by Lyn Forester
By the time we reach the next cross street and turn toward Central Plaza, the sandwich is gone. Drake pouts at the empty wrapper before crumpling the foil into a ball. He tosses it at a trash can, barely missing a woman who hurries past. The few other pedestrians on the sidewalk head in the same direction we do, paces hurried until they outdistance us and disappear from view. Soon, we’re alone. Sunday mornings are slow, and Level 9 has a smaller populace, but the city shouldn’t be this empty.
“Is there something going on we should know about?” I ask as a man runs past.
“I don’t know.” Drake frowns and turns in a circle before pointing. “Let’s head over there.”
I follow the line of his arm toward a shop window with a vid screen on display. “Yeah.”
We cross the empty street to the store and go inside. A disinterested clerk sits behind the counter, eyes glued to a smaller vid screen on the checkout desk in front of him. More vid screens fill the left wall, streaming popular dramas with the volume muted. Short shelves arranged in the center hold plastic cutouts that play silent trailers for movies customers can buy for download. At the back, a black curtain covers a doorway. The skin trade section—not appropriate for public view.
“Hey, man,” Drake calls to the clerk. “Mind if we change the channel?”
A negligent hand waves in our direction, and we circle the shelves to the wall of screens. Drake runs his fingers around the rim of the closest one until he finds the button controls. The screen flickers through shows until he stops on the local news. He turns up the volume.
A halfbreed woman sits at a desk, white hair slicked back against her head and electric blue eyes staring into the camera. Along the bottom of the screen, statistics display water quality and vegetables that will soon be in season on the upper levels.
Silver-pointed nails stroke the arms of her chair as she delivers the news. “This morning, protesters flock to Central Plaza to converge on the House of Environmental Quality. Concerns stem from the Koevhern Clan’s plans to build a new city structure in a prime soil-harvesting region. Future development could put a strain on food production worldwide. Demands are being made to place additional strictures on population growth so that a new city structure is unnecessary. So far, the protesters remain calm, but the blue guard cautions citizens to avoid Central Plaza until the unrest is contained.” She smiles at the camera, a bare tilt of the lips to prevent wrinkles. “In other news, a tear in the rim netting on Level 7 has caused an increase in sky skippers throughout the city. If you notice a decrease in your electricity levels, please report the problem immediately. And now, a word from our sponsor.”
Drake presses mute as a cartoon jellyfish floats across the screen, lightning bolts crackling between its tentacles. An exterminator in a brown uniform runs after it, net held high as he chases the sky skipper.
“Sounds like we need a different elevator to Level 11.” The mental map I have of the city fails to reveal an equally direct route.
“Most of the ones outside Central Plaza only go to Level 10.” He stares at the ground in thought. “We’ll need two lift changes to get high enough.”
“Exclusive snobs.” The rich, upper-level citizens make it difficult for lower level residents to venture up that high. “What about the elevator in NuArc?”
Drake nods. “It’s halfway around the city, but still faster.”
“With everyone either at Central Plaza or staying home, the streets should be wide open.” I walk toward the store entrance, hand already in my bag to pull out my disc-bike.
“I get milk tea after I win this time.” He hurries ahead of me and out the door, unclipping the palm-sized disc from his belt.
“No cheating.”
“All’s fair when racing for food.” The beam of energy buzzes to life on his bike while I’m still assembling mine. “What do you want if you win, Rae?”
I pause in the process of snapping the handlebars into place. That damn warm feeling rushes through me again, and I shake it off. Not dealing with it right now. What do I want if I win? I finish assembling the bike and press the power button. Tri-rings of light whir to life, lifting my hair with the energy surge.
“An entire case of GoGoNow Cherry Flavored.” I swing a leg over the disc-bike and settle into the seat. It dips beneath my weight, then levels out.
“You’re gonna have stomach issues when you get old.”
“Not worried about it.” I hook my feet in the stirrups and ratchet them up near my butt. Leaning forward, I flip the switch to open the propulsion valves and glance at him.
He hasn’t taken off yet. Maybe he wants a real race this time.
“You ready yet?” He raises an eyebrow, hands wrapped around his directional shaft.
“I’m already gone.” I release the brakes and leave him in my light stream.
~
NuArc rises thirty stories into the air before it punches through the hexagonal sky-panel to continue through the next two levels. The concrete face has a high polish so on nice days, it gleams as if the whole thing is made of plas-glass. Doormen stand at either side of the entrance, gray uniforms pressed to sharp-lined attention. At the shoulders, silver buttons wink. They step in sync as they move to the doors, grip the polished handles in gloved hands, and pull them open. Impeccable timing.
I hover on the sidewalk, making them wait, as Drake pulls up to the curb and dismounts. Against my hip, my disassembled disc-bike bounces in the satchel as I rock on my toes. Two minutes, my win.
My mouth pops open as Drake walks up, ready to start my list of demands. The race gave me time to think, and I’ve added a couple more items to my victory reward. He strides past without pause, and I freeze, heels thumping down hard enough to vibrate my bones.
Excitement fizzes out to leave a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. Victory dancing should be in progress, not me standing alone on the sidewalk staring at his back.
What the fuck? Is he pouting?
He strides through the doors, paying no attention to the door attendants, either. They’re just another part of the building to him. I trail after him, annoyed and uneasy with the sudden change in behavior.
Today, the round table in the center of the lobby holds a giant vase of purple blossoms. Reflexively, I draw in a deep breath as I follow past them, curious what they’ll smell like. I’ve never seen blooms so large. No scent comes from them—bred for decoration only.
At the elevators, another doorman waits to press the call button. The over-helpful employees, intended to infuse the company with a sense of opulence, have the opposite effect and make it impersonal, unreal. I could never work here.
“Will you be going to the thirtieth floor, Mr. Esten?” he asks as the elevator arrives. He hurries inside ahead of us to hold the doors open.
“Yes, thank you.” Drake’s tone comes out clipped, cold. All the animation and teasing of the last few days is muted, flat.
“Very good, sir.” With a light press of the button, the doorman steps off and the doors close. The elevator rises, accelerating until my stomach drops.
Drake turns toward me, shoulders squared, almost stiff as his arms rest straight at his sides. “We’ll need to swap elevators again near my office.”
“You’re creeping me out.” I lean away from him, not liking this emotionless man. Not that I like the emotional one either. But the sudden change bothers me.
He raises an eyebrow, too perfect. A robot expression. “What’s going on?”
“You tell me.” The elevator vibrates under my feet, the speed of ascent causing the metal box to quiver around us.
He frowns, a bare crease of the eyebrows. Nowhere near his usual thunderous scowl. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing.” I grip my elbows, turn away from robotic Drake, and watch the floor numbers blur together above the doors. “How many transfers will we need?”
“This one takes us to the floor where you met Mr. Black a couple days ago.” I feel his eyes on me
and refuse to meet his gaze. Don’t want to see his expressionless face. Creepy asshole. “From there, we can catch the lift next to the portal room. It goes all the way to Level 11.”
“Will we be passing Mr. Black’s office?” My stomach rises from my feet and free floats in my abdomen before rising toward my throat. I brace my legs as the elevator comes to a stop.
The doors open, and he walks off, steps heavy enough to vibrate through the ground. He leaves me to follow or not. I glance at the glowing lobby button, tempted to go back down. The doors begin to close, and I slip through, into the hall, and search for Drake. Ahead, he turns left and keeps going; I hurry to catch up.
As if sensing my presence at his back, he continues the conversation. “No, Mr. Black’s on the opposite end. But we’ll pass my office if you want a look?”
No excitement in the offer. I don’t like Drake’s professional mask. It makes me question everything I’ve observed about him so far.
I take long steps to keep up with him, glad to be in shape when he doesn’t shorten his stride. “Do you need anything from there?”
“No.” Short and clipped.
I grip the strap of my bag, consciously unhunching my shoulders to stand straight. “Then let’s just get to Level 11.”
We walk a ways in uncomfortable silence, the first since we met. I used to go weeks not speaking to another person and never notice. Now I’m unsettled. An entire floor flows by without registering on my radar, and it scares me. Robot Drake distracts me too much. I can’t remember how many doors we’ve passed, or how many people I’ve counted. Besides the elevator, I don’t know where my exits are.
The breath catches in my lungs, comes out shaky.
“That’s my office up ahead.”
“What?” I pant out, head coming up to glance around.
“My office.” He glances down at me, the frown returning. His eyes narrow, and he slows. Moving into my personal space, his voice drops, soft and low. “Hey, you okay?”
The warm tone calms me, and I hate him.
“Fine.” I grit out. “Show me where you work.”
“Work on paperwork, you mean.” He chuffs under his breath, and a smile replaces the look of concern.
Steps now quick and light, almost silent, he moves the rest of the way to the office and scans his palm against the security reader. The door swings inward and thumps to a stop, only open a foot.
A quiet yelp comes from inside. “Mr. Esten?”
“Tim? What the hell are you doing in my office?” Drake growls. He shoves on the faux wood panel, hard, and a solid weight hits the wall.
Red curls appear first, followed by a lean body, as a young man tumbles into view. He rubs at his head where a lump is forming above his left eye. Chagrined, he glances up at Drake with wide eyes. “Sorry, Mr. Esten. You had a delivery come today. I just brought it in. I was going to message you when I got back to my cubicle.”
He lifts a shaky arm to point at the desk, where a small vase holds three red blooms. As we walk into the room I notice their fragrance has already filled the space, sweet musk and spice. Someone must really want Drake’s attention. Real flowers are beyond expensive. A bouquet like that costs as much as an entire month of my bills.
Drake pauses next to the kid to stare down at him. “Did you get the financial paperwork on The Hut’s owner that I requested?”
“I was working on it when the delivery arrived. Who sent it to you?” Tim wiggles in place, embarrassment replaced with unbridled curiosity. I glance from him, back toward the door, then up toward the ceiling. Pulling in a deep breath, I gag on the pungent floral stench that blankets the office.
“No idea.” Drake walks over to the flowers and pulls a white card from the center of the arrangement. He reads the note, scowls, and crumples it in his fist. It lands in the trash bin, and he scoops the vase off the desk. He strides back to us and thrusts it into Tim’s surprised hands. “Get rid of this.”
“What?” The kid stares down at the red blooms. “But someone spent a lot to send these to you.”
“I don’t want them.” He grabs the kid’s shoulder, spins him around, and propels him toward the door. “Back to work, Tim.”
Tim stumbles over his own feet, fumbles the vase, and catches his balance in the hall. “Yes, sir.”
The shadow behind the open door piques my interest, and I take a step toward it. A palm between my shoulders sends me stumbling out of the office, missing Tim through a quick twist of my body. Drake follows and locks the office behind himself, determined we all leave together.
“Okay, let’s get to that elevator.” He grabs the sleeve of my jacket and hauls me forward.
So much for not being manhandled.
I yank my arm free and resettle the satchel at my hip. “What was that about?”
He glances back at me, eyes aimed at my shoulder. “Oh, you know. One-night stand that won’t take the hint.”
Liar.
“Sure. Must be tough.”
ARE SKY SKIPPERS EDIBLE?
DRAKE
“Stop staring. You’re standing out.” Drake nudges Reagen in the shoulder, and she sways forward, toward the burbling fountain. Not budging from that spot.
As soon as they’d entered the lobby on Level 11, she’d zoomed right for it and hadn’t moved for five minutes now. Other office employees send suspicious looks their way; it’s only a matter of time before security guards arrive to move them along.
“How can they waste so much water?” She turns her head to talk to him, but her eyes stay on the three-tiered marble display. Runnels of clear liquid curve over gray stone cylinders to pool into a large basin at the base.
“It’s Level 11. If you can afford the cost, then anything’s possible.” Drake shrugs, used to the wasteful habits of the upper levels.
“But it must cost so much.” An arm lifts, fingers stretch toward the display, then drops back to her side.
“NuArc is making a statement with this. I heard Techstrom has an even larger version installed in their own lobby.”
“So lower levels lose out on water resources so the megacompanies can have a pissing contest?”
“Yep.” Near the elevator bay, a man in a business suit speaks with a security guard, and they glance toward the fountain. “Let’s go.”
Reluctant, Reagen drags herself away, and they make it out of the building without incident. While his company employee status allows him up here, it would be a hassle to sit through the clearance process.
She freezes outside of NuArc, fixated on the thin swath of greenery that lines the wide walkways. Tiny ornamental bushes sprout every twelve feet. For a moment, happiness washes through him that they are up here during Spring-Cycle. The pink flowers, now in bloom, will wither in the heat of Summer-Cycle.
This time, Reagen doesn’t resist the urge to drift forward and touch one delicate blossom. He joins her, enchanted despite himself. The petals are soft beneath his fingers, barely registering through the callouses on his fingertips.
Bloop bloop.
They glance up, startled at the noise as a blue guard pulls up on her disc-bike. Looks like they were reported after all. When the guard dismounts, the straight lines of her azure uniform fall into place without a wrinkle in sight. The eleven wings on her badge catch the holo-sun and sparkle.
“I received a call that there are some visitors in need of direction.” She strides toward them, boots heavy on the thin strip of grass as she steps onto the sidewalk. “Can I help you two find what you’re looking for?”
She folds her arms over her chest, her stance wide as she sizes them up. A halfbreed, she received all of her height genes from her Troehan clan father. She stands a couple inches taller than Drake, and, with an upward tilt of her chin, she stares down her nose at them.
Reagen straightens to square off with the other woman, less aggressive but nowhere near cowed. “We know where we’re going, but thanks for your concern.”
“Level 11’s not a plac
e to wander.” The guard puffs out her chest. “The citizens don’t take kindly to sightseers.”
Drake reaches for his business card, but Reagen’s hand on his arm makes him pause. He glances over at her, and she gives a tight-lipped smile.
“We’re here on an official Investigators, Inc. case.” She flips the lapel of her jacket open to reveal the badge she has clipped to the inside.
“You should have registered your visit at Blue Hall. We could have had an escort waiting.” She withdraws a slider palm-port from her hip holster—A new model with a clear case. When the screen activates, light shines all the way through. “I’ll have to find someone to meet you.”
“We don’t need a chauffeur, but thank you.” Drake crosses his arms over his own chest.
The blue guard’s lip curls as her gaze flickers over their clothing. Most of the pedestrians on the street wear light, airy outfits, shimmering with clan magic to ward off heat and dirt. The fabrics hang in perfect folds to accentuate good features and hide less than ideal ones. Even their hair stays perfectly coiffed against the occasional gust of wind.
In comparison, he and Reagen stand out in their dark pants and tight-fitting t-shirts. Reagen’s short jacket, worn to hide her shoulder holster, and his own faux leather appear downright thuggish.
“What’s your travel plan? I’ll call it ahead for you.” The blue guard taps on her palm-port. “I’m sending out an alert.”
Great, now their every step will be dogged by over-attentive guards.
“We’re on a blackout case. I’ll have to log any interference on citizen privacy.” Reagen pulls out her own palm-port, and Drake leans over her shoulder, curious. Their case isn’t registered with Investigators, Inc., so the rules don’t technically apply.
“An I.I. license doesn’t give you free rein on upper levels,” the blue guard growls.