will be officially set free. I click the seat belt in, undo it, click it in again. The sound is incredible, exactly as I recall. Being driven feels odd—rough and coarse, all the jolting and bouncing around not quite as I recall. My forehead is practically stuck to the window, watching the constant passing of new scenery. The barrier of glass and plastic and metal keeps me safe, allowing me to get used to this change without being in it.
Fifteen minutes later when we arrive at the facility, I know I’m in a different place from my initial interviews, but I don’t know exactly where I am. They tell me calmly that there will be no more than two people with me at any given time, to help my transition. They don’t want me to be overwhelmed. Too late. I’m already stuck on faces, expressions, and the sound of different voices. I’m not overwhelmed, but I’m definitely in awe. People. Plural. They gently bring me back to the present every time I zone out listening to and watching someone speak.
They give me lunch—medium rare steak with fries and a fancy salad. A beer in a frosty glass sits on the table and to the side is a gooey triple chocolate brownie. The meal looks and smells fantastic.
“If you could have anything to eat, what would it be?” Olivia’s finger-walking her way up and down my leg.
I don’t even have to think. “Oh shit, that’s easy. Ice-cold beer and a steak. Thick filet mignon, char-grilled and still bleeding inside. Like a really good grass-fed aged steak, not the frozen vacuum-sealed stuff they send me here. A mountain of fries. And a salad for balance.” I laugh and add, “Then something rich and chocolatey to finish.”
It’s exactly what I would normally love. Exactly what I said I wanted. But I only manage a couple of bites, then have to leave the rest because I can’t stomach something she had a hand in offering. I’m taken to a sterile white room. Comfortable examination bed. Barefoot, paper gown. I lie on my back and pretend I’m sunbathing on the beach, while my blood is drawn and other annoying but not uncomfortable or invasive tests are performed. I move as requested, and answer questions with the minimum of words.
Maybe they think I’m overly affected by the experience and currently having some sort of traumatic breakdown. I’m not. I’m out of sorts the way I always am during checkups, but not anxious. I do feel weird when I have to look between two people to talk, and have to remind myself to move my head, to make eye contact with both of them.
Being here brings all my feelings to the forefront. More than anything else, above the weirdness and hurt and sadness and loss, I’m kind of…angry. Angry at them but it’s a nonspecific them. Mostly I’m still angry at myself for being so stupid. Angry at Olivia. No, no I’m not. I try to dredge up some anger for her, something to make me hate her but no matter how hard I try, I cannot. I hate what she did to me but at the same time it was my fault for not seeing what was right in front of me. Blaming myself has always been such a comforting and familiar fallback.
Someone’s talking.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
The woman speaks again, slowly, as though my issue is a lack of understanding rather than a wandering mind. The implant will stay in for the next six months—as dictated in my contract, she is quick to remind me—in order to keep track of my whereabouts in case I forget to notify them. Accidentally forget, of course. I’m not bothered. Actually, I’m more distressed by the thought of its extraction. The small tube under my skin has become a comfort. Perhaps they’ll let me keep it after all this is done.
“Ms. Thorne?”
I speak to the ceiling. “Yes?”
“We’re finished here if you could please get dressed, and someone will escort you to your psychological debriefing.”
I go where I’m told and sit at a plain wooden table with a cup of coffee handed to me by a smiling blond woman. It’s nice strong coffee, but there’s not enough milk in it for my liking. I drink it anyway. She sits in a corner making notes while an older gentleman with perfectly slicked hair and Clark Kent glasses asks the questions.
The debriefing is long and tedious. How did I feel when…did I find it hard…can I tell him about…? It’s different from what the Controllers wanted—now it’s broad queries, rather than specific to days or events or thoughts.
I’m forthcoming, answering honestly and patiently, but when they ask me about Olivia the words stick to my throat. I can’t swallow them back down and I can’t get them out. My mouth works open and closed until finally, a sound escapes. Very gently, I’m prompted and reminded that I’m contractually obligated to answer truthfully and with as much detail as I can.
Smiling Woman leaves the room for a minute then comes back with a glass of ice water. She passes it to me, and both she and Older Gentleman wait patiently until enough time ticks past for me to put form to my thoughts. I choke out the words, nauseated the whole time, reaffirming that yes it was stressful and uncomfortable and hard when Olivia arrived, and yes I had feelings for her.
Older Gentleman asks me to elaborate on those feelings and I can’t help but think this whole thing is some sick, twisted joke. He’s not cruel or threatening but what he’s doing is incredibly discomforting. I try to be evasive, brushing it aside with, “I was hallucinating voices and smells and touches, so who knows if what I thought I felt about her was even real. Can’t you just use my logs? I already told you everything there.” My eyes beg him to just leave it alone, to not make me say it out loud. If I say it, then it’s out in the world and floating around where anyone could take it and use it against me.
He tilts his head, wordlessly acceding to my request, then picks up his tablet and resumes questioning me. Mercifully it’s no longer about Olivia. Is she watching me somehow? On a screen in a cozy office, separated from the damage she’s done? Laughing at me? Pitying me? Wondering how and why she ever touched someone who can barely even articulate something that matters so much?
Eventually I’m told, “Thank you, Ms. Thorne. I believe that’s all we need.” Older Gentleman smiles like a kind father. “You’ve done very well.”
And I wonder what exactly it is that I’ve done very well with.
I go to another room where I talk for an hour to Classic Nerd who wants to know all about the operation of various systems within the compound. Were they easy to use, did they work as intended, was there anything that I found difficult about operating them, could I repair them easily with the supplied manuals and tools? I gather what they’re really trying to figure out is “Can we sell this tech to Everyday Joe?” or “Will this work on Not-Earth without breaking down every day?”
When I’m done, Suit waits outside the door for me. He’s tall and well built, plain-looking but his dark brown eyes are sweet and kind. “Hello, Ms. Thorne.” The man’s voice is a high tenor, his accent upper-class somewhere I can’t place. “I have instructions to take you to the Assistant Director’s office for your final interview and then you’ll be driven to the airport for your flight home.”
Home. No place is home and everywhere could be home. I nod and Suit escorts me along the hallway to the elevator and up to the top floor. I can’t tell if he’s a security guy or just an a
ssistant. By the time the elevator stops, I’ve decided he’s both. The elevator door opens, and he moves aside so I can step out into a beautiful atrium which leads to what appears to be an office with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the city. I wonder what city it is.
“When you’re finished, I’ll meet you downstairs in the lobby,” Suit says from behind me.
I have to remind myself to stop, to turn back to him so I can say, “Great, thank you.” The elevator dings softly and then I’m alone.
I take bold strides across the marble floor, slowing for a few moments to look at the healthy greenery growing in the raised indoor garden beds either side of me. Warm late afternoon sunlight streams through the ceiling of the glass atrium to cast long shadows over the plants. I softly touch one of the broad leaves. Waxy. Spongy. I lean in and smell that unmistakable smell plants get when they’ve been watered recently, like moist soil and clean air.
When I step from marble to the thick cream-colored carpet of the office, the plush weave sinks underfoot, and I have the uncomfortable sensation of going to a job interview when I’m completely underdressed and have no chance at all of landing the position. To my left are two russet-brown leather couches laid out in an L-shape around a dark wooden coffee table, which holds an in-progress chess game. Photographs of cliffs overhanging sapphire seas adorn one wall, and on another is a series of small paintings—female nudes, tasteful and elegant. Startlingly blue eyes stare at me from the painting on the far right.
There’s a bookshelf stacked with board games, and a half-finished Lego spaceship sits on the floor, with pieces separated by color in neat piles around it. This office has a strange mixed vibe of understated opulence and childish frivolity, which throws me even further off balance. Someone clears their throat and I do a one-eighty turn to my right to face a large antique desk. Stunned, I falter for a step before recovering my balance.
The Assistant Director watches me approach her desk.
I’d know her anywhere, even though here she is just a beautiful stranger. Well-fitted and expensive skirt suit. Hair up and held by a silver clasp. Lipstick on lips made for kissing. Mascara on long eyelashes—those same eyelashes where with her forehead pressed to my skin, she’d blink and tickle me with them, then laugh when I squirmed. Butterfly kisses. Riley used to do the same. Did I ever tell anyone about that? Is it another thing she used against me? The swell of her breasts under the jacket makes me think of the taste of her and how she feels under my fingers. Lazy mornings in bed. Conversations about everything and nothing.
All false.
I haven’t seen her in twenty-two days. She’s the same, but so different. When I stop on the other side of her desk, Olivia sets her pen down. Her smile is cautious but still the one I know, and I beg my heart to slow, my brain to behave. When she comes around from behind the desk, she’s now taller than me and I glance down to confirm my suspicion about her footwear. Damn, her legs in those heels are out of this world. I allow myself a long look at the curve of her calf, the same curve where I’d rest my hand while she had her feet propped in my lap, and my attempt to slow my heart rate is immediately thwarted.
Her hand is outstretched. “Good afternoon, Ms. Thorne.”
Ms. Thorne. Ouch. I’ve heard it all day but it stings coming from her mouth. I take her hand, shaking it lightly. I do not linger. I do not let on that the mere contact of her skin on mine sets me aflame. “Hello, Doctor Soldano.” Two can play that game, but there’s no pleasure in putting myself on equal footing with her. Nor will there be any sort of victory.
Dr. Sol—no, I can’t do it—Olivia gestures to the leather seat in front of the desk. “Please, sit. There are a few more things we have to go through and then you can be on your way.” She’s not dispassionate but I recognize that she’s removed herself from what she’s telling me. Clinical detachment is a skill I’ve yet to master. She wields it like a weapon.
I sit where indicated and fold my hands in my lap. Once I’m settled, she moves back around to sit behind her desk, her hands resting lightly atop the blotter. Since leaving the habitat I’ve run through the gamut of emotions, and now I’m here in front of her, I’m settling on resigned. Resigned isn’t an unpleasant emotion. It’s simple. I just have to sit here and talk to her and pretend like it’s not killing me one slow inch at a time.
She wears makeup and one of the nicest perfumes I’ve ever smelled, and though the scent is lovely, it throws me even further off balance because it’s not her. Or maybe it is her and the scent I knew all that time was the wrong one. Maybe the Liv I knew was the wrong one. Olivia turns a pen over in her delicate fingers. Fingers that have explored my entire body. “You look well,” she observes. “Though you seem a little tired.”
“I am well, thank you. As I can be that is, all things considered,” I can’t help but add. After she left, I was sure everything I felt for her was false, just my brain warped by the experiment. Now I’m here, I’m not so sure. Now, I think my feelings were real but hers were not. Hers were simply in line with whatever she needed to say and do to keep me compliant.
She says nothing in response to my gentle dig and passes me a thin document folder. “Before we continue, you’ll need to sign another nondisclosure agreement.”
“Why? I already signed one before I went in.”
“Yes, that was pertinent to the lead-up to the study. This one encompasses the duration of your stay. The program will continue, as will our associations with the agency, other corporations and their technology, and we need to ensure that you will share no information about the tech and systems. It’s for the protection of all involved, and also to ensure that future candidates are untainted.” The pen she’s holding is offered to me.
“Will you fuck the future candidates too?” I ask before I can stop myself and am immediately ashamed of my cruelty.
A muscle flickers in her cheek but other than that her face is blank, her gaze unwavering. She doesn’t answer. And she doesn’t look away. I suck in air and push it out with a mumbled, “Sorry.” She deserves my apology because despite everything, I’ve been unnecessarily rude.
The fear that’s been simmering is now edging toward panic as it surges through my body, and I try desperately to keep it down out of her sight. I take the pen, skim the document and scrawl my name at every flag sticking out from the pages.
I wonder how Olivia could still be so neutral, as though what happened between us never occurred. Obviously it was just a job. She lied to me. Clearly it wasn’t real for her. The thought is sickening, but at the same time I remember what it felt like to be with her and the feeling slowly abates. Nobody is that good an actress. She had to feel something, even if it was nothing more than lust. Deep down inside where I hide my emotions, I wonder if she still feels it.
I hold up the pen. It’s a very nice pen—inky and feels like it was made for my fingers. “Can I please keep this?”
Olivia’s expression is like I just asked her if I can pee on her carpet. “Yes, of course. Take it.”
“Thank you.” I clench my fist around my prize and push my just-signed papers forward. On her desk, off to one side, is a mug. Blue with a white stripe and a chipped handle. She chipped the handle when she was washing up one morning. Black, half a sugar, doesn’t have to be exactly half. Surely she’s taunting me.
“And here’s the electronic bank transfer receipt for your payment, and our paperwork confirming the same. The money will be cleared by tomorrow.” With a steady hand, Olivia offers me an envelope. She swallows, visibly. “I’m sure you remember your contract clause that states compensation can be adjusted as we see fit in line with certain clauses or due to certain occurrences.”
Adjusted. I take the envelope from her, jam my forefinger under the flap and tear it open. Paper cut. $500,000.00. The full amount as if I’d stayed for the whole four years. I put my finger in my mouth, tasting blood. Metallic. Earthy. Not unpleasant. I think of the time I cut my finger because Mother was talking to me w
hile I was cutting vegetables in the greenhouse. Everything comes full circle. How can I be the same but so different?
I recognize Olivia’s name in the flowing loops and curves of one of the two signatures approving my payment. Her signature is as beautiful as everything else about her. I really wish I could hate her. Things would be so much easier if I did, but I don’t. I can’t.
“Thank you,” I murmur. All this money, and for what? Was it even worth it in the end? How can I measure the worth of my mental anguish and emotional distress in dollars? So much of my life for this money and right now, it really does feel pointless.
“The Board agreed to pay you for the full four-year period, including the bonus. It was agreed—” Olivia clears her throat. “It was decided that you would have stayed if it wasn’t for the unfortunate set of circumstances.”
I look at the two pieces of paper in my hand. “Is that what you’re calling us, Olivia?” I shift my focus back to her. “An unfortunate set of circumstances?”
She opens her mouth then closes it again. I desperately wish that she could remove herself from the job, from the research and whatever else that’s in the way of her telling me the truth. It’s right there, she wants to let it out. I just saw it. I push her with a question, something to remind her of our past but also because I genuinely want to know. “How is your leg?”
The edge of her mouth tightens then releases. “It’s fine, like it never happened.”
Like we never happened. What can I even say to that? I put the papers back into the envelope.
Olivia inhales deeply as though the breath will give her strength to say whatever she has to. “As stated in your contract, a representative of The Organization will contact you in one, three and then six months for follow up. Please be sure to keep us updated with your address and contact details.”