The girl made no attempt to cover herself as she stood there in her underwear. She was merely regarding him warily from a good distance away. If she was a human animal, he was something else, a sterile thing that had intruded upon her life.
Jake knew from Kostya that the Russians carried their communications devices on the outside, not the inside. This was a matter of pride. So Yulia Boykov would not be able to call the police now that he’d taken everything from her.
“What are you?” she asked him in Russian. “A convict?”
Jake shook his head. His secondary left arm was still holding its weapon, the small hand peeping out from the flaps of his parka. On the wall next to the kitchen door was a cheap full-length mirror, which gave him a wavy view of himself—his human-looking face, his scalp covered by the hat, his body the normal size and shape beneath the huge parka. But where the parka hung open in front, his skeletal shape and crystallized ribs were visible.
“I’m not a convict,” he told her, also in Russian. He wondered how strong his accent was. He and Kostya spoke English to each other, which meant Jake’s Russian didn’t get much use.
“What are you, then?” she whispered, her eyes fixing on the inhuman parts of him that she could see.
“Do you want to sit? Be more comfortable?” he asked her.
She shook her head. A flash of fear sharpened her expression, as if this offer might be a prelude to something intimate happening between them.
“Are you frightened?” he asked her.
“Why did you make me take my clothes off?” she asked, her eyes sweeping over his body.
“Not for that,” he said. “Nothing like that.”
But the girl did not relax.
Jake took off the parka, and then, while Yulia Boykov watched in astonishment, he stripped off his pants and shirt. Naked, he revealed the absolute sexlessness of his body. His enhanced legs, with their unbreakable latticework of bones, connected into the smooth, crystalline/metallic rib carapace of his upper body, protecting a mesh of cloudy tissues behind it. There was nothing visible between his legs. Some waste functions were still performed in that area, but sex was no longer a possibility.
“You’re not a boy?” she asked, still wary. “You sound like a boy.”
“I think I still am a boy,” he said. “But you can see that I won’t be forcing myself on you.”
In that long mirror, he watched the elastic, nearly human face he wore rearrange itself subtly. He had all his expressions still. Underneath everything, he was himself.
Yulia visibly relaxed. She didn’t sit, but Jake did, lowering himself onto the sofa. There were no fine nerve endings along the metal surface of his legs and buttocks, but he felt himself sink into the cushion and knew that this was the softest object he had rested on in years.
He unhooked his secondary right arm, and with it he accessed a panel along the bottom of his rib cage. The inputs there were specially designed for the tiny fingers of his smaller limbs. Keeping his eyes fixed on Yulia, he adjusted the settings, and in moments the tingle of suffusion began. As the girl watched in terrified fascination, all the nooks and crannies and empty spaces around Jake’s body filled up with gauzy fluid.
Looking at himself in the mirror over Yulia’s shoulder, he was observing a robot becoming human. His hands and feet and head had already looked normal, but the fluid gradually covered the bones of his legs, the ribs of his torso, his arms. It was not fluid in any ordinary sense, but a substance somewhere between melted cheese and soft leather in consistency. Though it was white when it began to suffuse, as it reached its final shape, as he became a human before Yulia’s eyes, it took on the tone of skin, the same color as his face. In the mirror, at a distance, he was real (if you could overlook the lack of boy parts); he had muscles, skin, even fingernails. He pushed off his hat as the skinning fluid finished the parts of his scalp he had been keeping under cover, and turned his head this way and that to see it in the mirror. It had been a long time since he’d fully suffused.
“Convicts can’t do that,” Yulia said quietly.
“What do they do?” Jake asked her.
He’d seen a few convicts, he thought, on his way through the streets. There had been garbage men along one of the small lanes he’d run through, men who had been built into skeletal garbage-collecting machines, their core human forms just visible inside the shell of mechanical arms. They had been rolling along, diligently collecting bins.
“They do one thing only, until their sentence is over. They put out fires, collect garbage, mend the sewage system, whatever they have been modified to do.” She was looking at Jake’s secondary arms, which didn’t grow skin and which stood out against the rest of him. “What are you made to do?” she asked him.
“Mine the asteroids,” he said. He knew those Russian words because they were some of the first he’d ever been taught.
Yulia received this piece of information with surprise. “Why?”
Jake saw himself smile in the mirror. He rifled through the objects on the sofa and picked up her comm device and then her ID. “Platina,” he said, which was the Russian word for platinum. He could see the ribbons of platinum running through her official identification, and though he couldn’t see the innards of her phone, he knew it had a belly full of the metal. “You use it for everything. It comes from asteroids.”
“I thought it came from the Earth.”
“Years ago. But not now.”
“You could be a convict sent to the asteroids,” she reasoned. She hesitated, then added, “But I’ve never heard of such a thing, and you don’t sound Russian. You sound English.”
He wondered if she was trying to make conversation to keep him from hurting her. Jake watched his perfect doll body in the mirror, saw his mouth turn downward in a grimace. It was painful to say the words, because they tugged at another lifetime: “I’m from California.”
Yulia laughed involuntarily before rushing to stop herself. Her eyes flicked to the knife in his stunted metal secondary arm.
“Why do you laugh?” he asked.
“No one is from California anymore.” She had switched to English, which sounded kind of Russian when she spoke it, the “Cal” in California coming out more like “Kel.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, switching to English as well. “Is—is California gone?” Had something terrible happened that none of the slaves had heard about? Or that Kostya hadn’t wanted to tell him? The thought was crushing.
Yulia gave her head a sharp shake. “No. Gone from us only. Enemies. We don’t talk anymore with America.” Her expression became thoughtful. “You are really from there?”
“For how long?” Jake asked. “How long since you’ve been enemies?”
Yulia shrugged: Too long to count.
She had slid down the wall into a sitting position. She was still watchful, her eyes flicking to his knife every few moments, and yet Jake sensed that curiosity was taking hold.
She cocked her head to one side and asked him, “What is California like?”
3. SANTA BARBARA
Sandy beaches and blue water. Chilly night air. Barefoot walks, tides. Cold morning water and surf wax and warm midday sun. A wide stretch of green lawn rolling out beneath his bedroom window, all the way to the cliff above the ocean. His father in a polo shirt and shorts, hitting tennis balls across the lawn for their trio of dogs. His mother in a wide-brimmed hat, keeping the sun off her subtly modified face until all the scars had healed, ordering dinner for delivery as she watched Jake run to the beach.
That was what California was like.
Jake had loved all these things, sort of. They’d been the background of his childhood. In the foreground, the most important element, the star, had been Jake himself. Brown hair, bleached blond from the sun, and tan, tan skin.
When Yulia Boykov asked him what California was like, though, the first thing that came to mind was the bet. A spring night. Hormones and ego.
“Dahlia’s not going to do that with me on the beach,” Jake whispered. “That’s completely unfair. You’re already with Allie! I made out with Dahlia once. You have a huge advantage.”
Cody pulled Jake farther from the group of teens sprawled around the bonfire. The sun was setting, casting orange and red drama all over the sky. The sand was still warm but wouldn’t be for too much longer. Jake pulled on his hoodie as Cody leaned closer. “It doesn’t have to be Dahlia, and you’re going to have to get more than one girl anyway—because I’m definitely getting more than one,” Cody told him. “Maybe it’ll be easier for me with Allie, but I have more to lose when she finds out about the other girls. It evens out.”
“She’s definitely going to find out,” Jake said, shooting a glance back at the group of girls on the far side of the fire. Their tan legs were stretched toward the flames; their long hair was getting wild in the shifting evening breeze. Allie was obviously looking over at them while pretending she wasn’t. Maybe she already sensed Cody’s plans.
Cody pulled an absurdly large bottle from the pocket of his sweatshirt. Jake grabbed hold of it long enough to see pineapple-flavored vodka on the label, before Cody snatched it back and waggled it in the air between them.
“This stuff is soooo strong, but it’s sweet. You basically don’t notice the alcohol. The girls will not be paying attention to anything after a few drinks.”
“Do we have enough of it?”
Cody laughed. “This is like half a gallon. We’re good.”
“Hmm.” Jake considered the final details, asked, “What if we do it more than one time with the same girl? Does that count?”
“No. That could be, like, a bonus score if we’re tied. But otherwise no.” Cody was good with the details, kind of a savant with these things.
“And what do we get if we win?” Jake asked. He could already feel himself gearing up for the challenge, and his mind was moving ahead, to the spoils of victory. “Loser buys all the alcohol until school ends in June?” he suggested.
“Including prom?”
Jake mulled this over. “No, we can have another bet for that—that’s like three months from now.”
Cody looked pleased. “Deal.”
They both glanced back at everyone around the fire, at the girls who were starting to roast marshmallows and had maybe forgotten all about Jake and Cody for the moment. They shook hands surreptitiously.
“Show them who’s in charge,” they whispered to each other.
Their mantra.
* * *
When Jake returned to the bonfire, he sat next to Dahlia at first. Her cardigan was loose over her bathing suit top; the swell of her breasts was plainly visible. Jake smiled at her as he chatted with everyone else and she sipped at a plastic cup of the awful vodka, her pretty blue eyes touched by the firelight.
“Are you gonna kiss me?” Dahlia whispered when they’d been sitting with each other for a while. The sky had gone deep purple by then, with stripes of darkness along the horizon where distant clouds hovered. She had passed her cup to be refilled and inched closer to Jake.
“When I get you alone,” he whispered back.
“Always exactly the right answer,” she murmured. The smile she gave him was unexpected. Instead of drunk-girl flirtation, she smiled as if she didn’t have much confidence in Jake but didn’t mind that he was a liar. She let her hand trail down his chest, a clear invitation.
“I’ll be back with more drinks,” he said, standing up abruptly. Dahlia was going to be a piece of cake. He could save her for last.
* * *
“Finally,” a girl called Aubrey said, when Jake had taken the long way around the bonfire to the cooler full of soda and beer.
They were outside the immediate glow of the fire, where Jake was pretty sure no one could see them, but there was still enough light for Jake to note the color in Aubrey’s cheeks. She was into her second plastic cup of vodka. They’d been casting each other meaningful looks over Dahlia’s shoulder for several minutes.
“Finish that,” he said, taking her hand.
Aubrey drained the last of the vodka and threw down her cup. In a moment, they were walking along the wet sand, close to the breaking waves.
“I’ve been thinking about you all night,” Jake told her.
“You’ve been all over what’s-her-name.” He could hear the pout in her voice. Aubrey and Dahlia went to different schools, and their groups of friends didn’t overlap much—though Jake was one hundred percent sure that Aubrey knew Dahlia’s name perfectly well. Still, they weren’t friends, which would mean less blowback later.
Jake laughed lightly. “Only because I wanted to be all over you.” The words sounded so ridiculous, but Cody had been super correct about the pineapple vodka. Aubrey practically rippled with pleasure. She laced her fingers through Jake’s and pulled him away from the group and toward the looming shore cliffs, as though he’d said the most romantic thing ever and she wanted to reward him. In the darker darkness of the cliff’s shadow, she did.
Afterward, they returned to the bonfire separately. He watched Aubrey slip back into the group of girls so casually, as if nothing had happened. By then there was only a faint line of indigo along the horizon to mark where the sea met the sky. Overhead, the stars had come out, looking three-dimensional in the deep blue heavens. Jake took deep breaths of the fresh air, feeling his own invincibility.
Then came a twinge of worry when he saw Cody heading away from the fire, with the silhouette of a girl capering along behind him. He’d lost track of his opponent. Was he with his girlfriend, Allie, still? No, Jake saw as he got closer to the main group, Allie was by the fire without Cody, which might mean that Cody was in the lead now.
Jake surveyed his possibilities. There was Dahlia, drinking from the same cup as another girl, both gripping the cup with their teeth, while two boys held the girls’ hands behind their backs. He still wanted to save Dahlia for last. So who, then? There were a few girls he didn’t really know. He could probably make it happen with one of them, but that would be a lot of work….
A wicked and beautiful thought came to him as his gaze fell back onto Allie. Rearranging his expression into a look of concern, Jake beckoned her. Allie came away from the fire, swaying with tipsiness and peering around at the dark beach—she had begun to notice Cody’s absence. When they were far enough away for privacy, Jake told her that he’d seen Cody running off with someone else.
Allie was so crestfallen, Jake almost laughed. She was just drunk enough that her expressions reminded him of a cartoon character, comically dramatic. She was crushed. She was outraged.
“Who was it?” she demanded. Her hands had balled into fists as though she planned to go storming off into the dark to beat the shit out of the girl. And Cody too.
Jake turned his laugh into a cough as he said, “I’m not sure. Do you want to go find them together?”
She was so grateful, he almost laughed again. With a gentle tug on her hand, he started off with her into the darkness—going in exactly the wrong direction to intercept Cody. Soon they were far away from the fire, and the alcohol was hitting Allie harder. She tottered on the sand and he caught her. In moments, he had maneuvered her against the sandy stone of the cliff and he kissed her.
“Stop!” Allie told him, scandalized. She pushed him away. “What are you doing?”
“You’re so fucking pretty,” he said. “How could Cody cheat on you?”
“He’s an asshole!”
Jake put his lips to her neck. “You should show him he’s not the only one who can do this….”
“Stop it!” she said again.
“Ok
ay.” He pulled away.
They stared at each other for a moment, and then Allie leaned in close and kissed him. A few minutes later, when they were doing a lot more than kissing, she was telling him not to stop.
* * *
By the time he got to Dahlia, Jake felt no sense of urgency. He could enjoy himself. They walked a long way down the beach, holding hands, and when he felt her shivering, he wrapped her in his arms. The breeze off the ocean had gotten colder, but there was still a hint of the warm afternoon in the air and in the sand.
“I don’t really do this,” she told him as they started to kiss.
“You know how much I like you,” he said. “So much.”
“Oh, really? ‘So much’?”
“Sooo much.”
“You are so full of shit.”
He kissed her more. “I’m not.”
He was guiding her away from the ocean, into a secluded spot where an arm of rock extended from the cliffs. Dahlia was stumbling slightly and she tasted like pineapples and alcohol and marshmallows. She walked backward in his arms until she bumped up against the bottom of the cliffs. “Ooof—you like lots of girls, Jake. You’re kind of a whore.”
Jake, on this evening, was in the middle of one of the most promiscuous activities imaginable, and yet her words caused him a surge of irritation.
“I am not.”
Dahlia laughed. “You’re not? Really? What am I, your backup plan for the night?”
Now he was more than irritated, he was angry. How dare she see the exact truth of the situation? “Of course not! I flirt. It’s—it’s fun. But I’ve been thinking about you all night.” She was still holding on to him, so he plowed past his anger, used it for his performance. “I kept thinking of ways to lure you away from the fire, Dahlia. And look, here we are.”
Stronger, Faster, and More Beautiful Page 14
