Company Town

by Madeline Ashby

  <>

  Hwa didn’t answer. She wedged the fridge door open with her body and used her good arm to pull the jar out. Then, sitting against the fridge, she braced the jar between her legs and opened it with her good hand.

  There was a coat of white fur across the top.

  “Son of a bitch…”

  Hwa stood up. With a pair of ice tongs left out on the counter, she removed the mouldy layer of kimchi. The stuff beneath was wet and red. Shrugging, she used the ice tongs to start eating. She’d consumed three big bites of the stuff when she noticed Sunny staring at her.

  “What?”

  <> Sunny went back to watching her drama.

  Sunny was thinner, these days. Hwa wasn’t sure how that could be possible, but it was true. She had never been a big eater. Starting a modelling career at eleven years old did that to a woman. Food was the enemy. Hwa’s earliest memory of actually being allowed to finish a meal was sharing a pot of ramen with her brother. He always added fun things, like eggs or hot dogs. He knew how to cut the hot dogs so they made octopus shapes. And he let her have the pot while he took the lid, so she wouldn’t burn her fingers.

  If there were jelly shots embedded in the carpet, there was probably vodka in the place. Hwa ditched the tongs and moved to the freezer. Inside was a mother-lode: vodka, gin, local screech, applejack, all sandwiched between fever packs and ice cubes in heart-shaped moulds.

  <>

  Hwa pulled out a mostly finished bottle of vodka and shut the door. Sunny was still watching the screen. “When?”

  <>

  “I was in a coma.”

  Sunny shrugged. <>

  Hwa didn’t know what to say. She had not been aware, until now, that there was a wrong way to be in a coma. “Okay…”

  <>

  Hwa looked at the bottle in her hand. Sunny was right. She hated when Sunny was right. But the woman had spent more than her fair share of time in hospitals. She knew how to recover. “Yeah.”

  <>

  Hwa put the bottle back and went back to the kimchi. Sunny stood up. She stretched.

  <>

  Hwa felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. Master control room, she reminded herself. “He’s not my boss anymore. I quit.”

  Sunny affixed her with a glare that was pure disdain. <>

  “They almost got me killed,” Hwa said, and hated herself for even feeling an urge to explain.

  Sunny sighed, and before she even opened her mouth, Hwa knew which of her many girl-group stories she would tell. <>

  “And your hair caught on fire, during the encore. And you didn’t complain. I know.”

  Sunny rolled her eyes. <>

  Not staying. Never staying. Just crashing. Always imposing. Always in the way.

  “Just for tonight.”

  <>

  Sunny left for the professional side of the apartment. Hwa put away the kimchi and found an unopened toothbrush in the washroom. She brushed her teeth for longer than strictly necessary. Eventually, she would have to enter the room. Hwa thought of this as she stared at her face in the mirror. Sunny was right. She really did look like shit. More so than usual. Her stain was dark and her skin was dull. Her lips were too big. They looked stupid on her, like a distracted assembly-line worker had slapped someone else’s mouth on her face.

  She looked herself straight in her bad eye. “Stop being such a pussy.”

  Tae-kyung’s room still smelled the same. She had known it would, but somehow it still surprised her. It was like he was still there. There was his bed, with the sheets still on it. His winter blanket still lay folded at the end of the bed. His training gloves still hung on the wall.

  Sunny had moved the trophies to a cabinet at the foot of the bed, where Tae-kyung might have seen them if he were still sleeping in it. They were all out of order. Hwa put them back in place. Chronological order from left to right. Linear time. No more Singularity bullshit. No more ghosts. Everything neat and tidy and dead and gone.

  Tae-kyung had a shot at going pro. Anyone could see that, looking at all the trophies and ribbons and certificates and belts. His whole history was right there, with words like “finalist” and “winner” and “champion” in big letters with sharp fonts. His future could have been there, too. He could have left home and snagged a management contract and started out on the circuit. He could have made money that way. Not a lot, but enough. He was handsome and funny and fast. He could have been a star.

  Instead, he’d stayed home and gotten a job on the rig. He’d set it all aside. Said he could wait. Said he should make some money first. That he couldn’t just leave Hwa with their mother. And that was why he was on the Old Rig when it blew. Because of Hwa.

  She was still standing between their two beds when the ping came: “Are you all right?”

  Joel. Her specs were gone and her earbud was out, but he still had her info. But it was odd that he’d reach out like this. They hadn’t even known each other that long.

  “Doing okay,” she told him.

  “Are you really quitting?”

  Hwa had no idea how to answer that.

  “Is it my fault?” Joel pressed.

  “No,” she said aloud, and then pinged: “No. Not your fault. Just not cut out for the job. You were right. I was stupid. It was a stupid idea. Stupid mistake.”

  The lights were out and she was almost undressed when the next ping came. It was tough going, with only one arm. She was beginning to wonder if Joel had fallen asleep. But his message came across loud and clear: “Can we still be friends?”

  Slowly, her body folded down to the floor. She curled around her wrist, staring at the little window of light in the darkness of her childhood bedroom.

  7

  Murder

  Because they were still friends, she met Joel for lunch the next day. It was still warm, so they ate in the Autumn Garden on Level Twenty of Tower Two, where there were trees whose leaves actually turned. The maples were planted even before the crops on the farm floors. On a plaque pounded into one tree were the logos of the tree scientists and mental health agencies that had funded the forest.

  “I’ve never been here before,” Joel said, peering up into the canopy.

  “I used to come here on a lot of dates,” Hwa said, eyeing the skullcap that eyed them. Joel’s new bodyguard, probably. Well, a skullcap had gotten the best of her, so maybe it was for the best. “Other people’s dates, I mean. Jobs.”

  Joel nodded. He kicked dry yellow leaves. “Are you going to go back to your old job?”

  “Maybe,” Hwa said. “If they’ll take me.”

  Joel appeared to be listening to something. Síofra, probably. Hwa stopped herself from asking about it. Joel shook his head softly, and held up two tiffin boxes. “I had our chef make us lunch.”

  Hwa smiled. “Thanks.”

  “I made sure yours had the cauliflower rice,” he said. “I’m still supposed to eat grains, sometimes.”

  “You’re still growing,” Hwa said. “That’s okay.”

  Joel set things out. Hwa moved to help him, but he said something about her arm and waved her away. Evidently, he’d had the chef make something Korean: tofu stew with zucchini and shrimp. “I thought you’d want something more … familiar,” Joel said.

  “Trust me, Joel, my mom never made food like this,” Hwa said. “But thanks. It’s great.”

  “What about your dad?” Joel asked.

  Hwa shrugged. “No idea. I’ve never met him. I don’t even know if he still lives on the rig. I asked Sunny once, but she said she couldn’t tell me. My bet is she doesn’t know.”

 
“So your brother was like your dad?”

  Hwa felt the soup go down the wrong pipe. She coughed. “Aye. Kinda. Little bit. Maybe.” She sipped hard at a thermos of iced tea. “Can you do me a favour?”

  “Do you need me to get your things out of your locker? Because I already asked one of the teachers how—”

  “Joel.” Hwa gave him a Medusa stare. He quieted. For a moment, she focused on the sound of leaves quietly falling, and the drone of windmills outside, and the ever-present, almost unnoticeable wash of the Atlantic below. She had to do this. Had to. No other choice. Fuck the Lynches, anyway. “Turn your ears off,” she said. “I need to talk to you in private.”

  Joel’s gaze jerked like a fish on a hook. He was listening to someone else. Finally, he nodded. He tapped a complicated sequence on the skin around his ear. “Daniel says it’s okay.”

  Hwa waited until the skullcap had drifted to the other side of the arboretum. “Joel, you know the test wasn’t supposed to have live rounds, right?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. It was an accident. I’m really sorry.” He swallowed hard. “Hwa, I’m really sorry, it’s all my fault, if you hadn’t—”

  “Shut up,” Hwa said, and when he flinched, she added, “quit it with that shit. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know. And you didn’t switch the rounds.”

  She took hold of his shoulder. “But someone did. And someone is after you.”

  Joel waited for a moment, processing, then burst out laughing. He folded in on himself, clutching his ribs and snickering. He fell back in the crunching leaves. Hwa had to quickly rescue the soup from his outstretched legs.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked, finally.

  “Your face,” he said.

  Hwa recoiled. “Oh.”

  “No, not like that!” Joel sat up. “Not like that. I mean how serious your face was.” He tried to do an impression of her, and looked like an old mask from a pantomime drama. “People threaten me all the time. Or, anyway, they threaten the family all the time. This was just a mistake! And everyone associated with it has already been fired.”

  The hairs on Hwa’s arms rose. “Aye?”

  “Aye,” Joel said, rolling his eyes. “Come on. You got shot. They fired everyone.”

  Hwa doubted that had anything to do with her being shot, and more to do with Zachariah Lynch cleaning house. He knew about the death threats, and Joel didn’t. “Joel, I’ve seen the threats.”

  “Of course you have. You’re my bodyguard. Or you used to be.”

  “No, I mean, I’ve seen specific threats. Against you. Against your life. Death threats. Scary ones.”

  Joel frowned. He poked at his food. “But … that doesn’t make any sense. Why…”

  “Your dad told me not to tell you. I had to sign—”

  “Why would you leave?” Joel looked up and stared at her with bright eyes. “If someone was really after me, why would you quit?”

  Hwa’s mouth opened. She hadn’t counted on that question. “Because I failed. I fucked up. Not only did I leave you behind, I failed to eliminate the threat. You could have gotten really hurt. You could’ve died.”

  Unbidden, she saw the ghost that had followed her under the sprinklers. It hovered there for a moment in her vision, like a migraine aura. She blinked and then it was gone, but seeing it helped her remember why exactly she had to do this. Master control room, she reminded herself. Then she could meet Joel’s eyes.

  “And because, whoever’s after you, whoever sent those messages … I don’t know if I can fight them.”

  “But you can fight anybody!” His voice cracked, and they both looked away, their embarrassment as mutual as it was deep.

  “Not this,” Hwa said, finally. “This is something—someone—I have no idea how to handle. And whoever else your dad picks for the job will probably be better. Better equipped. You won’t have to worry about me having seizures, or going blind, or any of that shit. You’ll be safer without me.”

  Joel started packing up his lunch things. “Please excuse me,” he said. “I’m not very hungry any longer.”

  * * *

  Hwa picked up her vodka and soda. The rain had driven early drinkers into the Crow’s Nest for a rib-sticking dinner. Some of them were USWC. The others were all hanging up dripping slickers and peeling off damp sweaters and shaking out their hair and ordering the first dark ale of the autumn. It was still hot out, but the damp made Hwa feel the first chill of fall breathing down her neck. Her arm ached. Outside, the pressure was changing.

  “So that’s why I’d like my old job back,” she told Rusty. “Will you show Mistress Séverine this conversation?”

  “Of course,” Rusty said. Hwa looked at Nail. Nail nodded.

  “Good of you.” Hwa lifted her glass. “Ta.”

  “She regrets not being able to meet you in person. She has been in demand.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” She sipped. “Can I try apologizing again? For losing you in the crowd that day?”

  “No. We have been informed that you are not allowed.” He smiled. “But there is no stipulation regarding the appreciation of the gesture.”

  Hwa translated. “Well. Good.”

  Rusty looked over her shoulder. He frowned. “You’re about to be attacked.”

  Hwa twisted in her chair just in time to get a wash of beer in the face. The cup fell to the floor and clattered harmlessly across it. New Arcadia had a rule about glasses in bars. Something about the way they could be shattered and made into a weapon.

  “You selfish little bitch.”

  Andrea Davis was skinny where her wife Calliope wasn’t. She was a tiny twig of a woman with a cluster of rusty red straw where hair should have been. It trembled on her head. She vibrated rage.

  “Andrea—”

  “Shut up!” Andrea directed a sharp kick at Hwa’s shin. “Stand up! Stand up and face me!”

  The guy on the karaoke stage now sounded a little less certain about seeing a million faces and rocking them all.

  Master control room, Hwa reminded herself, as she rose to her feet. She was taller than Andrea, but not by much. She kept her hands at her sides. Master control room. Press the big buttons. Hear the doors locking behind you.

  “What’s happening, Andrea?”

  Andrea slapped her in the face. She’d obviously not done it very much, if ever. Her fingernails scraped awkwardly across Hwa’s nose and mouth. Hwa mentally gave her mother points for at least developing some proper technique over the past twenty-three years. Even with half her body held together with polymer and prayer, Sunny could have broken Andrea in half by now.

  “I don’t think there’s any call for that kind of behaviour, Mrs. Davis.” Rusty sidled around the table. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable—”

  “She killed my wife!”

  Andrea pointed a shaking finger at Hwa. Hwa breathed through the adrenaline. Calliope? Killed? When? How?

  “I was just talking to the police,” Andrea whispered. “And they said you were supposed to be on Calliope’s detail. She had a date. And she had to go out there alone. Because you quit. You quit, so you could work for them.”

  Andrea pointed out the window at the rig. There was a shiny new Lynch logo on the biggest smokestack, now. That fat L winding around a pool of black like a lazy serpent slowly choking its latest victim. Hwa turned to the other women in the bar. Half of them she’d worked with in the past. They were all looking at her very differently, right now. As though they’d suspended their visual subscriptions and were seeing her true face for the first time. As though they finally knew how ugly she really was.

  “Calliope’s dead?”

  Andrea’s knobby fingers pushed hard at Hwa’s shoulders. She was stronger than she looked. Rage could do that. She kept pushing, trying to knock Hwa over. Hwa’s stomach muscles lined up against her spine; she stood straight and still and let Andrea punctuate her words with her fingers. “Yes! She’s! Fucking! Dead! She’s! In! Fucking! Pieces!”

&nbs
p; Hwa shook her head. “Andrea, I didn’t know—”

  “Fuck you!”

  Andrea threw her bony little elbow right into Hwa’s solar plexus. Pain opened a point of super-dense space behind her ribs: a wormhole of breathless, gasping panic. Hwa stumbled back onto the table. Cups rolled over and clattered to the floor. No wonder she was off her game. She wished desperately and stupidly that she could be sober. She slid off the table and onto the floor. Peanut shells poked up into the palms of her hands. Andrea kicked her hard in her side.

  Hwa tried to sit up. Andrea grabbed a mostly full bottle from the next table over and swung it straight for Hwa’s head. Hwa ducked and blocked, but Andrea had some crazy-fu going on and the bottle returned on the backswing to connect with her temple. It felt cold and foamy and resonant; Hwa heard the beer slosh against the plastic as it met her skin of her temple and broke it.

  “Stop,” she said, blocking her head tight with her outer forearms as Andrea slashed and swung. “Stop, that’s my good side—”

  “You don’t have a good side, you ugly goddamn traitor.”

  Andrea lunged for her again, but her feet kicked uselessly in the air as Nail lifted her up, gently. He held her there above the ground as she wrestled.

  “He cut her up,” she whimpered. “Oh God, he cut up my baby.”

  * * *

  Rusty and Nail made their way back to Séverine’s place. “MMD,” Rusty said, grabbing his coat. “Put some ice on that.”

  The barback at the Crow’s Nest gave her a towel with some ice in it, and a measure of middling bourbon, and shooed her on her way the moment she finished it. The folk in the elevator did everything they could to avoid staring while also taking her in: the stain, the fresh blood, the slashes in her sleeves, the ragged peanut shells clinging to her tights. Her arm throbbed. She thought it might be bleeding again.

  The union would be initiating its MMD protocol, short for Missing, Murdered, or Dead. It was right there in the USWC handbook: obtain and verify all facts, alert membership, stress safety, in public statements separate the incident from the work and humanize the victim (use first names, make reference to family and pets), at no point imply that the victim did anything to deserve it. It was the same everywhere, in every Canadian city, even the ones on dry land.