by K. F. Breene
That was when she realized something else. The air in here wasn’t horrible at all. Quite the opposite. She was perfectly comfortable. The disgusting, brownish, foul-smelling environment on the outside did not reach the interior of this warehouse. The system installed in here created air as good as that in her old department, but in much worse conditions. This conglomerate had spent a lot of money on this warehouse.
The pinch in her gut churned her stomach. “Sir, do you have anyone more than three clicks?” she asked again.
“More than that? No, I don’t think so.” Their footsteps echoed off the faded walls covered in stains and peeling paint. The floor, however, had already been changed over. It felt strangely bouncy, like hard rubber.
Was it her imagination, or did faint lights glow deep within it with each step?
“I think we only have one or two that smart,” he said, stopping at another door. He pulled it open and breathed a soft sigh of relief. Stepping out after him, she echoed it. A security station stretched out before them, low-tech and fairly rinky-dink. It would probably just scan retinas. The door clanged shut behind them—no door handle on the outside, she noticed. “This leads out to the walkway into the bay. I can get you a ride with a company craft. They’ll take anyone, mostly.”
“So . . .” Millicent glanced back the way she’d come as the man started forward. She felt Ryker’s hand on her shoulder, directing her. “The walkway is stupid. The company craft is stupid. The staffers are—” Ryker’s hand squeezed. Oops. “Not totally necessary to this . . .” Another squeeze. She skipped it. “But they are storing some . . . things I’ve never seen. This doesn’t add up.”
“Hide your most valuable possessions in a place no one will ever think to look,” Ryker said in a low tone. “Toton’s got something brewing. Something big. And we best get off this world before they unveil it.”
“Get off this . . .” The man blinked at all of them for a moment, his hazel eyes unfocused.
Mr. McAllister looked back the way they’d come. “This conglomerate would have to have some incredibly smart individuals to think all that up. But they don’t have any reports of staffers for sale. Not even any troubled geniuses. And they don’t buy stock from others—not much anyway. A few here and there. When I was researching breeder candidates, they didn’t have one viable source. We only contracted one sperm donor in Marie’s group. We are the leaders in human intelligence . . . or so I thought . . .”
“Human intelligence,” Millicent said again, mostly to herself. “Maybe this isn’t a boiling-frog situation. Maybe this is a keep-it-quiet situation, so no one can stop them from breaking the rules. Greed at its worst usually results in wanting to take over the world. It wouldn’t be the first time in history.”
“I agree with one thing,” Mr. McAllister said. “We best get off this world before they unveil whatever they are doing. I don’t want to be any part of it. Our group still has rules against killing innocent staffers, like that girl.”
“Mostly.” Ryker turned to the clunky craft shuddering into the bay. It docked with noisy rattling. “We pretend we do anyway. And that is far better than . . . what went on in there.”
They filed into the craft, which was every bit as stupid as the man had led them to believe, and sat down, falling into silence. As it pulled away, the inside mostly empty besides two very intoxicated men and a woman chatting loudly to whoever was on the other end of her communication, the man said, “Who are you people?”
“We get that a lot,” Mr. McAllister said.
Millicent’s eyes drooped as she extracted the millionth tiny piece of glass from Ryker’s back. They had retreated to the dingy apartment assigned to Conrath—the man from the warehouse—to catch a few hours of shut-eye and get Ryker on the mend. The larger shards from the warehouse window had scored him deeply, and crumbles from the craft window littered the wounds, needing to be extracted before any sort of medicine could be applied to close him up. A normal man would’ve bled out, or at the very least passed out. But then, a normal man wouldn’t have reacted quicker than she could blink, combatting the agony with a kiss.
She slapped her face. Clapping had long since stopped working. The drugs had worn off, and the adrenaline was long gone. She was shaky and only half-conscious.
“You should let me do it,” Trent said, kneeling beside them. The baby was lying on the floor with a fluffy blanket, one of the few nice things in the tiny hovel where Conrath lived. She now knew why Ryker called her princess. Not that she would admit it. “You’re poking him half the time. And it’s taking too long. I know you care for him, but I’m better at this . . .”
“He’s sleeping. He can’t feel it. Besides, I’m almost done.” To prove Trent’s point, her tweezers jabbed his torn and weeping flesh. “Oops.”
“Just . . .” Trent forcefully took the tweezers. “I can’t kill the man with a pair of tweezers. I don’t even know if I could kill him with a gun.”
“How much time do we have?” She looked at her wrist, but the numbers meant nothing. “Did Ryker tell you when we’re supposed to meet this Roe person?”
“No. But his urgency means we’re running out of time. His breed is almost always cool under pressure. As you could probably tell.”
“You talk about him like he’s an animal.”
“We are animals. Mammals.”
Millicent felt the fog overcome her senses. Her head thunked off the floor, a strangely hollow sound.
“Are you okay?” she heard.
Her body was shaking worse now. Freezing. Her teeth chattered. “Trent, could you get me a blanket, please. I think I’m about to—”
The black pulled her under.
Three beeps sounded from outside the dwelling’s haze-covered window.
“That’ll be the bus,” Conrath said, still sitting on the edge of his bed.
Millicent, feeling like she was deep underwater, leaned against the wall as fatigue dragged down her limbs. Ryker, eyes puffy and loose hair tousled, stood straight and broad in front of the door, holding a sleeping Marie. The back of his suit was green whereas the rest was navy, the color of Conrath’s favorite—and only—good suit. Being that now Conrath could buy two new suits with the price they’d paid for his used one, he didn’t complain. At all, actually. He still wasn’t talking much. Staring, he did plenty of.
“Trent, get off the floor,” Millicent ordered, trying for her hard director’s voice and ending up with something squeaky instead.
The lab staffer picked himself up slowly before rubbing his eyes. “It’s a testament to how tired I am that I don’t mind the flea bites.”
“I bet Millie still did,” Ryker said in a teasing voice.
“Do you have to be half-dead to be serious?” she said in annoyance. Because yes, she did mind the fleas.
A long beep.
“It’s outside,” Conrath said. “Down the walkway a little, remember? Like when we came in?”
“Got it. Thanks for your help.” Ryker gave the other man a nod and opened the door. The environment blasted in, swirling his hair before reaching Millicent. The bite of the air, not as bad as in San Francisco, revived her a bit. The smell, though . . .
She pushed away from the wall and followed Ryker out, noticing the deeper glow. The sun had to be close to the horizon. “I miss my apartment.”
“I would’ve liked to live in your apartment,” Ryker said, patting Marie’s back as she stirred. “It was chic. Very high-class. We would’ve both fit easily.”
“No.”
“What’s that?”
“Just in case we end up back there—no.”
“Always playing hard to get, huh?” He tsked. “You’d think she’d learn her lesson.”
“Trent can’t hear you. He’s holding his head as he’s walking.”
“I wasn’t talking to Trent.”
“Then who were you talking to?”
“Never mind.” The door to the employee bus slid open. The inside, shabby with h
ard use, held ten people, all staring down at their wrists or wearing black glasses that signified some sort of 3-D game.
Her mind flashed back to the glasses the guard in the lab had worn, what seemed like so long ago. The image on the small screen flared in her memory, followed by a tingly feeling she realized was uncomfortable arousal. And it only seemed to get worse, often prompted by ridiculous things. A while ago she’d caught sight of Ryker’s upper thigh, of all things. His thigh! As if something even remotely related to the reproductive system could bring on a hot flash of desire. She didn’t mind the deep, consuming feeling of Ryker as a person—that was somewhat grounded and pleasant—but this clenching, pounding, tightening thing was a distraction without any benefit.
After clearing her throat, she crossed her arms over her chest. She wondered if sex would ease it, and if so, how long that feeling would last. Because she’d knock that out right now, people or no, if it helped her get back on track.
“What’s wrong?” Ryker asked, his voice low. “What do you see?”
Millicent glanced around as Trent sat next to her. One woman, on the far side of the bus, glanced up and caught her gaze. Her brow furrowed before she looked back at her wrist, hunching.
“Nothing, I don’t think . . . ,” she whispered. “I don’t think these people make contact with each other.”
“No, I meant, what’s got you frustrated? What am I missing?”
“Oh.” She waved him away. “Nothing. What happens now?”
Ryker glanced at the person closest to him. He minutely shook his head. “Just follow me when I get up.”
The craft visited other apartment areas, all on the same level as far as Millicent could tell. None had bays, just open sidewalks without rails, the staffers braving the acidic rain and blasting wind with scarfs and rain slickers. Few had decent suits. The thin material didn’t even keep out the cold, if the shivers and chattering teeth were any judge.
“Downtown next,” Ryker said quietly.
The woman across the aisle glanced up, and then did a double take. Her gaze roamed his face before dipping to his shoulders and grazing his chest. She totally ignored Marie, who had her head resting on Ryker’s shoulder.
Millicent sighed, lifting her eyebrows and shaking her head. “I just don’t understand why more people don’t use Clarity,” she said. “What possible benefit could sexuality have to the masses who can’t reproduce? There’s no point to it when procreation is absent.”
“You’ll see,” Ryker said ominously.
“I agree with you, Ms. Foster—can I call you Millicent now?” Trent asked. “Since you call me Trent?”
“I don’t care,” she answered, watching someone get in. There was no retinal scanning equipment that Millicent could see. She had no idea about facial-recognition cameras, but she didn’t think so. This was just a dumb hovering transportation unit.
What was this conglomerate spending all its money on if it was eschewing such simple little devices for better security? It would cut out the need for whatever massive amounts they were spending on those killing corridors. Or maybe she was missing the point entirely . . .
“Millie?” Trent asked hopefully.
“Don’t push it,” she warned.
“Right. Millicent, then. Well, anyway, I agree. Clarity was great for focus. I really thought so. But then, I’m trapped with an outrageously pretty woman who is off-limits because of a homicidal man bred to kill with his hands. So our situations are a bit different, even though they lead to the same goal . . .”
“We aren’t in enough danger. He’s talking too much,” Ryker said. “And I wasn’t bred to kill with my hands. I was trained to. There’s a difference.”
“Not to me. It amounts to the same deadness.” Trent scratched his shoulder.
“Here we go,” Ryker said, leaning forward as the craft entered a large bay. Each side had a walkway. Ahead of them, another large, equally shabby transport was letting people out. Next to them, a vessel going the other way started forward, having just dropped off a mass of people.
When it was their turn to depart, they exited with five other people.
“Is that a kid?” someone behind Ryker asked as they filed out.
“Not if you want to keep your life, it isn’t,” he answered in a harsh tone.
“Yes, sir,” the person mumbled.
Above them, as far as Millicent could see, tiers of platforms stretched up into the sky, vessels coming and going.
“This way,” Ryker said, leading them through a throng of people to a dispenser of some sort. He tapped into the screen and then flung his finger from his wrist to the machine. “These are outdated, but I imagine they still work.”
“Personal hover boards?” Millicent reached down and picked hers up. It resisted leaving the ground, pulling at her as she turned it over. Mostly flat until the ends, which curved up, it was not much more than a thick tech board with a few strips of tread. There was no real design and, she’d bet, no real luxury.
After stepping on, she nodded. Just as she expected. A jerky ride without a stabilizer.
“Surely there is another stand with more expensive rentals?” she said. She leaned forward. It didn’t respond.
“People who can afford more wouldn’t be down here.” Ryker pushed his forward with his toe before stepping on. Trent did the same. “Speaking of, we need to head down another few levels.”
“Down?” Millicent glanced at the space between platforms, just barely able to see down to the landing below. “What sort of meeting place is going to be lower than this?”
“Bars, probably. Not ones you should ever go to by yourself.”
“Do they not have women there?” Millicent leaned forward harder, following Ryker’s lead. The sound of skin slapping the grimy tiles, followed by an oomf, brought her up short.
Good thing Ryker was holding Marie, because Trent had tipped onto his face. His board slowly drifted out from behind him, headed away on its own. She barely contained a snort as he laboriously picked himself up and then started when he realized his board was getting away from him.
“I’d planned to leave him behind,” Ryker said in an undertone, watching Trent limp after his board. “But I can’t now. Not after all he’s done for Marie.”
“He’s knowledgeable about medicine and child development. Marie’s development, specifically. Even though this plight is way out of his league, he’s valuable.” Something occurred to Millicent. “Is this your protection bubble he was talking about? It now includes him?”
Ryker’s brow dipped. He glanced at her before turning around, not commenting.
“About the bar, though,” Millicent said as Trent came toward them with windmilling arms.
“They do have women, yes. Of course they do. But none like you.” Ryker leaned forward gracefully, making it look easy.
Millicent tried to emulate his movements, but she had her own issues with waving arms. “This is probably why so many people are walking.”
“No, it’s not, princess,” Ryker said, humor infusing his voice again.
“I think what he means is that you got a lot of benefits that not many other people—”
“I know what he means,” Millicent snapped. Ryker’s chuckling didn’t help matters.
They made their way through the masses of people and took the movable platforms down, one at a time, never having to leave their hover boards. Ryker drew a fair share of looks, mostly from wide-eyed passersby. He was easily the biggest, most muscular person on this level. The only one carrying a child.
Millicent was also the subject of quick, harried scrutiny. Even though she was on par for a healthy weight, she was substantially curvier than those around her. In fact, most people were sticklike. Starved well past health. Their cheeks were hollowed, and their bones clearly showed.
“Is this what it’s like in the lower areas of San Francisco?” she asked Ryker as they were waiting for the platform down.
“Near the ground level
. . .” His eyes squinted in thought or remembrance. “Not as skinny but just as unhealthy. They can only afford mostly synthetic substances.”
She chewed on her lip, watching as a man dropped a pouch of food. His head bent, and he stared at it for a moment before slowly bending to retrieve it. Straightening up looked physically painful.
The platform down to the next level shook to a start. The floor obscured Millicent’s view as they were lowered. “One more,” Ryker said as they stopped at the floor below.
“So the man with the plan hangs out in seedy bars,” Trent said as he picked at his nail. “That doesn’t bode well, right? I don’t know what you’re paying him, but I’d imagine it’s a lot, right? So what is a man with a lot of credit doing at a seedy bar . . .”
“Not getting caught,” Ryker murmured. He started forward as the platform stopped at the correct floor. “Stay close. Someone bothers you, kill them.”
“Oh shit.” Trent leaned too far forward, trying to catch up with Millicent, and started waving his hands to stay balanced. “That sort of thing goes on down here?”
Hard eyes tracked them as they passed, a greedy light in their depths. More people were taking notice now, more often of Trent than Ryker’s size. They probably realized he was easy pickings, wealthy but not used to violence or killing.
“Stay close, Trent,” Millicent said, ready to command a gun into her hand. She was thankful to have changed back into her suit at Conrath’s apartment. Lugging all that weight around was about to pay off.
“You guys are going really fast,” he said with a tight voice. Bent too far forward, he zoomed in front of her and then wobbled, his arms circling.
“Stop looking the fool,” she said through clenched teeth. Large and scarred men stood against walls, watching. One guy, grizzled with salt-and-pepper hair tucked behind his ears, chewed a small plastic stick. A scar sliced across one cheek and continued over both lips. His hands twirled something in front of him. “How much longer, Ryker?”
Instead of answering, he stopped at a corner; Marie, now seated on his hip, sleepily wiped her eyes. He waited for Millicent to get closer before continuing onward. “Not long. These guys are just sizing us up. They won’t engage yet. They’ll want to see who we’re affiliated with.”