The Outsiders

by L. J. LaBarthe

  He turned to the china cabinet and opened the doors. As well as the cutlery and plates and cups, there was a bottle of wine, several bags of dried rice and dried pasta. A small sack of potatoes sat with them. Knives, a potato peeler and masher were in a drawer as well as an old metal manual juicer and a pair of kitchen scissors. Matty was impressed—he'd expected there to be no food whatsoever, yet it seemed whoever had prepared the apartment for him had done much more than just make sure he had furniture and a made-up bed.

  He went into the bedroom and investigated the closets with more attention. Apart from the coat hangers, it contained a few sets of sheets and a few more blankets. A box of candles and a matchbook sat on top of the pile of linen. To one side, he found towels and a face-washer. In the chest of drawers, he found a clock, a hairbrush, comb, and a shaving kit. He took them out of the drawers and put them on top of the chest, then went into the bathroom.

  There wasn't much in the bathroom, though the shaving cabinet contained several cakes of soap and three rolls of toilet paper. The latter made Matty feel indescribably relieved. He hadn't even considered what he'd use for that necessity, seeing the rolls was a great relief. He took one out and put it on the toilet roll holder beside the toilet, noting the bath mat that was folded up beside the shower cubicle.

  It seemed that his new home had everything he could possibly need. He went back into the bedroom and began to set up things the way he wanted, going into the kitchen to get a dining chair, which he brought back into the bedroom and set down beside the bed, on the side he preferred to sleep on. He put the clock on the chair, and he went back into the living room and sat down on the sofa.

  Should he start his reading now or should he try the radio first? The temptation of the radio was too much—especially because now Matty remembered his grandfather having one just like it. His grandfather's had been made in 1965, as a child, Matty had delighted at the way the old machine continued to work.

  He stood up and went to the radio and turned it on. Slowly, he started to turn the dial. At first, he heard nothing except white noise. He reached a channel with sound. It was a cooking show, not one he recognized, the chef was explaining how to prepare simple, hearty meals with little to no water. So it must be a contemporary program.

  He turned to the small stack of leaflets and rifled through them, stopping at one with bold print that read, "In case of emergency or if anyone is seen breaking the laws: your small radio is also a two-way radio and you can make a report or call for assistance." In smaller print were the instructions on how to do exactly that. Matty leaned back, feeling a shiver go down his spine. He'd read his share of Cold War and World War One and Two era fiction, and this seemed to all come straight out of those books. He didn't feel frightened, not exactly; it was more a sense of déjà vu. He wished Paul had stayed longer, he had so many new questions. Still, tomorrow, he'd ask.

  With a sigh, he turned the radio off and set down the leaflets. He stood and made his way into the bedroom. He quickly got ready for bed and once he lay down, the lights all out, he gazed up into the darkness.

  His thoughts turned to Arkady. He remembered how Arkady smiled at him, a sort of crooked grin that always made Matty feel as if he were ten feet tall and could do anything. Arkady's voice, deep with a rich timbre, soft when they were alone together, talking of their lives beyond their work, sharing intimate secrets. He remembered how it felt when Arkady ran a hand through Matty's hair, how gentle and warm Arkady's lips were when they kissed, the little noises that Arkady made when their kisses became passionate. Most of all, Matty remembered the conversations, the hours they spent together, always close enough to touch, feeling one another's body heat as they discussed all manner of subjects without any judgement or recrimination. Arkady had made Matty feel wanted, loved and strong, he had never pressured him into anything, reminding Matty that their shared closeness was the most important part of their relationship and the physical was secondary.

  Matty felt a smile tug at his lips. He looked forward to seeing Arkady again and he hoped that his former lover remembered him as fondly and as well as he remembered Arkady. Perhaps, if Matty were very lucky, Arkady might want to renew their relationship. If he didn't, Matty decided that he could live with that if he had to. Arkady's friendship was important to him, and Matty wanted him to be happy. Yet he hoped that Arkady would want what he wanted, too. His last waking thought was of Arkady, his mussed dark blond hair and shining brown eyes, his smile and his strong arms around Matty as they cuddled on a bed together.

  CHAPTER SIX

  At 10 a.m. exactly there came a knock at the front door. Matty had been pacing back and forth for the last half an hour, wishing that Paul and Arkady would be early. He almost jumped out of his skin at the knock, so lost in his thoughts had he been. He rushed to the door, unlocked it then opened it, blinking in surprise at who stood on the threshold.

  "Um, hello?"

  "Hi! I'm Linda Blakely, Paul's busy with the agriculture sector today so he asked me to show you some things and help you get around, is that okay?"

  Matty ran a hand through his hair. It wasn't okay, not really, not when he wanted to have a long conversation with Paul and get a good debriefing, especially not when he wanted to see Arkady. However, he couldn't really say no, either. Maybe he could find out some information from this woman by asking carefully worded questions. She smiled brightly at him, and looked very eager to show him around. He sighed and shrugged, managed to find a smile for her in return and nodded.

  "Sure. I'd really like to talk to Paul before too much time has passed, though, if you can let him know."

  "Oh, absolutely. I have to report to him at the end of the day, so I'll be sure to tell him, don't you worry about that."

  "Okay, good." Matty stepped out into the world of the underground, pulling his front door closed behind him. He locked it carefully, pocketing the keys, noting that Linda watched his every move with a sort of wide-eyed look of fascination. "Is there something interesting about me?" he asked as he turned to face her.

  "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable. It's just that you're the first straight out of cryo resident that I've ever met. Paul had been out of cryo and living here for ages before I met him. I don't mean to be rude or anything…"

  Matty waved a hand. "No, it's fine. I get it. What's the plan for today?"

  Linda practically vibrated with excitement. "I'm to show you how to get your money, at the cash exchange—"

  "The bank?"

  "What's a bank?"

  Matty fell silent for a moment, shocked into speechlessness. He was going to have to make some very quick adjustments here, he realized. "A big building where money's kept and people can save and withdraw their wages."

  "Oh right, the money exchange. Yeah, we're going there, I'm to show you where to do your shopping so you can buy some more clothes, I'm to take you to the newspaper office so you can apply for a job there if you don't want to work in the agriculture unit, though Mr. Paul said it'd be great if you did want to work with him." All of this came out in a rush, and Matty wondered if she'd paused for breath.

  "I'm not going to make a decision about work until I see what all my options are," he said. "I guess we start with the bank?"

  "You're from Australia, right? That's what I heard anyway. I guess that's what you Australians call a money exchange." Linda giggled. "You guys have some crazy ways of talking."

  "Yeah, that's me, a crazy Aussie, through and through," Matty deadpanned. He mentally kicked himself for using the word bank again, although how on Earth, he wondered, did Paul and Arkady deal with all of this when they first came out of the clinic? How was he going to deal with it? Maybe he should make an appointment to see Dr. Andrews again, as this was beginning to overwhelm him just a little.

  He followed Linda along as she walked, almost bouncing down the passages that were lined on either side by doors that were numbered and painted in a vast array of colors. He gathered from her word
s that they were still in the residential area, although Linda spoke a mile a minute and it was difficult to keep up with what she was saying as she often changed the subject without any indication. It was like following a burbling brook, bound to its own nature with its own language and processes, it was simply easier to follow and listen than to try to make any sense of what was being said.

  The residential corridor opened out into a vast cavern that Linda said was one of the old subway stations where the money exchange and the government offices were. Although she didn't use the word government, Matty gathered that was what she meant when she called them, "the people who keep our laws safe."

  This station was walled with clean, cream-colored subway tiles, along with large frames that held advertisements—just as any railway station ever had since their invention. It was comforting to find something so familiar here, and Matty paused a moment to look at the advertisements. One was for a brand of soda he was unfamiliar with, touting to be brewed locally in the agriculture area, another was for a butcher shop and yet another for a grocer. A fourth poster showed a photograph of a smiling man and the headline, "We thank you for keeping our city clean."

  "Come on." Linda said, and Matty started walking again, trying to look at everything all at once and failing. He was a little surprised he didn't bump into anything or anyone, others around him seemed to notice that he was gawking like a tourist and gave him a wide berth. Linda led him towards a broad ramp, and he followed her up it onto what he immediately recognized as being the original subway platform. There were more posters here, and the tile was still clean. A man played a violin beside one wall, as people walked past him, they dropped a few coins into the case at his feet.

  Matty would have liked to have slowed down, to observe the area and to listen to the music, but Linda moved quickly. As they passed what had once been a ticket booth, long before automated ticketing became the norm, Matty realized that it was now a secretary's desk, where people could say which area of the government—or business person—they wished to speak to. Seats stood opposite and quite a few of them were filled, most of the people waiting were reading the newspaper or staring at the ceiling. Just like any waiting room in the world, Matty thought, grinning to himself.

  Linda led him farther along the platform, and as they walked that Matty realized they were approaching an old train carriage. He estimated it to be nearly as old as he was—one hundred and thirty-five years old—and it had been painted bright blue with contrasting white. It was stationary and looked as if it hadn't moved in nearly a century. There was a sign on the front of it, but he didn't get a chance to read it as Linda bustled him along to an open door.

  "Here we are," she announced. "The money exchange. We'll go in and they'll explain the process and open an account for you."

  Like a bank, Matty thought. He nodded instead of saying anything and let her lead the way into the train car.

  It wasn't terribly busy—a few seats occupied by people waiting, a booth at the end where a man withdrew some money, to judge by the way the woman behind the booth was counting out pieces of paper that looked like dollar bills. Halfway down the car stood a table, set up against the windows and a man in a three-piece business suit sat with an old typewriter and rolodex, a radio like the one in Matty's own home neatly laid out before him. Two chairs were in front of the desk and Linda sat down in one, gesturing for Matty to take the other.

  Before he'd even finished sitting down, Linda was saying, "This is Matthew MacDougall, he's from the clinic, just out of cryo and he needs to get a money account and an identification kit."

  The man peered at him down the length of his nose and Matty smiled as politely as he could.

  "I see. Who was your doctor in the clinic, Mr. MacDougall?"

  "That was Dr. Johnson," Matty said.

  The man nodded and made a note on a sheet of paper. "And who is your mentor here in the city?"

  "Ah, that's Paul Smith."

  "Oh yes, in agriculture. A fine man, credit to his position and to the city." The man behind the desk relaxed a little and smiled at Matty. "I assume that you've been given a stipend by the City to cover your expenses while you look for work." It wasn't a question. "In which case, all we have to do is document that you are who you say you are. Dr. Johnson in the clinic will do that. That's nothing to worry about. Martha—" a young woman with blonde hair in a neat chignon came up to him "—put a call into the clinic to Dr. Johnson about Matthew MacDougall so that we can get him processed, will you please?"

  "Yes, sir," she said, and she moved away to another part of the train car.

  "Now, I just need your basic details so we can get the bulk of the paperwork sorted out. What is your birthdate and marital status?"

  Matty told him.

  "And where were you born?"

  "Hobart, Tasmania, Australia."

  The man looked up sharply. "Australia? Why aren't you over there? How did you end up in New York Underground City?"

  Matty spread his hands and lied. "I don't know," he said. "Not all of my memory's come back yet. I'm told that's normal, but it's still very frustrating."

  The man harrumphed. "I see." He made another note. "That may limit what work you can do, Mr. MacDougall."

  "He's mentored by Mr. Paul," Linda said.

  The man turned to fix her with a cold glare. "I am aware of that, Miss. Let me do my job and you do yours."

  She subsided, and Matty wondered if attitudes had gone back in time as it seemed technology had. That would be troubling if true, and he hoped it was just the attitude of this one officious individual. The man looked back at Matty and cleared his throat.

  "It all seems to be in order. Ah, thank you, Martha," he added as the blonde woman returned with a sheet of paper. "That will be all for now."

  "Yes, sir," she said again, and left.

  The man read through the paper and nodded several times. He set it down on his desk and clasped his hands together. "Everything's been approved. You're allowed to work here, in any of the industries or businesses that you qualify for. So, if you have training from your past, before cryo, to work with the animals, you should apply there. Likewise if you have experience in journalism, apply at the paper. Martha should be back any moment with your city ident card, which you have to keep on you at all times along with the ID they gave you when you left the clinic, and your bank account."

  Matty quirked an eyebrow, unable to stop himself from asking, "This is definitely a bank?"

  The man looked at him in surprise. "Of course it is. What else would it be?"

  "Oh, I was just wondering. I heard somewhere that it was called a money exchange. I've another question, if that's all right—why isn't the ID from the clinic enough to open an account?"

  "Oh, that's a medical ID. It's not really considered the same as a proper identification card." The man sniffed as he continued. "Some folk call this place a money exchange. It is, however, most definitely a bank, Mr. MacDougall."

  "Thanks for the clarification." Matty watched Martha return and hand some more papers over to the man.

  "Now, sign here, here, here, and here," the man said. He handed Matty a pen. "That's your ident card, this is your certificate of residence, which is kept here, a copy is sent to the records office. This is your temporary bank account, until we get the bank book printed out, which will be delivered to your address."

  Matty signed all the forms, nodding as the man spoke. "Can I take some money out now?" he asked.

  "Of course. How much would you like?"

  That question gave Matty pause. "I'm not sure, actually. I need to buy some clothes and the paper, and I'd like to have some cash on hand, so…"

  The man nodded. "$50 will be plenty."

  Matty had to bite his tongue at that. It seemed such a small amount. Things were much different now, he reminded himself, everything had changed, he lived underground in New York City, in an apartment dug out of the rock and walls of the old subway system, having been in cryogen
ic suspension for ninety-nine years. He had no real idea yet of how society down here worked. He was determined to learn quickly.

  "I'll be guided by you," Matty said.

  "Right, I'll get that for you. If you'll sign here—" a withdrawal slip was pushed across the table to him, and Matty signed where the man indicated "—I'll be right back."

  "Thanks."

  After the man had left, Matty turned to Linda. "Are you okay?"

  She nodded. "Yes, I'm fine. I just forget sometimes that people who work in this part of Dogtown tend to look down on the rest of us."

  "Dogtown?" Matty echoed.

  She smiled. "That's a nickname that was given to all the homes that live underground. See, apparently, back before the Event, we used to live above ground—can you imagine?—and there were these animals called Prairie Dogs who used to live in tunnels and large caves that they dug out underground and they were called dogtowns. Someone way back started calling our homes Dogtown and it stuck."

  "Is that the case everywhere? I mean, outside the US as well as in it?"

  Linda shrugged. "I don't know. I don't really think about the rest of the world. What's the US?"

  Matty took a breath. "The United States of America."

  "Oh, I remember that. I think we were taught about that in school. History bored me, so I didn't really pay much attention. Anyway, after you've got your money, we'll get you some clothes. Now you know where the money exchange—sorry, the bank—" this was said with a roll of the eyes "—is, you'll be able to come and do your own money exchanging."

  "Right," Matty said.

  The man returned and sat down. He counted out the money, which didn't resemble any dollar bills that Matty had ever seen before. They were colored blue for one thing, and didn't have anything on them except the denominations and the words, "New York Underground City Bank." The man handed the money over and Matty took it.