Marci looked around again, leaning out into the corridor where the librarian had passed a few minute ago. Was he coming back? There was no sign of him. She let the desk-screen time-out with its lecture notes from business ethics class, nestled into her chair, and huddled closer to her slate.
So much for studying.
Ramone said something, running his hands over his thighs repeatedly like he was sweating; Blythe responded, and her cheeks colored a little. Normally Blythe’s complexion was pale and smooth like white marble.
Marci yelped at seeing Blythe blush. Finally! she thought, hoping the ball would get rolling at last, though also wishing in some way that the climax of this story would stretch out, adding to the tension. Tension always paid off. Crescendos were more pleasing with a good build up. She’d learned that much from being a student of the feeds.
Marci fumbled to attach her ear-buds, again glancing around the alcove and stacks beside it. Beneath the smell of book must, there was the acrid odor of wood polish hanging over the cavernous library like a cloud. She scanned the room, feeling the eyes of the setting cameras on her. Not her specifically, necessarily, just everyone. And she was part of that, as she was in the room. No one was watching her, were they? At least, no humans? No, they were all immersed in their studies, not even registering her inappropriate vocalization, hiding in the lit alcoves along the nave of the library on the edges of the stacks of shelves. Libraries just weren’t catching on that no one cared for books anymore, she thought with a disapproving click of her tongue. At least they’d updated their desks. Not that Marci was using hers to study at the moment.
Glancing back at her slate, Marci got herself plugged in just in time to hear Blythe tell Ramone his project was gorgeous. The electricity between them could have fried Marci’s fingertips where she touched the slate.
A cloud of butterflies exploded in her stomach. Her fingers tingled. She felt like she was floating. The camera panned back to show the old guy’s face, his eyes, his hand as it brushed through his graying hair—he really was too old for the lawyer chick. “Thank you,” he muttered.
“Thank you?” Marci said aloud, not even realizing she’d spoken. “Kiss her, you jerk!” She pulled the slate close to her face, trying to get through to him.
“Shhhh!” a voice said beside her. Marci glanced up, stomach lurching in surprise. It was the young librarian—probably a student—on his way back to the main floor from the deep end of the stacks. He shook his head and gave her a disapproving stare. At least he didn’t kick her out, she thought, cowering in her seat. He pushed on and Marci turned back to her slate.
Nothing happened. Blythe tore her eyes from Ramone’s gaze and went on, discussing the particulars of whatever boring patent they were working on. Marci continued to watch, listening to each word for double meaning, innuendo, or anything that would betray their real feelings. She knew it would go somewhere, otherwise the Editors at Epic Romances and Steamy Affairs wouldn’t have picked it for the on-the-fly editing, the filters, and montage music they’d thrown on top of it. They had faith something would happen here. And Marci did too. It was inevitable. It was the formula. Throw the right chemistry between two people into the perfect setting and there was no way you’d not get the Epic Affair. Or Romance. Blythe was married, and so was Ramone, unfortunately, but that just gave the romance angle more heat. It was the way the world worked.
***
“You dirty bastard,” Ghosteye said with a smile, the sound of his voice disappearing quickly into the angled, blue walls and the dark brown baffles of the studio. It was soundproof, cold (for all the machinery), and carefully constructed with angles that funneled sound quickly in directions that prevented echoes. Ghosteye squinted at the large screens in front of him. Even with the muted track lighting, his vision tired after so many hours.
Ramone, the subject of his current gig, thought he was getting away with something, that much was evident to Ghosteye as his fingers flashed across the controls of his editing board. Of course, it had been evident for years that Ramone was trouble. He’d never settled into a comfortable pattern of acceptance like the rest of the population—Ghosteye had done his homework after being assigned to the man. Originally he’d thought it was just for the potential affair, which made the old man a bastard, but after doing his homework, he realized that whatever Ramone was hiding was yet another reason for assigning him the rather crass term of endearment.
What next? Ghosteye wondered. Perhaps a kiss? He laughed, no, not yet. No chance.
His hands moved in a blur as he adjusted hues and tones, applied filters to accentuate beauty or delete blemishes. Sometimes Ghosteye felt like a machine, working so efficiently. Not only that, his training in micro-expressions gave him insight into the subjects’ minds—really, he’d sensed this whole thing coming with Ramone from the minute the bastard entered the lawyer’s office.
When Ghosteye got the assignment, it had come down with a letter of explanation, which, in summary, told him the following: Ramone was a Goliath. To topple him would benefit the Organization in two ways. One: it would neutralize him as a threat, and that would, Two: undermine the strange integrity to which he clung. That integrity turned him into a threat. It was based on old values. Values that were only helpful so far as they created the allure for the forbidden—those sacred things that begged for violation and thus enhanced the intrigue, the temptation of the stories.
Honestly, the only thing better were the feeds where a priest succumbed to his forbidden lust. Ghosteye sighed, recalling the appeal of those feeds. They were growing rarer as the old religions died. What mattered now was science, the intellect, and self-worship. The new gods were the body reconstructed, fame, money, and the next conquest that landed a person in a viral feed and gave them the next level of fame and stardom. What wouldn’t anyone do for the flash of the screen, that window into a feed, someone else’s life, someone else’s adventure, that beauty and all it’s lovely promises?
That was what the masses wanted now. People like Ramone were the anomaly. Everyone else hungered for the feeds.
And Ghosteye was the human machine by which it came. The filter. The artist with a golden touch.
Ghosteye grinned and ran his fingers through his hair—greasy; he hadn’t showered in two days, there was too much going on! What he did was art, really. It was! The art of manipulation. He watched his subject leave the lawyer’s office and laid a blue-tint over the image, inserting a melancholy song even as he moved the feed from camera to camera, finding the perfect angles to relay the story Ghosteye felt building—where? Ah, there! A setting camera, switch the feed to that one, yes, it was beautiful. Made Ramone look tiny next to the skyscraper, accentuating so much anguish and desire. It spoke volumes of what Ramone must be feeling. Volumes!
Ghosteye picked a song quickly, having selected beforehand the proper music for any contingency with Ramone and the lawyer. There was a five minute lag to the feed that also allowed Ghosteye time to decide just what might happen and how he’d put this particular narrative together.
Without warning, a rumble broke through the smooth curtain of the song—and really, the song was perfect. Made Ghosteye want to curl up on the couch at the back of his studio and snuggle with a, a blanket or something. Maybe a pillow. Some hot chocolate. Or coffee. Something. The grumble came again, echoing through his body. He leaned forward and turned a knob—the volume fell in response. There it was again. Ah, he thought, my stomach. He glanced at the clock in the corner of his screen and sighed. He’d missed dinner. Rubbing his eyes, he stood and stretched. Tapping a button, an autopilot program took over and Ghosteye left the cold, dim studio.
At least Ramone had left the building. The bot could run things now. Well, it could do a passable job. Certainly nothing up to Ghosteye’s expertise. He was an artist, after all. An artiste. With an e on the end. High class.
In the kitchen he heated up a bowl of noodles and leaned against the counter as he ate. He considered the thin
g Ramone was trying to conceal and laughed aloud at the futility of keeping something secret from him. Them. The Organization. Even though Ghosteye didn’t know what it was exactly, Ramone was too well-known to have escaped constant scrutiny. He’d been watched long enough to have amassed a file on his behaviors: his likes, his dislikes, and his habits to the point that the upper echelons of the Organization—the Decemviri, he thought the name with a shiver—were aware of Ramone’s potential for damage.
Ghosteye finished his small dinner, set the bowl next to the overflowing sink, and washed his hands, trying his best to ignore the rotting odor of days’ old food and caked on grime. The hot water soothed his tired fingers. As he dried his hands, stretching each bony digit between the rough folds of the towel and kneading the pads of his palms, his eyes fell on the cork-board he kept near the fridge. He looked away quickly, avoiding the note from Beth—elegant script, words that still punched a hole through him. “Come find me. You know where I’ll be. I can’t hide from your eyes, but can you see what’s in my heart?”
Throwing the towel on the counter in disgust, he retreated back to the studio. He imagined he could hear the sound of the invisible nanocameras—the bastards. It was their fault, really, well, somehow it was—following him as he strode down the hall and then, as he opened the heavy door separating the studio from the rest of his condo, he imagined the sound of the cameras turning away, following a computer-generated concoction of himself—a front. His very own olive oil importing business.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to my ever-supportive husband Stoker—for willingly giving me so many nights off and time away to do my writing, in addition to all the hours patiently spent listening to my ideas about plot and character. Thanks for the people who supported me through Kickstarter, especially my family and the fans who’ve decided to stick around! Thanks to Sally Hannoush for the support and willingness to read along with me as I write. Thank you to author Megan Thomason for the advice and consultation. A million thanks to alpha and beta readers Alisa Brough, D.J. Masterson, and Jordan White. And finally, without the amazing skills of Carrie Westover, there would be a billion mistakes in this book—thanks to her for the proofreading and style-sheet.
by Nicole Grotepas
Kindle Edition
Copyright © 2014 Nicole Grotepas
All rights reserved.
Cover art by Nathalia Suellen
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.
For more information, please visit http://www.nicolegrotepas.com or email the author at [email protected] to receive information on new releases.
A Boat Made of Bone (The Chthonic Saga) Page 42