Vermeer, without turning his head, slipped off his lab coat and handed it to her over his shoulder. As soon as it dropped over her shoulders, she felt warmer.
“Decent,” she said quietly.
He turned. She struggled to meet his eyes, and crossed her arms protectively across her chest.
“I’ve got two shirts on,” he said. His face was perfectly straight. No amusement, no leer. “Would you like the button-up or the t-shirt underneath?”
“Wh-what?”
“Which shirt?”
“Uh… the t-shirt.” Khalia stared at her red push-up bra on the floor. Water ran in rivulets from it to the drain. Damn, did she have to wear that one? Couldn’t it have been the sensible black one?
The black one had been in the heap of laundry.
Vermeer wasn’t looking at it. He unbuttoned his shirt and stripped off the grey t-shirt underneath as if he undressed in front of strangers every day. Didn’t even bother to turn his back. Not that he had anything to hide. His slim frame bore the marks of working out, or good genes, or both.
She wanted to cry, and it made her angry. She sucked in her bottom lip and lifted her chin.
He handed her the shirt, turned his back and set to putting the black button-up back on. Apparently that was the moment for her to take off the lab coat and put the shirt on, still warm from his body heat. It smelled faintly of sandalwood. Over top, she put the lab coat back on. It covered her drenched slacks, but she could feel water pooling in her shoes. “Decent,” she said. Her voice came out small and pinched off.
Dominic turned back just as Barjinder came through the door.
“What has happened?” Barjinder looked at the clothes and red bra on the floor and actually blushed, even as he was hurrying across the room. He glanced between her and the water, still slipping into the drain.
“I spilled some cleaner,” Khalia said. She wrapped her arms around herself and hunched her shoulders. Once again she could feel the tears welling up in her eyes. “On my shirt.”
“Maybe she should go home?” Dominic said. “She will catch a cold.” He had the grace not to say ‘She can’t run around without a bra for the rest of the day’.
“I-I took the bus.” Khalia face grew hot in spite of how cold she was. Go on the bus in a lab coat and no bra? She’d die of pneumonia first.
“I can drop you off. I came by car,” Dominic said, still as straight-faced as ever. “It will be lunch-break in fifteen minutes anyway.”
“N-no…”
“I would take you,” said Barjinder. “But I came by bus. Perhaps Jennifer would…?”
“No.” No, not Jennifer. All hell would break loose if Jennifer heard about this. “I’d be happy if you’d give me a lift, Dominic.”
Dominic nodded. “Where do you live?”
“Area 512B.”
“Not far from me. Come, I’ll take you now.”
Still she hesitated.
“You’ll be far more comfortable.” He reached down and picked up her dripping clothes. He dropped the items, red bra first, into a poly bag and held it out to her. “I insist.”
With her coat on, she was finally able allow her arms to hang down her sides. Dominic, in a high-collared, black wool coat, led her through the turnstiles and out into the parking lot. Her breath froze in a cloud as soon as she stepped out the door. Her damp skin rebelled into goose bumps. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her nylon jacket and wished she’d had time to pick up her wool coat from the drycleaner.
He led her to a compact black car, with shiny, tinted windows. It looked far too expensive for a man who’d just finished an internship, but if Dominic Vermeer was as gifted as Adam said he was, the government had probably given him a pretty good start in the world.
The car chirped, and Dominic opened the passenger door for her. He stood behind it like a solemn sentry until she got in, then crossed to the driver side and got in. The car started up with a roar.
Even when my car gets out of the shop it won’t sound like that. She had a nice car once, but after Jeremy died and left her with all his debts, plus medication to pay for, it had been the first thing she’d sold. The government only kept the professional class happy when they weren’t associated with enemies of the state, disturbers of the peace.
"What's your address?" Vermeer asked quietly.
"I, uh... Thirty-four, sixteenth street. District 512B."
Dom tapped a button on the center console. "Go to, thirty-four, sixteenth street. District 512B."
"Go to thirty-four, sixteenth street. District 512B?" a cool, female voice asked. Khalia jumped, then blushed. Her old car did that too, but she'd forgotten.
"Yes," Dominic said. The car eased out of the parking spot and accelerated gently toward the main road. Dom rested his hands lightly on the dormant steering wheel and stared straight ahead.
Khalia didn’t look at him until they reached her doorstep in the shabbier end of neighborhood 512B.
“Thanks,” she said softly.
Dominic glanced at her and smiled, the first time she’d really seen him smile. “Not at all, Khalia. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She got out of the car and was halfway to the front door when Dominic’s voice came from behind her. “You might want this.” He had already come to her side of the car, carrying the plastic bag of clothes. The red bra was stuck in the bottom of the bag, prominent against the dark clothes.
“Yeah, might not want to explain the bra to your girlfriend, huh?” It came out clipped and harsh.
Dominic’s expression didn’t change. “I’m sure that would be complicated if I had a girlfriend.” He put the bag in her hand. “Have a good evening.”
A good evening? How would the man ever take her seriously after this? She’d spilled caustic cleaner, then frozen up like a little schoolgirl. She’d stripped in front of—well, behind—that brilliant… sexy man and now she’d have to work with him. Every day.
She jammed the key into the lock.
Yes, yes, he is sexy.
At least it isn’t the maintenance man this time, damn it.
Just for once I wanted to maintain a professional image.
She pulled the sensible black bra out of the dirty laundry and peeled off the soft, grey t-shirt. A fresh breath of sandalwood wafted over her. She turned and sat down in the middle of the queen-sized mattress. Slowly, she fell over onto her side and stared at the light spot on the bedside table where the picture frame used to stand. The picture, like Jeremy, was long gone. All that was left was the mark.
She knew how this would go. She’d be Incompetent Khalia to him, too. She probably already was.
__
“You want to switch, old man?”
Casey slapped the split logs into crevices in the stack. Old man. He smiled toward the woodpile. To an eighteen-year-old, his thirty years must be well past middle age. “Just keep splitting, Josh. You’ll just mess up the stack.” The mechanical splitter ‘chunked’ and the next two logs fell to the ground. Casey’s frozen fingers had just enough feeling left to sting raw as he picked them up. Josh had twenty logs left in his stack. Once those were gone they’d get in the truck, where there was heat.
Josh thrust another log between the jaws of the splitter. The fingers of his leather gloves flapped open as he reached for the lever. Casey sighed.
"There must be a better way to do this," Josh said as he pulled the handle, "They could get one Empty to do this, twenty-four-seven."
"They get a manufactured person, and we'll be manufacturing ourselves coffins," Casey said with more force than he'd intended. "So split."
Josh looked up, eyes bleak and angry underneath his grey wool cap. “A couple more days and we’re laid off. I guess we might as well enjoy the cold.”
“Will your family take you in?” Josh was one of the few who lived at the farm during the work season.
“Maybe.”
Casey looked back from the woodpile, and Josh paused, his hands hovering over one
of the oak lengths. “If not, you know where to find me.”
“Thanks for saying that, but I know you can’t take me in.” Josh swiped at his nose and pulled the lever. The wood fell on either side of the splitter, its pale center gleaming.
That was true, but it seemed for every needy soul that came to him, their tiny, clandestine church found a place for them. “All the same, Josh. If you need something, you tell me.”
The youngster pressed his lips together and said nothing.
Yeah, I know. What can I do for you? He’d lived Josh’s life. He was Josh, twelve years older. He was nobody, predestined by society to be a nobody. Neither of them would ever rise much higher above it.
'Natural selection,' the intellectuals in the academies called it. Casey scoffed at that word 'natural', for the culling of those with inferior intellects, bodies, or social value was as artificial as the manufacture of superior MP workers to replace them. But that had been decided long before his time.
He sighed. "If we don't look out for each other, no one will. You come to me if you need help. You hear me, Josh?"
Josh shoved another log onto the splitter and nodded, though his face was dark and sullen.
Casey scrunched his fingers together, willing a bit of feeling into the numb fingertips, then reached for the fallen chunks of wood. He, like Josh, didn't actually want to think that far ahead. Right now he just wanted the warm truck and a cup of coffee.
__
“Casey.” Jack Lincoln sidled up beside him as they walked away from the ration commission. He lowered his voice nearly to a whisper. “I’ve got something to trade for meat.”
“Whatcha got?” Casey mentally reviewed the contents of his little chest freezer. What could he afford to trade? Fall’s hunting ‘season’ had been kind to him, but the winter would be long.
Jack reached into his canvas backpack. “I found this in a recycling bin on my run today.” He pulled out a thick book, bound in burgundy. Gold letters said, “The Republic.”
“Plato!” Casey reached for it, hefting the hardcover book in his hand. Oh dear Jesus!
“And this.” Jack held up a tattered soft-cover edition of Ben-Hur.
Casey grabbed it in his free hand and stopped, just on the edge of the sidewalk, and stared down at them. With one thumb he caressed the dog-eared pages of Ben-Hur.
Jack bent over him, his hands pressed together. “So? A pound each?”
A pound each. Two pounds was enough meat to feed him and Justine for four days. Four days’ food for a book?
Ahh...
For a moment Casey thought about fasting, just to have Ben-Hur in his library, but in this kind of cold weather?
“I’ll take Plato,” he said. He held in his sigh. “Trade Ben-Hur to Ernest. No doubt he’ll trade coffee for a week, and maybe he’ll lend it to me.”
Jack followed him up the stairs to his apartment, and Casey handed over a plastic-wrapped pound of venison. As soon as the other man was out the door, Casey cracked open Plato.
Plato!
“Can you use Plato in a sermon?” he said to himself. Casey grinned. Ernest would be chomping to get his hands on this one. Oh, but Justine would laugh when she saw it.
She would have loved Ben-Hur.
“No!” he said, his voice loud in the empty apartment. “You be thankful, Casey Freedman. You read Plato to the glory of God, and laugh because those academics think it’s beyond you.” It wasn’t the most sanctified speech, but it beat down the jealousy for the moment.
Beyond him! It wasn't so far off from true. By rights, Casey should have been the same deadbeat scum his father had been. His father would've never dreamed of reading Plato, or even lifting his head beyond his station. But Casey read to free his mind from the degradation of daily life. He might have been barred from the academies, but there was always that chance that his own children might take the aptitude tests, if he could raise the money. They would never have the fires of their minds stoked properly if his own mind wasn't ablaze.
__
The problem with starting a new job was that it meant going to a new supermarket on the way home. Dominic shut the door of the Mercedes and stood, grimacing at the brown and green building. At the market by Symbiosis, he could be in and out in twenty minutes. Today, he bet it would take forty.
No use in prolonging the agony.
As Dom marched through the first set of doors, a young man in a green vest nodded to him and opened the next door for him. Dom took in his classic, blank features. The young man was a domestic manufactured person—there to open the door for the privileged like him, and keep the working class out. Dominic averted his eyes.
It took him half an hour to find the almond milk, eggs, chicken, vegetables, and miscellaneous things he bought every week. He brought it home, put it away, and was into his third mile on the treadmill in the fitness room before the day began to sink in.
So this was Caspian.
Despite his pep talk in the car at seven-fifteen that morning, his hands had still shook as he swiped the temporary ID and pushed through the turnstiles. Last time he’d passed that way, he had hurdled over them and disappeared into the undeveloped land beyond the parking lot—each moment, expecting something to catch him.
Dom clicked the up arrow and increased his pace.
Back when he'd begun at the Academy, he'd been coloring his hair and wearing glasses and trying to look as 'un-manufactured' as possible. It took him six months to realize it was unnecessary to disguise himself, and he'd returned to his natural, unremarkable looks. 'MP' didn't cross their minds. To them, it was inconceivable that an 'Empty' could sit in class next to them, beat them academically, or compete for residency at Symbiosis. He was one of them, simply because no MFP could make it in the normal world.
Dom frowned and swiped at his brow. If his world could be called normal. What frame of reference did he have to judge normal by? Normal was a luxury that a man with only seven years to his past could not afford.
The door clicked open behind him, and a forty-something guy with a shiny, bald head and striped sweats jumped on the treadmill beside him. He glanced at Dom and nodded. Dominic did the same. They ran, side by side, in silence like they did every weekday night. Dom had no idea who he was.
Then there was Khalia, the tiny scientist he’d overpowered on the day he escaped. There had been a nagging pang in his mind saying she'd recognize him for what he was, but there had been no sign she'd thought him anything but human.
There was irony in this fact: today he’d been her rescuer.
As she’d shivered in his shirt and lab coat, her arms folded like a barrier across her breasts, her ebony eyes had filled with tears. But the delicate ridge of her shoulders had formed a hard line under the white fabric and she raised her chin. She was beautiful then—not the sort of beautiful that he’d notice in passing, but the sort that made him want to follow her into the house and get her out of the lab coat.
An affair might be exactly what he needed. The closer he was to her, the greater his chances of molding her ideas and therefore MFP2. The greater her trust, the better his chances of staying at Caspian for long enough to finish the job.
Or at least give it a heck of a start.
An hour later, he stood in the kitchen in just his sweats, sautéing veggies for his usual Monday stir-fry. The open laptop on the table paused in the newscast he had streaming, dinging the arrival of an email. Dominic tossed the last handful of veggies in the wok and walked around the counter to check it.
No subject, no salutation. Just how was your day? signed by 'Uncle Jim.'
Dominic turned back to stir the veggies. A bitter taste formed on his tongue and a twisted smile crossed his mouth. Jacques Chassagne called, he answered. Chassagne had put him in the academy, and greased his way into all the classes he'd needed. No matter how good his grades, and no matter how hard he worked, that had always hung over him—the thought that he didn't deserve to be there.
Dominic piled th
e stir-fry on a bed of brown rice and set it down in front of the computer. He paused with his fingers above the keyboard.
Quickly coming up to speed, he typed, I will compile all information of interest to you and arrange a meeting within a week.
The reply was swift. Good.
Good. Dominic snorted. He could imagine the big Frenchman lounging in a velour robe, smoking and tapping out that message with one finger. Chassagne probably never did anything of the sort, but Dominic could never divorce that image from him.
Dom's mouth twisted. Deliberately, he inserted a bite of stir-fry in his mouth and shut the laptop. A little longer. Chassagne had promised. Complete this task, and he'd never see Jacques Chassagne again.
CHAPTER 2
Khalia wasn't late on Tuesday morning. She walked into the lab, coffee in hand, fifteen minutes before eight. Dominic already sat at his desk, bent over the stack of notes he'd begun the day before.
She felt a hot flush creep from the collar of her coat and it sent a shaft of anger through her. If he leered or sneered or said anything vaguely snarky she'd make his day hell. See if she didn't.
She set the coffee down hard and swung her bag off her shoulder. He didn't look up.
She pulled out his t-shirt, scented with fabric softener, and set it down beside him. Only then did he lift his head.
"Thanks," he said, "No lasting burns?"
"No."
He held her gaze, perfectly unreadable. "Good. I've nearly made it through your notes."
"Good lord," she exclaimed, scrunching up her face, "Are you a fast reader or just a kiss-ass?"
His jaw tightened and his eyes flickered. Wrong thing to say? Good. "I could postpone reading the rest until next week, if that would suit you."
She waved her hand. "Carry on. Once you're here for a while you'll see why I'm surprised."
He snorted. "The ass-kickers drag the slugs up hill. So tell me, will I be dragging you or just Adam?"
It was her turn to laugh, sharp and bittersweet. "Oh god, you have him pegged." Just like that, she liked him. "I'll be on the pulling end of the tow rope with you." She just hoped to heck he actually meant what he said.
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