by Lyn Forester
"How much do I owe?" My voice comes out a little sharp, but she doesn't notice as she shakes herself out of the fantasy.
“Nine hundred credits.”
I resist the urge to put my gym clothes back on. “Do you accept clothing credits?”
“Of course.” Her smile turns brittle as she taps her screen.
“Excellent.” I tap my datband and run it under the scanner. Once an entire year’s worth of clothing credits comes off, the total becomes more reasonable. “Thank you.”
“Have a good day.”
“You, too.” As I turn to leave, a scarf in the Troehan-themed area catches my eye. It stands out in the otherwise green- and brown-toned section. Black, heavy and satin-soft. It undulates with deep red tones and an occasional purple thread, like crushed cherries. I bring it to my face, expecting the scent of pepper and burning leaves.
It smells clean. Empty.
"That's a lovely piece," the saleslady calls. "Would you like to add it to your purchase?"
I glance over my shoulder and force a laugh. "I wouldn't know what to do with it."
She smiles and nods with fake understanding.
I want to go home, go back to sleep, go back to the beginning of today.
I leave the store and let the noise of the real world crowd out my thoughts.
PICKING PICADIO’S
The meeting with Mr. Black leaves Drake with a higher buzz than six cups of coffee ever could. Reinvigorated in time to go home and sleep. He can use the new burst of energy to go over his game plan one more time. Sure, Mr. Black took the case out of his immediate control, but he can't assume his new partner will have his level of insider knowledge for the aphremore trade.
He needs to sit down and reread the personnel files on Reagen Thorpe. Mr. Black made him realize he'd missed more than he thought while listening to the audio.
Back in his office, he exchanges his business suit for casual jeans and a lightweight shirt. The suit goes into the cleaner's basket hidden behind his desk, where it drops into the executive maids' room. They'll deliver it back to his apartment first thing tomorrow morning, cleaned and pressed. He tucks his palm-port into his pocket and locks his office door. At the end of the hall, the elevator conductor perks up. Drake waves at the man, then turns to go the opposite direction, to the private portal room.
None of the executives use the one near the lift, and lower-level employees don't have clearance to use the portals. Black Corp has the conductor stationed there for guest use.
Drake turns the corner and stops at the end of a short hall, in front of the only door. The palm pad glows red on the wall next to it. He presses his palm into the cold gel and waits for it to turn green. With a quiet click, the lock deactivates and the door slides open.
Inside, the room opens into a large, open space with high ceilings. The portal sits in the center, its curved metal frame ten feet tall. Unlike the public ones that have fixed locations for fast use, the executives have a high-powered portal that can make vertical moves as well as horizontal. Expensive and high maintenance, but indispensible when time means money.
He waits for the door to close then strides to the control panel to punch in his coordinates, L9S8R4 for Level 9, Sector 8, Ring 4.
The tiny triangle of cucumber on white bread gave him a serious craving for a meatball sandwich and Picadio's makes the best in Roen.
He pushes his thumb into the DNA stick, barely registering the sharp prick as the machine logs his genetic instructions. A standard fail-safe against malfunction. If something goes wrong, security will use the data disc attached to his company file to cross reference his portal use and pull him out of the ether.
Not that portals ever malfunction. Halions take pride in perfecting their technologies.
The open space inside the arch of metal shimmers to life, flashing red while it contacts the public portal on the other side of the city level.
One of the halion race’s more coveted advancements, all efforts on the human's side to replicate the devices have ended in failure. Halions breed for what they call clan talents, an instinctive knowledge of science that can't be taught. You're either born with it, or you're not. Humans need not apply. Even among their own kind, portal technology is a coveted skill that the Riellio clans breeds for. A top-tier magic in their hierarchy.
More than clan talent goes into portal creation. There's science in how they anchor and link access points. But without the Riellio clan, they won't work. It's the number one reason humans and halfbreeds aren't allowed into the colonies. They won't risk diluting their DNA pool.
The portals link, the light shimmers, and an iridescent rainbow spools out from the edges to engulf the red. It undulates, the back wall visible, but distorted. As a child, Drake always expected to see his destination appear between the arches, like an open doorway to a room across town. Not seeing his destination before stepping through took time to get used to.
Now, he holds his breath and strides forward with confidence. Frigid cold cuts through his body as he passes through the between. The tight air in his lungs pushes for release. He exhales as he comes out the other side in a puff of frosted air. A hand grips his elbow to steady him as he takes stiff-legged steps away from the portal to get out of the way of traffic.
No way to get used to that.
By his fourth step, warmth returns to his body, and he nods to the conductor. She releases him with a tip of her hat and trots back up the ramp to catch the next arrival.
One block over from the portal, Picadio's restaurant features a rare pickup window for Level 9 pedestrians. Its striped, red and white awning runs the length of the small deli. A round sign juts over the sidewalk, with the name written in curling letters. Above the name smiles a chubby-faced man with an impressive mustache.
Still early for the lunch rush, but a line five deep waits at the order window. More customers wait at the door for an inside table to become available.
Picadio's is just that good.
"Mr. Esten!" The man at the order window waves his arm to catch Drake's attention and motions him to the front of the line.
Drake's never asked Picadio's son to give him special privileges, but old man Picadio buys black market mozzarella from Black Corporation. Once his son learned of Drake's position in the company, he took it upon himself to maintain good relations. Which meant line cuts and free meals. For his part, Drake doesn't tell the man he has no control over dairy goods smuggled down from Level 10.
"Mr. Esten, you want your usual?" The man's flushed cheeks puff out in a wide grin as Drake leans against the window. Hot air blasts out, carrying the aroma of fennel and tomato.
"That would be great, Terry."
From the glare of the woman at the front of the line, Drake's pretty sure the foil-wrapped sandwich he receives is her order.
Drake tosses the hot sandwich between his hands and smiles at her. In an instant, her face softens and she returns his smile, leaning forward so that her blouse gapes a little.
His eyes drop to the valley of flesh, and he hums with appreciation. But her work outfit says she's on restricted time, and the palm-port weighs heavy in his pocket. Regretful, he shakes his head and moves along.
Work before fun, which means no fun for the foreseeable future.
The investigator's face pops into his mind, pointy-chinned with sharp cheekbones and calm, indigo eyes. Anger burns him, and he raises the foil wrapper to his nose and inhales to regain his happy place. He can deal with babysitting her on the case, ferret out her weak spots. It will slow down his investigation, but it's what the boss wants.
Lost in thought, Drake runs right into the clear plastic leaflet. He shoves it out of his face and frowns down at the middle-aged human.
"Sir!" she shouts at him from less than a foot away. Fanatic zeal shines from her wrinkled face. "Sir, I'd like to talk to you about the dangers of allowing the Koevhern delegation into Roen!"
Shit, the news announcement aired a couple hours ago, and
protesters already have their propaganda ready.
"Not interested." He sidesteps around her, and she follows a few paces, still shouting.
"Why won't they disclose their plans for the land use? What are they looking to develop?" Her voice fades as she latches onto another passerby. "Ma'am! Ma'am, aren't you concerned about the imbalance it will cause, if more land is owned by the halions?"
Current development has one colony per one city structure. It doesn't mean the two races are balanced. Humans and halfbreeds outnumber halions, while halions hold the majority of advanced sciences. Cohabitating our toxic planet involves a constant flux in power.
Damn doomsayers will pick at anything. In a few more months, they'll shout about how the centennial Vortex opening will free us all from our eight-hundred year prison. Then the rice conspirators will return to claim the government withholds the necessary staple in order to jack up prices. Constant push and pull.
Shit, his jaw hurts from scowling too much.
He sniffs his sandwich again to fill his nose with the rich aroma of oregano and spicy sausage. No one can frown while smelling a Picadio's meatball sub.
One street over, his apartment complex comes into view. He purchased his living unit after his last big promotion. That it's within five minutes of the public portal and a specific deli might have weighed in on his choice.
It’s a shorter building, with only fifteen floors, and a black metal gate across the entrance for added security. To the left of the gate, a camera lights up as it scans his approach. The barred door slides open before he reaches it, allowing him to pass through without slowing.
The short stone path curves around an ornate tree, planted to block the entrance from street view. Here, another scan verifies his residency, and the front door swings open.
Inside the tiled foyer, behind a desk, sit two halfbreed security guards. Either their extreme muscle mass and uniform haircuts make them look alike, or they're related. With their equal height, identical square jaws and thick noses, Drake would bet the latter. They wear identical suits every day, and he has a hard time telling them apart.
The one on the left gives him a cursory once over and nods. "Good morning, Mr. Esten."
The second grunts at him and presses the button under his desk to open the elevator's doors.
Drake walks around the men and steps inside, then punches in his code for the fifth floor. The doors close, a quiet hum and slight vibration fill the elevator, then it opens into a circular foyer. In the center of the tiled floor, a vase of purple flowers rests on a round table. Five doors line the curved wall, two on either side and one straight ahead.
He presses his hand into the palm scanner for the first door on the left, pushes the door open, and steps inside.
Designer perfect, with an open layout for the main room and kitchen space. To the right, double doors lead into a home office, while a second set at the back lead into his bedroom.
The unit came fully furnished and decorated. He'd never seen a reason to change it after he moved in.
Little pops of yellow throughout the room break up the deep blues and browns of the decor. The pre-selected furniture package included a comfortable couch, large enough for him to sprawl on while he watches the news. A coffee table sits in front of it, the perfect height for his feet to rest on. In the kitchen, a tall, four-person dining set hugs the island bar, made of high-quality faux wood that looks like the real thing, with knots and whorls of grain texture. Manly, but approachable. A proper man cave and exactly what he needs to unwind from work.
He kicks his shoes off at the door, frowning at a pair of black lace underwear that lies on his console table. Must be left over from the other night. He hopes she doesn't plan to use them as an excuse to come back. They'd agreed not to exchange data discs before he brought her back here. It wouldn't be the first time a bed partner "forgot" something at his place.
Whatever, that's why he bought a place with high security.
From the front door, he spots the corner of his king-size bed, the blankets still on the floor from yesterday morning. The sight reminds his body he hasn't slept in over twenty-four hours. It feels longer than that, like the maid service should have already come and gone.
Shit, they’ll be here in a couple hours.
“Butler,” he calls as he walks toward the bedroom.
The black rectangle on the kitchen counter lights up. “Yes, Mr. Esten?”
“Move maid service to tomorrow afternoon.”
“Yes, Mr. Esten,” the calm, male voice answers. “Will there be anything else?”
"Play track four."
The sound of low waves crashing against a shore fills the room as he tosses his palm-port onto the nightstand and undresses. He falls backward onto the bed to sprawl across the yellow satin sheets. The foil crinkles as he unwraps the sandwich and takes a large bite. He groans at the wonderful blend of seasonings and creamy mozzarella. The soft bread melts in his mouth. He tries to take his time, savor the meal, but it's gone too soon, leaving his taste buds saturated in flavor and craving more.
Should have ordered two.
He runs a hand down his flat stomach and reminds himself restraint is a good thing.
Warm, relaxed, and moderately full, he rolls his head to peer at his nightstand, where he left the palm-port.
Too far.
His arms can't be convinced to move. Fatigue finally wins.
The waves sooth him, a low ebb and flow.
He'll review the file in a moment.
His eyes burn from lack of sleep.
He blinks.
Then blinks again.
Then his eyelids refuse to open.
IS THAT A PSY-GUN IN YOUR POCKET?
The next morning, my feet drag on the way back to my living unit. I couldn't get my brain fuzz going at the gym. No amount of white noise could drown out my thoughts. I even took the elevator down.
Bad me.
I press my hand into the palm scanner at my door. The gel warms against my skin, then flashes cold. The light stays red.
With a frown, I wipe my palm against my tank and try again.
Red light.
I back up and glance down the hall, counting doors. I didn't space out that much. I'm at my unit.
My gaze drops to examine the carpet in front of my door. Then I lean forward and sniff the palm reader. Nothing. I straighten as my neighbor's door whooshes open. Impersonal smile in place, I wait for him to pass.
Instead, he pauses by my elbow, invading my personal space.
So not thrilled.
His sour body odor fills my nose. He ate fish for breakfast.
"Trouble with the door?" He stands with his chest puffed out, stomach sucked in.
I eye the pit stains on his shirt. "Looks like it."
"I had the same problem last week. Need me to fix it for you?" He takes his invasion a step further and props a hand against the wall by my head. The stench increases.
When I first purchased my unit, I ran into this neighbor multiple times. Over the years, our encounters became less frequent, to the point I’d thought he’d given up. Which makes this visit extra special. An official hall lurker --never on his way anywhere and always too helpful.
I peer down at him, head tipped to stress his shorter height. "I think I can handle it."
He shifts and takes a step back to avoid looking up at me.
"Well, let me know if you need anything." He leers as his gaze drops to my breasts, but it seems more a reflex than honest effort. Already, his chest unpuffs, his gut makes a reappearance.
I wait while he shuffles his way back to his unit instead of the elevators, confirming my hall lurker suspicions. Does he spend his days with his ear against the door, waiting for unsuspecting females to wander past?
Once he disappears, I return my attention to the palm scanner. My fingers push into the gel, find the little nubs under the surface. I press them in sequence.
Green light.
The
door swishes open. I sigh with relief and step inside, waiting for the door to close behind me.
My mind is planning my day even while my body springs into motion. The cold metal of the dining chair only registers as it flies from my hand toward the couch.
The scent of dry grass and wood smoke fills my nose as I spin for the door. I hear the thumping crash of the chair landing and a surprised grunt of pain.
Someone's in my home.
They explode from the couch.
Two steps to the door.
A solid weight hits me in the back, arms banding like steel around my waist in a tackle.
I twist on the way down, unable to avoid the fall and desperate to land face up.
Hard floor slams into my back, a harder body on top of me.
Air rushes from my lungs, and black splotches flash across my vision. Hands tug on me, hard thighs clamp around my legs, and an arm flattens across my shoulders.
I gasp in air past the tight muscles in my chest and rear up. My forehead slams into a chin. The arms leave my chest, and hands slam against my shoulders to knock me back.
"Hold still!" an angry voice shouts, and I glare up at my assailant.
"Get off me." I thrash beneath his weight.
"Calm down." He leans into me harder.
"Get off me before I kill you." I shove the nose of my psy-gun into the stomach of Mr. Black's bodyguard. He stares down his body, dumbfounded, and stays in place.
Asshole. He's crushing me to death and doesn't even notice.
"Hey, Goon!" I jab him again with the gun for emphasis. "Get off me!"
Bewilderment on his too-pretty face, he eases back, hands up in surrender.
I don't trust it.
His body, still poised above me, remains tense. Gray eyes flicker to the psy-gun, around the room, then scan my body. He raises his hands higher, but surrender is a lie. He's ready to spring. The only thing that stops him is the question working its way through his thick head.
Will I pull that trigger?
