Skinner Luce

by Patricia Ward

  At least Gabriel doesn’t seem to share everyone else’s feelings towards her. Or, he’s just being more professional, is all.

  “Drop all that here,” he says, pointing to an industrial-sized hamper at the end of the hall.

  She obeys. “Will I get my clothes back?”

  “Yeah.”

  She ignores his amusement. Those jeans and the gray sweater are her favorites, and right now, they feel like all she’s got. He leads her through an empty room to a landing on the scaffolding, points her down the narrow metal stairs. They come to the main floor. The Gate’s iron walls have a dull, mottled shine. The floor all around the sealed exit is charred, and there is a faint burnt smell hanging in the air.

  “It’s so quiet,” she says.

  “There’ve been no Nafikh since Dara-Lin blew,” he replies, coming to her side. “They all took off the minute She was out. The blows set off a few more fires, but since then, it’s been dead. Which is a good thing, as we’re still reeling.”

  His words fill her with shame she can’t help. “I really didn’t know anything about Theo’s plans, Gabe. I swear.”

  He softens a little, looking at her. “It’ll just take time. Keep your head down, and don’t mouth off.”

  “I won’t.”

  He leads her to Eric’s office across the way. The door stands open. Most of the desks are unoccupied. Eric waves them over, and they sit down. He proceeds to ask Lucy about every detail of the mission, from when she first fell out of the van to the parts she can’t remember, when Gabriel found her. He types as she talks. Every sentry has to file a report when there’s an incident, he explains.

  Incident: now there’s a joke.

  He pushes his glasses up his nose. “Let’s go back over the part where you found Dara-Lin.”

  She’s hungry, and she’s getting frustrated with his need for repetition. Gabriel’s chewing on a pen, chair tilted back against the wall. “This is important,” he reminds her. “Keep going,” he tells Eric, who obediently squints at the screen.

  He says, “You told the soldier Coutreaux to go on without you.”

  “Yes, like I already said.”

  “To take the dead doctor out.”

  “I didn’t know he was dead. I thought he might make it, if he got some help.”

  “And you took it upon yourself to remain on your own, with the Nafikh.”

  “I didn’t take anything upon myself. I told you, I had no fucking idea what I was doing.”

  There is a pause. Eric twists a little in his chair to glance questioningly at Gabriel, who says, “Yeah, fix it up.”

  Eric looks a little relieved. “I can’t leave that in,” he tells Lucy.

  “Why?”

  “As soon as the First fritzes, there’ll be a new Qadir coming. The Second will be raked over the coals. The last thing she needs is to be accused of sending in a sentry that, quote, had no fucking idea what I was doing, unquote.”

  He stares at her with his magnified, worried eyes, waiting. She recalls the Second bowing before Hansel, unable to lift a finger lest she be killed, condemning to death everyone under her care. That a new Qadir can waltz in and put her under threat all over again brings an unexpected burst of loyalty.

  She says, “I took it upon myself because I knew I’d have no trouble extricating the Nafikh on my own, which I then proceeded to do.”

  “That sounds good,” Gabriel says, chewing on the pen.

  Eric starts typing.

  AFTER ERIC’S GONE OFF to deliver the report, Gabriel brings her upstairs to the north side of the building, where there’s a kitchen and a dining room consisting of four long tables and benches in rows. A couple of servs are tasked with keeping the kitchen stocked, he explains, and if she wants something special she’ll have to dig up the funds to get it, because what she sees is what she gets. It pretty much looks like her own kitchen, is her reply, and she’s got no need of anything fancy. He helps her get a sandwich together, make a pot of coffee.

  Lucy sets her tray down and slides onto the bench. There are two other sentries at another table, minding their business. It’s late afternoon. The view from up here is beautiful: the river is dark and choppy under a sky swept with white fronds. A gray tanker pulled by a tugboat moves ponderously towards Boston Harbor in the distance. She’s got to call Eva, let her know she’s O.K. The idea that they’re fearing her dead while she sits here with a sandwich, it twists all sorts of anxiety and sorrow up in a knot that might choke her. But she has no phone, and nothing yet to say that will make sense.

  Gabriel drags the bench out, sits down across from her with a mug of coffee. He talks while she eats. The Second won’t send for Lucy for a while, he tells her. She’s attending the First while he fritzes. He’s been hanging on by a thread, for all their sakes, eking out one more breath at a time so they have a chance to clean up the mess. When the new Qadir arrives, the system’s got to be tight and orderly so it’s just a matter of pressing the newbie in the right direction. What they desperately need right now is sentries. Normally, they’d borrow some from Montreal or Q.C., but they’re already too deep in debt. They’ll scrape through as they are, cross their fingers for a boost or two, and regroup over summer. Spring, summer, and fall are when the Gate makes money for the upcoming season, he explains. “Don’t think we lie around doing nothing when the season’s over,” he warns.

  She sets down her sandwich, only a few bites in, but her stomach’s churning queasily. “What do you do, then?”

  “There’s the car rental, the imports, and a few other businesses in town you’ll learn about. If need be, we put ourselves up for loan, too, because that’s quick solid income. This year, obviously, none of that. You’ll also get assigned to some bunks. You make sure they stay running smoothly and the cuts come in on time. In general, you get one day off a week, and one week’s vacation a year, but that’s contingent on numbers in the ranks, whether we’re in the black, and so on. What’s wrong?”

  Lucy fumbles for words. “I just—I guess I thought you all had it easier.”

  “We do. We don’t go hungry, we hardly get punched around. We never get violated. Should I go on?”

  She flushes. “I didn’t mean it that way. I didn’t realize what you do, is all.”

  “I know,” he says, more patiently. “This side of the fence is a whole other world, Lucy. You have to see things differently,” he taps his temple, looking at her from under his brows. “We’ve got only one job, and it’s to prevent the shit from hitting the fan the way it just did. To keep all of us safe, and to keep people safe, too. How do we accomplish this? Money. The happier we can keep the Nafikh, the easier things go. It’s that simple. The primary focus, always, is to shore up for the season. You have days off, but sometimes you won’t get any, you understand? You also have to learn Nafikh, by the way. One hundred percent fluency. Eric will teach you. A couple of hours a day at least.”

  Lucy crumples her napkin, puts it on her empty plate. There’s a tightness in her throat, like she’s suffocating.

  “Hey,” he says. “It’s a lot to take in. I know that.”

  A lot to take in? She could just scream. I was getting bought out! He just has no clue. She was headed home, she was meant to be lighting fires on the beach, baking clams with Eva over a bottle of sherry. She bites the inside of her lip, hard, willing herself back from the brink. The last thing she needs is to be labeled a pathetic whiner.

  It is how it fucking is.

  “How did you get boosted?” she asks. “Did you angle for it, or did it just happen?”

  “I was almost at quota,” he says, holding up three fingers. “It’s the biggest irony. You have to be so good to get through, but then They take notice, and want to keep you on, right? You can’t win. First few weeks after adjustment, I wanted to end it.”

  “Really?”

  “The point is, every one of us has been there, you hear me? Then you wake up, you realize you have a job to do. Your mates are counting on y
ou,” he nods at the sentries across the room, “and so are the Qadir, and the servs you left behind out there when you got a boost. So you step up. Because you have to.”

  “O.K.,” she says, unable to come up with anything more. Her mind is locking up around the image of herself still here tomorrow, the day after. That other sentries might count on her, or count her in at all.

  He swills the last of his coffee. “You done with that?” he gestures at her half-eaten sandwich. He sweeps it up along with his mug, swings his legs over the bench, heads off into the kitchen. She can see him through the doorway working at the sink. He’s giving her some space, she understands, because he takes an inordinate amount of time washing the few items, then drying them with a striped towel. A kind of puzzlement settles over her, watching him shake out the towel and drape it over the rack. Because this also is going to be part of her new life, this ordinary eating and cleaning and tidying up.

  Along with all that is still unimaginable: being present at the Gate when the fire explodes inside. The Nafikh pouring forth into this world, screaming. And everything else.

  Gabriel returns and takes his seat. “You holding up O.K.?”

  “I guess. Yeah.”

  He cracks his knuckles, waiting.

  “I have a question,” she confesses. “When I was down there, trying to get Her out—it was really hard. She almost died. She—She was in so much pain.”

  He looks at her sideways. “Am I hearing what I’m hearing?”

  “I felt bad for Her.”

  “It’s the boost. Residual. It’ll go, trust me.”

  Lucy looks away, chewing on her lip.

  “What?”

  “It’s more than that. I can’t stop thinking—it’s like She cared, in some way.”

  He sits back, arms folded. “How so?”

  “What happened was, I almost killed Her. Because I’d turned off the oxygen or something. So when I broke the glass and She got out—I was scared. I thought She’d hurt me. She saw it,” Lucy insists, her voice shaking. “She saw I was scared. She said Alee.”

  To her shame, her eyes suddenly bloom with tears that tumble helplessly down her cheeks. She bends her head, wiping them. Big drops fall on her legs.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to—I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “It’s the boost,” Gabriel repeats patiently.

  “But it can’t be just that.”

  “You’re also adjusting to how They treat you now. But Lucy, don’t forget, They don’t feel. They don’t care. She said it, but it was just a word. A reaction to your action.”

  “So it meant nothing.”

  “In my experience, yes, it meant nothing. Yeah, you hear stories now and then, but they’re bullshit. Trust me. You know it from the Stayers. They’re here months. They look just like people, you wouldn’t believe it. They’re fucking creepy, how much They blend right in. But, when you look,” he points two fingers at his eyes, shaking his head. “Same old shit. Nothing there. There’s just nothing there.”

  Lucy slips her hands under her thighs, staring down. “It felt so real.”

  “They treat sentries differently. It’s a big, big change from what you’re used to. But any regard They seem to have for us, it’s just because we’re useful, see? They boost us for that reason. So if She said something, or acted one way or another, it was to maintain your usefulness. Maybe you were cracking. So She says Alee, to make sure you don’t, so you continue to be useful. Understand?”

  “But They are able to care. Look what They did to save Dara-Lin.”

  He twists his face, thinking. “O.K. How about this. Did you know that some trees can emit pheromones into the air, warning other trees about a threat, such as caterpillars?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Would you call the tree scared?”

  Lucy shakes her head. “She was absolutely terrified.”

  “All right, then. An animal in a trap.”

  “Maybe,” she concedes, deflated by his confidence. “So you don’t think She understood, the way we do, what it means to die?”

  “The question is, do I give a shit,” he corrects, “and I don’t, and soon you won’t, either. You have an apartment, right?”

  The abrupt change in subject takes her off guard. “Yes, in Somerville.”

  “You’ll need to break that lease—unless you have the funds to keep it? Didn’t think so. Get out of here, do what you have to do. If Nafikh visit, it’ll be better you’re not around anyway. Come back tomorrow. And Lucy, there’s one other thing,” he says, getting to his feet.

  She looks up. “What?”

  “Everyone here’s heard you have ties out there. People, a family.”

  The stiffness in his tone alerts her. “It’s not an issue, I swear.”

  “He kept calling back, you know. The one who tracked down the GPS.”

  Lucy is startled. “Sean? So they know I’m O.K.?”

  “Eric didn’t answer,” Gabriel frowns, as if this should have been obvious. “He had to disconnect, get a new number. Look, you’re not the first to cross the line, but this goes over and beyond having a real-person acquaintance you chat with at the market, you understand? I’m taking your word, those people, they don’t know about us, and won’t find out.”

  “They won’t.”

  He waits, examining her for signs she’s lying. Some tension in him settles. “You need to understand, for most of us, this is it,” he draws a circle in the air, encompassing the room and the spaces beyond. “It’s all there is. So don’t go on about all that, even if you’re asked, is my advice.”

  “I never do,” she says.

  “Good, then.”

  She gets up as he rounds the table. He puts out his hand, and she almost shakes it, then remembers, responds with the brief, strong grip she witnessed the others make.

  “See you soon,” he says, and strides away.

  LUCY RIDES THE 111 bus with a box on her knees containing all the stuff she owns in the world: the old quilt, some pictures, the album, the laptop, the clothes that might be suitable for her new life. She left everything else for the super to find; she can just imagine his bug-eyed amazement at the slinky wardrobe she maintained for Service. The bus is crowded as it’s deep into rush hour, and she holds the box tight, scrunched up against the window. Her head’s full of the imploring, weepy messages Eva left on the machine, so many that the tape filled up. Lucy listened to them all, each one building on the jagged lump of guilt sitting heavy in her chest. For a time, she sat cross-legged on the floor, smoking, staring through the haze. At last, she called Eric for Bedrosian’s address, then locked up and left. There are the utilities that still need to be canceled, but she can do that online, later tonight.

  She gets off the bus, lugs her box uphill into the residential part of Charlestown. She wishes she’d checked the map with more care because she has to turn way too many times, unable to remember the route she plotted before leaving. By the time she figures it out, she’s sweating under the heavy wool coat, and she’s dragged off the charcoal-gray hat and finger gloves, clothes she found strewn on her bed before she left the Gate.

  She knows she’s in the right spot when she sees Bedrosian’s big old sedan parked in a driveway behind a yellow Mini Cooper. She peers through the passenger-side window, sees her phone on the floormat. The door isn’t locked, so she gets the phone, dumps it in the box, then picks her way up the icy sidewalk. As she climbs the steps, a young man emerges from the building. He’s wheeling a road bike. He pushes open the door, grinning thanks when Lucy holds it wide for him. He flips the bike out, lifts it with one hand, jumps down the stairs with a wave. His bright energy saps her.

  She checks the buzzers. He’s in 5C, top floor. She walks into the dark hallway. There’s no elevator. She debates leaving the box, then sighs, starts climbing. Each landing is decorated with a little bench, or a painting, or a potted plant thriving on sun streaming through the stairwell windows,
the striped shadow of the fire escape railing spread across the wood floors. It is a homey, peaceful atmosphere. She imagines Bedrosian coming home every night, a big bear shambling up the steps, his head full of the horrors of his life, corpses, blood, firearms. Servs murdering serv children.

  On the top landing, there’s a wooden chair with the latest issue of National Geographic and a dead spider plant. She knocks. After a minute or so, she hears footsteps, then Bedrosian demands who it is. She answers. He unlocks the door. He looks like shit. He’s in a dressing gown open over an undershirt and sweatpants, unshaven, one eye bruised and swollen.

  “You made it,” he says. It sounds like an accusation.

  “I guess I did.”

  He looks her up and down, narrowing his good eye in suspicion. “You got a boost?”

  She nods.

  He stands aside to let her in. Ahead lies a long corridor with light wood floors. She goes forward, comes to a wide expanse of oversized leather chairs and couch, mahogany furniture, plasma TV on the wall, glass coffee table. To the right is a kitchen that’s all that and more, stainless steel, granite, tile.

  “Wow,” she says. “Aren’t you domestic.”

  “How’d you swing a boost?”

  “It just happened.”

  “The money came back yesterday, with no explanation. I thought you were dead.”

  The way he sounds about that, she feels badly. “I’m sorry. I guess I just assumed they’d tell you.”

  “Huh. They don’t tell me anything. What’s that?” he nods at the box.

  “Just some stuff from my place. I have to go back to the Gate tomorrow. So much for getting bought out.”

  “Yeah, well, things could have gone a whole lot worse.”

  Lucy could say a thing or two about that, but given his miserable condition, holds her tongue. He winces as he settles into one of the armchairs, closing his eyes briefly in silent negotiation with his pains. The side table is strewn with tissues, dirty cups, a crusty plate with what looks like the remains of a spinach dumpling on it, probably some Armenian thing. The air smells of stale sweat.

  “What’d they do to you, anyway?” she asks.