by Jet Lupin
Cut spoke carefully, so as not to give way to his annoyance and confusion. Part of this was the submissive part of him talking, but the other part… “It’s pouring stuff from one container into another. Anyone can do it.”
“You’d be surprised. All my human wait staff are from Izanami, but all of my cooks are imports from Earth. You’d think they were sorcerers. But I’m not complaining. I wouldn’t have a job if more people were willing to learn to cook for themselves.”
And, by extension, Cut wouldn’t have a job either. But there had to be a better way to express that than this.
Samson took the strainer and dumped the noodles in the pan with the other ingredients. “Do you cook much?”
Cut hated to admit the truth after all that, but “No. I used to cook more before I came out here.” Out of necessity. These days, however, he didn’t. What food he did keep in his fridge required little to no cooking. He watched Samson shuffle the ingredients together. There wasn’t anything for him to help with, so he went back to the counter and sat.
“Where is home? If you don’t mind my asking...”
Cut got asked that a lot at the bar. His accent, or in his opinion, lack thereof, got him some attention. Every time, he picked a different colony, something obscure, that they might have heard of, but wouldn’t call him out on. For Samson, he’d tell the truth and gauge the man’s reaction.
“Earth. Yourself?”
“I’m a first generation colonist. Originally born in Daena.” “I’ve been to Earth a few times for work, but I never really got to see anything. What was growing up on Earth* like? With that big ocean. Were you close to it?”
Cut listened to those questions, expecting the accusations that he had money, was slumming it, that he thought himself better for being from their progenitor. Most people were ignorant of the wealth divide on Earth, ignoring the separation of classes. Either you had money, were rich, or you didn’t, and you suffered. There was no middle ground. He definitely hadn’t been born into money.
Cut had never met someone so interested in actual details unrelated to his bank account. It was just a dim ball of dirt that got more crowded every day despite the fact that people left in droves as soon as they were able.
“It wasn’t that great. I was near the ocean, but didn’t get to go much. The beach near where I grew up was restricted access only for…” Rich bastards. Never did he think he’d be talking to someone who fit into that category, at least, on the surface. Samson was too sweet to think of as a bastard, but he was likely able to go to any beach he liked. “People who can afford it,” he finished politely. “If you didn’t have a lot of money, they didn’t let you get close.” The rest of terrestrial life had good times as well as bad. That could be said for most places on the planet. It wasn’t all terrible. He’d had happy moments, but the ratio of good to bad was definitely off. That seemed like a lot to lay on Samson all at once, and so early on.
“Ah,” Samson said as if he understood. Cut wasn’t sure he did, the way he stood there expecting more.
“You should go see an ocean for yourself. Not on Earth, though. There’s a colony that’s open to applicants. Antigua. It’s got atmosphere, drinkable water. It’s got oceans, complete with breeze. Only it’s far from everything, so once you’re there, you’re stuck for a while. I was looking into it myself.
Samson dropped the spatula, sending it skidding across the floor. He hastily scooped it up and dropped it in the sink. “Oh… You’re going to move on?”
“That was the plan I can afford it, which won’t be any time soon. But, for you, it would be a good business move. Maybe get an early stake in some land. You’ll save a ton on importing if you can grow your supplies yourself. Plus it would be a whole new market.”
“Maybe…” Samson said.
“And who knows? We might get to be neighbors.”
That caught his attention, Samson’s face brightened almost instantly. “You think so?”
“As long as they don’t segregate by income right away, I don’t see why not.”
Samson seemed to consider this as he loaded up two plates with stir fry. “Can you grab the tea out of the fridge?”
Cut certainly could, now that he relaxed on the control thing.
There were several tall, unmarked containers of liquid on the shelves, but after opening and sniffing a few, Cut found the tea on the third try. He managed to pull a pair of short glasses from the cabinet and brought them over to the table.
Two place settings were neatly arranged along with forks and napkins. All that was missing were the cups. They’d shared several meals by now, in Samson’s office, at the restaurant, but those had all been public with the threat of anyone interrupting them at any time, which was good as well as bad. If things got awkward, there’d be no one to save them from it.
Samson busied himself on the other side of the table, pretending he wasn’t waiting for his guest to eat first. Cut was too hungry to play this game and immediately tested a forkful of food.
“This is amazing!” Better than anything he’d ever made. “You’re a chef, huh?”
“I dabble.” Samson flushed, pleased with himself. “It’s hard to grow up around food and not pick up a few tips. I’ll cook something that lets me show off a little next time.”
Cut could get behind that, especially the idea that there would be a next time.
They’d talked about Cut, his background, it was only fair to have Samson share a little. “What was it like growing up on a colony?” This was only the second Cut had been to and he noticed early on that children were a rare site. Izanami was still fairly new and expanding. The people who came to young colonies didn’t typically do so because they were family oriented.
“Pretty lonely,” Samson offered. “When I was conceived, you needed a permit to start a family and they were hard to come by. I’m sure my parents called in some favors to get their way. So I didn’t grow up around many other children. There wasn’t even a primary school built until I was about fifteen years old. I had tutors, my family, and not a whole lot else. The colony itself was nice and did its best to remind us of Earth, I think. We had a big artificial lake, but definitely no oceans.”
It was fascinating to hear what it was like to grow up rich, for surely, Samson had with tutors and parents seeing fit to bribe officials. No one Cut knew could afford such things. Well, no one he knew until now.
He never dreamed he’d have the opportunity to pick a rich person’s brain, but now didn’t seem like the time. Samson had gone quiet, pensive. Cut wasn’t sure if he should reach out. Everyone was entitled to their time to think. He regretted asking. What he wouldn’t give for someone to walk in and break up the tension.
It was well after 2400 by the time they finished dinner in silence, the day weighing heavily on them both. Cut convinced Samson to let him clean up and the big man went off to bed. He seemed back to normal by then, if tired. “Goodnight,” he said with a yawn, and disappeared down the hallway.
Only once he was gone did Cut realize he didn’t know how to run the dishwasher. He found directions online and it took twice as long as it should have, but he got it started. Then he was off to bed himself.
The shower in the guest bathroom was the most luxurious experience Cut had ever had, beating out their first lunch by a mile. The main shower head was embedded in the ceiling with eight smaller heads hidden in the walls, hitting him from every angle. All nine spraying him as soon as he turned it on had made him feel like he was drowning. It took some doing, but he found the right settings to make it feel like heaven.
A set of clothes waited for him on the bed when he came out, a cloud of steam following him. Both the shirt and shorts were two sizes too big, but no one was going to see him. He dressed and let himself sink into the plush bed. It was so soft. Like lying on a marshmallow. He ought to be jealous of Samson’s lifestyle, his money, but one look around and all he felt was pity. He had all this space and
was the only one living in it. The guest bedroom was free of dust, thanks to Malcom, but it was apparent that no one had spent more than a few minutes in here for weeks, maybe months. He had no personal appointments on his calendar. There was a chance he didn’t write them down, but his stress levels might be better if that was the case. He remembered how frequently he saw Samson at the bar, and he always sat alone. That was even sadder than the disused room. Cut at least had Mikela. Who did Samson have?
Cut stretched, leaning into sleep’s embrace. He might as well give in. Samson had business in the morning and Cut wanted to be gone before he left. As he started to drift, he thought he heard the door to his room open, but he was too far gone to open his eyes and check for sure.
The next morning when Cut stumbled into the kitchen, Samson was already gone. He intended to leave a note, but there was one waiting for him along with a plate of muffins wrapped in plastic.
Please take these home. I’ll eat them all if you don’t. See you Monday.
That man… Cut tossed the muffins, plate and all, into his bag. He’d return it the next time he came over.
Chapter 11
W
hen Mikela offered to repay Cut for the coffee the other day, he knew it wasn’t about making things square between them. It wasn’t often Cut met with them outside of their apartment with good reason. They were inside a coffee shop now, away from the dayglow lamps, but they still wore their big, darkened visor over their photosensitive eyes. This wasn’t a mere social call. It was a fact finding mission. They tore pieces off their yogurt scone as they waited for Cut to answer their last question. Cut asked them to repeat themself. His mind had been elsewhere.
“I said, ‘what’s new?’” Each word was deliberate, hanging in the air between them.
“Not much. Found a day job since the power curfew started. I’m only at the bar a few times a month now.” Cut shrugged. “Not a lot to report.”
“I figured you got a new gig. Where at? Doing what?”
“Office work.” Mikela clapped a hand over their mouth, gasping loudly. Cut rolled his eyes. “Only until the dark season’s over and I can go fulltime at the bar again.”
Mikela pointed a damning finger across the table, crumbs flying from its tip. “But you like it. Don’t try to deny it. I saw that bike you pulled up on. You’ve been trying to get one for years.”
Hole had paid the bills for most of Cut’s tenure here, but it didn’t leave much room for anything else. He had always wanted a scooter. A car and the necessary parking permits were out of the budget of a lower working class stiff like him, and the dome’s public transit hadn’t been built for a population this size. Talks of an upgrade were underway and had been for the last two years. The masses were left to suffer in the meantime. If he was ever able to save, it wouldn’t have been an issue, but some unforeseen disaster always arose that depleted his funds: a burst pipe that closed the bar for two weeks, a hospital visit for food poisoning and the bill that followed. Working at the bar, bringing a little more joy into people’s lives, was great, but financial security was better. Samson wouldn’t want to keep him on forever. He had to enjoy this while he had the chance.
“What have I said for years? That you need a better paying job that’s more stable. We’ve had enough stress in our lives. To which you always said? I don’t…”
“…want to be tied down,” Cut finished. He remembered coining the phrase when Mik first pitched the idea of working with them. That was only half true. When it came to tech he was all thumbs. He pitied anyone who had the misfortune of relying on him for tech support. He was much more adept at the user side of things. Thankfully, that’s all his job at Deyaa required. He wasn’t 100% sure what Mikela did anyway. He knew it was beyond him. They’d explained it several times, but all the industry terms went over his head. “You sound like my gran,” Mikela had said. Cut took that as a compliment.
“I guess that means you consider yourself tired down now, huh?” Mikela took a draw from their cup of tea, eyes wide behind their visor.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Cut picked up his phone and checked for a new message. There were none. He swore he heard it vibrate.
“The old Cut would have found two or three odd jobs just to stay out of an office. Look at you now.”
Cut shrugged.
A server brought over a slice of warm honey cake to go with Cut’s coffee. He mistook the silence for the issue being shelved. He barely finished chewing that first bite before Mikela was on the attack again.
“You returned my books pretty fast. Did you lose interest?”
Cut chased that bite with a sip of caf. “Nope.”
“No way. You read them? All of them?” Mikela stopped pretending to eat long enough to openly wonder at him.
“Yup.”
“And?”
“And what, Mikela?”
“Were they useful?”
“Depends on what you mean by ‘useful’. They answered most of my questions I had, so there’s that.”
“Did you put any of it to use?” The hopeful lilt at the end of the sentence made Cut roll his eyes.
“You know I’m not gonna tell you that. I was curious. That’s all.”
“Mmhmm.” It was so brief, yet so matter of fact.
This wasn’t over, but Cut pretended, digging into his slice of cake.
“I’ll take that to mean things are going well. I hoped that might be the case.”
Mikela reached into their bag that rested at the foot of their chair.
“Well, if you find yourself in a curious mood again, there’s this.” They slid a data pad onto the table and tapped the screen with a slim finger to take it up. Submission, Love, and Other Drugs.
Cut covered the front of the pad with a hand, dragging it to his side of the table. “What the heck is this, Mik?”
“Just read it,” they said. “It’s your copy, so take all the time you need. Consider it a gift. Let me know when you finish it, though, so we can talk about it.”
Were they trying to start some kinky book club? He wasn’t sure he was into that. Cut slid it into his bag before someone else saw it. Mikela grinned as they pushed their plate of crumbs away.
“Tell me about this bottom you’re courting.”
Cut coughed, a hunk of cake getting lodged in his throat. “I’m not courting anyone. We’re just…” Lovers? Client and provider? Friends? The more time they spent together, the blurrier the lines of what they were supposed to be became. Whatever they were, Cut liked it, and was hesitant to label it, but friends was close. He’d never finger fucked someone he considered a friend however.
Mikela’s grin grew sharp. “I knew it!” They gripped the table to keep from leaping out of their chair. “I knew there had to be a reason, a someone. I’ve known you too long, Cut Jones. You don’t do deep research for the hell of it. Or if you do, you’ve never gone so far as to involve me.”
“That’s not…” The more Cut thought about it, the truer it was. As a teen he’d tried learning the guitar for a love interest who was obsessed with old movies where that seemed to be the trope of choice. There was also the one he tried to learn to draw for, the one he tried to learn to sing for. He was noticing a pattern here…
“What gave it away? Aside from my slip up, I mean.”
Mikela smirked and pointed towards Cut’s side of the table. “You keep checking your pod.”
Cut scoffed. “No I don’t.”
“It’s in your hand right now.”
“No it’s—” Cut flexed his left hand and his fingers closed around something hard. When had he…?
“It’s a work thing.”
A week had passed since their last session, and Samson hadn’t been into the office since then. He had meetings all week, all off site, but not hearing from him for so long, after talking to each other every day disrupted the natural order. The one communication between them had been when Sams
on sent the payment for their session and Cut declined it. Samson resent it, likely assuming it was a mistake. Cut attached a note to his second rejection.
I initiated it last time, so I can’t get paid for that.
Samson sent nothing back.
If Cut had offended him, giving him space seemed like the best option. Samson might actually be busy and not avoiding him like his brain kept trying to convince him.
He set the pod on the table face down.
“What about your love life, huh? We always talk about me. What’s going on with you?”
Mikela shrugged. “I’m still unattached and intent on keeping it that way.”
“But have you been to the club recently?” The last Cut remembered, they were always there or talking about their latest exploit, much to Cut’s dismay. He was interested now, though, if only to compare notes.
“Not really. I’ve been busy at work. One of the hubs at the waste processing plant keeps going down and denying me access. I think it might be a hacker.”
If they could get into that, what other vital system did they have their sights set on? The safety of everyone in Izanami was at risk because some bored asshole wanted to test his mettle against the dome’s system of safeguards?
Cut didn’t need to know any of that.
Chapter 12
C
ut had nothing else planned for the rest of the day, so he was going to return home, but… He had money now. He could actually afford to try the products the company he worked for made. His path to the closest meal machine took him right by The Cupboard. Would Samson be there?
He coasted his bike to a stop outside and got off to go peek. The host remembered him from last time and was less brusque in his demeanor. “Good afternoon. Table for one?”
“Ah, no. I’m not staying. I was in the area and I thought I’d see if Mr. Ba was about?”
