Company Town

by Madeline Ashby

  “Don’t be. You’re doing what’s best for you.”

  Hwa swallowed. Her lips felt hot. Her eyes felt hot. “Youse don’t have an escort.”

  “Short notice. No other bodyguards on shift.”

  Hwa nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

  The elevator continued its journey downward. The guys in front of it—the clients, Hwa reminded herself—were doing leg-wrestling moves on the floor. Lifting their legs straight up in the air and entwining them and trying to flip each other over and insisting that they had no interest in fucking each other.

  “We have to take what work we can get,” Eileen said. “They shut down another one of the pumps today. The riggers are leaving. We’re losing clients.”

  “The reactor will have workers,” Hwa said.

  “Scientists. With families. Lunch-time Larrys. Not all-nighters.”

  Fewer hours. Less pay. Less service. Lower fees. Eileen didn’t have to say it. Hwa heard it just fine. The elevator chimed, and Sabrina jumped in to hold it open while the guys on the floor struggled to stand. Eileen adjusted her hair. Smoothed her dress. Inspected her nails.

  “Anyway. It looks like you made the smart decision.”

  And with that, she walked away. She was the last in the elevator, and one of the men looped his arm around her waist. She smiled at him, and kept her smile up when she turned back to Hwa. It was still plastered on her face when the elevator doors slid shut.

  10

  Viridian/Angel from Montgomery/ Nine o’Clock Elevator

  “Again,” Hwa said. “Harder.”

  Joel began another round of awkward kicks to the dummy. His range was improving; he couldn’t get into the splits yet, but a daily practise of single-leg circles (clockwise and then anti-clockwise, breathing in as the foot swung away and out as it returned) was getting him to where he could do a respectable standing split and his legs could make a good ninety-degree angle with his body for about seven breaths at twelve beats each. His kicks would improve once he developed more muscle in the core and the legs, but his posture was still a problem. The kid’s navel just didn’t want to meet his spine.

  “Your muscles are like a rubber band,” Hwa said, for what felt like the hundredth time. “Right now, they’re fine. You got by this long without working them because they’re young. But you have to work them, tighten them up—”

  “Wouldn’t working a rubber band diminish its elasticity?” Joel asked, as his kicks grew weaker. His leg was flopping around everywhere. Dumb kid was about to throw out his hip flexor and IT band. Again.

  “Other leg. And yes. But I’m the one who knows this stuff, not you.”

  He snorted, and sweat flew up into his hairline. “That’s not much of an explanation.”

  Hwa mimed playing a violin.

  “I’m doing the Armstrong regimen when I’m done growing,” Joel huffed. His leg hammered the dummy. He held his breath tight inside his chest. She watched his shoulders begin their slow climb up to his ears. It was like his body could only do one thing at a time: breathe or kick. The air whooshed out of him in a single frustrated stream. “You know that, right? Once my muscles are done—”

  “You have to have muscles, first, for the Armstrong regimen to work,” Hwa said. “Get into Pigeon.”

  His leg fell. “What? Again?”

  “Your hip flexor is still too tight.”

  Joel looked around the rest of the gym. “It’ll look really weird, in front of all these people.”

  “Oh, yeah, because you were really a paragon of catlike grace right there.” Hwa nodded at the mat. “Do it.”

  Joel muttered something and knelt down. He tucked one knee under himself, and stretched the other leg behind him. He was still too tight to stretch his ribs over his knees, or even rest his forearms on the floor.

  “Shouldn’t I be lifting weights, to gain muscle?”

  “You can lift weights after you build your core. You need something to hold your spine in place before you start doing power-cleans. You’re only fifteen. This is a building year, for you. Next year, you can start to sculpt.”

  Next year. If he had a next year.

  “Hey, Hwa!” From the other side of the gym, Coach Brandvold waved her over. Hwa jogged over, and stiffened when Brandvold greeted her with a hug. Brandvold was always giving hugs. It was weird. “How are you doing?”

  Hwa was never sure what people really meant when they asked this question. It could mean any number of things: How’s the gunshot wound? Had any seizures lately? How are you getting along now that your brother’s dead? What’s your whore mother up to, these days?

  “I’m good,” Hwa said. “I got a new apartment.”

  “Oh, neat! Where?”

  “1-07.”

  “1-07?” Coach Alexander snorted. “Do they not pay you enough? Shit, I live on 1-13.”

  Hwa shrugged. “I’m just trying to save money.”

  Coach Alexander hmm’d in her throat, which was the noise she made when someone turned in an assignment late in Social Studies.

  “You going to the game? Homecoming’s … coming, I guess.”

  “Nope. Sorry.”

  Coach Brandvold elbowed her. “What about the dance?”

  “I don’t go to those things.”

  “Won’t you have to, if Joel goes?”

  Hwa shuddered. Trapped with her detail on the community floor of Tower Two, constantly swatting away fairy-lights and standing in line for the washroom behind giggling girls whispering blowjob tips to each other was one of her visions of Hell.

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  “How is Joel?” Coach Brandvold looked over her shoulder at him. Joel winced and gave Hwa a dirty look. “He’s looking more flexible, lately.”

  “He’s making progress.” Hwa shrugged. “Anyway. I should get back to him.”

  She made to leave, but Coach Alexander leaned over and whispered something at her. “Hey, Hwa. Is it true one of the other teachers here has a type?”

  Hwa frowned. “A type?”

  “You know,” Coach Brandvold said. “That someone else on staff would rather keep relationships … professional.”

  Moliter. Someone had seen Moliter with Eileen. On a date. And now it was all over the school. Whoever was doing Hwa’s old job was doing a shitty job of it.

  “Couldn’t say,” Hwa said, scratching the place on her face where Moliter’s scar would be, and winked.

  Both women laughed. Coach Alexander tapped her temple with two fingers and then pointed them at Hwa’s specs. Instantly, her personal contact information popped up in Hwa’s vision. “Let me know if you want someone to run with in the mornings,” she said. “We might as well, living so close.”

  “Hey, don’t leave me out!” Coach Brandvold shared her information with Hwa, too. Her profile fluttered in on little bird wings. “You should have a housewarming! I want to see your new place!”

  Hwa ducked her head and began backing away toward Joel. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

  “You might actually have to buy furniture, if you have a housewarming,” Síofra said, in her bones. “Maybe even invest in some plates.”

  “I have plates,” she muttered.

  “You have one set of dishes that you picked up from the Benevolent Irish Society shop. Those don’t count, just like those farmshare crates you stacked up against the wall don’t really count as shelves.”

  “I didn’t realize you were an interior decorator,” Hwa said. “Not all of us have been earning Lynch wages for the past ten years.”

  “True.”

  “Besides, why should I invest in anything when it might be vaporized by this time next year?”

  “It’s an experimental reactor, Hwa, not the apocalypse. You can buy furniture. You’re allowed to be comfortable.”

  Ads for sofas blossomed up in her specs. Most of them were too big: apparently Síofra was only looking at furniture that fit his apartment, not her studio.

  �
��You’re shopping for your place, not mine.”

  “Not at all,” he said. “I just want a chair that actually fits me when I come by.”

  “You plan to come by a lot?”

  Silence.

  From the mat, Joel huffed air up at his curls. “Can I please get up, now?”

  Hwa waved away the ads with a swipe of her hand. She focused on Joel. By now, he’d worked himself down on his forearms. “Yeah. Sure. You should—”

  Another message popped up in her vision. Oh, boy.

  “Hey. Síofra.”

  “You can call me by my name, you know.”

  “I can train Joel any way I want, right?”

  “Within limits, yes. His father doesn’t want him passing out or hurting himself, obviously.”

  “But we don’t have to work out in this gym?”

  “No. In fact, I’ve told you numerous times that you should feel comfortable to use the company gym, in Tower Five.”

  “The company gym is full of augmented assholes from Security,” Hwa said. “And they all have a staring problem.”

  “All I ask is that you go to places where I can see you.”

  “Okay. There’s a boat that just pulled up. An old fishing trawler called the Angel from Montgomery. That’s where we’re going. And it’s just about the safest place I know.”

  * * *

  Hwa marched them down a rusting flight of stairs and onto the pier. With the Angel from Montgomery had come the birds. They wheeled and squawked overhead. Hwa peered down into the pontoons. She hadn’t been this close to the water in a long time. Not unless she counted going under the girders.

  “Nobody’s going to take me for ransom or something, are they?” Joel asked, glaring down at the sailors on the Angel’s main deck.

  Hwa smiled, but shook her head. “I’ve seen how these guys tip. Money’s not a problem. And they like this town. This is a favourite stop, for them. They won’t do anything that’ll get ’em blacklisted.”

  It took her a moment to find Rivaudais, but being as he was the best-dressed man for miles, it wasn’t difficult. Today he wore a plum-coloured suit with a gold silk tie. It strained across his shoulders as he checked his shoes for what must have been the tenth time in the last two minutes. He toted his tartan umbrella a little higher.

  “If you were worried about birdshit, you should have worn different shoes.”

  Rivaudais turned and gave her a big smile and a Montréal-style kiss, one for each cheek. But when he spoke, he was still from New Orleans. “You looking healthy.”

  “And you keep on not aging. It’s weird.”

  “Black don’t crack, baby girl. You know.”

  Hwa sucked her teeth. “Joel Lynch, meet Étienne Rivaudais, owner and proprietor of the Aviation bar on 4-30.”

  Rivaudais’s eyebrows jumped up into his bald forehead. “Joel Lynch? As in père Zachariah Lynch?”

  “Oui.” Joel held out his hand and Rivaudais shook it. He looked a little confused. Probably because Joel was still wearing his gym clothes and wasn’t surrounded by skullcaps.

  “I’m Joel’s bodyguard,” Hwa said. “And part of my job is physical training. So I thought I’d bring him along.”

  Rivaudais glanced at Joel. “And you’re all good with this plan?”

  “I’m still not entirely sure what’s involved.”

  Rivaudais laughed. He had a big laugh, one that rocked him back on his heels and caused his umbrella to tip back a little.

  “And the rest?” Rivaudais gestured at his skull and looked at Hwa. “Good?”

  Hwa shrugged. “Mostly.”

  “Et votre mère?”

  “Encore une chatte.”

  Rivaudais grinned and slapped her on the back. “All right. Let’s get it done.”

  Together, they crossed the dock to the Angel. She had new turrets, each mounted to a sizeable generator with a gyroscope icon on the side. The turrets awakened and tracked them as they mounted the stairs to the main deck. An insistent chirping sounded. Rivaudais swiped an invite at the camera posted at the top of the stairs, but the chirping continued. A team of guys in sweaters and orange waders jogged their way. Hwa didn’t recognize them. They seemed not to recognize her, either. How many times did she have to do this gig before the crew just wrote themselves a fucking note?

  “What’s going on with your face?” one of the crew asked. He had a fuzzy beard the colour of weak tea, and a huge mop of hair to match.

  “What’s going on with your attitude?” Hwa hawked back and spat on the deck. “I have a rare seizure disorder. Thanks for drawing attention to it.”

  The asshole in question stared at the glistening wad of phlegm she’d just horked up, and then at her face. His face registered no emotion whatsoever. “Your face fucks up our cameras,” he said. “Is that on purpose?”

  Master control room, she reminded herself. Push the buttons. Lock the doors.

  “Je reste intéressé,” Rivaudais said, “si ce connard s’excuse.”

  “You heard the gentleman.” A blond man wearing vintage, unconnected aviators and a Peruvian wool sweater over a bare chest and loose surfing shorts padded over to them on browned, callused feet. “Apologize to the lady.”

  “Sorry.” Moptop turned. “Sorry, Captain.”

  Matthews held out one tattooed arm. This year it was pixies emerging from lotuses. As his skin moved, the glowing pigments activated and the fairies danced up to his shoulder and across his chest. “Mr. Rivaudais. It’s good to see you.”

  The two men shook hands. Matthews turned to Hwa. “You look good. Healthy.”

  Hwa frowned. “Why do people keep saying that? Did I look sick, before?”

  Matthews didn’t answer. He gestured for them to follow, and began leading them belowdecks. Lights flickered on as they went down past the bottling floor toward the hold. The two guys standing on either side of the massive, rusting door threw their shoulders back and pointed their chins when Matthews came down the spiral staircase.

  “Guys, guys, it’s cool. Calm down. I’m just introducing Mr. Rivaudais here to this year’s product.”

  The guys looked pointedly at Joel.

  “And me,” Joel said. “I’d like to, uh, sample some of what’s on offer.”

  Matthews clapped his hands and pointed. “See? This is good. This young man knows what he wants. And I like a man who knows what he wants. It just cuts through all the bullshit.”

  The door spun open and they stepped into a cold, dark place. Hwa held out her hand for Joel. “Watch your step,” she said, as the lights blinked on.

  Joel’s mouth opened. “Wow…”

  It was vast. To their left, a set of gleaming steel tanks three metres across and two metres deep sprouted pipes that disappeared into the rafters and reappeared on the other side of the room, near tall stacks of barrels. They bore insignia Hwa didn’t recognize from her previous trips to this room.

  “Those are new.”

  Matthews nodded. “Whiskey barrels. Got ’em in Hokkaido. We’re doing a weiss bier in there, with yuzu peel and shiso decoction.”

  Hwa whistled. “Nice.”

  “You want? I’ll tap it for you right now.”

  Hwa shook her head. “I don’t drink beer. Beer makes you fat.”

  Matthews clicked his tongue. He led them toward the bourbon barrels. “You need a little extra fat, for this climate! Otherwise how can you handle the winters?”

  “Are you … aging the alcohol on the ship?” Joel asked.

  “Oh, my Lord. The alcohol. This one’s just adorable.” Matthews turned around and walked backward, so he could address Joel. “Why yes, son. We do age the alcohol onboard this ship. The Angel from Montgomery used to be a fishing vessel that contributed to the mass-murder of ocean wildlife, and I’m helping that wildlife take revenge by ruining the livers of every human I come across.”

  Joel blinked. “Seriously?”

  Matthews gave him a shit-eating grin. “No. Booze is good business, that’
s all. It’s a good business in bad times, and even better business in better times.” He gestured at the barrels. “As we circumnavigate the globe, the temperature in this room changes and so does the humidity. The barrels expand and contract, and that has an impact on the flavour of my product. The aging process that takes some punk-ass in Okanagan a whole year takes me four months.”

  Joel nodded. He glanced at Rivaudais and then back at Matthews. He trailed one hand over a barrel. “So you can sell it faster, and pick up more raw materials as you travel. The wheat, or grapes, or whatever it is you need.”

  Matthews nodded. “Exactly right.”

  “And even blend stuff from other countries, at different stages of production.”

  “Yes, indeedy.”

  “And create different collections, as you go. Limited editions.”

  “Very limited.” Matthews beamed. He snapped his fingers and pointed one at Joel. “You got your daddy’s business mind, son. I’ll give you that.”

  Joel looked at all the barrels. It didn’t seem to faze him that a stranger might know who he was. Then again, Matthews had probably already picked it out of his halo. Or maybe he was just used to it. “Do you follow the harvests?”

  “Mostly. It’s October, so I’m about to go collect some Alberta wheat from the east coast. Montréal is our next port of call.”

  Rivaudais cleared his throat. “That reminds me.” Rivaudais nodded at Hwa. “I have a message I’d like Captain Matthews to relay to a mutual associate of ours.”

  Hwa nodded. She steered Joel down the aisle toward the sampling barrels. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  “This is really interesting.” Joel’s gaze remained on the barrels stacked high into the darkness. “Thank you for bringing me.”

  “You think it’s interesting now, wait ’til you taste it,” Hwa said.

  “I thought you said you didn’t drink.”

  “I don’t drink beer. The average serving of beer has as many calories as a candy bar.”

  “Do you like drinking?”

  Hwa had never heard it put quite that way before. “I guess. I like having been drinking.”

  “Is it really all that fun? Because it seems like it just makes people stupid.”