Every second spent in Nafikh presence is a second too many, and Lucy is a pro at hanging back at the end of a call. Tonight she’s in luck because the other serv they called in is Faithful, and he’ll hop right to it, more power to him. He’s all dressed up in a white suit with his hair slicked back like he’s going to prom. Not that she’s any better in her gold silk dress with a flower in her hair. The Nafikh need pretty things. Smooth things, light things, glittering things. And smiles.
“Get ’em on,” Gabriel says, swinging the door open.
Her Faithful companion shapes his face in to the broad smile that the Nafikh prefer. He turns to Lucy. He looks insanely happy.
“I’m Jay, by the way,” he says, holding out his hand.
“Who the fuck cares?” Lucy retorts, and shoulders by.
Gabriel chuckles, shaking his head. But why bother, the way Lucy sees it. Your new serv friend could be dead in an hour. There’s a whole host of reasons that make it pointless to know each other at all, but that doesn’t stop servs from clustering together like the aliens that they are, clutching at their pathetic doomed connections as if they have any meaning, freaking out every time one of them pops off like there aren’t three more sweating out arrival around the corner.
It isn’t to say Lucy doesn’t ever socialize, but in the end, her work for Theo makes everything too complicated. A fellow serv might start asking questions, such as how she gets to stay in an apartment instead of bunking. And then there’s her weird history, all those years living with people.
That alone makes her more freakish than the freaks they all are.
She plasters on her smile and heads down the narrow staircase leading into the club. Freezing air wafts up from below; the Nafikh have to be kept nice and cool in Their human bodies. Even elevated serv body temps get tested by the cold the Nafikh need, which is where the painkiller dose comes in handy as well.
She doesn’t get why people come to this frigid club. Socialites in furs, hanging on lanky sallow guys with poufy haircuts and shiny clothes. They stand outside in all kinds of weather, begging for a chance to get in on the exclusive private party. The sentries, posing as bouncers, have to calibrate the numbers with a fine hand: the Nafikh yearn to be in the vicinity of humans, but They get all worked up, They want to touch, squeeze, sniff. A little too much, and They get hyperstimulated, end up crushing and mangling instead. It’s the stench of mortality that They go off on, as every serv gets taught: They are tuned to the minuscule events occurring deep inside human bodies, a cell collapsing, a disease taking root. They can smell the rot clear as if the merry, oblivious host busting out moves on the dance floor is already bloating up on a gurney.
Servs have the rot, too, but less so, being powered on the Source rather than heartbeat, blood, cells. Servs are stupendously perfect simulacra, down to every hair, every deepening wrinkle, every sneeze. But they aren’t real, so the Nafikh can tolerate their presence better. Which is in no way saying servs don’t get targeted; it’s just less certain.
For servs it’s hellish having people around. So much can go wrong. Last year, one of the Nafikh went berserk at a gala affair. A fire broke out and twenty people died. The official investigation was inconclusive, but the truth traveled fast through the serv world: the Nafikh had been in a male form and succumbed to the body’s desires. His actions had been untoward and violent, someone assaulted Him in turn, and He got frightened. He blew out of this world from there instead of using the Gate. Hence the conflagration. As for witnesses, there weren’t any and never are. The Nafikh travel on the bend of time, that is how Theo explained it once. Then time snaps back. All a person’s left with is a massive headache and the feeling of having forgotten something. Provided he or she survives the departure, that is.
There are supposedly Nafikh called Stayers that can cozy up to real people without losing it. They’ve been visiting for hundreds of years and have built up Their tolerance. Lucy’s never met one and never will, as They have no need of Service. She’s heard Stayers can hang around the whole winter without burning out, that They’re able to contain Their violence, that They just want to poke around and take Their pleasure. They live in swank apartments and have social lives with people, going to the opera, hosting dinner parties and the like, as if They’re nothing more than wealthy foreigners on holiday.
All of which sounds like a load of crap: serv urban legend. Nafikh that don’t require Service and wouldn’t harm a fly? Right.
The stairs end in a short hallway with silver curtains. A sentry parts them to let the two latecomers into the bright room lit with chandeliers. A glass platform revolves slowly in the center, flickering with strobe lights. Lucy picks out the three servs among the dancers, subtly keeping themselves between the people and the Nafikh in the opposite booth.
Lucy hasn’t seen either of Them before, a male and female, encased in the statuesque, muscle-bound bodies They prefer. She sizes Them up at once: not first-timers, but close to it. They’re both sitting bolt upright, brimming with tension; the female’s leg juts out from a high-slit lamé dress in an awkward pose, like She doesn’t yet know how to arrange Her body; the male is in a white silk shirt and tight, glittering dark pants that He is currently prodding, His mouth an O of delight.
Their newness to visiting is both good and bad news. Good, because They’ll tire more easily, unaccustomed to the strain. Bad, because newbies scare more easily. The Nafikh, for all Their power, basically spend visits in a state of fear. They’re strapped in a rickety roller coaster hurtling on the wild ride of mortality. In these bodies, They could be hurt, They could die. They’re here to taste that terror, but when it gets the best of Them, it means a world of shit for servs and sentries.
The Nafikh become aware at once of new servs in the room. They turn to look. Nafikh eyes are a punch in the gut: they shine bright and wet, but they’re totally drained of emotion, like the empty stare of a wild animal. Deep within those awful eyes swirls a darkness, a sucking void that terrorizes every serv drawn into the field of vision. It’s undetectable by humans, of course; to them, a Nafikh’s abstracted glassy look indicates a drug-induced high, or just another league: the not-so-subtle presence of bodyguards and Their unusual height and physique suggest famous athlete or movie star.
“You’re on drinks,” Gabriel says from behind, “and you’re on the female.”
Faithful, grinning Jay oozes delight and moves towards the booth, which to Lucy is the pit of hell she wants to stay as far from as possible, thank you. She’ll never get the Faithful. Never. Lucy’s just glad she’s on something easy. She ducks towards the bar, reveling in her good fortune.
“Well, if it ain’t Miss PhD,” the bartender says. She’s a bitter old crab Lucy’s worked with before, her name is Asa. She calls Lucy that for her fluency, a rarity among servs. “Why you so giddy?” Asa demands. “You not be all stuffed with yourself, you being here one hour ago.”
“Well, I wasn’t, and now is now.”
“Mr. Fancypants brained pretty thing just like you,” Asa informs her.
“Thanks.”
“Just saying.” Asa slops gin into the shaker and slams the lid on, planting her bleak gaze on Lucy all the while. They’re out of sight so they don’t need to wear their smiles, and Asa takes full advantage.
Lucy ignores her, aimlessly spinning the silver tray on the gleaming bar surface. Her reflection shifts and breaks. She glances up to see Jay and the female heading into the back room. Sentries always have to rustle up a Faithful for female Nafikh; a regular serv with a healthy, normal level of terror would never be able to get it up. The male, left on His own, now stares blankly at the floor, like He’s winding down. This is promising. Lucy calculates two hours tops, including cleanup. Which means she’ll get home in time to shower and have a coffee before heading out to work.
“Hey, who are they, anyway?” A fresh-faced college kid in a tailored plaid coat leans into their space, holding out a fifty for a refill. “Are they, like, imp
ortant or something?”
“I heard they’re Hungarian wrestlers,” Lucy proposes, and Asa tucks a sly smile, shaking the mixer.
“Oh, yeah?” The boy looks at the Nafikh with admiration. “Wouldn’t want to get pinned by one of them, huh,” he jokes.
“That you would not,” Lucy agrees.
He leaves a two-dollar tip in loose change, which Asa swipes off the counter into her apron. She sets a gin and tonic on the tray, gives it a nudge.
“Go ahead. Break a leg.”
“Huh.”
Lucy lifts the tray. She pauses to fix her smile, glancing over at Gabriel for confirmation that all’s in order: a smudge of lipstick on a tooth can send a Nafikh into a tailspin. He gives her a small, tight nod, all business now. Lucy turns on her heel and marches forward, the tray held high, pushing as much merriment into her expression as she possibly can because the Nafikh like pretty things, happy things, grateful, merry, shiny things.
Just make it out.
She arrives at the table and pauses until the Nafikh lifts His head. The wet eyes bore into her, following her every motion as she carefully removes the drink from the tray, slowly hands it over. There is a pause, everything perfectly still. Then His hand lifts, the huge fingers unfolding. He grasps the glass, carries it to His mouth. Lucy gauges her options, and then, ever so slowly, backs away with the empty tray, her cheeks starting to ache from the broad rictus smile.
The Nafikh’s eyes flit, fix on her. She stops. He stares at her with increasing focus. His skin glows in the flickering lights. His mouth drops open, and then the tongue emerges, licking the dried lips. The sentries teach the Nafikh how to use Their human forms properly—how to behave in public, in short. This one’s losing His manners, which is the serv euphemism for a Nafikh about to blow a gasket.
Gabriel nudges her. “Keep going,” he says.
He edges into the Nafikh’s line of sight, blocking her slow retreat. It’s a sentry’s job to distract and diffuse, but a lot of them opt to just hang back; better a few servs get banged around or worse than risk their own precious skins. Gabriel is different that way. From the relative safety of the bar, Lucy watches him bend over the Nafikh, saying who knows what. Sentries have sway: they’re servs whose strength has been boosted by the Nafikh for the sole purpose of protecting Them. The Nafikh heed their directions, most of the time. The rest, sentries get mangled and brutalized like any old serv, even killed.
Gabriel’s a pro, however, and a few minutes later, the Nafikh slowly lifts Himself up, towering over the sentry: He must measure at least six and a half feet tall. The people on the dance floor stumble into one another, agape with clueless amazement at the muscles straining against the tight clothing, the comic book physique.
Three more sentries fan into the room, laying out the protective net around the moving Nafikh, so as to keep His fear in check. They exit the far side of the room in a phalanx. At the door, Gabriel glances back, gestures Lucy to stay put, snuffing her hope that she can duck out early.
She sinks onto a barstool, trying to quell her frustration. Service amounts to two extremes: terror or boredom. She’ll have to sit here waiting for the female to come back out with Her Faithful dog, who’ll sicken Lucy all the more with his postcoital satisfaction. She squashes the wicked hope that Jay gets offed: the Nafikh’s rage could spin out of control and land right on her, no need to tempt fate.
“Drink?” Asa inquires, and places a Jameson neat on the counter.
Club calls do have a perk or two. Lucy takes the shot in one gulp, wondering if Gabriel will come back. She might be getting a thing for him, too. Though it could just be gratitude. Vague images of sex with him flit around in her head; any such contact between sentries and servs is forbidden, but that isn’t to say it doesn’t happen. It’s been a while. With a person or a serv, that is; she hardly counts servicing Nafikh, which is like scrabbling along the brink of death, every second a silent scream.
She sits there, one leg swinging, watching the stupid frozen people gyrate and spin and laugh. Asa pours a few more rounds of drinks. They load up their purses with nuts and leftovers from the sandwich trays that went around earlier. It’s a good yield. They wait, their eyes flitting every now and then to the clock, whose hands move with tormenting slowness. At last, the doors open, and out comes Jay. He’s limping, tears streaming down his wrecked, swollen face. He looks around in total confusion. Lucy jumps off the barstool and hurries over, leads him away from curious onlookers.
“I thought for sure it would happen tonight,” he cries, leaning against her. “I thought I’d get my boost!”
“You should be glad you’re even alive,” Lucy hisses, struggling to walk under his unsteady pressure. She heaves him forward, towards the door to the left of the bar, held open by an impatiently waving Asa. He blabbers on about his failed boost. He did everything She said, he did more, he was perfect. They’re in the back office now, and Lucy can’t shake him off. He’s losing it. She squirms free, and he gropes at her, weeping, “I did everything right! I swear!”
“Stop!” she yells and slaps him.
There is a moment of total shock, his huge baby-blue eyes stunned and hurt. Then something changes in them. In the split second before she sees his fist coming at her face, Lucy thinks, Oh, come on.
SHE GETS HOME AT six thirty a.m., flips open her laptop to check in.
“Already getting pinged every two minutes, and they’re saying it’s gonna be the worst winter in years,” Bernie complains, as if he’s the one who was out most of the night on a call and now has to get ready for work. His face looks distorted on the screen as he leans in closer to peer at her. “That’s a nice shiner.”
“Boost-bum had a meltdown when he didn’t get what he wanted. Now I have to explain this at the office. Fucking sucks.”
“What’re you wearing? Oh, that gold number. I like that one.”
“You wish.” She’d lay a string of curses on him, but overseers giveth and they taketh: she’ll hardly forget that Bernie can slap a Service on her anytime, and he knows it, which is why he takes a moment to lift his fingers to his lips in the vulgar V-shape, then flicks his tongue.
“Go take a shower, Bernie.”
“You’re killing me.” He sighs. “All right, you little tart. You’re all checked in. Going strong at 177/303.”
“Thanks,” Lucy says. She hits the End Call button and he vanishes. He may irritate the hell out of her, but so far, he hasn’t been unfair.
It’s already seven, she has to be out the door at eight. She can’t keep this up. The winter is predicted to be frigid, so things are going to go from bad to seriously hellish. She’s got no choice, she’s going to have consider forking out for a dupe, suck up the blow to her meager savings. But better to stay on the temp agency’s good side. Her life is a cascading list of priorities, with keeping her job no matter what sitting at the top. There is no way she’s losing this apartment and ending up in a bunk, even if it means not sleeping for a whole week.
She bums around the dupe sites looking up the neophytes, which is all she can afford. She’s only hired twice. One time it paid off, the other, the dupe didn’t make it and she got called in with three extra Services slapped on, hence her 303 quota. A neo is a risk she’ll take again only if she’s in the direst need.
The profile pics are either pale and defiant, I can do this conveyed in their grim stares, or else they exude the dreamy vacancy of the Faithful, who make up the majority of the dupe population. She settles on a sturdy-looking chick called Vivian as her first choice, if and when the time comes. Vivian lists her ultimate goal as owning her own home. Lucy likes that. It suggests gravity and purpose, unlike the rest of them. I’m gonna sail around the world! I’ll start my own product line!
Lucy’s considered hanging up a shingle herself. The problem is, a neo goes for shit at first; it takes ages to build a reputation. There are staggering up-front costs: advertising space on other dupe sites, a wardrobe, three or four cell li
nes. Typically, you go into serious debt to your sponsor dupe, because you can’t hold down any other job to make ends meet; it’s hard enough working a regular Service rotation, let alone back-to-back.
Still, if you make it as a dupe, you’re in jet-set limo land, you can charge the moon for a Service. You’re also more likely to get a boost. Regular servs mostly do the bare minimum in Service: their only goal is to make it out in one piece. Lucy falls squarely in that camp. But the long-time pro dupes who excel at giving the Nafikh everything They want without making a peep, they angle hard for a boost, every time.
Lucy’s thought hard on whether she’d strive for a boost if she’d already socked away a fortune duping—as if it’s a real possibility, but who doesn’t need fantasies to keep going. Her conclusion: no fucking way. Sentries live way longer than regular servs, and they get to retire, so part of that long life is free of Service. But even that wouldn’t be worth having to spend one more minute in Nafikh presence. She’ll never dupe, and if she does ever bust quota, no way she’s hanging around hoping for a boost. She’ll finish her degree, get a decent-paying job. She’ll get a place in the North End, her favorite part of the city and just a short ferry ride to Hull. She’ll save up and take Eva on her longed-for trip to Ireland—
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