The Garden

by Emily Shore

  I adorn my answers like my mother would.

  2. What will you look forward to most during your visit?

  Just him.

  I say nothing regarding the penthouse, but I leave him hanging, wondering about the possibilities.

  3. How will you please Director Force?

  I will please him however he desires. This is his Temple, and I am merely his guest. And a guest must show her gratitude.

  The Garden taught me how to hold the poison on my tongue just long enough before spitting it out. I never swallow.

  After several more questions, I submit the application, and the blonde secretary stands and exits through a door to the left of the lobby desk. I wonder if it’s a medical testing center. My assumption is confirmed when she returns with a nurse practitioner.

  “You’re in luck. We have one available,” the secretary announces. “The graphickers won’t be here until tomorrow, but you may get your medical test out of the way.”

  This level boasts of a world-class medical center. I imagine there are multiple within the Temple. On my way to a private room, I glimpse a waiting center filled with Temple girls, multiple rooms—some with closed doors and others open to reveal medical equipment and beds, nurse’s stations, and even a lounge where a piano hologram plays.

  The practitioner is a man. Late forties, I’d wager, but with medical scrubs and ID tag. But after we enter the room and he directs me into the hospital gown before motioning for me to lie on the medical bed, I have to close my eyes and swallow a quaking breath or two.

  “Have you ever been tested before?” the nurse asks, approaching with a digital instrument, his medical mask already in place.

  Not awake. I think of the Glass Districts, of the hospital before the Immortal Treatment. “No.”

  “It’s a remarkably simple procedure. You may feel a slight discomfort but no pain.”

  I like him. I like him even more when he compares different eras while he spreads my legs and injects the device deep into me. “You know, fifty years ago virginity testing wasn’t reliable whatsoever. This device reads if the hymen is broken—whether via penetration or other activities such as aggressive sports. It can also determine if it has grown back or stretched within the past twenty-four hours as well as picking up on any trace amounts of foreign fluids. Can you believe that in some cultures, they’d admit a water test where the girl would have to hold her breath underwater while a person walks a hundred steps? If she lasted that long, they would believe she was a virgin.”

  I snicker a little. I’d pass that test with flying colors. If he knew I had an Immortal Treatment implant, I wouldn’t be a candidate since it returns me to a virginal state within forty-eight hours.

  I hear a hum before the buzzing sensation erupts, but it only lasts a moment or two. A beep less than a minute later signals a negative reading for breakage.

  “I will log your virginity results into the database. You are free to change back into your street clothes and return to the lobby.”

  “That’s all?” I slide off the bed.

  “That’s all. Graphickers will arrive tomorrow. Selected girls will be taken to individual studios where you will get a chance to choose whatever costume you desire. They will photograph you and send your results to Director Force, who will choose the winner by the end of the workday. The winner will enjoy an overnight stay in the penthouse suite complete with private five-course dinner just after. Good luck, Sera!”

  I exit the room, not bothering to mention how I don’t need it.

  I don’t even have a tough time choosing a costume. Dozens more girls arrive to compete. Some are turned away, and I know it’s because they didn’t pass the virginity test. I am one of the first ones led to a graphicker studio.

  To say the least, the studio is overwhelming with its 3D holographic surround screen, laser projectors in the walls, microcam wallpaper and flooring, and the racks and racks of costumes. Smart fabric for most of them. Lingerie comprises the main lineup. Lace, chiffon, silk, leather, satin—nothing is left out. One body scanner and printer rests near the costume racks.

  Donning his sensor gloves, the graphicker directs me to select a costume and then take my place in the center of the surround screen. Not leaving the room, he photographs me as I make my selection, using his sensor gloves. Without reservation, I adopt the numb Snow Queen I never got to play. I guess this is my Snow Queen exhibit. Removing my willowy skirt and the peasant blouse, I discard them to a nearby table and strip out of my bra and underwear. The graphicker slowly moves each gloved hand to the side for what I imagine is to zoom in on my faux face just before I approach one of the accessories tables and reach for two glowing moonstones, which I attach to my nipples. Next, I slip into some lace panties, ribbons dripping down my thighs in a teasing effect. Releasing my hair from its braid, I leave it crimped like a horse’s mane, wild and flowing as it brushes my back. Finally, I use what I learned from observing Dove and Magnolia and print the white paint I want before applying it myself. Most girls would use the body printer, but if my entire time in the studio is recorded, I imagine Force would appreciate the manual applicator. After rubbing diamond shimmer on my body, I approach the stool.

  Considering all the high-tech clothes with animated strings and even makeup, my costume is relatively simple. But I know Force. He puts on an extravagant display in his Temple. But for him personally, less is more. I try not to make myself sick at the thought of it.

  Up until now, the graphicker’s gloves haven’t stopped moving. He will select one main profile photo while Force is free to sift through other footage to his satisfaction.

  If there can be one benefit about my experience in the Garden, it’s made me all too comfortable in my own skin. Baring it seems effortless. And that notion is unsettling.

  Now, I become the Unicorn, striking the best pose I remember from my mother’s Temple photograph. Within a matter of moments, the shoot has ended. The graphicker says I can change again, his mind already elsewhere.

  Once I exit the room, I see lines forming with dozens of girls eager to present themselves to the challenge. Not one of them gives me pause. And when they announce the finalists, I’m unsurprised to hear my false name among them. The final announcement of the grand prize winner makes me straighten my shoulders, a smile of tentative obedience blooming to conceal the blood-filled rage hovering inside me.

  Time for Sera Verity to meet Force.

  30

  F a t H e r a n d D a u g H t e r

  In so many cases, the lines between love and hate are blurred. Not in mine. For me, they are intertwined, bound closer than fire and smoke, than wind and sea—than twin souls in a womb. Vengeance is my quest, but love controls the reins. Love for my mother and my real father—not my biological one. Love for the sister I don’t even know. Temptation to hate lunges into my blood, nose-diving straight for my heart, but my love is stronger. A love of ice and lightning backed by thunder. Wild as a swan. Cold as a skeleton. Because I am so much more than just Serenity.

  I am Swan, Skeleton Flower, Snow Queen, and Sera all coming together.

  Ruled by one—Serenity.

  “It’s by far the most expensive penthouse in the world. Force is looking forward to offering you a personal tour,” the escort announces, pressing the elevator button from the third level to the highest.

  Even with the increased speed, it takes time to reach the top of the world. At least the elevator music is tolerable. Better than the high-pitched soprano voice of the escort who keeps showing me information from the minicomputer implanted in his arm, which he waves around like a battle-axe. Even menial tasks require effort, producing sweat on his brow. It doesn’t surprise me that my father would choose someone like him as an escort. The thin, pinched man is a far cry from Force, who may be a devil, but who is an attractive one, nonetheless.

  The escort says he’s not permitted to step foot into the penthouse, and I wait for the elevator doors to open. There is a sensor slot, bu
t whatever security system it hides cannot be opened by us. We must wait for admittance by whoever is on the other side. The double doors slide apart a few seconds later. I don’t even pay attention to whether they close.

  As soon as I take my first step into the multi-leveled penthouse with its lofty ceilings and endless windows on one side rounding to avenues unknown, my father greets me. Hands folded casually behind his back. Head dipped in a not-so-subtle way. Tailored clothes reminiscent of an imperial lord with crimson detailing etched into his black vest. Unsurprising my father thinks of himself on the same level as royalty.

  When I approach him, I notice the recent tattoo on his neck—the one inlaid with diamonds branded right into his skin. A moving tattoo of a diamond-encrusted serpent. Sera would be drawn to him. Serenity is more interested in the backdrop—a glistening waterfall streaming against a glass wall that stretches from floor to ceiling and disappears into the penthouse level above this one. The rushing sound is a welcome white noise, especially when my father addresses me.

  “Welcome to my world, Miss. Verity. I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to meet you.” He exaggerates a mock bow and scoops up my hand, but instead of kissing my knuckles as I expect, Force draws me closer and brushes his lips across mine. A feather-light kiss…but a kiss all the same.

  The butterflies in my stomach all regurgitate vomit, but I must swallow it.

  I adopt a smile. Not one that swoons but one that measures and treasures as if grateful he is all I imagined he would be. What I would rather focus on is the glowing swan imprint that has been engraved into the waterfall’s backdrop. A second later, the swan’s wings begin to move, fluttering up and down.

  I turn back to Force, who compliments me. “I was impressed by your profile and the theme you touched on in your photography. It tempted me beyond compare,” he expresses, finally releasing my hand. I let it hover just above his palm, playing at yearning.

  “Very encouraging to hear.”

  I say nothing else. My mother is a woman of little words. She doesn’t need much, considering how striking her presence is. Like me, she can woo any man into her embrace, but through opposite methods. Our styles couldn’t be more different.

  “Would you care for a tour first?” Force gestures to the penthouse.

  I adopt a coy motion, tucking my hair behind my ear. “This is my first time in the Temple. Whatever you think is best…Director Force?”

  “Simply Force will do.” He settles a hand on my lower back, and I try not to wince at the touch that feels more like porcupine needles slowly sinking into my flesh. Come to think of it, my mother never mentioned his first name in any journal passage. There are no records as such either. In the news, he’s always referred to as Force. His one name reflects his inflated ego.

  He guides me around the hallway, regaling me with the Temple’s reinforced structure and shatterproof glass, which could take the force of a bomb and not break. More animated Swan art echoes on the walls until we arrive in the main penthouse area where a glass piano plays on its own. Off to my left and right are two winding glass staircases connecting the upper and lower level rooms―which are entertainment and dining areas―to the intimate living quarters and interaction rooms. Force leads me to the lower level. More moving walkways and glass stairways guide us into a tunnel. On both sides and above our heads is one great tank stretching down the linear, gargantuan hallway. Mesmerized by all the exotic species, I touch the side of the glass. Fish scatter on my movement.

  “Those are some of my favorites,” Force coos, curving down to touch my hip while gesturing.

  Little wonder Force would hire the greatest genetic minds for his own private use. Inside the next tank are miniature versions of whales. Much of the scientific community is at odds with such creations—earth activists staging many protests at the genetic abnormalities of growing smaller versions of such great creatures. Whoever is right or wrong is not my concern. And I can’t help but allow my heart to soar at the sound of the whales singing through speakers embedded in the walkway around us.

  Force leads me to a relaxation room next, just adjacent to the lobby. A glass table rests in the center facing a volumetric projector along with an inviting white couch equipped with sensors that mold to an individual’s body structure with matching chairs. I’d wager this room is used for business introductions. With the glass bar on the far side complete with drones for creating drinks, I’d suspect cocktail hour. Force orders champagne for us both, and it doesn’t escape my notice the drones are in the shapes of swans.

  “The patio off to your left leads to the glassed-in skyway that will carry any individual I choose to the other side of my penthouse.” At least Force’s hand joins his other now behind his back. Casual pride. “Four terraces for each one. Glassed in, of course.”

  The terrace would be much more welcoming if it wasn’t a cage.

  It’s like a giant snow globe. Of course my father would keep everything glassed-in. No opportunity for suicide attempts. No escape whatsoever. No chance to so much as feel the uninhibited breeze on one’s face. Nothing but the numb world he’s created.

  “At night, any one of these terraces can double as a planetarium. Perfect for cloudy nights. Below the conference room to your right is a private room with an interior pool and jacuzzi. Naturally, the Temple houses an infinity pool on the roof, but I prefer both options.”

  There is a sense of regality in his voice, but it’s a mad regality. Power unchecked. That is my father. He does not shy from it; he embraces it.

  We move on.

  The conference room boasts of sprite lights showing highest-ranking Temple models throughout its history. My sister is not among them. Much of the light sources function within glass spheres of assorted sizes and shapes, the highest quality glass I can imagine. Most of the décor appears new and evokes swan themes. Good to know my performances left an impression on him. It’s like seeing my symbolic ghost out of the corner of my eye everywhere we go.

  Force takes my hand on the winding glass staircase, and I smooth my other along the railing as he relates this level. “I reserve the ballroom on this floor for business or pleasure parties. The dining room downstairs will seat up to fifty. The end of the tour will commence on the roof where you will see the pool and the glass sculpture garden. I’ve arranged for a rooftop dinner,” he alerts me. “I thought you might be the type who would appreciate that.”

  His wink might be considered juvenile to anyone else, but I recognize it as a hint of crazy.

  “Afterward, we will enjoy a private massage followed by a swim and then dessert.”

  Part of me wants to ask why he doesn’t want to just get on with it, but that is a Serenity response. Sera will be patient, will cater to his every whim no matter how much I want to get to the bedroom and crush the contact lens into our final glass of champagne.

  A magnificent chandelier embellishes the air dangling from the ballroom ceiling, each glass ball hand-blown and tiny as a bubble to comprise a magical unity. Like they’re all holding hands and huddling against each other for warmth in the cold, lifeless suite. As soon as we enter the room, Force lifts a finger. At once, all the bubbles magically come to life. Through centrifugal or magnetized force, they begin to move, pirouetting and twirling in a borderline hypnotic dance.

  After some time, we finally reach the rooftop. More swan motifs up here. Despite the high glass walls on all sides, there is nothing but open air and night and starlight above our heads. Darkness only serves to accentuate the army of glittering buildings below us. Like foot soldiers with glinting swords ready to follow their sky-city general wherever he should lead.

  The Temple really is…seductive.

  A square table covered in a white tablecloth sits near the pool. Swan server drones bring forth the first course of hor d’oeuvres followed by the soup, entrée, cold preparation, and then a cheese course. As stipulated earlier, dessert won’t be served until after the swim. Throughout the courses, the Serenity
inside me wants to gorge herself silly. After all, she’s looking forward to having the last laugh. But Sera would eat properly, grace in every bite like Serafina, though that’s always been difficult. I must remind myself to slow down and not to rush.

  All through the meal, Force asks me about my past and my raising. I spent hours training with Neil to ensure my answers aren’t rehearsed. It feels simpler to slip into Sera’s skin while still housing the real Serenity. The ease of it even encourages me because it means I do carry some of my mother inside me. She is who I need right now.

  Once dinner is done, my father takes me by the elbow and gestures to the staff members who appear, carrying with them two portable massage chairs. One of few areas where Force employs staff. They provide a blanket screen where I may strip off my clothing, but they are full body massages. I try to enjoy mine, but with Force close enough to reach out and brush my arm with his fingertips, it becomes difficult. Reminding myself of the poison prize at the end of all this, I stomach it, practically squash the lightning. The hot stone massage helps me to relax. Midway through, Force shows some amount of respect by keeping quiet and allowing Sera to relish the sensations. Perhaps it’s his way of seducing her, of lulling her entire body into relaxation so he may reap its rewards once she has let all her walls down. When she is fully ready to accept him with open arms.

  After the massage is complete, I rise to sit on the bed with the blanket still wrapped around my frame.

  Force holds out a hand to the pool, suggesting a late-night swim.

  “I have pool wear ready.”

  It’s a small comfort to know he isn’t requesting a nude dip. I wouldn’t put it past him, but maybe this is his idea of building up, of honing his anticipation. Changing behind the blanket that a drone now holds, I’m surprised to find the suit doesn’t accentuate my breasts as much as I thought it would. The white crochet lace bikini is rather fitting, sweetheart neckline understated and flattering with delicate lace detailing dripping over the sides of my thighs, freeing me to swim without having to be concerned if the suit will fall off.