Steal the Stars

by Mac Rogers

I’d already stood up, smoothing out my legs. It was a nifty little device, what Rosh liked to call a three-in-one: retinal, facial recognition, and vapor biometric scanner. Most places would probably stop their security protocol there, but we had miles to go. “Now can I get the time?”

  “But of course, close friend.” Rosh looked at his tablet. “That would be fourteen minutes, nine seconds and descending.”

  “Fuck. Okay, Salem, get over here.”

  “They … already have my information on this?” you gawked.

  “Let’s find out, Mr. Second Person I Don’t Recognize!” Rosh gestured like a showroom model. “Place your chin here and fill your lungs with rich, nurturing air—”

  “Less of the funny stuff, Rosh, I gotta get him there before Power-Up.”

  You looked at me with questioning eyes—“What’s Power-Up?” those eyes were asking—but Rosh patted the back of the scanner and tsked.

  “Face front. Breathe in. Don’t worry. It doesn’t hurt. Much.”

  He burst into a mad scientist cackle and I wished I’d had it in me to have gotten a nice, quiet job at a coffee shop somewhere.

  * * *

  WE HUSTLED down more hallways.

  “We’re heading to another checkpoint, aren’t we?” you asked. “You’re walking like we’re not even close.” I grunted affirmatively. “Jeez. We didn’t have security this intense at Camp Victory and people were actually trying to kill us out there.”

  “Get comfortable, you gotta do ’em all again coming out the other way, too. The Big Bug pukes you out the way you came in.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  “We’re … we’re not doing something involving bugs, are we?” There was some actual panic in your voice. But, again, not on the surface. Subliminal. Private. Readable only by me—I was even finding myself starting to respect your ability to mask it. And, of course, me, ever the gormandizer of unexpected vulnerability: I had to smirk.

  “Don’t worry.”

  We rounded a corner.

  You chuckled. “I’m starting to think we actually do make weapons or mind control here.” And that, for whatever reason, made me laugh too. A small laugh, an in-spite-of-myself laugh.

  “Sounds like you’ve spent some time in town.”

  “Moved in over the weekend.”

  “Well. Welcome to the jungle.” What? “It’s easier if you mostly stay home.”

  “Is that what you do? Stay home?”

  “Mostly.”

  The talk of homes, specifically yours and mine … Jesus Christ, why was I suddenly feeling weird? Warm in my gut, icy in my extremities.

  Then I remembered: the fight. Feetbreath. The bad kind of tingly. I was still on edge from the night before. Ugh. It was like a hangover. Anxiety had flooded my body, and it was seeking a perch, something to land on.

  Get it together, Dak. Shake it off. You’ll be in the dark soon.

  At last, Lauren’s booth appeared. Her image—short, cropped white-blond hair, huge, suspicious eyes—was muted and scratched behind layers of thick, ancient Plexi, but I could tell she was already scowling. She looked as refreshing as an oasis.

  Her booth was situated on the left-hand side of the wall. The room itself was narrow and in the center was one chair, one table the size of a foldout card table you might find in some amateur poker player’s basement, and, draped over both, the Rhinestone Cowboy.

  Sadly, Glen Campbell was nowhere to be found. Just the white, shiny apparatus we named in his honor. The Rhinestone Cowboy looked like a jacket that had been attacked by some scissor-happy fashionista. It was basically two large white cuffs to go over your arms, connected garment-like by a net of white wires and electrodes stretched between them, which connect to the skin. Other wires feeding off that mess ran up and around the table, then down into the wall. There was no machine there on the table, save for the cybernetic jacket. All the information went straight into Lauren’s booth.

  Oh. And, of course, there was the unlabeled bottle of jelly on the table as well.

  Lauren’s voice crackled over an aggressively out-of-date speaker (one we could have easily updated, but, no, this was how Lauren wanted it). She was staring at you.

  Cccrackle. “My manifest warned me.” She spoke in her usual weird, flat monotone.

  “Yeah. Newbie. Want me to suit up first?”

  Cccrackle. “Please put on the apparatus and apply the electrodes to the appropriate areas.”

  “On it.”

  I sat down at the table, unzipping my coveralls a few inches and feeling weirdly energized all of a sudden. Grateful for something active to do, I guess. I had this down to an art, like a street magician walking a coin down her knuckles. Slide the cuffs on, squirt some of the jelly onto my skin where the electrodes attach (nowhere exciting … but not too far away from exciting), slap on the electrodes themselves, and then the final piece—

  “Am … I allowed to ask what that is?”

  You almost startled me.

  “You wear it like a jacket, see? Then the electrodes here … here … and here.”

  “What’s that stuff all over it?”

  “Some of the best lie-detection tech in the world.”

  “And…?” You were pointing to the last bit of tech: a black metal plate attached, hinged, to some sort of band. No wires.

  “That goes last. Like this.” I placed the band around my head and brought the plate down over my face. It was like an opaque welding mask; the idea was total isolation, total blackness. Just you and your truth. Louder, I said, “All dressed up and ready to go!” My voice muffled slightly against the plate.

  Cccrackle. “Are you here at this facility with the intent of sabotaging or removing any materials or personnel on site?”

  “No.”

  “Haven’t you worked here for, like—” you began.

  Cccrackle. “Are you here at this facility with the intent of damaging, removing, or otherwise interfering with Moss, the Harp, or Object E?”

  “No,” I answered. “Speaking of the Harp, where are we countdown-wise—?”

  Cccrackle. “Excuse me, please. Assessment is in process.”

  It sounded personal. I apologized. Lauren was someone who liked her patterns, who used monotony as a snorkel to breathe in this messy world. She didn’t take kindly to aberrations.

  Whatever it is she did in that booth, she did it, and then:

  Cccrackle. “Thank you, Security Chief Prentiss. You are cleared to descend to Hangar Eleven.”

  “Oh, boy,” I deadpanned, already swiftly removing the faceplate, the probes, and rubbing the lubricant into my skin. You were watching. Studying.

  “Now it’s my turn?”

  “Unless you want to stay here all day.”

  You took my place in front of the table.

  “Stick your arms out,” I said. I slipped the sleeves on. “And now, we gotta apply the electrodes to the … appropriate areas.” I felt myself getting warm again. For fuck’s sake, anxiety. I cleared my throat. “Okay, so I’m gonna unzip your coveralls a little bit. By saying ‘yes’ you’re indicating that you understand that this is for the purpose of assisting you in the process of clearing you for duty.”

  “You’re gonna unzip—”

  “I need a verbal ‘yes,’ please.”

  “Top-secret facility still complies with harassment liability laws. Fascinating. Sorry. Yes, please.”

  “Hold still.”

  I unzipped your coveralls a few inches.

  Underneath, I could see the light imprint of ribs beneath your skin. The faint divot where your sternum forked. You were maybe the skinniest man I had ever undressed. Like a tree without leaves. Or a really old painting of Jesus. Your chest was utterly hairless.

  “It’s not harassment liability,” I was saying. “It’s for the fraternization policy. You read it before you signed it, right?”

  I squeezed some of the tube’s contents onto my fingers and massaged it onto your ski
n. That’s when I noticed—

  I could see your heartbeat. Faintly. Very, very faintly; I probably wouldn’t be able to see it if not for my angle and the stark lighting.

  Just under your sternum, the slightest hint of movement.

  “Oh, right,” you responded. “Yes, I read it.”

  Lauren crackled over her intercom. Cccrackle. “Did you actually read it? Everybody signs it but—”

  “I did, I promise!” you averred.

  Cccrackle. “Quote for me the Quill Marine prohibition against fraternization between security team members.”

  “Is this part of the test? I don’t know if I can quote it exactly—”

  It would have been easy for you to assume Lauren was being cheeky. She wasn’t. There was a reason she was the facility’s truth seeker—she went after facts like a goddamn Terminator (although Terminators probably had a better sense of humor). I would have actually been impressed to see her engaging in a dialogue—but for the moment I wasn’t really paying attention.

  Something about your heartbeat.

  It was so very … small.

  I thought about Feetbreath nursing his broken collarbone (not too far a location from where his own heart beat). I thought of how he screamed when he hit the barroom floor. I thought about Janey, probably trying to help him convalesce and probably taking shit for it … probably also getting just enough rewards to keep her coming back, too. I thought about idiocy and fragility and love and death. I thought about pain and the futility of living creatures, fighting for life, only to die one way or another. I thought about it in the context of Moss and the questions we had about him.

  All this in an instant, looking at a teeny expanding-contracting shadow just underneath your ribcage.

  I realized: if today’s training went south and I had to do what I thought I might have to do to you?

  I was going to quit.

  I’d follow through with the protocol, no doubt; I’ve done it before, I understood its necessity. But if today ended with you failing your final test, with me having to stop that heartbeat … I decided right there to tender my resignation immediately thereafter.

  Today very well might be my last day at Quill Marine. The end of this life, as it were.

  * * *

  MEANWHILE, DURING my little revelation (no biggie, just potentially pulling the rug out from my entire existence here), Lauren was reciting the fraternization policy, in full, from memory.

  I’m sure you were impressed. And probably a little put off. Lauren had both effects on people. But this particular feat wasn’t quite so magnitudinous.

  Here, see. I can do it too.

  Relationships of the same and opposite genders are prohibited if they compromise or appear to compromise supervisory authority or the chain of command, are or are perceived to be exploitative or coercive in nature, involve or appear to involve the improper use of rank or position for personal gain, or create an actual or clearly predictable adverse impact on discipline, authority, morale, or the ability of command to implement its mission. Such relationships are frequently sexual in nature, but this is not always the case, and is not necessary for this prohibition to apply.

  Hold your applause.

  Did everyone at Quill Marine Labs have this particular passage memorized? No, probably not. I’m sure Lauren crammed every letter of the rulebook into her rapacious, zealous brain, and I’m sure there were a host of other, er, indoor kids on staff who might have done the same (some maybe accidentally, in that way that only eidetics can). But the majority of us, myself included, were less special and more specialized. To say nothing of the fact that almost every single person working at Quill Marine was the sort who preferred solitude to company—an asset ferreted out and encouraged during our initial interviews, no less—so the fraternization policy actually seemed like one of the most redundant and unnecessary sections of the handbook.

  I only have that particular passage memorized simply because, after things started to get bad, I read it a lot. I read it over and over and over again.

  * * *

  “CAN WE get this over with? We’ve got like ten minutes left.”

  You nodded. “Sorry. I’m—this is all very impressive. And cool.”

  Cccrackle. “It’s not cool. It’s basic. It’s a minimal requirement. Are you done, Dak?”

  “Yeah, almost.” I finished applying all the doodads and gadgets and other technical terms onto you.

  “Thanks,” you whispered.

  “You’re on your own next time, so—”

  “I paid attention. Don’t worry.”

  I lingered. Just a tiny bit. Purely unintentionally. Just studying you for a moment. Maybe enjoying your scent. Lauren rapped on the glass. We both looked at her.

  “Ready,” I shouted, way louder than I needed to.

  “Lauren! The ink on your wrist—” you said brightly as I stepped away. When she’d given the glass her little knock, the most fleeting impression of a faded fragment of skull and crossed oars had been visible on her arm. “You were in Amphibious Force Recon?”

  Impressive that you caught that.

  Cccrackle. “I will now ask you a series of questions. Your answers must take the form of either ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ No other answers are permitted.”

  “Got it.” You slid the plate down over your face.

  Cccrackle. “What did I just say?”

  “Sorry.”

  Cccrackle. “Are you here at this facility with the intent of sabotaging or removing any materials or personnel on site?”

  “No.”

  Cccrackle. “Are you here at this facility with the intent of damaging, removing, or otherwise interfering with Moss, the Harp, or Object E?”

  “I don’t know what any of those things are.”

  Cccrackle. “There are only two acceptable ans—”

  “Sorry, sorry: No. ‘No’ is my answer.”

  Cccrackle. “Please remain still and silent until I tell you otherwise.”

  We waited. And waited.

  And waited.

  What the hell was taking so long?

  Maybe because he’s new, maybe because his heart was beating hard, maybe because I’m never going to actually start this day and life is a meaningless—

  Cccrackle. “Thank you, Matt Salem. You are cleared to descend to Hangar Eleven.”

  You removed the Rhinestone Cowboy—not as fast as me, but with reasonable confidence. You even put it right back the way we found it, recapturing the drape of wires over the chair.

  “What do I do with—?” you gestured to the goo still on your skin.

  “You can rub it in, it’s okay.”

  We made our way to the elevator. The last, and largest, in a long series of metal doors.

  I pressed the button and muttered, “Come on. Fuck. I hope the Gnome is in a good mood.”

  “The Gnome?”

  The elevator chimed and the huge doors spread open, up and down. We stepped in: a massive freight elevator with no buttons, only one destination.

  “They don’t call it Hangar Eleven because we have eight more checkpoints to go, do they?”

  “Next up is blood, stool, and sperm. Hope you’re a quick shot.”

  You looked at me with bulging eyes. “Wait. Seriously?”

  * * *

  OBVIOUSLY, THINGS didn’t end there, there were definitely more stops to be made on our way down to oblivion, but by the time I realized I’d already somehow gotten comfortable joking with you, that I’d even somehow looked forward to seeing your response to stimuli, the path was set. Like I said before, I’m a sucker for unintended vulnerability, and you seemed to traffic in the stuff.

  In many ways I feel like I’ve thought about nothing else over the past months. I’ve analyzed, I’ve overanalyzed, every step we made to get to where we ended up. I can definitely say for sure that by this point, when we stepped onto that elevator, my life was done.

  You felt it too, right? A great priming. Or maybe you were ju
st thinking about your new job and all its bizarre protocols. Maybe you weren’t thinking of me at all yet.

  The elevator lurched and dropped down with a rattling roar.

  “I like to think of myself as someone who doesn’t scare easily,” you said. I don’t know if you were saying it to me or to the universe in general, but either way I had nothing to say in response.

  We made our way down into the stomach, the literal belly of the beast.

  We made our way to meet Moss.

  3

  WE TRIED to, at least. A few seconds later the elevator lurched to a stop. The anodyne soft light switched over to a poisonous red courtesy of one auxiliary bulb.

  “Um…” you said, after a deathly quiet moment. “I think we’ve stopped.”

  “I know we’ve stopped. Thanks a lot, Gnome!” I snarled at the walls.

  “Is that … a problem?”

  “Is it a problem for you?”

  “I mean, I’m not a claustrophobic…”

  “No traumatic experiences connected to enclosed spaces?”

  “Oh, sure, plenty of those. This one time, I had a guy go septic on me when we were pinned down for an entire week in—”

  “No proper names,” I snapped.

  “Right. Sorry. But, no, no, I’m okay,” you said firmly. “I would just think anybody is concerned when … this happens.”

  We stood in silence.

  I knew the drill. I knew not to betray any nervous energy. We were being watched. But holy shit did I want to pace, twitch, move around, anything to expel some of the anxious energy building up. The red light was making it worse. Of course it was, that was its job.

  Finally, I had to say something.

  “I had something similar on my second tour.”

  You looked at me, curious for more. I looked straight ahead, not giving you an in. I yelled to the metal around us. “If it makes any difference, Gnomie, he’s a new fish and I’m trying to get him there before Power-Up!”

  “Are you … talking to…?”

  “The Gnome. Works upstairs. His job’s to stop people randomly, do redundant background checks, study their reactions.”

  “Us.”

  “Yup.”

  “Even though we just went through all of—”

  “Yup. If they keep us here when the Harp starts up, though, I swear to God…” We’re going to get real intimate, is how part of my mind wanted to complete that thought. The part that’s a real asshole.