Five years ago, one of my clone brothers disappeared. Our third, Rhodes.
According to staff, to rumour, his troublemaking got out of hand. So he was taken away. I'd nearly learned to forget about him, until the pain in my legs started. Then I remembered. Enough that sleep didn’t come so easily anymore.
I had to pass this final. If not, I’d never learn what lay between each city simulated for class. What a cafe served. What it felt like to have birds fly past my ears.
The walls of the inactive VR chamber were daunting and dizzyingly uniform. It was always a little too warm in here. All air in the Aetnaeus campus was recycled, but this room was stagnant, mired in sweat. Humanoid dummy drones stood in an idle line at the back, their blank faces tilted to the floor. Once our final exam scenario began, they’d be projected with human skin and overlying animations, acting as simulated clients for us bodyguard Contracts to protect.
My remaining brother and I were the only clones testing today who didn’t match. Leros was a consummate example, guaranteed to pass. By comparison, I was a bent mirror; too thin, too wobbly, too soft around the edges. Standing at rest hurt. While everyone else in our class had been gaining muscle, I'd been losing it. Each extra lap around the track added an extra day to my fatigue. Each stop to recover added seconds to my run time. Nothing helped.
For two years, I tried to rationalize the situation, deny it. But I couldn’t keep it up. None of what was happening to me was normal. My body had, for one terrifying reason or another, begun to break down.
Commander Siska, a naturally-born soldier, paced behind us, glancing at my aching ankles. I steadied my anxious breaths, hoping to settle my shakes. To my luck, whatever the Commander noticed didn’t warrant remark. She waved our classmates to the sidelines.
“Kastos, Leros. You’ll open today’s finals with a one-on-one close protection scenario.” She swiped at her Manager interface: a projection through optical contacts, controlled by a micro-terminal behind her ear. A less invasive version of the Manager devices us Contracts were implanted with. Two featureless drones stepped from their charging stations to stand by our sides. “Your own client, as ever, is your top priority. But today? You’re also here to strike down your opposition’s client. Prove you understand the mind of your enemy.
“A successful hit can only be achieved through the classic method. So no kidnappings, no incapacitations, no bribes. Provided you do it right, a successful kill counts for points. But a successful rescue counts for more. How much more? I’m not telling you. If you don’t know the calculus at this point, you have no one to blame but yourself. Prepare for blank in five ticks.”
I closed my eyes before blank kicked in. It wasn’t required, but I preferred to choose the moment when I could no longer see.
At “three,” a numb sensation filled my ears. The Commander’s voice disappeared. When I opened my eyes, I saw nothing.
Just about everyone fell over their first time in blank. Most the second. And for that reason, blank-shift had mutated into a quiet trial. Falls wouldn’t get factored into our scores, but they had a cost. We remembered who dropped.
Counting, flexing my fingers helped, kept me grounded and steady. When I reached seventy-three, the black void shifted to welcome sight. When my ears popped again I was still on my feet.
The building behind me thumped with heavy bass, the air from its open doors thick with steam and smoke. Streaks of neon flashed over the asphalt, patterns burning into my post-blank vision. The road lining the nightclub's front gate was curbed with artificially worn stone, the building a facade of a brick warehouse.
Yet just across the street, a tower ascended to incomprehensible heights, so sleek and practical that I couldn’t tell where one floor ended and the next began. If this street had an aesthetic goal, it deserved no commendations. But I did recognize the look. I’d never been anywhere on the surface world, but this for sure was London. According to my mental map, built from VR scenarios since eight years trained, this place slotted perfectly into the Shoreditch district.
As soon as I turned, my manager interface highlighted my client with a green outline. He looked like the extroverted sort, flecked with attempts to stand out. His sleeves were rolled unevenly and his hair was streaked with flourescent blue. Anyone who could afford a Contract could get their vision fixed, but this man had glasses. Bulky ones. They must have been a statement of some sort. Yet why choose to look less healthy on purpose?
I flexed my fingers again, urging my focus back. It was bad habit, getting lost in my head like I did.
Leros stood on the other side of the street, framed by business signs and a gaudy, inactive fountain. He, as always, stood a stalwart professional. Tall, hair buzzed to a flat soldier’s cut. Unlike the twice a month top-up we all got on schedule, his was bathroom refined, sliced to a ruler’s edge.
His client was a middle aged white woman, short and heavy lidded. Her jacket was a cut too large, her briefcase top of the line secure. And she was marked to die.
I breathed steadily, reading the layout of the block. Mentally mapped the area, tracked pedestrians. I ducked behind a street-sweeper charging station for cover. Winced at the pain of it.
One of us would have to take the first move, and I knew from experience that I wouldn’t win against Leros in the waiting game. He didn’t seem to feel the tension of the clock. I’d have to bait him into action.
“Sir,” I told my client, eyes still locked on my brother. “I need you to cut into the middle of the queue behind you.”
“What? Cut — ?”
“Trust me.”
He hesitated, but only for a moment. When I glanced his way, the urgency of the situation struck his AI, and he broke to the crowd.
I kept my ear to him, turned to face my brother again. He’d since stepped in front of his client. Yet otherwise he hadn’t reacted. His client glanced at him, antsy.
Right behind them, just on cue: screaming.
My client pushed through a couple. “What the hell!?”
A tall woman stepped in to block him. “You drunk already?” She asked, bracing him by the shoulders. Anger popped through the queue like firecrackers.
Just as hoped.
Well entangled in clubgoers now, my client was the centre of attention. I wouldn’t be the only one watching after him anymore. It gave me a brief opportunity to plan my next move.
Or should have. Except Leros drew his handgun.
Why now? I expected him to ignore the chaos, but he couldn’t possibly get a clean shot.
As I rushed for my gun, he broke into a running charge. At me. My wrist twinged and my shot struck wide. A car alarm wailed.
Leros barrelled into my gut.
I gasped and my vision washed white. My ankles screamed. But I caught myself on the station. I grabbed it for balance, swung my gun for his eye.
He flinched as my vision cleared. I stepped back to brace myself.
My ankle buckled.
Something cracked against my skull. The world flashed. Lightning bolted up my shins, annihilated my reflexes. The concrete, smooth in reality, raked my face with a gym floor burn. A weight pressed me down. I tried every pin escape I could fish from my training, but none of it mattered when I couldn’t even regain footing.
If any of this were real, I’d be dead. I grit my teeth, tamped the pain, and tried, with all I had left, to suppress panic.
I waited for another blow. But nothing followed. Nothing. With trepidation and shaking breath, I opened my eyes. The world had gone dark, back to blank. The grip on me loosed. The scenario was over. Either because I succeeded, or because I’d died. No way had I done the former.
I eased onto my back to catch my breath, a deep dread crawling into my stomach. I swallowed the sick and the fear that caught on my throat. My sprained muscles and the friction burn ate through what senses I still had. Failure felt so much worse than my ankles, and my ankles felt miserable.
The real world did fade back eventually. Slowly. Not long enough to figure out how to face it.
“Scenario one complete,” Siska’s voice announced in my ear. “Kastos, please exit through the door you entered from.”
In a sea of green, Leros loomed, starkly real, stable on his feet, staring down at me. His left eyelid had begun to swell, the first hints of a bruise. He lingered long after he was permitted to leave.
I struggled to get to my feet, but knew, before even trying, that nothing would come of it. The muscles in my calves were loose tangles of rope. I couldn’t get any heft. I only stumbled and fell. By the fourth attempt, all I could think of was how desperate I must have looked. How pitiable.
“Kastos.” Commander Siska sounded annoyed. Not even concerned. “Either stand up or report your condition.”
I stared at the cold floor, trapped on my knees. “I can’t.” My voice shook.
“Excuse me?”
“I can’t stand up, ma’am.”
Silence.
“I think...” I didn’t want to say it. But the silence stretched. What good would it do to wait for someone else to make the call? With my last bit of autonomy, I could at least gather shards of my pride and admit to needing help. “I... I need to go to the medical wing, ma’am."
For what felt like ages, I wondered if she’d ever answer.
“No one move until he’s off the field,” she finally said. “I’m calling the medical team.”
She left out my score. She didn’t even say if I’d failed. Not when asked. Not even when the team loaded me onto a stretcher, took me away. Everyone was watching, but no one spoke.
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Another public service announcement. This time it’s air quality. Some of you are probably in it already if you’re in eastern Canada, New England or New York, but it’s sliding south, a huge mass of wildfire smoke. Please be careful. When it starts getting bad, especially, like when the sky gets orange or brownish, it’s best to run air purifiers in the house and wear N95 or KN95 masks when you have to go outside.
It harms your lungs and it’s especially bad for children (and pets!) or anyone with health problems. There are all kinds of chemicals in that smoke. It’s not only trees that are burning. The heat already makes it harder to breath. This makes it worse.
If any of you are experiencing it, feel free to tell about it in the comments. 💚
Also, throw out the mask every day and shower before you get in bed if you’ve been out or you’ll be breathing the particles all night. Stuff like that. It gets all over you, your skin, your hair, your clothes.
“Welcome, Doctor Jeremy Lacroux,” greeted the speaker above the lock panel. “You have been approved for shelter entry. Your arrival will be recorded and sent to headquarters as an emergency bulletin. Please be patient as you await response within the safety of our award winning refuge.”
“No way they’re responding,” Ithaca mumbled. “This was probably one of first points of contact our bomber sabotaged, given their competence so far.”
“Cutting us off from the outside probably isn’t even that hard,” Atlas said.
“What makes you say that?” I asked.
“Well, that’s a little bit…” Atlas scratched the back of his head, glancing to Lacroux.
Lacroux smiled knowingly. “Don’t worry, they’ll see for themselves in just a moment.”
The door rolled open to a wide stretch of steel flooring. The air inside bit my face with a chill, hinted at salt. Ahead was a whole track field’s worth of space, virtually all of it empty. The drone corridors, steel and concrete, on a larger scale. Assuredly stable, capable of containing thousands, at sacrifice of all else. It was no place to be alone. There should have been others here with us, dozens, even hundreds of survivors, working together to leave. “We can’t be the only ones who made it.”
“This isn’t the only shelter in the facility.” Although intending to reassure, Lacroux had a sliver of uncertainty in his voice. “There’s another to the west. This area was under construction, so it’s little surprise that fewer survivors flocked here.”
Where fewer was defined as three Exceptions and my Supervisor. I didn’t want to be pessimistic, but we made for an awfully discouraging start.
“So what’s the big reveal?” Ithaca asked.
Lacroux cracked a small smile. “Right, yes. Come with me. It’s in back.”
We followed him across the expansive stretch, our footsteps echoing. The hollow sound of this place wasn’t going to be easy to get used to. The further inside we traveled, the more mineral the air became. Not only could I smell more salt in the atmosphere, but an unusual stickiness coalesced against my skin. Soon we stepped into a wider section, one where half the floor was missing, replaced with a pool of water. Three large, spheroid devices, constructs reminiscent of rounded buses, floated, half-submerged.
Ithaca stopped, wonder in her eyes. “What are those?”
The devices had a set of propellers in back, as if they were designed to move through the water. But to what end? Where did they go?
“Submarines,” Lacroux stopped in front of the first, looking proud. “For underwater travel. Normally, those of us on staff take the elevator to leave, but when that’s no longer an option, we can rely on these.”
Atlas looked away. “That does make things easier to explain, huh?”
“I knew it,” Ithaca muttered.
Given her information stream, she probably noticed some curious details in how this facility was built. But…
“Atlas, how did you already know?” I asked.
Atlas deferred a cautious look to Lacroux.
“I’m surprised you didn’t tell them yet,” Lacroux said. “No one’s been watching.”
“I didn’t want to take any risks.”
I knew exactly how much of a lie that was, and an inappropriate part of me took pleasure in the secret.
“Tell us what?” Ithaca narrowed her eyes.
“I’ve been up there, so…” He shrugged stiffly. “I just saw all this from the outside. I wasn’t supposed to bring it up.”
“You can be sent back?” I asked, galled.
“I mean, I’m here, so. Apparently.”
“They let you come back, just like that?” Ithaca glared at Lacroux. “They’re not scared of you spilling secrets? Corrupting us with dirty, dangerous surface information?”
Lacroux cringed. “It’s not that simple, I’m sorry. I wish I could explain your whole life to you, I really do, but I’m a supervisor and a scientist. I’m sadly not in charge of social policy.”
Ithaca sniffed and kicked loose concrete gravel into the water. It sank into the brown haze.
“The important thing is I’m here,” Atlas said.
“No, the important thing is we can get out,” Ithaca said. “We can all stop being here and it’s about damned time.”
It didn’t feel real. It didn’t feel right. Leaving this place had been my dream for so long, yet now that the option to do so was in front of me, I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. People were dying outside. Two of them under my own care. “I can’t just leave. Not like this.”
Ithaca glared at me. “Seriously? You want to pull some self righteous bull again?”
“Saving lives isn’t self righteous bull!” I snapped. “Do you truly expect me to run? Do you think that little of me?”
“Okay, hold on. Run? I’m not running, I’m trying to save us from living any longer in this utter shithole! We’re not getting another chance!”
“We can’t take an entire submarine for ourselves just because we got here first!”
“Kastos, I…” Lacroux cut in. “You saved my life. You proved yourself well enough, I promise.”
“What if another group of unattended Contracts shows up? Someone needs to be on this side to let them through. Right now, we’re the only ones who can do that!”
Lacroux flinched. “It’s been a long night. Why don’t we gather our bearings before we make any major decisions, okay?”
“I’m with the doctor,” Atlas said. “We made it to shelter, we may as well use it. Kastos needs some serious patching up. Your nose is making me flinch every time I look at it, buddy.”
“I can manage with painkillers,” I avoided his eyes. ”Lacroux, are there proper hazard suits in the closet here?”
“There’s a good chance that there are, but…”
“I’d like to go search for them.” I broke away from Lacroux’s shoulder to walk by myself. My legs were shaking, but rest was irresponsible.
“Right now?” Atlas asked. “Hey, wait. That’s not —”
Ithaca stomped. “Kastos, you have got to be kidding me right now!”
“If you want to leave, you can,” I said, ignoring how much I wanted them not to. “But I’ll be staying behind.”
“Why are you so fucking stupid!?” Ithaca shouted from the distance. But whatever anyone said in response, if anything, didn’t reach my ears.
No one followed, even as I crossed the broad expanse of the main shelter. They were still right behind me, I reminded myself. But they wouldn’t be for long.
I found hazard suits inside a storage closet, proper ones with full gas masks. They were heavy, bulky things, thick enough to stop a bullet, and I could only feasibly take four with me. But four would be better than nothing. My collection of dust masks and goggles could help if I needed to distribute more.
But my ankles and knees shook when I tried to heft my pack. I hissed frustration through my teeth, dropped against the wall. Some equipment would have to go. Gas masks first, the dust masks did well enough. As for the hazard suits: rubber, even thin rubber, could add up in kilograms. I’d cut them by half. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath, acknowledged the burn licking through my arches. Rose.
And tumbled to the floor. I groaned, buried my head in my aching knees. My eyes watered in pain. Today was too much. Too much for a lifetime. It wasn’t the weight on my back, it was everything. I couldn’t reason with any of it. Not my body, not the injustice of my being here, not my utter, damnable lack of a future. I’d never be worthy of leaving.
It hurt so much, and I wanted to be air.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered to my knees, to the faces running through my head, struggling to breathe, bleeding out under rubble. Helpless victims, classmates. Contracts who would never get to see the surface, while we ran free. For nothing. For worse than nothing. I wanted this. I dreamed of watching Aetnaeus crumble. Maybe I would have even made it happen, given a day or two.
A knock rapped against the door. My heart jumped.
I couldn’t be seen like this. I wiped my face, sat straight, did everything to look as natural as possible, like I was resting of my own volition. But, mostly, I wished no one would come in at all.
Another knock. Before I could turn the conundrum of how to respond into an answer, the intercom speaker beeped on.
“This thing work?” Atlas’ voice asked. My heart slowed; out of everyone, he was the one I was least afraid to confront. He’d been nothing but diplomatic so far.
I took another heavy breath and released my backpack from my shoulders. Thankfully, I was able to reach the call button from the ground. “I can hear you.” My voice was rough and I despised the sound of it.
“Awesome. Is it alright if I come in? I found some painkillers in the first aid box outside. Thought you might want some.”
That did sound attractive. If nothing else, I could think more clearly. “… Yeah. That sounds good. Thank you.”
The door creaked open, and I tensed my hands against the floor. Relax, I reminded myself. I could still pull together.
Atlas briefly eyed the hazard suits and gas masks scattered across the floor, and a fluster crawled over my face. I shouldn’t have made such a mess of them, but time felt so limited. Atlas looked at me. Smiled, no judgement in his eyes. He raised the water bottle in his left hand, presenting a small packet of pills in the other. “You’re really something else. They can breed an awful lot of stuff in us, but I don’t think your personality’s one of them. That’s all on you.”
“Sorry.”
“Nah, I mean that as a good thing.” Atlas sat beside me. “Mostly. But I’m getting a bit freaked you might die by pushing someone out of the way of a truck.”
“That’s the way I’d want to go.” I smiled.
“Wow, that’s… not reassuring at all.”
I laughed. Thinly, but my mood lightened for it. “Sorry. Only if I had to choose a way to die, of course.” I threw two pills back with a gulp of the water. Water, as it went down, I realized I desperately needed.
“So, hey.” Atlas lounged back against the wall. “What’s your plan for when you go out, if you don’t mind me asking? Any part of this place you’re checking out first?”
“I’ll probably try knocking on office doors. If I come across anyone, I can use the same method I used for Lacroux.”
“Is there a number of rescues you’re aiming for, or are you just going to wing it?”
“I’ll probably keep going until I can’t anymore.”
Atlas looked to the floor. “So when you say ‘only if I had to choose a way to die’ do you mean, you know… now?”
I crumpled up the pill package. That was the reality I’d been trying not to think about. Even if I managed to stand up on my own today, I couldn’t control where and when I no longer could. Exhaustion could strike anywhere.
“I don’t want to die,” I admitted, my voice nearly catching in my throat. “I’m not hoping to die out there.”
“I think… I don’t want to be rude or anything, but it really does seem like you’re doing this just to prove something to yourself. What’s the point if you’re dead?”
I was trying to save people, to make up for my own twisted anger. To be the bodyguard I was supposed to be.
I was supposed to be. A shiver ran up my arms. I really did keep repeating that phrase in my head. Atlas was right. To shame with myself. I was so selfish. So petty.
“I can’t let myself be useless,” I ran one of my hands down to my knee. I pressed my fingers at the joint, considered the pain with closed eyes. “Is that selfish?”
“Selfish? Look, if anything’s obvious right now, it’s that you couldn’t be selfish if you tried. I just think you’re being way too hard on yourself.”
Was I? “It always felt like I should be doing more.”
“You’ve already done so much. I mean it. You saved me back when that statue fell. Lacroux wouldn’t have made it without you. What are the rest of us supposed to think of ourselves?"
“You’ve helped me on more than one occasion,” I said. “You’re here to help right now.”
“See? You can’t say you haven’t done enough if you aren’t going to get on my case again."
“But you’re a Companion. Ithaca’s an Archivist. You’re not built to save lives.”
“No.” Atlas rose a finger accusingly. “We’re Exceptions.”
“We weren’t made to be Exceptions. It’s not the same thing.”
“Are you saying your body is your fault?”
“No,” I said on reflex. Then realized just what my response meant, what he was suggesting. My disease was genetic, just like my bodyguard traits were. “Are you trying to suggest I’m an Exception by birth?” The concept sounded so insulting.
“I don’t see why not. And what does an Exception do?”
“Try to stop being an Exception?” As soon as the answer came out of my mouth, it sounded absurd. I couldn’t stop being an Exception. My CMT was never going to go away. Life made so much more sense before I fell down. Pushing myself too far may hurt, it may threaten to kill me, but morally? It was easy.
“No, sorry,” I muttered. “That’s not right at all. I’m sorry. I don’t know. I don’t know what we do. I just don’t want to do wrong.”
Atlas rubbed his neck. “No, no. It’s alright. I’m not going to pretend I’ve got the answer either. I just mean… hell. None of us know how that all’s supposed to work.”
“Do you think administration knows?”
“If I’m being honest? I don’t think they’ve got a clue.”
“I hate this.” I couldn’t help but chuckle. “I really do.”
Atlas placed a firm hand on my shoulder. His touch warmed my aching muscles, loosened knots I’d not even acknowledged. But just as I started to relax, the intercom blared.
“Hello?” Ithaca’s voice asked from the speaker. “You two near this thing?”
Atlas reached up to hit the button, but paused to look at me first. I nodded approval.
Atlas hit the switch. “Hey, we’re both here.”
Ithaca’s end of the line went silent for unusually long. I shifted straighter, wondered if maybe she was conferring with Lacroux.
Finally, the intercom clicked on again. “… I, uh. Kastos?”
“I’m here,” I said. As angry as I was at her earlier, I couldn’t find it in me any more. At worst I was wary. Mostly I wanted to apologize for being so short.
“I listened to that whole thing.”
Or maybe I could still find it in me to be angry. “You were eavesdropping?”
Atlas nudged me. “Hey, give her a moment.”
“Sorry, look,” Ithaca was barely audible through the speaker. “We don’t have to rush out, okay? I got kind of shitty back there.”
Hearing an apology out of Ithaca’s mouth was surreal. But for that same reason, it came off as earnest. I slumped, rubbing my fingers across the back of the hand I rested on my lap.
“You planned this, didn’t you?” I asked Atlas.
“Caught me.” He smirked. “I might have hit the listen button when I came in. Might have.”
“Atlas! Don’t — Damn it, I mean it! Don’t make him think this was a dick move, I was trying to be nice!”
I had to laugh. “No, it’s alright. I can tell.”
Atlas looked far too proud, but I understood why. I needed these two. They were absurd, improper, and an absolute mess. And without that, I probably would have gone and done something suicidal much sooner.
“Thank you,” I said. Hopefully the depth of that statement showed through.
“Hey, you know… whatever,” Ithaca muttered, in a way only she could make sound appreciative.
I still didn’t want to just leave, even if my original plan was impossible. “Would you be willing to consider a planning session while we set up camp?”
“Are you willing to rest overnight?” Atlas asked. “Because that’s my one condition.”
“I… actually don’t have much choice,” I confessed, glancing to my legs.
“We’re not forcing you to do anything,” Ithaca said.
“No, I mean… I can’t stand back up. My legs finally gave in.”
“Are you kidding me?” Ithaca asked.
Atlas flinched. “First of all, ow.”
“Sorry. Second of all?”
“You ever hear of the bridal carry?”
“I haven’t.”
“Well.” Atlas rubbed his hands together, mischief sparking in his eyes. “You want me to show you?”
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While I rested on the landing of the second floor, I formed a mental list of all the things in my daily life that I’d come to take for granted. Chairs, a sanctioned time to rest, painkillers and, at the uncontested top: elevators. My cane helped, but only in that it let me ascend the stairs at all.
Dust hung in the air, speckling the light. The door beside me had been left ajar before I’d arrived, the responsible party long gone. I’d yet to see any signs that anyone may have passed through. But I couldn’t assume the worst. This was one, isolated stairwell.
I pushed to my feet and peered through the door. Indigo, night sky dithered into artificial white. The sort of light I’d expect to see in a windowlit room, not a hallway.
When I opened the door, my gut understood what happened before my head did. A bomb had blown a massive hole through the roof. Warped iron rods clutched the night sky. The stars and moon cast a spectral light through the fog, glowing a subtle yellow-green, as if streaked in copper oxide. Something flickered in the distance like a broken light bulb. A damaged skydome screen.
I stepped toward the rubble of what used to be the ceiling, struggling to look away from the hole above. If I could, I’d have sat myself right there and watched the stars. The sky always followed a pattern. Sun, to clouds, to the rains of every other afternoon. I could predict when every weather pattern would arrive, when seasons would shift. But this, the low clouds of mist, the musty air? It was new. A deep sort of wrong that I’d never seen before.
I forced myself to look away, to watch my pathing through the steel and stone dotting the hallway ahead. Choosing to move forward was something I had control over.
Business casual protruded from the rubble. A leg, twisted, formed a half-dried pool of blood from a bone-torn gash. The victim’s face had broken into a familiar rash before she’d passed on.
I slowed to a halt. Was I useless? A proper team could deal with this. Large scale problems called for large scale solutions. A set of people who could fill every niche, someone to authorize the whole thing. Of course I couldn’t deal with everything myself; I was a single speciality in a system that needed thousands of cogs to work. It was tempting to feel big in an empty room.
But it was also useless to freeze. I was here now, whether or not it made sense.
I dodged debris, keeping attention to the structural integrity of the floor. The construction site would be just beyond the bend.
Hold. I heard movement ahead. Not footsteps. A steady whirr across the ground. An active drone? I tread carefully, using the wall to stabilize, not wanting to give myself away by the tap of my cane. Before the bend, I stopped, scouted the upcoming stretch.
A maintenance drone whizzed a few metres ahead, polishing a sweep of floor that had recently been re-tiled. Another drone, larger and stationary, laser cut an I-beam within an open wall. It was an odd comfort to see movement, but one that veered back around to be disconcerting when I passed the still body of the construction supervisor.
My hoped-for closet was located just beside the site. On approach, I took the knob in hand, stepping to the edge of the frame. A quiet clink echoed from inside, and I tightened the handle in my palm. Prepared for the worst, I pressed against the side of the frame for cover. Then I threw the door open.
A man clutched a pistol in his shaking hands. Two shots rang out — missed.
I wheeled for his ribs. He recoiled, I tackled, bore my cane across him. His head knocked against a shelf. A cardboard box tumbled to our side.
He wrestled against my pin, but he was too dedicated to keeping hold of his gun to slip away. Cursing, he instead twisted to press the barrel of the pistol against my chest. I kneed him in the rib.
He fired. Another miss, over my shoulder. His gun loosened in his hand, but not enough. So I brought my hands together, hammered down upon his knuckles. His trigger finger cracked. He screamed, finally relented his grip. I tore the pistol away, tossed it aside, where it clattered against a mop bucket.
I grabbed my cane from his stomach and jammed it against his arms before he could react. Against a tie and a sweat-soaked button up. This man was nothing more than an office worker. What was he doing?
“I’m not here to hurt you,” I held tight as the man squirmed. “Relax, please. I came here to help.”
“Get off me!”
“I will. I want to. But I need you to calm down first.”
“Calm down? You broke my fucking hand!”
The man slammed his head into my nose. Pain exploded across my face. The man rolled, throwing me to the floor.
I scrambled for my feet, but I dropped. A spasm lanced through my calves and my vision broke white.
When it cleared, the man had already lunged for his gun. I grabbed the edge of the sink. I couldn’t stand, but I could push. I slid into a kick, knocked the pistol from his fingers. The weapon spun to a stop outside of the closet door.
The man froze, wide eyed, as it slipped into the dust. I took the opening, threw him to the floor. His face met the tile, and I locked his arm against his back.
“Sorry,” I hissed between my teeth. “Still self defence, I promise.”
“Sorry?” The man seethed. “Sorry?” He bucked, but I held strong. He’d lost his chance to go for my face again. I cringed at the ache pounding through my nose, spit aside the blood crawling over my lip.
“I don’t want to do this,” I said, tamping desperation out of my voice. ”Please, stand down. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help.”
“Why hasn’t security put you down? What are they doing out there!?”
“I’m not with whoever did this.”
“Then where the hell is security?”
“I don’t know!” I cringed at the echo of my own voice. I needed to calm down. Be professional, I reminded myself, repeated in my head as a mantra. Be professional.
The man didn’t respond, wincing instead. I shifted my grip again, but as I moved my hand down his wrist, I realized that my hold wasn’t the problem. Bright red streaks, edged with raised welts, had formed where I’d pressed my fingers. Small speckles of red broke from the perimeter.
I looked to the open closet door, at the dust slowly floating in. I shouldn’t have left it open. What had I done?
The man choked a sharp breath. “Get— get off me! Get the hell off me!”
I held him with one arm, reached with the other to shut the door. My fingertips barely caught the edge. It swung closed, leaving us in darkness. The man wrenched, but I redoubled my grasp. He sputtered a cough. Holding him down was only going to make it worse.
“You’re all killing us,” the man hissed.
“I’m not trying to kill you. I swear.”
“You were walking around out there, weren’t you?”
“I was looking for supplies. I was only looking for supplies and anyone I could help.”
“I can’t believe it.” He wheezed a frantic laugh. “You can walk through hell.”
“I want to get you through this with me.”
“How, damn it?” The man’s voice stretched thin. He took an agonized breath, harsh enough to shudder against my arms.
“There should be dust masks in here. We have a shelter just down the stairs. I only need to get you that far.”
He didn’t look at me. He watched the wall, his scowl stiffening in agony.
There wasn’t anything I could do for him. Going outside, even for a moment, would just get him killed by the gas. If we waited here, he would slowly waste away from the dust he’d already been exposed to. That I brought in with me.
“Why did you open fire?” I asked, quietly.
“That’s such a stupid question. There’s…” He heaved a breath. “There’s only one reason why anyone opens fire.”
“I’m not one of the bombers!”
“I…” The man coughed. “I know.” One of his legs jerked, and it wasn’t from fighting back.
Then why? Because I was a Contract? He couldn’t have known that before firing.
“You didn’t care who I was.”
The man’s voice cut off before he could form another word. His eyes dilated. Just like Petric.
I released him. “Are you still with me?” I asked, my voice flat.
He only convulsed in failing breath.
I sat by my attacker’s side, leaning against the wall of the darkened closet. There I stayed in grim silence with him until he finally died.
Regardless of the deceased’s motivations, a similar tragedy was going to repeat itself wherever I went. Any open door would let the dust inside. Any contact with me would be contact with anything I passed through.
I stared at my freshly acquired package of dust masks, the disposable hazmat suits and goggles. I twisted a roll of duct tape between my hands. It could be possible to craft a set of hazard suits out of this stuff, but what use would they be if I’d need to open the door to Lacroux’s office to hand them over? The only way I could sterilize them, enter safely, would be to produce an airlock.
I packed the duct tape with the hazmats and goggles, spared my victim one last look. After he passed away, I’d searched his pockets for an ID. No luck came of it. He would always be a John Doe to me.
I brushed my thumb against the pistol I’d holstered in a tool belt. John Doe hadn’t brought any extra rounds, but the magazine still carried thirteen shots. If nothing else, I was returning well supplied. If only this stuff hadn’t come at such a high price.
I shut the closet door behind me. Outside, the drones continued their work. The little one had moved to scrub metal dust from the corners. Its larger partner extracted the cut rafter bar with its claw-grip.
Hold on.
That drone had a brilliant idea. I pulled up my map again. What if I cut through to Lacroux’s office from a neighbouring room?
Unfortunately, it looked like both adjacent offices were owned. Turning them into airlocks would mean risking their occupant’s lives. But that was only accounting for the x axis. I swiped the floor plan to the second story. A washroom neighboured him from above. A public and large one, positioned on the far wall, away from the blast.
I glanced back to the cutter drone. All I needed was help.
Turning the drone onto idle mode was easy enough, all it took was a flick of the switch at its side. Navigating the drone’s touchscreen interface wasn’t quite so intuitive. After several wild guesses, backtracks and re-reads of its confusing documentation, I finally managed to input a new task order. After five additional minutes, I convinced the machine to stop incessantly beeping at me. The drone hummed upstairs. For some weird reason it made me proud, like I’d been a good teacher. I hurried behind.
The washroom was clear of both dust and survivors; clean and scented of synthetic lavender. With a quick tap at the drone’s screen, I brought up an image of the piping beneath the tiles, drew a path for it to slice through. With a three beep fanfare, the laser cutter sent up sparks.
Unfortunately, it worked a lot slower than expected. Even with the most destructive, “quick” settings, the machine took a full ten minutes to burn a side to piping level. So while the drone did its work, I duct taped the goggles, gloves and suits together, washed everything off in the sinks to take the dust out.
While cleaning myself up, I checked my nose. It was broken, out of place, but with a quick shift and some pressure — I punched the sink. Ow — Ow — I braced against the mirror, wincing as the sting ebbed. By the time my nose stopped bleeding I’d used up a full roll of toilet paper.
Once I was out of preparation to do, material to wash up, pain to grit through, the drone had sliced through the first layer. I put my own makeshift hazard suit on. While it felt as slapped together and unofficial as it looked, it passed a basic safety check.
I sat over to the edge of the pit. “Lacroux! This is Kastos! I’m coming down to help you!”
If he replied, his answer was drowned out by the clamour. What if he wasn’t even down there? I waited, muffled my fears by focusing on my body. My feet were killing me. Yet I couldn’t shake the urge to keep moving.
A violent crack broke through the concrete. I leaned forward, just barely able to make out the outline of Lacroux’s desk through the concrete dust. Smoke and grit settled to the floor.
“Lacroux! Can you hear me?”
“… Kastos?”
“Yes!” I grinned. “I’m coming down!”
“Wait!”
“Is something wrong?”
“The…” Lacroux trailed off, his voice hitching. “I’m not so sure it’s safe for you to come near me. Outside — the dust — ”
I dangled one of the hazard suits to where Lacroux could hopefully see it. “The dust is accounted for. I’m suited up and clean. Do you want to put yours on now?”
Lacroux didn’t immediately answer, but I heard him move. Was he injured?
“It’s clean up above?” Lacroux finally asked.
“As far as washrooms go. No yellow dust.”
“You… you can come down.”
This was going to hurt. I took a deep breath, aimed my feet toward the desk. Dropped. The landing seared through my ankles, all the way past my knees. I groaned.
Lacroux rushed to the desk, waving through the grit I’d kicked up.
I cringed past one more wave of pain, hissed. “I’m okay,” Was my nose bleeding again? I was such a mess.
“Just relax, try not to move.” He placed a hand on my knee. The burn slowly ebbed enough to let me concentrate on his face. He looked completely healthy. Shaken, tense down to the bone, but unhurt. I wished I felt so good.
“I’m so glad you’re alive,” I said. “It’s… everything is...”
Lacroux’s hand tightened on my leg — I tried not to wince. He looked away to the floor, as if ashamed.
“Are you okay, though?” I glanced around. One particularly large piece of debris had shattered Lacroux’s desk chair, the same one he’d been using for the past ten years, but I doubted that loss could have hit him that hard. “Did something happen? Aside from — ”
“Why did you come here?” Lacroux asked.
Wasn’t it obvious? “You’re my supervisor, of course I came back for you.”
“Did… are you alone?”
“For now. Ithaca and Atlas are in front of the shelter we found, resting up.”
“So you found shelter first.” Lacroux let out a deep breath, and released his hand. “Sorry. I don’t mean to minimize your efforts. I just… prepared for the worst. I would have forgiven you if you hadn’t come.”
“What are you talking about? That’s not acceptable.”
Lacroux sank into one of his surviving chairs.
“Is this about the dust? The ban? The network’s down. You don’t have to worry about anyone overhearing us.”
“No, sorry. You were brave for coming down here. Thank you.”
I passed him the hazmat from the edge of the desk. Some concrete sand had settled inside the goggles.
Lacroux took it reluctantly. “I can’t believe you did all this.”
“Not everything went smoothly. Officer Petric didn’t make it.”
Lacroux stiffened. “The dust? Or the explosion?”
“The dust. His body’s outside of the shelter right now. I wanted to pay him better respects, but we couldn’t get him inside.”
“It’s a pity,” Lacroux said, not sounding like he truly meant it.
“But I’m not going to let the same happen to you. We can’t stay here. No one can get into the shelter without a staff member.”
A small spark of life returned to his eyes. “You need me to get in? It’s locked?”
“A staff-only biometric. Without Petric we could only get into the decontamination area.”
“I wish you had told me from the start. I’ll pack as quickly as possible.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. He was acting so strange.
Despite his earlier meandering, Lacroux gathered his supplies and sentimental items with admirable efficiency. Within minutes he was dressed in his own hazard suit, set with his pack, ready to go.
While he was busy, I visited Tommy and Tuppence, one last time. I couldn’t imagine a future where I’d come back here. Inexplicably, that thought tied a knot in my throat.
I took a stem from Tuppence into hand. I’d read once, from a book in this very room, that it was possible to propagate certain plants with a single cutting.
“Excuse me, Dr. Lacroux? Would you happen to have a pair of scissors?”
I understand the transition away from the term "comorbid" (any medical terms with morbid in it sounds more scary than it should) but also I love the word. Co-morbid. Me and my morbids are co. My company of morbids. My medical condition, my statistically likely to be present medical condition, and me.
hey its me your immune system. looks like we caught somethin here. try sneezing real fast see if that gets rid of it. yeah no dice, huh... alright lemme try filling your lungs with fluid. no yeah i do it all the time dont worry works like a charm. hmmm... still no good... alright well just hold tight here for a minute maybe it just needs time to start working. in the mean time ill go fire up the ol' neuron cooker n see if that helps
HEY its me again. false alarm turns out it was just like pollen or somethin haha sorry i can be a little jumpy is all. ...hey man youre not lookin so good are you okay?
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There's a very funny thing that happens in transhuman science fiction where sometimes an author will turn out to be a reactionary conservative who thought he was writing dystopian fiction and intended all the sickass radical body modification stuff to be scary, but he assumed that was obvious and forgot to put it in the actual text.
It's like the literary version of those breathless propaganda thinkpieces where they accidentally make their political opponents sound cool as hell because they have no idea how it reads to anyone whose brain hasn't spent the last thirty years being pickled in fear juice.
A chime of acknowledgement sounded, a yellow light encircled my palm, but the doors to the main shelter wouldn't open. While red indicated restriction, and green permission, yellow meant the passage was on heavy alert. Only those with clearance could get in without review. Anyone else would need someone on the other end to give them permission to pass.
“Why am I not surprised?” Ithaca stared down the door as if asking it to explain itself.
“It’s a reasonable security precaution,” I said, annoyed though I was. “Not every disaster’s going to be faceless.”
“Yeah, and that makes it perfectly okay to pick and choose who gets through easy. Someone’s got to get in without needing confirmation.”
“Couldn’t that just be whoever gets in there first?” Atlas asked.
“If the saboteur knew about the shelter, then they could enter before the bomb even went off,” I said. “It would shut everyone out.”
Ithaca placed her hands on her hips. “Which is why I bet that thing lets staff in without a hassle and keep us out without approval. No one on staff’s going to kick off a large scale disaster. Or so they think, at least.”
Atlas broke from our line to return to the bench, unsealing his supply pack as he sat down. Even though he was putting on a more chipper act, faint circles had formed under his eyes. His lips, dry from his earlier coughing fit, split at the edges. He pried his bedroll from its casing.
Although hating the implications, I joined him in setting up camp. I tried to convince myself that it was only an emergency precaution, but by the time I peeled my own package open, the lie turned stale. That light wouldn’t change on its own. For now, this decontamination room was the closest thing to shelter we had.
“If we can find even one staff member out there, alive, would it let us in?” I asked.
“Yeah, I mean, I guess.” Ithaca sat on the opposite bench. “But you’re obviously flagging. Do you think you can manage a full rescue operation alone? Neither Atlas or I can go out in the dust.”
“We need hazard suits, otherwise…” I weighed my own desires against how sore I was. “I need to just push past it.”
Ithaca looked doubtful.
Atlas placed a hand on the clasp that held his bedroll together. “I’m not so sure we should split up again.”
I stared into my rations, unsure how to reply.
“How are your legs holding up anyway?” he asked
“If I can take an hour or so’s break, I can manage a short trip without much problem,” I said. Honestly, that was pushing it — a single hour wouldn’t do much good — but any longer and I’d be risking too many deaths. Air would be limited inside most everything that could keep the dust out.
“You’re struggling to stand, we don’t know who’s out there,” Ithaca said. “You might be able to deal with the smog, but what are you going to do if you come across a bomb? Someone who wants to shoot you?”
“I would only need to go out long enough to find hazard equipment, or someone to get us through the door.”
“Is there somewhere with equipment nearby?” Atlas asked.
I called up a map from my manager. We were still deep inside the western wing of Erasistratus. The eastern wing contained Lacroux’s office. He likely would have been working inside when the explosion happened. The offices here were large, well insulated. He’d have enough air, water and food for at least a day.
“Dust masks,” I said. “The construction job here was mostly drone operated, but it still needed supervision. Anyone in charge would want access to dust masks and gloves. And my supervisor might be safe nearby. If I find the hazard equipment first, maybe I can track him down.”
“Are dust masks enough?” Ithaca asked. ”We have no idea how small those particles get.”
“It’s worth a try.”
Atlas unfurled his bedroll onto the floor, and its wrinkles evened out as it took in air. “Could we eat first? Before we decide to go do something crazy.”
I nodded, contrary to my doubts. Letting all this time pass seemed irresponsible, but Atlas was right, I needed to eat.
I picked at the final corner of my survival pâté with a plastic spoon, balancing a square of crisp bread on my leg. My appetite left after the first couple bites, despite my earlier hunger pangs.
Atlas had laid his bedroll on one of the room’s two benches, giving him a rough semblance of a bunk. There he lounged, chewing on a chocolate bar. The opposite bench remained empty, unclaimed. We hadn’t discussed who’d get to use it between me and Ithaca, and I suspected that we never would. Ithaca, focused on my limp, would insist that I take it. Arguing against her would be admission that I wasn’t planning to stay overnight. So the subject remained conveniently unmentioned, looming in the air instead.
“You know, I don’t think anyone is listening in on us right now,” Atlas said, breaking several minutes of silence.
Ithaca swished her canteen, mixing vitamin drink powder inside. “I don’t see why they would be. Even if the security team’s not dead, the network is.”
“Don’t make this depressing. I’m trying to say something, let me finish.”
Ithaca grunted a noncommittal syllable.
“Think about it a second. It’s an opportunity of a lifetime. Haven’t you had anything you’ve wanted to say for a while, some ridiculous thought you didn’t want staff to hear? I know you’re going to say you don’t care, Ithaca.” He pointed his chocolate bar at her. “You’re going to say you’d do it anyway.”
“I’d do it anyway.”
“See? But I’m not talking about stuff we don’t say because it’s wrong, or against the rules or, you know, anything that gets Ithaca off.”
Ithaca tossed a crisp bread at his head.
Atlas mocked a flinch. “No, come on, seriously though. I’m talking about that weird or embarrassing thought you’ve wanted to blurt out to someone. But without anyone else listening in. You get me?”
“Wouldn’t that make it pointless?” I asked.
“Not exactly. Sometimes you just want to bounce a thought off someone you know won’t give you trouble for it, yeah?”
“Give us an example then,” Ithaca said.
Atlas broke a block from the bar as he thought it over. “I’m pretty sure Deputy Lacerte wears a padded codpiece.”
Ithaca dropped her head. “Oh my god, I shouldn’t have asked.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, embarrassment heating in my face, even though I wasn’t entirely sure why.
Atlas motioned near his crotch. “Makes his junk more prom —”
“— Stop.” Ithaca said. “Don’t ruin him, please.”
“Artificial frontal enhancement,” Atlas revised, making a point of every word. And every hand movement.
“Atlas, holy shit.” Ithaca groaned.
I watched them both, not sure how to process the conversation. I couldn’t tear my mind from everything that was happening outside, the fact that, less than an hour ago, I was carrying the body of my superior. I twisted the spoon in my hand as Atlas’ words trickled in.
Without fathoming why, I laughed. Atlas looked inordinately proud of himself.
“Oh, come on, don’t encourage him,” Ithaca said.
Another twinge of embarrassment cut me short. But even as I cleared my throat, I couldn’t wipe the amusement off my face. “Sorry.”
“No, I…” Ithaca looked away. “Nevermind. It’s fine. Don’t apologize for… I can’t even remember the last time I heard you laugh, and that’s what cracked you?”
With a chuckle, I shrugged.
We all took the moment to work on our meals, Atlas moving on from dessert to his first course of beans. I bit into my last cracker and found it went down easier than before. The spread was savoury, not bad for something that must have been printed from a preservative meat vat.
"Okay, so my supervisor has this old, creepy doll she keeps on her desk," Ithaca said. "Some stupid ball jointed thing that scared the hell out of me when I was a kid. I don't know why she has it, I don't think she even pays attention to it."
"Maybe it's a gift?" Atlas said. "My ex-supervisor used to keep every card he ever got in a drawer, never looked at them."
“If she stuck it in a drawer, at least then I wouldn't have to think about it."
“I’m… a little surprised you didn't try to get rid of it," I said.
"No, come on, she would have never let that go," Ithaca said. “My supervisor doesn’t deserve that. But it is possible to set that hideous thing’s hands into middle fingers.”
I chuckled, but only for a moment. Anxiety trickled back as I realized it was my turn. It would be wrong not to participate. And, well, I had kept a lot of thoughts to myself over the years. Uncomfortable as it made me, maybe I was due to let one loose. An old one, something that was growing dusty with neglect.
I cleared my throat. “Dr. Lacroux, my supervisor, he drinks a lot of tea during office hours, and he keeps everything he has in this set of tea tins in the back of the room. He has a shelf full of them.” I began to second guess speaking up, but the others kept their eyes on me. I brushed the crumbs from my legs, pulled myself straight.
“Each of these tins, they have designs printed on them — he has a wide variety, I’d have to show you. But there’s one in particular, the one where he keeps his English Breakfast, which has this picture of a soldier on it. He’s standing on watch, wearing a red jacket, black pants. A proper uniform. And he’s very statured, very serious. I thought he looked like a bodyguard, with the way he stood. I told Lacroux, and he agreed. He said I would be just like that when I got older.
“I think he figured I was admiring the man on that tin, because he looked so proud when he said that. Enough that I took him literally.” I took a deep breath, tamping fears of how foolish I sounded. “But it’s — he’s wearing the most absurd hat. I can’t express it to you properly, but it’s twice as big as his head, made out of fur. Black fur. And this hat, it’s kept in place with a strap on his chin. Not his jaw, but his chin. It’s terrible. It’s a terrible hat. And I was horrified because I thought I was going to have to wear it. I thought by graduating I’d be stuck with a future of wearing that hat every day.”
Atlas grinned. “When did you figure out you didn’t have to?”
“Well, I didn’t want to ask Lacroux,” I admitted. “And I, just, I didn’t want to insult his tea tin. It didn’t exactly ever come up.”
Ithaca snorted. Atlas gave a silent chuckle. Both summoned a brief spike of doubt. But after I gave myself a moment to really think about it, look at their expressions more closely, I realized that neither was meant at my expense. I’d done right. It was such a small, passing thing I’d allowed myself, yet I felt lighter for it.
Within the next minutes, the three of us had nearly exhausted our meals. I was left with nothing but energy bars, which I settled were best saved for later plans. Ithaca watched me pocket them with a sniff of frustration. I gave her an apologetic glance, unsure if there was anything I could say. She stood pointedly, yanking her bedroll up with her.
“Everything alright?” Atlas asked.
“Yeah.” Ithaca ripped the bindings from her roll, then unfurled it on the remaining bench. “Kastos just gets the floor.”
We had turned off all the overhead lights, but an inextinguishable glow still radiated from the closets and showers. It felt like a cloudy afternoon, not nine at night. Atlas relaxed with his eyes closed, possibly asleep, his breathing ragged but even. Ithaca repositioned in her bedroll for the twentieth, maybe thirtieth time since we’d laid down.
I packed the last of my meagre supplies for my trip into a nylon bag, then limped to the airlock, offering my partners a nod farewell. If all went according to plan, they’d be properly asleep by the time I returned. I’d be resting on the floor with them, dust masks and supplies at my side. Lacroux could be with us. Lacroux would be with us. I pulled the switch, and the mechanisms hummed to life. Air hissed from the seals of the door.
Atlas opened his eyes, concern weighing on his face.
“Hold on....” Atlas blinked the remnants of sleep away. After a brief pause, a pick at the edge of his eyelids, he faced Ithaca on the opposite bunk. She was breathing as if she were sleeping, but her position looked suspiciously tense. “I’m sorry to drop this on you all of a sudden, but do you think we could talk in the airlock?”
I hesitated, feeling the clock tick, but nodded.
He morosely smiled. It was surreal to see him like this after the conversation he started, but then I remembered: guilt often weighed heavier when lying in bed, thinking a while in silence.
We sealed ourselves in the airlock.
“Hey, um,” Atlas said. “I know this is a weird time to bring this up, but… It’s just looking like everything’s going to be a little serious for a while. We might be relying on each other and all, so…” He watched the floor, rubbing his forehead. “Sorry. You know I’m not normally this awkward. I’m still waking up.” My nerves must have shown on my face, because Atlas recoiled when I looked at him. “Sorry. I know, you have things to do. You’re mad at me for earlier. Petric. Shit. I’m so sorry about Petric. I… I can’t stop thinking about him, you know? I kept seeing him dead when I was trying to sleep.”
“Why didn’t you tell Ithaca what really happened?”
“I was worried maybe she’d think it was intentional. And I didn’t want the incident to sneak its way into her rumour mill."
Interesting. She had mentioned something about earning rumours back when we’d been punished by Lacroux, but I’d dismissed it as deflection. In retrospect, far more of her actions made sense if it were true on its face. It explained she knew so many random facts, why she went out of her way to stir up trouble that she barely enjoyed.
“Was that why she was put in Exceptions?” I asked.
“Yeah. A year ago. An informant on staff spilled the beans after they were caught altering some files. No idea if the two things are related. Never really cared. She’s always been nice to me, she likes you. She’s not a bad person. You just have to be careful what she hears, you know?”
“How did she keep that up after being caught?”
“I don’t know that she really has. Just that she hasn’t stopped collecting. I’ve figured she’s mostly just been living in the past, maybe occasionally dipping her toes in when she thinks no one’s looking. It’s enough to keep me quiet about anything she could use as fuel, but I guess it’s not enough to get staff more worked up than usual.”
That struck a weird chord, feeling a whole lot more relatable than I could contend with right now. While my curiosity begged me to press, Ithaca’s past was too much to dig into at a moment like this. I had a job to do.
“Was that all this was about?” I asked. “I appreciate knowing, but I should probably go.”
“No, that was…” Atlas looked at his feet again. “Okay, here’s the thing. I’ve got to confide something with you. At least one of you two’s got to be in on it, and Ithaca — you know.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’m not a soldier. I’ve never been.”
“What? What does… ”
“It was staff ordered, don’t worry.” Atlas forced a smirk. “I’m a companion.”
That heat threatened to crawl back through my face. That explained so much. “A companion.” Bred for the unspeakable. For the obscene. For being…
“A lover, not a fighter, as they say.” Atlas grinned.
“Why would they tell you to hide something like that? If I knew, I could have accounted for it. I wouldn’t have expected you to know how to handle stuff like this. Petric could be…”
“I know. I kept wanting to break it to you sooner. But you’ve seen what it’s like when staff decides something should stay on the down-low.”
That was certainly true. I bit my tongue to ward the flustered muck bubbling in my gut.
“When I was put in Exceptions, staff told me to lie. They said it was to keep me safe, so I wouldn’t get toyed with by anyone who didn’t have rights to me.”
“Does that mean that someone technically does have… ‘rights’ to you’?” Even speaking those words tied knots in my stomach.
“It’s apparently none of my business. Deputy Lacerte has ‘someone in mind’.”
“Is that… normal, for a companion?”
He just shrugged sadly. I couldn’t think of a single more disheartening reaction.
“That — I can’t —” My script couldn’t hold up to this. There was a particular way combat builds were supposed to interact with each other. Civilians and non-combat Contracts were a completely different matter.
“Hey, hey.” He signalled for me to look at his face. He was calm, his smile real, for perhaps the first time since I met him.
It was grounding. “I was starting to worry that you were put in Exceptions for…” Was there a more polite way to say incompetence? I sighed, regretting my own past thoughts. “Incompetence.”
“Yeah, I figured. Part of why I decided to just come out with it. That and, well, what other chance might I get? We may never be off the network again.”
I smiled thinly. “That’s an optimistic outlook.”
“Look.” Atlas nudged me. “If you’re going out alone, you bet I’m thinking optimistically. I don’t want to imagine you dying out there.”
“Sorry. I’m not trying to say you’re wrong. I hope you’re right.”
“I’m not going to be able to talk you out of this, am I?”
“I won’t be long.”
“It’s such a bad idea.” Atlas chuckled, but failed to snuff out how much he meant it.
“I’m well prepared,” I leaned on my cane to prove I could still hold my weight with it. “My ankles should be fine. I can hear any threats long before they get to me.”
“No, I know. Don’t get like that. I know you’re good. I would have got hit with that statue dead-on if you didn’t cover for me like you did. You’re good.”
I cracked a grin, but stifled it before it could stick. “How bad do you expect it to be out there?”
“Never mind. I’m barely awake. Don’t worry about it. Do your thing.” Atlas jabbed a thumb to the door.
I faced it, ashamed for wanting to rush through earlier. “Thank you for trusting me.”
“Hey, no worries.”
Giving him a nod in appreciation and farewell, I placed my hand on the control panel. But then I remembered.“Wait, Atlas."
“Hm? What’s up?”
“Ithaca. She saw us. I’d… ignored it because I didn’t know how serious this was. I thought maybe I’d want her to know.”
Atlas smirked. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll just tell her we had a little we-might-die-so-why-not-try.”
I flushed. I didn’t wholly understand, but tone was enough. He really did notice my reaction in the showers, didn’t he? Lost for any response that wouldn’t dig me deeper into that hole, I laughed.
“Not serious, by the way.” Atlas did finger guns as both hatches opened. “I’ll just leave her to think what she wants.”
I didn’t even fight my urge to smile. “I think she’d prefer to work for the information anyway.”
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i do not “delete sentences” when they start “hindering the plot” i COPY PASTE THEM into a SEPARATE DOC made just for keeping all my USELESS LINES that i will also NEVER USE so therefore i should JUST DELETE THEM but i DONT because id FEEL BAD if i did
