by Lyn Forester
But Nikola only watches the preset cycle before moving deeper into the gallery.
I trail after, curious to discover what will hold his attention.
The next display depicts different views of the toxic forest that surrounds our city just outside the wall. The poisonous orange haze that hangs over the canopy contrasts sharply with pops of green from the trees beneath. The first image reveals the vastness of the forest, no other civilization in sight. A lonely, yet majestic view that juxtaposes against the compressed stacked living of the city.
The image switches to a close up of the canopy, taken through a zoom lens. It reveals the life that lives outside the walls, showing that we’re not completely alone on this poisonous planet. The image after narrows in farther, singling out an individual tree with a family of winged foxes, their delicate wings spread wide to catch the light. This one makes me sad. I’ve seen them in the city, collared and wings clipped, forced to hop along after some rich asshole who thought disfiguring an animal was an acceptable cost to owning a living accessory.
I move on before the final image displays.
At each stopping point, the theme of the gallery becomes clearer: life outside the city. It holds a romanticized quality, as if life outside the walls is somehow better, cleaner, freer. One artist even created a whimsical, tiny city with houses on stilts, linked together by bridges.
We pause longer at this one, and I finally turn to Nikola, my brows pinched in confusion. I keep my voice low, though we seem to be the only ones in the gallery. “I don’t get it. Anyone who lived like this would die horribly within days. Why does it feel like these artists want to move outside the city? They know it’s toxic, right?”
He leans close, breath a warm caress against my ear, and a shiver rolls through me. “There are some who think reports of the toxin levels are exaggerated to enable the government to control the citizens.”
“That’s stupid.” I reach up to pull my hair over my ear, scrubbing away the tingles of awareness in the process. “All someone has to do is visit the Rim and they can see the poison. Why would we live like this if we didn’t have to?”
“You’re speaking as someone who lives on the top and is privy to all the documentations about air quality and the efforts the Troehan clan goes through to pull the toxins from the soil that grows our food.” His hand brushes against my hip, leaving the burn of his body heat behind. “You’re made aware on a daily basis how tenuous our lives on this planet are. But most of the citizens go through their days unaware of the danger. And some even purposefully ignore it. Art is a form of escapism. A way to dream of a better life.”
My head turns, bringing our faces dangerously close together. “Does your art give you a way to escape? What are your dreams?”
“Oh, no.” His lashes sweep down to veil his eyes. “I’m all about embracing the real world and finding its hidden beauty.”
Quiet passion fills his voice, and my heart races as he peels back a layer of his mask to reveal the vibrant man beneath.
His hands lift to motion expressively. “To hold raw materials, to feel their shape, to watch how they change form in my hands. Whether they need a delicate or firm touch, I let the material lead me.”
Watching him talk about something he loves holds my interest more than any of the artworks displayed in this gallery. My mind doesn’t work like that. I don’t see the leaves on the tree at APA and wonder how I can reshape them. I don’t look at a glass jar and imagine the play of light through different colored liquids.
Blood rushes through my veins. “Will you show me sometime? How you create art?”
“I’ve already shown you many times.” Slowly, he reaches up, fingers skimming along my cheek before he tucks the curls back behind my ear. Then he catches one long strand and lifts it to catch the light. “You just haven’t been paying attention.”
As the curl falls from his fingers, I realize he’s talking about all the times he’s braided my hair, creating intricate designs that I never see. I’ve questioned why he wastes time performing a task any maid can do, but he’s been firm in his desire to braid my hair, even when it’s not needed. Is it less about taming my wild curls and more about his own desire to perform the task?
He said it calms him, but does it also bring him pleasure to see my curls tamed, shaped into a design of his choice?
Nervous flutters fill my stomach at the memory of all the times his fingers have combed through my hair. An intimate act if I remove the safety of obligation from his touch. No wonder Felix prickles every time Nikola does it. He probably guessed already what I was blind to.
When my eyes jerk up to Nikola’s, I’m mesmerized by the light that reflects in their dark depths.
His head drops, another mask peeling away to reveal the vulnerability and hope beneath. “Do I have your attention now?”
I lick suddenly dry lips. “What happened to platonic friendship?”
“Oh, Caitlyn,” he sighs and dares another caress along my cheek. “Our relationship was never platonic. I’ve always made my interest clear. I’ve just been waiting for you to realize your own feelings.”
My heart pounds, somewhere between panic, fear, and a dangerous unknown. “I’m not sure what those are where you’re concerned.”
“I know.” His touch drops to my throat in a burning caress that lingers on my racing pulse. “I’m willing to keep waiting until you do.”
Privacy of the Public
“Welcome, demi-Councilor Lonette.” The bank manager, whose name I can’t remember, wrings his hands as he bows low. “I was not informed you planned to honor us with a visit today. I apologize for the wait.”
“We were not aware appointments were required, Mr. Carter,” Nikola says, cool reprimand in his voice while at the same time slipping me the man’s name. “Is there a reason you need to be alerted before demi-Councilor Lonette accesses her funds?”
While Nikola makes the man sweat, I glance around the stark white interior. The front of the bank, where we currently wait, offers minimalistic chairs with chrome frames and the bare minimum of padding to ease the burden of waiting. A receptionist brought triple-distilled water out as soon as we entered, along with apologies that the bank manager was currently in a meeting. Why I have to wait to be served by him specifically still eludes me.
As for the unasked-for water, it sits untouched on a circular pedestal at my elbow. I hate the waste, but also don’t want the inconvenience of needing a restroom while we’re on Level 12. Most shops only offer sanitary rooms to paying customers, and until we access my funds, we’re sorely lacking. I can bill purchases to the manor, but since we’re keeping a low profile, that option remains a last resort.
“Please, let me take you directly back to my office.” The bank manager dabs his sweaty brow with a folded blue handkerchief, then gestures with it toward the bank’s interior.
Nikola extends a hand, palm up, and I point my fingers at the center without quite touching as I rise to my feet. The need for such acting rankles, especially while I wear my school uniform, but it helps to remind me of where we stand and our positions. This is not the busy Central Road where I might be mistaken for a look-a-like fan and where Nikola’s casual brushes can be forgiven in the bustle of the crowd.
No, Tamlan Private Reserve, or TPR, only caters to citizens with accounts that can buy out the lower levels. I manage an account through my name and the assumption—unfounded by myself—that the Lonette family will transfer our funds here once I take office. Otherwise, my meager savings would never have gained me passage through the thick, plas-glass wall that attempts to hide its security function through decorative, geometric designs mapped out with wires. They serve as a secondary defense and can electrocute anyone who tries to pass the barrier during a security lock-down.
Mr. Carter had been overly enthusiastic in his walkthrough of the bank’s many securities before I opened my account. But TPR is not a standard bank that traffics exclusively in legalized credits, whe
re all of the security goes into cyber protection for the digital currency our world runs on.
As a Black Corporation owned facility, the vaults below level hold a wealth of unregistered credit-sticks, tech illegal to sell in the public market, and a treasure trove of priceless items from Earth artifacts to pieces of the original spacecraft that marooned us here. The electrified plas-glass wall provides a barrier against a very real chance of robbery.
We walk past a series of private offices, the ones with patrons inside denoted by opaque walls. Those free of customers offer a clear view inside, displaying the bankers at their chrome and glass desks like odd pieces of art at a museum. Every office looks the same, with stark white walls devoid of personality.
At the end of the hall, Mr. Carter places his hand over a palm scanner. The door swishes open, and we step inside as the walls fade to opaque.
“Please, have a seat.” He motions to the single chair that rests in front of his desk, a more opulent version of the one at the entrance that sports a two-inch-thick pad.
I settle at the edge, legs crossed at the ankles and hands in my lap. Nikola takes up a position behind me on the left. Without looking, I know we present the perfect picture of Councilor and Secretary, despite our school uniforms.
The overhead lights glisten on Mr. Carter’s sweaty brow as he strides behind his desk. He blots his face again with his handkerchief before he settles in his matching chair behind his chrome and plas-glass desk. It places us at the same height and distance, two business partners instead of supplicant and provider that most office layouts create, whether intentional or not.
When Mr. Carter places his hands on top of his desk, fog spreads from the heat of his sweaty palms.
Uneasiness rolls in my stomach. An unexpected visit from a demi-Councilor, even one who will take First Seat on the High Council, shouldn’t warrant this level of nervousness.
The smile he offers me wobbles at the edges. “So, demi-Councilor Lonette. How may I be of service to you today? Are you here to make another deposit?”
“No.” I haven’t made a deposit since my second to last race. After that, Father froze my monthly stipend, and I no longer had my income from the disc-bike races to fill my personal account. “I’m here to make a withdrawal of ten-thousand credits.”
While I don’t expect the tech Skittles brings to the table to cost that much, I want to be prepared in the future. Letting myself be sent off to APA without any credits to my name was an oversight I’d like to correct now.
“Ten-thousand. Right.” He reaches into his pocket again for his handkerchief and blots his brow. “Well, if you’ll provide your credentials, please.”
The surface of his desk shimmers, and my face appears on the surface. I lean forward and meet my image’s eyes, holding still as it scans my retina. After a moment, it smiles, then opens its mouth. Words scroll across the screen: Please state your name.
“Caitlyn Darius Lonette, daughter of Darius Katrine Lonette, granddaughter of Katrine Daniel Lonette.”
The image smiles once more, fades, and my account information fills the desk.
I stare at it in confusion, my mind unable to process the numbers on the account. Or, rather, the lack of numbers. Of the One-hundred and sixty-three-thousand four-hundred and fifty-three credits that were last in my account, only five hundred remain. I’d been close to paying for entrance to the halion run, private tech college that produced disc-bike technology. Now, I can’t even afford a flight out of Leton.
I lean back in my seat. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Well, you see, Ms. Lonette—”
“Demi-Councilor Lonette,” Nikola cuts in, his tone sharp.
“Yes, of course.” He nods, sweat dripping down the sides of his face. “Well, as you know, demi-Councilor Lonette, we are owned by Black Corporation.”
“Yes, that’s why I chose your bank in the first place.” I fold my hands in my lap once more to stop them from clenching into fists. “At the time we entered business together, you assured me my funds would be safe, even from the Peace Keepers.”
“Which is still true.” He mops his forehead. “We at TPR take your trust in us seriously.”
“However?” I ask, because this feels like a however kind of statement.
He cringes, his already sallow complexion paling further. “However, it has come to our attention that some of the credits in your account—”
My eyes narrow on him. “One-hundred and sixty-two thousand nine-hundred and fifty-three.”
In the grand scheme of things, it’s not much for his bank, but he had hoped to gain so much more when I took council seat. His bonus could have purchased him a house on Level 12 with a two-hundred square foot lawn. He would have only had to share one wall with his neighbors. No walls at all if he settled for a mid-city location. Now he sees those dreams burning up in smoke, much as all of my dreams have.
“Yes,” he wheezes. “Well, you see, our security only covers credits obtained legally or through the black market. Your funds, however, seem to have originated from illegal activities involving the Night Pirates.”
Damn Skittles and her holo-vids. And damn Ratchet and her shoddy-mods that crashed her dis-bike and brought my whole night-life to public attention.
“Surely I’m not your only client to come to you with unregistered credits?” Tension jumps through my muscles, and I force myself to remain calm. “The entire point of a bank like TPR is security without question.”
“Yes, of course.” As he nods, drops of sweat land on his pristine desk. “But, since the new Mr. Black took over, he is reviewing all of his assets and some of our accounts have been frozen while the source of the funds they hold is investigated. Unfortunately, your participation in the Lights-Out races were not difficult to uncover, which red-flagged your account right away. The Night Pirates, as you know, are a thorn in everyone’s side, and their illegal activity undermines Black Corporation’s profit.”
Because, even though Black Corporation is Leton’s legalized mob and functions outside the Peace Keepers’ purview, they still have their own laws to uphold. People, no matter their species, will always want what they’re told they can’t have. Black Corporation steps in to meet those desires in a structured way that keeps the city from devolving into chaos.
The Night Pirates shirk even those limitations, embracing pure lawlessness at the cost of citizenship.
But Black Corporation has never been known to turn away credits, regardless of their origin.
My stomach clenches, but I force in a steadying breath. This is less than ideal, but not insurmountable. “How long will this freeze be in effect?”
He wrings his hands together. “My apologies, demi-Councilor Lonette, for failing to properly convey the situation. There is no freeze on your account. The review has already completed. Based on the number of races your persona Sparks won, and the corresponding dates of your deposits, all Night Pirate based funds have been identified and redistributed. What you see here”—he gestures to the account displayed on his desk with one trembling hand—”is your available assets.”
My ankles uncross, and I plant my feet firmly on the floor. “I see.”
I reach into my pocket, pull out the credit-stick Skittles provided, and set it over the withdrawal area on the screen. With one finger, I circle the five hundred dollars left to me and drag it over to the credit-stick. A small strip of light on top flickers white, then green to register the deposit.
Pocketing the slender stick, I reactivate the verification screen and my happy face appears once more. Across the bottom of the screen, words scroll out. How may I be of further assistance?
“Please close account, effective”—I check the clock on the wall—“Fourteen-hundred and two.”
Confirmed. Account closed. My image smiles as it melts from view, leaving the transparent plas-glass desk as it was when we first entered.
I stand and offer my hand to Mr. Carter. “Thank you for your service.”
>
Relief washes over his face, and he lurches to his feet to shake, his palm sweaty and hot against mine. “Thank you for being so understanding, demi-Councilor Lonette. I hope, in the future, you might consider TPR again when our services are a better fit.” He releases my hand, then scurries around his desk to open the door. “Allow me to escort you out.”
“Thank you.” I stride through the opening, my steps even as I pass the many offices on the way back to the front.
At the plas-glass security wall, Mr. Carter pauses again and reaches for my hand. “Thank you again for being so understanding. Our meetings are always a pleasure.”
Other patrons fill the waiting area now, all studiously ignoring each other. Their outfits range from the elite of Level 12 sporting the latest fashion trends to those who wouldn’t look out of place running along rooftops with sky-skipper nets. The wealthy of Leton in all their varied glory.
I extricate my hand from Mr. Carter’s moist grasp. “I wish this one had been more pleasant.” My head turns. “Nikola?”
Ever intuitive, he pulls out his palm-port. “Yes, demi-Councilor Lonette?”
At my name, glances flicker up, and subtle interest fills the room. I pretend not to notice. “Please make a note.”
His fingers poise over the screen. “Public or private?”
“Private, please.” I offer Mr. Carter a smile, and sweat breaks out over his face once more. “I wouldn’t want our business made public.”
His eyes dart around the far from private waiting room.
“I’m ready, demi-Councilor Lonette,” Nikola pitches his voice to carry, just in case anyone in the room failed to catch it the first time.
“TPR Financial has proven unreliable in its ability to protect my funds. Please strike them from the list of secure banks to deal with in the future.” My steady gaze holds the bank managers. “As for Mr. Carter, his failure to communicate drastic discrepancies in my account have wasted my time here today, which is far more valuable than the funds that have seemingly vanished from my account. His inaction is concerning, as it makes me wonder what other accounts have been affected and whom Mr. Carter has also failed to inform.”
