by Alex Kirko
“Fuck, Laura, what are you doing here?” The headache was threatening to return. “I haven’t slept in days. And you look more groomed than back home.” She looked at the waterfall of golden hair falling onto Laura’s petite body. “And why the hell are you naked?”
Laura shrugged, put down the tablet, stood up and got closer. “Come on, sister,” she said. “You look like shit.” She scrunched her nose. “You smell like shit. Kyle is coming today, we need to clean you up.” She eyed the bed and Moira critically and pouted. “No, this won’t work. I can maybe reach your chest if I jump. Lose the size.”
“The shower can blast water and shampoo from all sides, you know. I don’t need help.”
“You don’t have a brothel under your wing to take care of these things like I do. Good thing I’m here, right?”
Moira gritted her teeth and shrunk. The showers were one of the few things not easily enlarged to her full size, and she didn’t want to special order one—it was a small separate room as it was. Laura cocked her head to the left and shamelessly examined Moira’s naked body. “You are getting better. Maybe you can be pretty again with more practice. Those muscles. Yuck.” She herded Moira into the shower, grabbing a massive plastic bag on the way. “Cosmetics and stuff,” she explained. “I won’t have my sister look like she lives on the streets.”
Laura had always taken care of Moira’s appearance back when all they needed to do was look beautiful and serve the former Count’s whims. To be fair, it felt nice to just relax, be pampered, and let her sister’s fingers untangle the knots in her muscles. Laura had brought soap, shampoo, conditioner, oil, cream, lotion, gel, spray, and razor, and used all of them ruthlessly. The bag was half-full even after she took all of this out.
“You have such lovely skin and hair.” She patted Moira’s left leg. “Spread your thighs a little. How the hell am I supposed to do this if you clump up like a nun on her first visit to the red-light district?” Moira complied and felt Laura work on the muscles along her legs. A small sigh escaped her lips and she propped herself against the wall. “We should do this more often,” said Laura. “You think I can get Kyle this time?”
Moira tore her attention from the sensations and snorted. “Sure. If you think you are better than Yvonne. I’ve had a cramp in the left thigh for the past two days. Yes. That’s it. God, I forgot how good you are.”
“You know, I have about fifty guys on booty-call. Usually not into women, but I could probably find one for you in, say, fifteen minutes. Want to blow off some steam?” She thought about something for a second and then shook her head. “I’d offer myself but, you know, still weird.”
“For God’s sake, Laura, how many times do I need to tell you I’m not a closet lesbian? Come on, a little higher. I’m stronger now, so more pressure.”
She knew Laura was grinning as she worked out the kinks in Moira’s neck. The girl was strong, especially for her size, but she still retreated into that ridiculous mischievous doll persona. They all escaped in their own ways, she guessed—Moira had decided to become a behemoth of muscle.
Laura washed away the massage oil, switched on the hot air to dry Moira, and left the shower. She returned five minutes later with a jade gown, two ornamental red combs, and shoes the color of arterial blood. She also had clothes on.
“Laura, where is my underwear?”
She grinned. “Hoped you wouldn’t notice.”
Laura took the panties out of a pocket and got to combing Moira’s hair and dressing her. Laura’s fingers straightened out her locks, and an array of hair products assaulted her head. By the time her sister moved on to make-up, Moira was sure that her hairstyle could survive a hurricane.
Laura did a final check-up with efficiency normally reserved for weaponry. “Good. Not great, because that would take days, but still good. Blow them away, sis.”
Moira socked Laura in the shoulder making the smaller woman stumble. “Ha. If only blowing the press away was an option. Thanks. I don’t know what would have happened if I had to go out to the reporters looking like I did last night.”
“This is getting way too sappy. Go already.”
Moira went to her office. Somebody had come and prepared the room: there were two chairs in front of her terminal, and Jim’s capsule was hidden behind a folding screen with floral patterns.
“Good morning, Miss Heatsworth,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”
“I’m fine, Jim. Stop hovering,” she settled into her chair. “Any news while I was asleep?”
“Nothing. Either the spies are getting better, or we have already caught most of them.”
“Damn it. Tara must have somebody to help her hide or somebody to get orders from. Keep looking.”
“May I suggest you focus on your upcoming appointment, miss? Leave the surveillance to me.”
She opened her bag and put a small pot with violets on top of her terminal. Lyndon had said that humanizing touches helped in situations like this. There was a buzz, and she opened the door.
A woman entered, her form too large and grand for the plain office. Gold inlays slithered all over her body, and a large diamond was implanted into her forehead, forming a perfect triangle with her eyes. Boots gave her extra four inches of height she didn’t need. The journalist strode to the right chair and lowered herself into it with the dignity of a queen. Beside her, a small man with waspish hair plopped down into the other spot. His dull gaze darted around the room in fevered agitation.
“It is good to finally meet you, Sister Heatsworth,” said the woman. “My name is Rachel Suing, and I represent the League of Independent Press. We aim to provide unbiased news both within the Federation and outside it.”
She turned to the man and stared at him pointedly, but he seemed preoccupied with the ceiling. Rachel rubbed her forehead and said, “My distracted colleague is Brian Carpenter. Brian arrived here on behalf of the journalists of the Republic.” Rachel reached toward him and flicked him on the right temple.
“Ow,” the man’s hand snapped to the spot Rachel had hit, and his eyes focused on Moira. “Sorry. Right, I’m Brian. I’m here to record things.”
Moira raised an eyebrow, but he just nodded to himself and began peering into the corners.
“Thank you for agreeing to talk to us,” said Rachel. “Let’s get started.” She pulled out a set of two microphones and placed them on the corners of the terminal between them.
“Sure, Rachel.” Moira smiled. “What would you like to know?”
“The tensions in the city are rising over the Federation’s actions contradicting your declaration of having the best interests of citizens at heart. When will a rehabilitation program for the victims of entertainment deprivation be established?”
“Well, as I’m sure you know, we are still rebuilding the numerous facilities people used before the attack—”
Brian snorted without tearing his gaze away from the wall behind Moira’s back.
“Do you have something to say, Mister Carpenter?” Moira did her best to keep metal out of her voice.
He flicked a few buttons on his hand terminal and projected a ten-inch figure of a boy above his hand. “Leonard Tuck.” The image was replaced with a freckled sparrow of a girl around fourteen years old. “Madeline Briar.” One picture came after another. “Mitchell Rand. Yoshi Kushimoto. Brandon Hallow.” All of them were kids no older than twenty-five.
She stared at him in irritation. “So it’s five teens. Is there a point?”
Rachel said, “Mitchell was my nephew.” Her smile was replaced by a stone mask that didn’t match the levity of her voice. “Neither of his parents worked a day in their lives, but he had me. He just gobbled up my stories of other cities, and this one time I went off-planet to attend a sector summit, and he was ecstatic. He wanted to be a journalist.” The smile returned, but it warped her beautiful features into something hideous. The diamond in her forehead began pulsing with red. “Of course, there would be no work for him for decades, so
he started playing games. The multiplayer ones where you can build a career facing challenges based on real life. He was queued for a job in twenty years and did his best to prepare. Graduated school at seventeen and completed the college curriculum on his own. Then the Federation came and blew up the servers with all his local school records and the computers that ran the simulation too. He took his life a week after.”
Brian asked, “Is this how the Federation plans to deal with the people hurt by your rebellion? Just ignore them?” His expression was of mild curiosity, as if he was asking about a weather anomaly.
Moira rubbed her forehead. “Listen—”
Rachel cut her off. “It’s a simple question.”
Moira looked between the two of them: Rachel was angry at her with the cold steel rage that the grieving used to shield themselves, and Brian was a snake. He would probably distribute this footage to all the Republic. He smiled, called up a clock on his holographic assistant, and pointed to it. “I’m sure you don’t have all day, Mayor Heatsworth,” he said.
“It is a simple question,” Moira said. “It doesn’t mean there is a simple answer.” She breathed to calm down. “What you must understand first is that we didn’t come in and destroy some earthly paradise. Your nephew, Miss Suing, was an addict, as is the larger part of the Republic. The Council gives them a cornucopia of ways to distract themselves from the fact that they will never be journalists or doctors or builders. They will never affect the lives of other humans in a meaningful way.”
“Are you saying that interactions in the virtual space don’t count?” asked Rachel. “That people entering relationships, having children, finding friends—it all doesn’t count? All because it doesn’t fit some arbitrary definition of reality? And those willing to wait often do come back to find a vocation.”
Moira shook her head. “Look, I get why you are angry, but the world needs to be weaned off the Council teat and stop gorging itself on videos and games. The galaxy isn’t the same as it was when this social order was founded. Everything has stagnated, but we see this as an opportunity. Count Heatsworth believes that Seind can be at the forefront of a new order where children never have to die like this.”
Brian’s smile grew wider. “But Mitchell is still dead as are fifteen other girls and boys.”
She wanted to growl, get up, and bash his head against the wall. Judging by his smug expression, he knew it. Rachel was acting out of grief, but this weasel with dead eyes knew exactly what he was doing. She was about to say that fifteen teenagers in a city of eight hundred thousand was barely noticeable but clamped her mouth shut. This is what he wanted her to say, to portray her as some monster who viewed people only as statistics.
“It is a tragedy,” she said. “We have brought a group of psychiatrists from Lankershire to help people deal with the transition, and they will begin work shortly.” She made a mental note to ask Kyle to find some shrinks to spare. “You will also notice that from day one we focused on rebuilding the infrastructure, the gaming centers, and the malls. We understand what kind of consequences destroying people’s lifestyle can have, but we urge you to remember that it wasn’t us who blew up all these server rooms and entertainment buildings. The Council did it just as they sent Mister Carpenter here to paint us as the devils.”
“And what evidence do you have, mayor?” asked Brian.
She gritted her teeth. “None. Except that the Council doesn’t mind when teenage girls get sold into slavery. It doesn’t mind when in one of the cities under its control people get tortured or killed for being homosexuals. It doesn’t even try to root out radical groups before they become a problem, because catching all the terrorists is more important to them than preventing deaths, and it doesn’t bother them that the targets are often schools and homes of the elderly.” She stood up and motioned them to the door. “I’m afraid this is all the time I have for you today.”
Brian grinned at her. “You have been as helpful, mayor, as your love for conspiracy theories has been entertaining. I hope we can do this again some time.”
He left, and she suppressed the twitch in her fingers. The prick. Throwing dead children and a grieving journalist at her—all to give himself reliability.
Rachel rose too. She didn’t move for a while, looking at Moira. Finally, she nodded. “I will be tracking this psychological rehabilitation program.” She nodded again. “Taking upon you the cost of helping the people who wanted nothing to do with this war—it is something that could really help the public’s opinion of the Federation.” She turned and moved to the door. “Mayor?”
“Yes?”
“I’m giving you benefit of the doubt. Don’t squander it, or I will dig so deep into the Federation, none of you will be visible under all the skeletons I unearth.”
Rachel left.
Moira said, “Jim, did you get all that?”
“Yes. I’m coordinating with Yvonne back in Lankershire. All the psychiatrists are engaged in desensitizing new Crawlers.”
“Tell her we need a group here, or this could turn into a catastrophe. Even five people will help.”
“I don’t think so, miss. If given the option, citizens might try to replace lost entertainment with talking to therapists. There are eight hundred thousand people in Seind, and a third had their favorite haunts blown up.”
She groaned. “Keep talking to Yvonne. Look up the registry of virtual worlds. There should be a training program for psychologists like the one that Mitchell boy attended, so there should be a stash of trained specialists somewhere. After we hire them, we can establish admission hours and time quotas per patient.”
There was a smile in Jim’s voice. “Turn the lie into reality, so to speak?”
“It’s a war, and these two march in here and ask me why everyone can’t live just like they did before. Unbelievable.”
She spent an hour working on a statement to preempt the news reports. Suicide statistics weren’t so bad in absolute numbers, but they were horrible in percentages. The Council stuck the mentally ill into state virtual reality programs designed for autism or schizophrenia or whatever ailed the person. Patients rarely came out. Republic artillery batteries had demolished entire blocks, so Seind no longer had the resources to keep up the policy. Four hundred fifty-three was the current suicide death toll, and the speed at which people killed themselves was still growing.
She looked up the few records of how other planetary governments dealt with mental health. Eventually she came upon the concept of support groups and ordered some of her assistants to dedicate a couple buildings to mutual psychological support under professional oversight. By the time she was done, Moira needed to go.
She went to the old war room—a domed chamber dominated by a table of red wood that could house twenty. Having only her, Laura, and Liun at it made it look sad. Lyndon was talking to someone on his communicator when she came in. “I’ll call you back,” he said.
He hung up and looked her over. Moira didn’t realize she was clenching her fists until Laura put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Peace, sister,” she said.
Lyndon blinked, breathed in and out, and looked at her with a frown. Moira cursed herself for showing weakness. She asked, “Did you think I would not find out? Why did you keep me away from your investigation into our spy problem?”
He said, “I’m sorry, Moira. It’s just that you’ve been so busy that I didn’t want to bother you.”
“Not good enough. When it comes to capturing and interrogating spies, you must keep me updated. Who else are we waiting for?”
“Kyle. I wanted to talk to you about that deal you made on Wednesday.”
She looked at the entrance to the room. “The one with the construction workers?”
“No, you handled them brilliantly. We have too much riding on our promises of building a better city. I’m talking about the Utopian Movie Society.”
She vaguely recalled a short man with a scruffy beard approaching her a couple of days ago j
ust when she was about to head to grab a nap between meetings. He had been nice enough. She asked, “What about them?”
“I want to know why you gave them a building to work in.”
She focused on her deputy. He sat with a straight back, and a polite smile was carved on his face. She had seen him interrogate soldiers of the Republic—she had seen him sincerely happy.
“Lyndon. Sounds like you are questioning my leadership.”
“Not at all, Moira. It’s just that I’m the one dealing with them now, and I wanted to know your reasoning, so I don’t screw up. It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me.” He leaned back into his chair. “I’ll just play it by the ear again.”
He seemed relaxed, but Moira now knew what Lyndon Liun was. He watched everyone, and he didn’t miss much. She felt a pang of scorching anger in her chest at all the little ways he tested her.
“Kyle could have at least told me he was putting a minder on me,” she said. “For your information, I intend to repurpose the buildings as soon as they finish shooting their current movie. We need a bit more rainbows-and-sunshine entertainment while people settle into their new roles.”
He tilted his head to the left, waited, nodded. “Thank you, Moira. It’s just . . . you barely sleep. Sometimes I walk by your door only to see you staring at your terminal, motionless. I worry for you. Seind is our first major victory. Our only major victory.”
The unspoken “You must do better.” hung in the air like a barbed steel blanket.
“Back off, lizard-boy.” said Laura. “The city is doing fine. If you don’t shut up, we'll find out just how much you can regenerate.”
Lyndon smiled and pulled his terminal back up. Moira couldn’t see his fingers, but she didn’t think he was working. It looked more like one of those non-VR primitive games. She sat in her chair. Laura settled to her right, propped her legs on the table and stretched.
It was all Tara’s fault. If Moira could only find the bitch, she would finally be able to get some rest and concentrate on her job. Last week she had missed two meals and realized it only when the nanites started eating her thigh muscle. Limping to her room to get the nutrients had been humiliating.
