Skinner Luce

  She follows Ernesto into the main room, and is at once engulfed by the vaulted, hollow quiet of the place. The walls are plain white plaster, the floors natural wide pine boards. A few Faithful are scattered about the labyrinth of pews, staring with fervent attention at the central dais, from which the priest every morning unloads his torrential Sharings about Nafikh glory and serv salvation. At the moment there is only a fountain trickling water, meant to enhance prayerful meditation. Lucy switches off her phone, sets the Service one to vibrate. She edges into the outside row, being unworthy of penetrating the labyrinth more deeply, not that she’d want to.

  Ernesto settles at a distance, as befits his status. He crosses his legs, and she notes the polished tasseled loafers, the expensive-looking jeans. His shirtsleeves are rolled halfway up his forearms in perfect symmetry. He whispers, “You look like shit, Lucy. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  He doesn’t buy this, examining her with a long sideways glance, his brows furrowed. He, of course, looks fantastic. Glowing olive skin, thick dark hair with a touch of stately gray brushed back from the temples, lush lips she kissed once a long, long time ago, when they were young and drunk. He says, “You aren’t up on the roster, are you? There’s a first-timer.”

  “No,” she says, then adds nonchalantly, as if she does it all the time, “I’ll use my dupe, anyway.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it.”

  “Things seem to be going well for you,” she remarks.

  “They are.”

  The conversation dies out. What is there to talk about, after all? He’s Theo’s darling, she’s a grunt. They aren’t on equal footing anymore, haven’t been in years. And yet there’s the connection still there between them, like an invisible, shimmering filament. She could reach out and touch his hand, and in an instant, they’d be laughing and gossiping on Theo’s veranda, the frosted fields sweeping away into the mist, a deer frozen among the birches, its delicate face turned towards their noise.

  An incalculable exhaustion creeps over her; she yearns to lie down the length of the pew and close her eyes. The fountain trickles softly. The air is refreshingly cool, the temperature perfectly calibrated for servs. She drags off her mittens and hat. Her vision swims.

  “You could join,” Ernesto whispers. “Acolytes get a long time off.”

  He thinks it’s Service that’s brought her to this low. She’d laugh if she weren’t so wiped out. I’ve got a cop on my back who knows we’re all servs, she imagines telling him. It would be one way to check out, finally. Just confess—she’s in the perfect spot, after all—then sit back and let things take their course. Maybe Ernesto would do the deed himself, for old times’ sake.

  “It’s not so bad,” Ernesto carries on. “I’ve actually come to like it here.”

  “You don’t have to Serve,” Lucy points out, partly in genuine annoyance, and partly to keep him thinking this is the root of her problem. “Of course you like sitting around here all day.”

  “I do more than that,” he retorts.

  “Oh, come on.”

  He sets his jaw. “They are all servs, just like us, Lucy. All just trying to make do.”

  That’s classic, coming from the guy who used to go on about natural selection, but she doesn’t have the energy to argue. She blinks, trying to focus through her drowsiness. The stone fountain is carved with Nafikh symbols she cannot comprehend. She sees among them a relief of two figures holding a flaming sword aloft: the biblical cherubim at the entrance to Eden, reinterpreted as Nafikh protecting the Before, to which the Faithful hope to be returned. Stirred to irritation, she sits up, shaking off her tiredness.

  “The problem is,” she whispers, “they aren’t just trying to make do. They’re making shit up, all over the place. We have nothing to do with real-people mythology.”

  “How do you know it’s mythology?”

  She lifts an eyebrow. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Lucy, of all living creatures on this earth, we see evidence every day.”

  “The Nafikh aren’t gods.”

  “No, but maybe They’re angels, subject to a god’s will. Isn’t it possible the Nafikh dwell beneath a higher power?”

  The worn, flawed notion pricks her ire. That even he is now spewing this poppycock, it’s beyond her. “Does Theo know you’re cracking?”

  He shrugs. “He likes to philosophize as much as the next person.”

  A quick envy flares: he’s so secure, has no idea what it’s like. “Well, philosophize this,” she retorts. “There’s no mystery about what we are and why we’re here. You can’t just glom onto real-people stories and pretend we have some deeper meaning or purpose. The stories don’t even fit! The Nafikh don’t go around with fiery swords, and it’s not like we were kicked out of a garden.”

  “Lucy, myths aren’t literal.”

  “No, but there has to be some thread, some connection to the reality we’re in! There’s no way They’re angels, Ernesto, just like we aren’t people. Suck it up.”

  A silence falls, during which she reads in his expression the worst possible thing: pity. She sets about gathering her stuff, furious.

  “Don’t,” he says, reaching out his hand and grasping hers. “Don’t, Lucy. It’s not worth the risk. Stay here.”

  “Fuck you,” she says.

  “Come on,” he smiles, seeking reconciliation. He was always like that. Always letting go of his anger so easily, like it’s nothing. She tugs her hand out of his, sits back resolutely, ignoring him. After a few moments, he gets up and walks away.

  Lucy’s eyes fall shut against her will, her whole body succumbing to the sweet tinkling noises of the water. She sinks into a deep doze, distantly aware of footsteps now and then, the murmur of voices. She wonders if this is why Ernesto’s come to like being Faithful, for the heavy quiet draping everything, the certainty of belonging. God is kind and good in ways you can’t possibly imagine, Eva used to tell her. He will forgive you anything, anything. Forgive me! Lucy begged hysterically in her mind, every night. Forgive her weirdness, her rage, her selfishness, her inclination towards knives. Forgive her wicked hatreds, her cruelty towards her ma, her detailed plans for killing Uncle Seamus because he beat Sean. Forgive her for being crazy and believing she was a serv like Drunk Pete told her. Forgive her for deep-down not believing in Him at all, for hating church, for taking the wafers and grape juice nevertheless. The day of her Communion, the other kids tittered and elbowed one another, they called her Bride of Casper.

  Fuck you all, Lucy tells them across the expanse of time and space, and tries to push back her thoughts, sink away again.

  But the memories have done their work, slipped in like crochet hooks and tugged her brief time of peace apart. She reluctantly sits up and looks around, refreshed, blinking. The pews are filling up for evening Share. Ernesto is at the lectern, studiously squaring off papers. She slides down the pew as quietly as possible and gets up.

  “May she come back when she is ready,” he announces, his voice booming across the room.

  He has to call her out, of course, she gets that. But still. Lucy flushes as the entire congregation rustles, turns, stares. That’s something to be said for St. Mary’s, no one would ever yell like that. She ducks out fast.

  WHEN SHE SWITCHES HER phone on again, she discovers two messages from an unknown. Julian, she thinks, with a speck of hope: not written off after all, still worthy. But it’s not him. It’s Bedrosian, the first message about visiting Eva and what a good woman she is, how he has to hand it to Lucy for the cult story, and asking if she’s made a decision. The second more impatient, telling her curtly to call, to quit being so obstinate.

  While she’s listening, the phone rings again, same number.

  She stares at the screen, lets the call go to voice mail. When it bleeps, she plays back the message. “I know you left work, Lucy, so you’re just choosing not to pick up. You listen to me. I’ve made inquiries. You’ll be off the hook if you
cooperate. It’s that simple. The sentry I work with, his name is Aaron, he isn’t happy with what’s going on. He’s ready to take action. He’ll leave you out of it, if you cooperate. So you call me, you meet me, and let’s do the right thing. I’d hate to see Eva Hennessey have to go through losing you. You do this for her, you hear?”

  Click.

  Lucy presses play again, listens in a daze. A sentry? It has to be a trick. She racks her memory for an Aaron, can’t come up with anyone, but that doesn’t mean much, she’s been in so many Services over the years. She listens again, trying to decipher whether Bedrosian actually gave out her name. Because if this Aaron really isn’t happy, he’ll just trace her tag and make her talk, and Bedrosian can go piss in a pond. She listens a fourth time, chewing her lip, bent away from the wind so as to hear every word, every intonation. It doesn’t sound like he gave her name. He’s not that stupid, she considers. He’s been around the block.

  She wipes the moisture from the screen, considering the number displayed there, unsure. Then she opens chat rooms, Twitter, keeping tabs on scoops just out of habit. She’s kind of amazed by the extreme mix of emotions blocking her from giving up Julian, Theo, the rest of them, despite how far she’s been thrust from the fold. The idea of revealing his name, Theo Elander, it goes against everything. It just hurts.

  But it’s not only that. Even if this sentry lets her off the hook, as Bedrosian said, her worst scenario will still unfold. No more extra income means no more apartment, and into a bunk she goes because she won’t have Julian to guilt into helping her get a room.

  Julian.

  If it’s hard to imagine betraying Theo, with Julian it’s way worse. She wonders if he felt bad at all, disconnecting his number like that, cutting her off. It’s sinking in, that they’ve done that. They’d have been in touch otherwise. They’d have wanted to know what’s going on.

  Since they aren’t calling, they probably already do.

  Her vision readjusts to the text flickering on the screen. Fuck: scoops a few blocks away. She breaks into a jog, heading for the Aquarium stop. She gets the latest on Rambo on the subway. A dozen dead servs, and he’s being taken out of town to minimize the risk to real people. God help me, Lucy prays involuntarily, perhaps still under the effects of the church, but if there was ever a time to hope a deity exists and that it outranks the Nafikh, it would be now. All the way home she wills the Service phone to remain silent, and to her immense gratitude, it does. She runs up the stairs and bursts into her apartment, bolts the door. The memory of the night before slams into her—Bedrosian, sitting right there at her table—but she can’t think about that right now, her priority is to avoid this Service, no matter what.

  She flips open her laptop, hunts around, trying to gauge how long Rambo will last, whether she should sink money into a dupe or ride out the visit with her fingers crossed. A first-timer will burn Itself out much sooner on the brand new sensations of inhabiting a body. Rambo’s been out at least twelve hours already: it’s got to be almost over. She agonizes over her decision, biting her lip hard, staring at the reports. There are three bids on Vivian already, the highest at $175. It’s a lot of money. A lot. But He’s a first-timer. The per-call survival rate is less than 50%. The luxury dupes never do first-timers. The neos do them because high-risk calls are a fast track to the capital and prestige they’re desperate for.

  The minutes tick by with nail-biting slowness as she watches the screen. The bidding creeps up to $190, then holds. Lucy waits. In the last seconds before close, she keys in $200, sits back with fingers crossed tightly.

  Moments later she lets go her breath. She pulled it off. She has a dupe on deck. Vivian will transmit her stats to Bernie, who will plug the update into Lucy’s file, redirecting any sentry who calls her up for Service. If Lucy doesn’t get called at all, she’ll owe Vivian her base rate of $75, which is painful, but it’s actually the lowest rate for peace of mind; Jade’s base starts at $300.

  Lucy makes a tuna sandwich and sits on the couch, taking pulls off the almost-empty Jameson bottle. The apartment falls to silence. She keeps glancing at the bolted door, half expecting Bedrosian to come knocking again. Or worse. If only she’d pulled the curtains. She can’t now, imagining herself in someone else’s eyes, a shadow creeping to the window, tugging, the stupid loops getting hitched and stuck as they always do. She sinks lower into the couch, unable to eat. After a time, she pulls the cushions around, lays herself down, and closes her eyes.

  It’s still dark. She blinks at the green clock numbers, trying to get them in focus. A little past two a.m. Too early for the alarm. Why is she awake?

  The Service phone beeps and buzzes angrily on the floor next to the couch.

  No.

  It won’t be Rambo. Surely that’s all over with now. It’s another Nafikh, it has to be. Do it. Just get the fuck up and do it.

  “On call,” she says flatly.

  “Your dupe’s gone. Pickup in half an hour. Formal attire.”

  LUCY’S SOURCE FLARES, FLOODS pain through her chest, into her arms. She tries to dredge up the guts to say no, but the lost dupe’s already incurred three extra. Outright refusal will cost as much as the sentry feels like slapping on. Or worse, a trip to the Gate.

  The sentry’s hung up anyway.

  She steps into the bathtub, sprays hot water into herself, scrubbing her labia and vulva and soaping her pubes. They’re supposed to douche, but she’ll have to take her chances, it’s this or be late for pickup.

  She dries off and rubs herself with scented jojoba oil. The sight of her pinched, white face in the mirror jolts her: how many years she’s raced around this same bathroom, scrambling to pull on the lacey underwear she despises, her heart smashing with anxiety that she’ll be late, late, late, that she’ll be hit, that she’ll be pushed to the front line under the Nafikh’s gaze. No matter how much she tells herself it will be fine, she can’t control the waves of sickness and fear. She takes several pulls off the Jameson, reaching for that dull I-don’t-care state, but she’s too wild with nerves, running this way and that, where’s the shoe polish, the eyelashes, that pink lipstick.

  There are a few minutes left, so she taps her laptop screen to life while doing her blush, puts in a call to Bernie. After numerous rings, he leans into the camera, an unshaven walrus drooping with sleep. Before he can complain about being woken, she says, “My dupe tanked. Just tell me, how bad is it?”

  He closes his eyes, shakes his head.

  “Fuck,” she says. “Bernie, please, get me out of this one.”

  “Baby, you can’t afford that. Just keep your head down.”

  He sounds genuinely sympathetic, for which she’s grateful, though she’d rather he make good on all his avowals of affection and get her the hell out.

  “Call me when you get in,” he says.

  “Thanks for the optimism.”

  She slams the laptop shut and heads out in stocking feet, carrying her heels so as not to wake Mrs. Kim. The building lobby is cold and dark and smells of fried onions and dust. She huddles in the shadows, peering out at the empty street. Even her higher body temperature can’t withstand the freezing air seeping under the doors, and she holds herself tightly, practically naked in the skimpy, backless lamé dress. Time passes. God forbid a serv be late, but sentries can do as they please. They’re ten minutes past due now. She should have douched. She frets that she might not be able to see the van, what if it parks in front of the wrong building, waits and leaves, then she gets penalized anyway.

  She unlocks the door, steps outside. The sight of Bedrosian’s car up the street is a punch in the stomach: her legs wobble and she backs a few steps to the wall. He’s seen her, but he doesn’t move, just stares from under the furry brow of his Russian hat, a big dark heap in the dim glow of the street-lamp.

  There’s the noise of an engine, and the van swings around the corner, coming fast. Lucy hurries to the curb with her arm stuck in the air like she’s hailing a cab. The door sl
ides open with a thunk. She climbs in. The van careens away at once, the door sliding shut as it moves. She falls heavily onto the seat, blinking hard, her vision taking a moment to get accustomed to the dim interior. Then becomes aware of the unusual number of sentries—three, one crouched between the two up front. It’s the Asian she ran into a few days ago, Lucy realizes. There’s the sound of breathing, and stifled sobs. The van is full up, the heat of all their serv bodies and breaths warming and then rapidly dampening her bare skin to the point of discomfort.

  She looks around slowly. There are a dozen of them crammed in. Mostly female, all dressed to the nines. The one in the back who is sobbing is no more than twelve years old, dressed in a garish sequined top that ties at the back.

  Oh my fucking God, Lucy thinks. They’re cattle going to slaughter. She hisses at the kneeling sentry to get her attention. “Is it Rambo?”

  The sentry nods, her mouth a tight, hard line forbidding more questions, but Lucy ignores that.

  “I didn’t get a chance to check updates,” she insists. “How bad is it?”

  “What do you think?”

  “But how much longer can He go?”

  “Shut up and shore up.”

  “What’s your name?” Lucy demands. It’s important to get their names, always.

  “Sina. Now shut the fuck up.”

  Lucy sits back, hands in fists under her thighs.

  You will get out, she starts her mantra: You will get out.

  She wonders if Bedrosian knows what’s going on, where they’re headed. The information’s bare for the taking all over the net, provided you know what you’re looking for and can make sense of what you find. She twists around in her seat, suddenly and irrationally hoping to see his car out the back window. Instead, the street yawns away into the dark, empty but for the cones of light on the shining asphalt.

  THE DRIVE TAKES AGES. No one talks. The little girl’s sobbing subsides after a while. Lucy tries to doze, willing herself to rest, to gather strength, but her eyes keep flying open. She eavesdrops on the sentries. The driver’s name is Roy, the other guy is Malik. It’s good to know their names, it personalizes things, gives you an advantage when you try and guilt them into helping you out. She gleans very little from their stilted, whispered conversations. There’s another Nafikh with Rambo called Gretel. Lucy’s Served that one before, She’s hit or miss. They are both getting tired, and the sentries are concerned about timing, should they be getting Them out together, or just focus on making sure the first-timer doesn’t burn out. An issue comes up around a dupe no-show, and Malik spends a solid five minutes on the phone, cursing in loud whispers at whoever fucked up. She can see Roy’s glare in the rear view, his hands gripping the wheel like he might tear the whole thing off. It’s no good when the sentries are strung out. Sina’s sitting on her butt now, arms around her knees, her face set in that grim stare, like she’s gathering herself up inside.