by Watson Davis
She took a step into the room, her head swiveling, checking the floor before moving her foot. She clasped her hands before her chest and her elbows close to her sides as she made small and careful steps.
Gus waited, examining her, a cold foreboding in the pit of his stomach. She eased herself down on the edge of the table beside the door, sliding a lamp to the side to make room, not leaning back against the wall, never relaxing, but clasping her hands nervously in her lap, all the while still peeking about her, her shoulders rising up almost to her ears in a defensive posture.
Gus clenched his hands, fighting the urge to rub her shoulders, to try to work out the tension, knowing the wrong kind of touch from him would be unwelcome and taken the wrong way. He walked back around to his desk chair, sat down on the edge of his seat, and folded his hands in his own lap, mimicking her but only so far, praying she'd perceive and internalize the cues and relax. "How are you feeling?"
"Yeah—" She nodded. "—Okay."
"My job, my entire reason for being here, is to help you." Gus peered into her eyes, maintaining the connection, leaving his gaze there every time she glanced away to provide a stable point for her to return to. "If you don't like your doctor, let me know, and I'll find someone you do like. If you want aged cheese-flavored ice cream, you tell me, and I'll have some made especially for you. Okay?"
She nodded, looking down, around, anywhere but at Gus, picking at her sleeves, pulling them over her bandaged wrists, a smile creeping across her face, murmuring, “Aged cheese ice cream?”
"So, talk to me." Gus bent over, his eyes searching her face, trying to persuade her to acknowledge him. "How did you come to visit the Frozen Lotus station?"
She shrugged.
"How long were you there?"
She tilted her head.
"We've contacted your mother. She wants you to come back home."
Santina jerked, her back straightening, her eyes jumping up and meeting Gus's with a passion, a fury he’d hoped for but never expected to witness that day. "No."
Gus smiled at the victory, at the emotional honesty, tenuous as it was, dangerous as it was. "How long has it been since you've seen her?"
She avoided his eyes, shrugging, grunting.
Gus leaned back, no longer trying to catch her eye, his foot tapping beneath his desk. "Your father?"
She chuckled. "Right."
"When did the power first go out?"
"Horatio." She raised her eyes, staring straight into his, through his. "Horatio was the first of us. I thought he was just playing dead. But Adolfo"—her eyes glazed over, her mouth dropping open—"he turned out the lights for keeps."
Gus considered a list on his desk, a list of children, teenagers, missing from the Firefox station; gang children, the lost children of addicts no one really cared about. "Marie? Grigor? How about them?"
"I didn't see Grigor much after we left Foxy. He was in another lab or something."
Gus nodded. "And Marie?"
Santina stood, turning her back to Gus, her head drooping. "She turned almost as soon as Horatio. Next day, probably."
"Did they collect you all at the same time?"
She stopped to focus on the top of the chair, to pick at the bolts binding the leather to the back of it, her profile to Gus. "They promised us we'd make a small fortune. More than we'd even know how to spend."
"The scientists from the laboratory?"
"No." She focused on Gus's eyes, boring into him. "A bitch from some Family."
Gus stopped and licked his lips. "They weren't from the Unity?"
"I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Maybe. They said we were going to be dancers, get to wear a tutu like hers." Santina snorted. "I thought that would be the absolute."
# # #
I edged through the door to Director Perisho's office, hesitating, glancing around at the place, a cavernous room smelling of old wood, dusty books, and dried leather, a place reeking of a luxurious richness almost disgusting and gaudy, alien to the places I'd been, the worlds I'd lived in.
"Dorothea." Director Perisho stood, rising from the brown chair at his desk. The leather on his chair was aged and cracking, and the desk itself was a dizzying affair of wood etched with swirling leaves, symbols and runes, maybe Celtic, or tribal, or something someone made up because they appeared complicated and significant.
His smile never faltering, he laid a clipboard on his desk, filling a space between neat stacks of paper and plas-steel-bound books. A feather stuck up, graceful and light, the edges of it fluttering in the breeze of the air conditioners and by the pressure differential created by my opening the door.
He held his hand out to me, his palm angled down, drawing me in toward him so I would shake it, dumping the onus on my sense of compassion to allow him to stop looking like a fool, to lure me into his world. Fuck him.
"Director Perisho." I eased in, pushing the door closed, waiting to hear the click of the lock.
"Oh, call me Gus, my girl." He stepped around the desk, still holding his hand out toward me, his head ducking down between his shoulders, almost deferring to me—a typical psych trick to lull me into underestimating him. "I'm so sorry our first face-to-face meeting took so long to schedule; I was on vacation. Krishna said so many good things about you and your grandfather when I conversed with her."
I shuffled toward him, his thick blue and gold rug muffling the heavy soles of my boots, and I took his hand.
"It's so important to talk to people in person, one-on-one, don't you think?"
"Yeah." I released his hand, letting it drop as I nodded my head. "I guess. As long as they're not assholes you'd prefer not to be around."
Gus laughed, wagging his head and backing away from me. "I must admit, I never thought about it that way before." He spread his arms, like a connoisseur proud of his wine rack, a dilettante proud of the eclectic collection of pieces he'd put together: the grandmother couch waiting to gobble you up, swallow you whole, and spit out your bones for the cleaning crew to pick up, the two hand-carved chairs that would force you to almost stand while the hard woods stamped the maker's mark on your butt, and who the hell wants to lounge around beside a globe of Titan except for someone planning a land battle on Titan? Gus said, "Sit down wherever you will be the most comfortable."
I slid back to the table beside the door, shoving the lamp out of my way, and eased myself down on the edge, crossed my legs at the ankles, and rested my hands on the corners of the table beneath me.
Gus retreated around the edge of his desk and plopped into his big leather chair, settling his right leg over his left knee, and his forearms on his thighs, his fingertips touching. "How are you feeling after your first FountainCorp mission? Ready for the next one?"
"Are you going to debrief me like this after every mission?" I asked. "Do you debrief everyone?"
"My job, my entire reason for being here, is to help you." He stared into my eyes, almost daring me to glance away, almost challenging me.
I met him stare for stare. "Help me?"
"You are a valuable asset to the company." He let his hands fall. He leaned forward, placing his left elbow on the arm of his chair, his right hand on the other arm. "For the company to be successful, you must be successful. For you to be successful, you must be at your best—working within your team, making good decisions, having your teammates trust you, having your subordinates follow you. My job is to get your mind right, to find any problems in your life, and figure out ways to help you deal with them in the healthiest way possible."
I leaned forward, gazing deeper into his eyes. "I don't like psychologists."
"Don't think of me as a psychologist; think of me as a mechanic for your brain and your emotions."
"Stay the motherfucking fuck out of my mind."
Gus reached out and pulled a notepad towards himself, tipping it down over the edge of his desk so he could read his notes, breaking eye contact with me. Satisfied, he slipped the notepad back. "You've seen a lot of psyc
hologists over the years, have you?"
I repositioned myself on the table, trying not to grin at my unimportant eye contact victory, and uncrossing my legs. "If I say yes, will you leave me be and let me return to doing my job?"
"You don't go back to the field until I feel positive you're going to act and react without having some crucial dysfunctional moment at the most inopportune time." He sighed, pursed his lips, then looked down under his desk, shook his head, and looked back up at me. "You have an issue with Santina and her story. You have a trigger point with defenseless girls, a trigger point I believe you've had issues with before."
I imagined the Sergeant Major massaging my shoulders, rubbing his thumb down my spine, whispering, "Keep yourself together, kiddo. When you're going through hell, keep going. Keep going. You're stronger than you know."
I sucked air into my lungs, forcing the tension in my traps to ease. I sat back, indicating his carefully arranged desk. "You have all my damned records. You're the one with the psych training. You tell me what my problem is."
Gus grimaced, stroking his forehead with his fingertips. "I do not have all your records."
"What?" I blinked, a smile fighting to radiate across my face, a smile I stifled. "Hellas Military Headquarters not talking to FountainCorp?"
"Oh." He nodded, patting his clipboard. "I received some, and those are quite informative. I obtained the records from your service, and the trial. I've got various files of your meritorious service medal and your incarceration after that unfortunate incident in Azucar."
I shrugged and leaned back into the wall, pressing against it; I tightened my muscles, and released them. A quiver started in my stomach, filtering up to my chest. I clenched my fists and tightened my stomach, refusing to let my weakness show in any way. "So? There you go."
He shook his head. "I also have an aching gap in the records of your childhood from age fifteen through age nineteen. I suspect one or more people altered the psychological exams taken during your trial, sometimes to remove sensitive military information, but sometimes for something else. Any idea what this ‘something else’ might be?”
“No,” I whispered.
“Of course.” He licked his lips. “Tell me why you sympathized so strongly with the brides of the Meridani commissioner?"
I stopped; my breathing stopped, my heart thudding in my chest, the sound deafening in my ears; my eyes were blind, seeing only that pale-skinned Meridani bastard's asshole face, smug in his power, all the young girls cringing away from him.
"Please sit back down, Dorothea," Gus said, his voice low, quiet, soothing.
I’m standing; when did I stand? My eyes darted around his office, searching for something to anchor myself. I struggled to control my breathing, fought to slow my heart. I nodded, swallowing into a dry throat.
Gus gestured toward the table behind me, his hand trembling. "Please."
"Sorry." I lowered myself to the edge of the table, balancing myself on the edge, my mind racing to find a reason to leave, some vital matter I could use as an excuse, something urgent. "I didn't realize how long this was going to take. I think I should be going. I've got an appointment I've got to go to."
"A few minutes more." He licked his lips, his expression concerned, but his eyes staring at me, boring into me. "Tell me why you identify with Santina Steger? What part of her story hurts you so much?"
I shrugged, looking away from him, angry I couldn't meet his gaze, instead glaring at his damned globe of Titan, my right foot bouncing. "She was alone and scared and needed someone to save her."
"You empathize with how she felt locked in a cell?" Gus nodded, his smile creeping across his pompous damned face. "Why are you so afraid of being—?"
I slammed my fist onto his table, knocking his organized piles of important documents askew, ruining his perfect damned order. I glared at him, gaping down at him, not remembering when I’d stood, not remembering crossing the room to his desk, not giving a single fuck. "I'm not afraid of anything anymore."
"Not anymore, huh?" He scooted his chair back and stood up, nodding and smiling like a stupid bobble-headed doll of some sort. "I think this has been a very productive day. I'll see you again day after tomorrow."
# # #
I left Director Perisho's office never wanting to meet with him again, never wanting to talk to him again, never wanting to talk to anyone again. I hurried down the hall wishing I could punch someone, hoping that if I appeared busy enough, no one would stop me, no one would talk to me—not in the state I was in, not with all these fucking memories bubbling up, all these thoughts I'd banished into the deepest pits of my being clawing their nasty way back up into my head.
I scowled at the floor before me, step by pounding step, the synthsteel grates by the side of the walkway painted in black and yellow diagonal stripes, the walkway shaking beneath my feet, shaking like my insides. I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t decide where I was going: back to the barracks area, back to the gym to kick the bag until I couldn't lift my legs, back to my compartment, back to a dark room, or back to my bed and a jug of Mercury’s Own orange gelato.
"Unit Three leader."
I stopped, finding myself peering down at boots, a man's work boots, with baggy pants draping down over them, and thick, hairy forearms crossing over a heavy sweater. Edmund. I didn't glance up at his face. "Not now, Team Leader."
"We need to chat." Edmund slapped his palm on the console by the door. The door slid aside to reveal the darkened conference room on the other side, the lights flickering on one bank at a time, shining down on a metal table and those damned lily-like seats. "Now."
"Seriously, not now." I sighed, rolling my eyes, my shoulders drooping and my head sliding around until I was looking up at the coffered ceiling in the conference room, so elegant and clean. "I just got out of the meeting from hell with Director Perisho, and I really don't need anything else dumped on my to-do list."
He put his hand on my shoulder, applying pressure, directing me into the conference room.
I glared at him from underneath my brows, him all secure with his massive neck, his wide shoulders and solid waist, his powerful arms. I said, "You remove your hand or you're going to spend weeks in medical rehabilitation after they grow the bones back and reattach the tendons."
He moved his hand back, pulling it back slow and steady, as though daring me to make good on my threat, then gestured into the conference room. "I order you to move your ass into the conference room. Let's clear this shit up and get it worked out."
I stomped through the door, my shoulders tight, my fists clenched so hard the muscles in my forearms cramped, and I reveled in the cramping, embracing the pain, accepting it, taking focus from it. I stopped by the table, watching him amble up to the other side, his movements smooth and easy, trained and strong.
He watched me, studying me, not taking me for granted, not patronizing me, but recognizing an opponent—an opponent who could and would hurt him, an opponent who did not fear him and his scarred face, his sour expression, his brooding presence.
Good. Someone I can punch.
"When I give you an order, are you going to follow it?" he asked.
"As long as you give me orders that aren't stupid as shit, yeah." I put my fists on my hips, sucking air in through my nose. "I'll follow those orders without hesitation."
"Dammit, woman." He lunged forward, only the table hitting him at mid-thigh stopping him, and he leaned forward over the table, one fist on the shiny surface for stability, the other hand pointing at me. "I have to trust you. You are spectacular during the drills, but I need someone who will follow my orders without question or we could all die."
"You need someone to question you, someone who'll stand up to you, someone who'll keep you honest and on your toes," I said, spreading my hands. "Every leader does. Someone needs to call a leader on their mistakes so they can develop and not fuck up in the future. As you have fucked up in the past."
"If you don't follow my
orders without hesitation and without thought, you will get us all killed," he growled. "With your experience, you should know this. Teamwork is built on trust."
"It's because of my experiences that I know how important it is to question authority. Soldiers must think and improvise when necessary."
"We observe and follow a chain of command at FountainCorp," he said, eyes wide and wild. "We don't need fucking heroes and medal winners. You do what you're fucking told."
"Like a mindless automaton? Like the soldiers who followed Hitler's orders in World War II on Earth, who thought following orders would absolve them of all responsibility for doing things they knew were evil?" I stepped forward, the table hitting me in my stomach, my fists swinging at my sides, shoulders back, chest forward.
"Hitler? Are you freaking insane?" He glanced up at the ceiling, lifting his arms out like he was begging for assistance from a mythical being in the sky, then shook his head and stared at me like I was some headstrong child. "What do I care about some jerk-weed who lived on a world that doesn't exist anymore? You're a mercenary now. You're going to do things a lot of people are going to find immoral; you're going to do things a lot of governments call illegal; you have to do these things when I tell you to do them and how I tell you to do them."
"There are lines I will not cross." I pointed at him, at his face, my finger missing his nose by centimeters. "Don't tell me to allow my men to die. Don't order me to let my family die, to sacrifice my brothers and sisters."
He grabbed my hand, pushing it out of his face, but he did not let me go, a snarl on his lips, a growl deep in his throat, rattling in his chest. I brought my other hand around, grabbing the back of his neck, jerking his head down toward me. Our lips met in the middle, our tongues twining around each other.
We fucked on that damned table, on the floor beside it, and in those uncomfortable damned chairs. Then we sneaked over to his compartment and fucked some more there.
# # #
Mercedez Gorovitz, in a bolero-style red leather jacket with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, leaned in the hatchway to a docking bay in Highcastle station, the right side of her green tutu crushed up against the synthsteel of the wall, her fingers tugging at the bottoms of her fingerless lace gloves with nervous energy. She chewed on bubblegum, blowing small bubbles until they popped. Her glazed-over eyes watched a local HV station's entertainment channel from her on-board.