by Della Roth
The service robot gently slides the elegant silver-etched food tray onto the white table.
“Thank you, little one,” I say to the robot as I study it, wondering if it has a name or a name tag. It doesn’t. It performs a small salute-type gesture and disappears.
As I eat, I pick up the tube I’ve been working on and drop some of the liquid on an inspection slide. At first, the liquid is black and then, as I observe it under the microscope, the color begins to fade until it’s almost clear—like the clear glass inspection slide.
Even hours later, the black ink continues to transform itself—colorwise—into whatever I’ve placed it on. I skim over the other researchers’ books and take notes. There isn’t much there, honestly, and none of them used cuttlefish, but I study the ingredients they applied to their prototypes. Mostly they tried to create masks and second-skin silicone, but the latter only worked on children and not adults.
I don’t want to mask. I want to transform.
In a mortar, I crush white magnetic rock and blessed lava stone. Then, adding it all, including the black ink, into a glass tube, I cut my finger and add my own blood.
It boils instantly.
Interesting, I think. It only began to boil when I added my blood.
I cap it and watch it intently while the small robot reappears to take the food tray away.
But when its shiny silver fingers reach in front of the prototype, something happens.
The robot’s hand appears to change from silver to gray to pink and finally into a fleshy peach color. I see fingernails form and, as I look closely, tiny, colorless hair sprouts on the back of the hand. Dear Goddess, the robot’s hand is transforming into a human hand.
I gasp. And it’s not just any human hand, it’s my hand.
Glancing away, I see that nothing else on the robot has changed. Only its hand had moved in front of the prototype, and only the hand transformed.
I feel like dancing.
The prototype works!
But a small pop erupts, like a child popping balloons, and the flesh is gone and the servicebot’s hand is back to its normal self: metal, tiny, and clicky.
Then, as if on cue, the servicebot turns and exits the room the same way it came in.
I pick up the small prototype tube and slowly rotate it between my fingers, marveling at its black-cloudy contents. I’m on the right path. A few tweaks, and it might be ready. With the robot, the change lasted about ten seconds. Certainly not long enough. I need it to last hours, maybe days.
I wonder what Roland would think about my progress
Stop thinking about what Roland thinks. You’re here to do a job. Two jobs.
I gently replace the prototype back into a hollow sleeve I built earlier, and the cloudy contents reenergize, much like a battery recharging, and the black mist swirls round and round like a miniature tornado. Faster and faster, and then it suddenly stops rotating, the black-cloudy contents reset until it resembles the black water from which its ebony color came. Silently, I thank my lucky stars that Alben Underwood found the cuttlefish. He isn’t going to like it when I ask him to find more of them.
***
As I write down the items I’ll need to improve the prototype’s duration of effect, I hear a voice behind me.
“You look as if you have a world of thoughts brewing, Rahda,” Cat’s voice purrs from the door.
Her silky silver-gray hair is pulled up high into a loosely braided ponytail, the undersides of her scalp are shaved—probably plucked—and dark tattoos dot the base of her neck. Whose markings are they? I wonder. Who claimed her? She seems taller. I didn’t think it possible, but her robe is sheerer, and I see dark tattoos around her breasts, threading haphazardly like tree roots. Colored jewels dot her feet.
She doesn’t seem to be in a hurry.
Even as I admire her figure, I resent her ability to sneak up on me.
“Please disable everyone’s access, including the robots, to my lab. No one will have access without my approval. I will call for food when I require it.”
She tilts her head slightly and a small smile plays at her lips, giving her that perfect feline appearance that seems so lovely and exotic while also giving me a sense of unease. I do not know if she is a friend or foe, and I’d rather not find out the hard way.
“I see,” she says slowly. “What about Roland?”
“What about him?”
“My thoughts exactly, Rahda,” she says noncommittally with an unreadable expression as she pulls out her communicator tablet, presses a few buttons, and then says, “Place both of yours hand flat against the door.” She points to the door to the hallway. I walk around her, see the screen—which is in some sort of programming code—and do as she asks. The door is cool to my touch, but after she types a few commands into her tablet, the surface warms up considerably and just when it gets to the point where I think it will burn me, she instructs loudly, “Pull away.”
My palms are red, and the door, which I do not expect to do anything, sears my visible palm prints into its DNA and I watch, wondrously, as the door seems to absorb them slowly.
“The door knows you and only you now, Rahda. Naturally, you’ll have to open it for me now so that I may depart your company. Though welcoming as you are, I must be about Roland’s business.”
Cat sounds as if she’s offended, but as she walks unhurriedly to the door, a quirky smile plays at her lips. Cat turns her attention to the six sets of books on the opposite side of the room and studies them for a half second. I get the feeling that she wants to tell me something. Something about the other six.
“Before you go, there’s one more thing, Cat,” I say coolly. She turns her gaze on me expectantly. “I need to leave the Palace Skyscraper for a few hours.”
I can tell she did not expect this and internally, I smile.
FOURTEEN
CAT’S SMILE SLOWLY FADES. “ONCE HERE, you cannot leave without Roland’s permission,” she says finally.
“Sounds like your problem, not mine. Clear it with Roland if you must, but I’m leaving.”
Turning away, I secure the prototype inside a lockable cabinet. I place the key on a chain, wrap it around my neck, and then tuck it underneath my black button-down shirt. The key is heavy and cold against my skin.
“It’s not that easy,” she says to my backside.
I turn around and say, “Alben Underwood seems to be able to come and go as he wishes.”
Cat groans. Surely she knows I met Mr. Underwood last night. Or maybe she doesn’t.
“You are not Mr. Underwood, Rahda, and as such, you are not afforded the same privileges.” She types something into her communicator tablet.
“Privileges? I am not owned by Roland. In fact, the man has no claims upon me whatsoever except for my work, and for that, I need to leave for a few hours.”
“Do you even know how to leave the Palace Skyscraper?” Cat’s expression says it all: I got you there, didn’t I?
Hm. Yes, this is a problem. I do not even know how to find my room again, much less the front door, but something she said last night comes to mind.
“You mentioned that the tropical gardens are opened to the public, yes? Well, I’ll find the way out through a public visitor entrance.”
Cat’s eyes narrow and her pink mouth bunches up slightly. I expect her to hiss at me like an angry cat. Her tablet beeps just as someone pounds on the door to my lab.
“Roland is here,” Cat announces unnecessarily.
“Good. You can relay my request to him. Also, I need money.” I cross my arms across my chest. Neither of us move.
The knocking continues, and the booms echo throughout my lab.
“Only you can open the door, Rahda.”
“He can wait a moment. How much money do you have on you?” Given that she’s wearing a sheer fabriskin and I do not see any sort of currency pouch on her, I doubt she can give me what I need.
“Only peasants discuss money. It is vulgar and insu
lting. If permission is given, I will issue a Palace voucher.”
I roll my eyes.
“Open the goddamn door, Rahda,” Roland yells from the other side.
“A Palace voucher is worthless where I’m going,” I say in response to Cat’s statement.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Cat says quietly. “All of this is highly irregular.” She looks again at the six stacks of the former research assistants’ work. I am nothing like them, her gaze seems to say. Her tablet beeps again, and its glow brightens her lovely face. “He isn’t happy.” Cat, however, doesn’t seem unhappy. She’s curious. She’s wondering. And she knows that I am not to be trusted.
I feel the same about her.
Moving around her, I reach for the door, and it glides open before I touch it. It knows my intent, I think, just as Roland’s hulking shadow lingers there in the dimly lit hallway. The light from my lab reaches his chest as he barks an order to his chief of staff.
“Cat, out!”
As Cat leaves, her long fingers brush up against mine and she presses something cold into my hand, and as gentle as a whisper, she disappears through the doorway. The moment she’s through the threshold, the lights go out, the room pitches in darkness, and Roland steps in.
***
He is inches away as the door hisses shut.
His breathing is ragged, and I can almost feel the anger radiating from him. Did he run here?
I rub the object Cat shoved into my hand: a coin, a silver ten bedallion coin. Enough currency to buy a dozen of what I need from Dorni’s shoppe. I drop it into my trouser pocket as Roland finds his voice.
“You cannot leave the Palace—”
“You have no right to detain me. I am not your prisoner,” I say, poking a finger into his chest. “Do you or do you not want a working prototype by five o’clock this afternoon?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, but then he says, “You should have asked me, not my chief of staff.” His voice is lower, warmer.
Roland moves closer, and everything inside of me wants to jump on him and devour him. Even his anger is sexy. I breathe him in.
“I will go about my business in the method I feel is best, Roland. Your chief of staff was here. You were not. End of story. But if that is your only objection, only show me the way out.”
“It’s no longer safe in the city, Rahda,” he says in low timbered notes. “Dear Goddess,” he mutters out loud, mostly to himself, before he utters desperately, “You’re not safe around me.”
Then, like a possessed man, Roland’s hands are on me and it literally feels like his fingers are burning a hole right through me.
His lips crash into mine and I, equally as possessed, kiss him hungrily. I bite his lips. I suck on his tongue. All I know, feel, see, hear is Roland Rexus. His heat matches my own and I swear that in any minute, I’ll erupt, burn up, and take him with me in a cloud of smoke.
He pushes me against an empty table, scoops me up, and deposits my bottom there. His delicious erection presses firmly against the inside of my leg. Wrapping my legs around him, I pull him into me.
My hands get lost in this hair and before I know it, I’ve pulled his longish locks out of the ribbon at the base of his neck. I grab a fistful of hair, tilt his head back, and lick his neck, savoring the different sensations of stubble, raised scars, and smooth skin against my lips, tongue, and teeth. I want to explore every inch of him, and I tell him as much.
“Oh, Goddess,” he moans, and his whole body shivers. His shaking fingers unbutton my shirt, and, at the last button, he flings it open and a small rush of cold air kisses my skin.
My stomach does a little flip when touches my bare skin. This feels right, and then it feels so wrong.
“Why are you doing this to me?” I ask. “I feel like need you like I need oxygen but…” I hesitate. “You must know that it won’t work out. It feels explosive. Needy. Sinful. Like you will burn me up.” It feels like I’m cursing my own heart. You’ve wanted this for so long, Rahda. Why are you backing out?
“It’s precisely why we should not stop,” he says urgently in between hungry kisses. “I just want to live for this moment. But after tonight, things will be different…” His words trail away.
“Things are already different.” Dear Goddess, I cannot think straight around him. I’m totally compromising the mission.
“You really don’t know, do you?” His voice is less rushed. In that moment, I get the feeling that he knows everything about me.
“Know what?” I feel his fingers as he buttons my shirt. I try to fling his hands away, but he’s holding on tight.
He hesitates before he says, “That I am yours, Rahda. You only have to ask, and it is yours.” I’m not certain, but it feels like he wanted to say something else, like we were talking about two different things.
“Then show me how to leave the Palace.” Silence. “I’m leaving with or without your help, Roland.” I step away and walk to the door. It hisses open. Dim light spills in.
“Wait,” he calls. Regret fills his voice. Regret and resignation. I’ve missed something, but I don’t know what. It takes a full minute before he curses under his breath and says, “I’ll take you wherever you need to go.”
Just as I had hoped. I look down to hide my smile.
FIFTEEN
“WE’LL TAKE THE LIFTS,” ROLAND SAYS, leading me in a new direction. I inspect him. He wears an ivory-white collared shirt, pressed and starched, and coffee-colored trousers embellished with faded sepia-toned belt, and dark brown boots. The same brown hair that I ran my fingers through is now tidied up and secured in a brown ribbon. I stare at his ass and imagine all sorts of things, most of which involve the both of us being naked, intertwined, and sweaty. Shaking my head, I dislodge the thought and try to think straight.
Roland, on the other hand, looks so calm, reserved, and in control. So very much unlike a few minutes ago.
Our intimate moments are quick affairs; heated, intense, like a quick-burning fire that extinguishes long before it needs to. Like one or both of us think too much about what we are doing and then purposefully halt it.
He leads me through several more basement hallways and corridors that are more like mazes. After a few minutes, I hear the telltale hum of the elevator lifts.
Roland checks his wristwatch and then steps into the next lift.
“Take the lift to the ninth floor. When you get there, turn left and go up a set of stairs. I’ll leave the door open.”
“I thought we were leaving the building.”
He’s almost one floor up before he responds.
“I can’t exactly go out like this, now can I? I must get changed. Don’t forget: ninth floor, then take the stairs to your immediate left.”
How hard can it be? Lift. Stairs. Got it.
“Why can’t I wait for you at the main door?”
Roland’s reply doesn’t reach me, but his laughter does. I step into the next lift carefully. At least this time, I’m not wearing a fabriskin robe and I do not trip on anything and I rise uneventfully. But on the next floor, something catches my eye. A small gold and red tube, butted against a crumbling brick wall, and instantly I jump from the lift, land on both feet. I look around to see if anyone notices me, but there’s no one around to be noticed by. Not even service robots.
I pick up the lipstick and shove it in a pocket. It must have landed here last night without the servicebot finding it. I didn’t even know it was missing, which tells me more than I’m willing to admit to.
My attraction to Roland is blinding me to the real reason I’m here. I could easily put on the coral lipstick, kiss Roland, and allow my lips to poison him.
Quick, easy, ruthless.
I could even do it now, before we leave the Palace Skyscraper, but I won’t. I need to communicate with my mentor. I must ensure nothing has changed.
And maybe you’re lying to yourself. Admit it, you were happy when you found out the communicator tablet broke.<
br />
I didn’t think I’d have a problem separating my feelings from the Roland I fell in love with as a girl from the Roland I’ve been ordered to assassinate.
I step into the next lift and exit at the ninth floor.
The area is small, and five stairwells branch out at evenly spaced intervals, much like the spokes of a bicycle tire, with the lifts being the center. I walk through a rich mahogany door and enter Roland’s apartment.
Ebony wooden floors and furniture butt up against creamy white walls. On one small table, I spot a folder with my name on it, but I leave it alone. I won’t find anything I don’t already know about myself. Most of it I invented, even the true parts.
On the far side of the apartment is a large window covered by thick, embroidered draperies. Only ribbon-like streaks of gray light pour through, but it’s enough to orient myself to the room and to nearly fall head over heels for the space. My own apartment is lush, but it is nothing compared to Roland’s home. It’s larger, but he uses the space perfectly without filling it up with needless items. The simplicity of the room speaks volumes. The man doesn’t like clutter.
“I see you found it,” he says to me from somewhere to the left. I step forward to investigate where his voice came from, but I do not answer him immediately. I pass a mirror-less bathroom, a busy-looking office-like room with dozens of maps hanging on the walls, his living room with the covered windows and a working fireplace, and finally into a darkened and darkly furnished bedroom.
I linger in the doorway. I hear him moving about, but I cannot see him. Whether this is how he wants it to be at this moment or how his apartments normally are, I imagine that he generally moves about in the darkness, or, at the very least, very dim rooms.
