Docile

by K. M. Szpara

  I smooth down my suit jacket and join my parents at the edge of the stables. “Good to see you both.”

  Mom leaves her horse to its jockey so she can greet me. “Visiting your mother before your friends? What did I do to deserve such a wonderful son? Come here; let me hug you.”

  She makes good on her promise, then passes me to Dad, who shakes my hand firmly before patting me on the back. “Long time no see.” He smiles at his own joke. Dad still makes it into the lab once a week. We Bishops do not easily give up control.

  “And who is this?” Mom walks toward Elisha, arms outstretched.

  His eyes widen, body stiffens. She’s going to hug him and he has no idea how to react. There she goes. Oh god.

  “I don’t recall the lawyers sending over anyone’s GenEcs,” she says, her arms already around Elisha, who holds his stiffly at his sides.

  I cover my laugh by clearing my throat.

  Thanks to the Next of Kin laws, legal marriage is complicated for people of means. If we—or, more often, our parents—are interested in proposing legal marriage, the first step is for everyone’s lawyers to subpoena each family’s Genea-Economic records. A dozen people have to say yes to my future partner before I can. And that’s why most of us indulge in Dociles and casual dating, instead. That’s also why my mother is confused to see me arrive with a man she doesn’t recognize. To be fair, Elisha is nothing like he was four months ago.

  “Mom, that’s Elisha. My Docile.” I wink at her. “Remember?”

  “Oh!” Mom makes a whoopsie! face and clasps her hands, suddenly. “He looks nice.” She speaks to me, now, rather than Elisha. “You’ve done a good job, though he isn’t dressed for the…” She pauses. “… occasion.”

  While the real horses are warming up, Patrons send their Dociles onto the track dressed in tails and ears and ridiculous tack-inspired costumes, and place unregulated bets that usually end in an exchange of obscene sums of money, Dociles, or their services.

  So, no. I did not dress up Elisha, who is a human being, in a pony costume, so that I could bet his mouth for someone else’s. I get enough of that, already.

  “Elisha will be joining me in the chalet,” I say. “I hope you both will, too.”

  “Of course,” Dad says. “Wouldn’t miss the chance to celebrate my son’s big success with the ODR.” He squeezes my shoulder. “And it looks like you’ve trained your Docile up well. The Board is impressed, despite your initial setback.”

  “What setback?”

  “When he refused Dociline, of course.”

  “Right.” It’s become such a part of my life, I don’t really think of it as a setback, anymore. It’s odd realizing that others still do.

  “Anyway, just wanted to let you know we’d be happy to see what you’ve been working on for Formula 3.0.”

  “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that.” I lower my voice. “Did the Board get my memo on Formula 3.0.8? I think it’s too similar to version 3.0.7. My goal is more creativity and development for on-meds. Version 3.0.7 takes so much control from the test subjects, I’m worried they won’t know to breathe on their own.”

  “That’s why we’re no longer focusing on version 3.0.7,” Dad says, as if we’ve been on the same page the whole time and this is a moot issue.

  “Okay.” I don’t ask why we’re still testing 3.0.7. “I’ll send along a memo detailing my progress with version 3.0.8.”

  “Sounds good, Son.” Dad squeezes my shoulder and says, “Your mother and I will be over in time for lunch.” He waves us off with a reassuring smile on his face.

  Inside the chalet, Elisha and I sit together with friends and coworkers from Bishop Labs and the ODR alike, at a wide, round table covered in black and yellow paisley linens. Old Bay–seasoned scones, rich coffee, and carafes of juices and champagne sit in the center of each table; Dociles with serving trays weave nimbly between them, offering more substantial food and drink to those who are ready.

  The clopping of heavy metal draws my eyes from the race program, which droops in my limp fingers when Mariah approaches with reins in hand. Behind her, a Docile steps nimbly in black thigh-high boots that end in hoofed feet. A sleek horsehair tail sprouts behind her. Elaborate braids gather hair in a row down her head and neck.

  Beside me, Elisha shifts in his seersucker suit and tightens his bow tie.

  “Alex,” he whispers.

  I shake my head. “Not now.”

  The girl steps high and balanced, despite having her hands bound to her back with leather straps. The green and turquoise plumes that tower up from her head harness match the tiny floral pattern of Mariah’s dress.

  “I hope you don’t mind me showing off my new Docile.” Mariah fastens the girl’s reins to a pillar along the edge of the chalet.

  Dutch stands, setting down his mimosa. “Mariah, darling, she is exquisite. May I?”

  “Of course.”

  “Damn.” He traces his hands up the Docile’s thighs, stopping before he can reach the leather straps that cover her crotch. “If I weren’t planning to eat…”

  I clear my throat, reminding him there’s a standard of decorum in the company chalet.

  “Yeah, yeah.” He takes Mariah’s hand, instead, and accompanies her to the table, holding her seat out before taking his own.

  “So, how’re all my lovelies”—Mariah stops when her eyes land on Elisha—“doing.” It ceases to be a question. “Alex, your Docile is sitting at the table,” she says through a tightening smile.

  “We don’t all have platinum horseshoes laying around.” I wink. “Besides, seersucker flatters Elisha.”

  “Really? I think ‘cocksucker’ suits him better.”

  The word hits me like a slap to the face. “What are you doing?” I look around to make sure none of the senior Board members are nearby, then lean across the table. “I’m trying to make a good impression.”

  Skepticism crosses her face. “Well, you’re embarrassing yourself.”

  “No, I’m not.” Dad heard me tell Mom Elisha was accompanying me to the chalet. He said he and the Board were impressed. I’m doing well and Mariah is wrong.

  “Hope you don’t mind us crashing the kids’ table.” We both turn to see my parents ascend the stairs to the chalet. “It was the only way we could escape the ODR folks. Don’t get me wrong, they’re nice, but…” Dad searches for an acceptable word.

  “Excited?” I offer.

  “That’s it.” He chuckles and sits beside my mother.

  “I found my Patron Liaison, Charlene Williams, exceedingly professional, if you’re headhunting.”

  Dad waves his hand. “Later, later. For some reason, everyone thinks I want to talk business when what I really want to do is eat.”

  I shoot Mariah a look. See? Everything is fine.

  Catering Dociles serve us a salad of mixed greens with seared scallops, a squeeze of fresh lemon juice, and truffle salt. Elisha examines the many forks laid before him, then remembers to use the outermost one. Every now and again, while the rest of us discuss the contract or the forthcoming races, I catch Elisha staring at Mariah’s pony Docile.

  “Pardon me, would you like a refill, sir?” a catering Docile asks, distracting him. Her smile is warm and gentle, like a stock photo of customer service.

  “Um, no thank you.” Elisha doesn’t meet her eyes, unsure how to interact with her. She’s not like Dutch’s Dociles, convincing him of their lifelikeness with warm bodies and mouths. “I’m fine.”

  “Okay. Thank you, sir. Have a lovely day and good luck in the races.” She turns to me and repeats her script: “Pardon me, would you like a refill, sir?”

  “Yes.” Unlike Elisha, I do not thank her. Courtesies are wasted on Dociles—they won’t remember. And the one Docile they wouldn’t be wasted on doesn’t need to be thanked for doing what he is already supposed to. We do not thank Dociles. They, however, do so profusely. Manners are always taught first.

  “Thank you, sir,” she says whil
e topping off my champagne. “Have a lovely day and good luck in the races.” She moves on to my mother and begins her spiel again, passing out of my mind.

  As lunch ends, friends and coworkers head for the track in small groups, wagering on Dociles and horses alike. All except for Elisha, who is still staring at Mariah’s Docile. I snap my fingers to get his attention and he blinks like I’ve just flashed a camera in his face.

  “Sorry,” he says. “I’ve been distracted.”

  I catch myself before I can apologize for making him sit through hours of conversation far over his head. Talking about him like he’s not even there—it’s less awkward when they’re on-meds. Elisha might care, but he suppresses most of it. If anything, it shows how well his training is coming along.

  “Distracted with what?” I ask.

  His eyes have already roved back to the pony Docile. “Her,” he says. “Dylan.”

  “Dylan?” Mariah would never name a Docile “Dylan.” She’s probably called something stupid, like “Fluffy.” Elisha must—

  Oh god.

  “She lives in my community. Lived, I guess. Our parents are—We’re friends.” Elisha speaks in a monotone, unable to look away from his—I can barely bring myself to use the word—friend.

  Third Right exists to protect me from this. No Patron should see their Docile as a whole person who existed before their term. I can’t even look at him; I bury my face in my hands, grateful that everyone has left.

  “I didn’t know she was considering selling her debt. We don’t share the same genes, but we’re still family. Her parents picked up the slack when my mom left for her term. Dad was having a hard time alone, but Nora and Riley—well, until he took his own life—”

  “Enough.” I press my fingertips to my forehead. This is too much history; I’m too close. “Enough of this.” But when I look up, Elisha’s eyes are pink and watery. They meet mine for the first time.

  “Okay.” He folds his hands carefully in his lap.

  “She’s fine,” I say. “She’s on Dociline. She doesn’t even know what’s happening to her.”

  “Okay,” he whispers.

  Dammit. “What? What’re you thinking?”

  He fidgets with his cuff in silence.

  “Dociline hurts people—I know you don’t believe me. But if she’s on it for more than a few years, it could— She’ll go home like my mother, like a Docile, still.”

  “I can’t make Mariah detox your”—I force out the word—“friend any more than I can force your friend to refuse it. If she’s on Dociline, it’s because she asked for it.”

  “I don’t know why she would when she’s seen what it did to my mom. Maybe she thinks a short term will…”

  Too much, too much. This is too much. Too much debtor drama that I shouldn’t have to deal with. I need to shut this down, now. I could leave Elisha home whenever I go to Mariah’s—but what if she brings Dylan around to my house, or Dutch’s? Or Bishop Labs? Or anywhere? She’s a friend and a shareholder; I can’t avoid our Dociles crossing paths forever and if I tell her why it’ll be my fault all over again and—

  I could fix this. Offer to buy Dylan.

  No, Mariah thinks I can barely handle one Docile, much less two.

  “Hey, man.” Dutch pops his head in. “We’re all heading over to watch the Docile races. You coming? Folks have started betting.”

  His Docile, Opal, untethers Dylan, whose name I am trying to forget, and leads her away to the track.

  “Yeah, I’ll meet you there.”

  “If you say so.” He disappears.

  And, like that, I have the answer. I block Elisha’s path with my arm. He doesn’t require further force, simply stops and looks to me for instructions. I’m already doing the math in my head.

  “You run a fast mile.”

  “I don’t know what’s average, but I suppose—”

  “That wasn’t a question.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You’ll compete.”

  “In what?”

  “The Docile races.”

  “Okay.” And? hangs between his lips like a cigarette, but he doesn’t dare ask what that means.

  I lower my voice—not that anyone’s listening. I’m terrified that someone important will see through the perfection I’ve promised them, that my Docile is causing yet another problem, and that I am by all appearances doing him a favor. “It’s customary for Patrons to wager on their Dociles.” How to word this … “If Dylan is going to cause problems, I am willing to wager for her contract.”

  Elisha’s lips part, eyes widen. Now he understands.

  “But you have to win. If you don’t, I’m the one who will suffer the embarrassment. Not you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” I didn’t bring anything for him to wear. He can’t run in a seersucker suit; he’ll be laughed off the track. “Follow me.”

  Elisha’s stupor gives me a head start and he’s forced to jog to catch up as I stride across Preakness Village to the Docile stables. Good. He’ll need to warm up.

  Dammit, this is a terrible idea. I’d have hired him a coach if I wanted him to race—to win. I wouldn’t have fed him a large meal. Would have deposited him in the stable with the other Dociles. But if I don’t do this, Elisha’s friend will cause complications, for both him and me.

  This is why Dociline exists. This is why Dociline exists. This is why Dociline exists: so a debtor’s problems don’t become my problems.

  The Docile stables are right beside the horse stables. They smell like the horse stables, but never mind that. “Dutch!” I dare not call his name too loud, lest I attract attention. There’s nothing scandalous about entering my Docile in the races, but after declaring I wouldn’t, well, it needs to be a surprise. And he needs to win.

  “Bishop, what’re you doing over here?” He ties off an intricate braid in Opal’s bleach-white hair. She, unlike Mariah’s pony Dociles, is at least wearing some kind of sports leggings and bra with a gray and white dapple pattern under her white leather tack.

  I hold a finger to my lips.

  “I didn’t realize this was a secret rendezvous.” Dutch looks around, mocking me.

  “It’s not.” I look around in earnest. “But, um … Are you racing Opal and Onyx?”

  “I was planning on it. Why?”

  “You didn’t wager them, did you?”

  “I’d never bet my babies.” He slaps Opal’s thigh, then grins. “Only money.”

  “How much?”

  “Five hundred thousand on Opal, four on Onyx.” When I don’t humor him, he volunteers, “She’s fucking fast.”

  “I’ll give you four for Onyx’s tack.”

  “Why? Are you—you’re—but you said—”

  “I know what I said and that’s why we’re”—I give in—“having a secret rendezvous. Look, I’ll tell you about it later. I need to bet against Mariah, and Elisha’s all I have to offer. He’s fast; he can win.”

  “Well, if you think he’s going to beat Onyx and Opal, I’m going to be out nine hundred thousand.”

  “Do I not pay you enough?” I chuckle.

  For a moment, desperation tenses Dutch’s face. Sometimes I forget he’s new money. That he knew debt. That any hoarding tendencies stem from previous financial insecurities.

  But he covers it with a smug grin and curled upper lip. “I’ll accept it as a bonus.”

  I join him in leaving discomfort in the dust of humor. “You drive a hard bargain. I’ll have my accountant send it tonight.”

  “Deal.” Dutch relaxes back into his usual smile and runs a hand through his already-full hair. He whistles and Onyx appears. “Prep Elisha for the race—and don’t forget to warm him up, you know, stretches, whatever you do. Keep it quiet.”

  Onyx nods his head, unfurls the diamond chain on Elisha’s cuff, and leads him off. Elisha looks over his shoulder, but the second he catches my eye, I look away.

  If he wants to help his friend, he
needs to do his part.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose as if that will squeeze the tension right out of my face. It doesn’t. Maybe I need a drink. Yeah, that’ll do. A drink.

  I head toward the finish line, lift an unidentified cocktail from a catering Docile along my way, down it in one long gulp, and set the empty glass on another Docile’s tray. Lavender and cucumber sting my mouth when I approach Mariah. She stands alone along the perimeter fence, swirling a glass of red wine.

  “Where’s your other half?” she says, still gazing at the track.

  “Other half?”

  “Elisha.”

  “There it is,” I say.

  “I’m not trying to be witty, just calling it like I see it. And I’m not the only one.”

  “Whatever you say.” She has no idea what she’s talking about. I’ve worked hard—on top of my already-busy career and social calendar—to train Elisha from scratch. I’m breaking new ground. If she can’t handle it, that’s her fault.

  “I’m trying to help, Alex.” She presses a hand to her forehead. “You know I want what’s best for you and Bishop Labs, and that’s why—”

  “Elisha’s racing.” I give first, so that she’ll see I’m not fighting her. “He’s in the stables, getting ready.”

  Her eyebrows hit her bangs. “Really?”

  “Yeah. I, uh, decided to show off all my hard work, after all.”

  “And you’re here to wager.”

  “What fun is showing off if I don’t win anything?”

  “Well, I want something.” A breeze catches Mariah’s hair. She fondles the riding crop in her belt, lovingly, the fight gone from her face.

  “What’s that?”

  “I want you to subpoena Javier’s GenEcs.” When Mariah finally looks at me, she’s tucking her hair back to reveal rosy cheeks. “I’m serious, Alex. Breaking up with him was a mistake. You liked him, for fuck’s sake, and why shouldn’t you have? So he didn’t make you vomit your heart up, but he’s smart and cute and likeable, and new money isn’t old money, but it’s better than no money.”

  “No. I can’t un–break up with him—even if I wanted to. Imagine how that’d look.”