by T. K. Toppin
On the second day, I got my period. At long last. What great timing. After I announced my dilemma into the wall-mounted communicator, Simon himself brought me a small box containing tampons and sanitary napkins.
They look straightforward enough. The tampons were smooth, oval bullets like elongated eggs with a string. The napkins, a paper-thin adhesive patch that came in a roll like duct tape. The box also contained two pills: a red one and a white one. Seeing my confusion regarding the pills, he helpfully—and rather cheerfully—informed me they were standard-issue for female detainees. The red was a purge; the white was a block.
Uncertain which to choose, I decided neither and test-drove a tampon. Thankfully, it was a very light cycle and barely lasted two days.
The first two days there, I did nothing. I stayed in my room, ate food, and slept. No one, save Simon with the feminine products, came to visit me. The entire time, edginess afflicted me, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. Sleep was light and restless, filled with scary dreams of knives and explosions and being abandoned. Depression snapped at me, making me morose. I missed home, Lorcan and Max, and even Mrs. Patel. I cried myself to sleep many times, and gave up trying to ask about Lorcan or when I’d be allowed to see or speak to him, let alone when I’d get to leave this place. I spoke to no one, not that there was anyone to talk to. Not even to myself. I immersed myself in silent self-pity.
When I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself, I fiddled and fretted incessantly with the security bracelet on my wrist. It wouldn’t open or budge. But, like an infected sore, it harangued me with imaginary itchiness and discomfort.
The bracelet was an oval-shaped loop about an inch and a half wide, flat and thin, and it fit my wrist snugly. The immovable clasp was on the outer side. When I turned it, the metallic surface gleamed with colors and lights, as if alive. If it weren’t for the fact that it was a security bracelet, I might’ve thought the thing looked rather pretty. Countless times I tried to bang it open on the side of the table or wall, and I even tried prying it open with the dinner knife. Whatever I did, it didn’t move, leave a mark, or give an inch. Instead, I ended up with more scratches and bruises on my wrist and arm.
By the third day, I no longer cared about the time; every hour was the same as the last. If I thought I was bored at Lorcan’s, that had been nothing compared to this. At least I got to go outside. Here, outside meant the small terrace, where I sat on the bench and sulked. It was probably early in the afternoon since I remembered, with effort, eating a small lunch of something that tasted like a savory meat pie with a hearty salad that consisted of three tiny cherry tomatoes and a thimble-full of dressing.
I sensed a presence. John Lancaster. He looked much recovered from his fury the other night, and stood quite composed before the door. He appeared uncertain about whether or not to approach me.
Groaning to myself, I brought my knees up and continued to stare at a passing cloud. Since he hadn’t made any move, I turned to look at him, making sure I kept my feature surly enough to ward off evil. He wore a muted bluish-gray sort of suit or uniform that buttoned up under his chin, like a turtleneck. It was trimmed in black around the edges of the cuffs, waist, neck, and a single slash over his left breast indicated a pocket. He drew closer, the light thud of his shoes padding toward me in a deliberate and controlled stride—intimidating, as though daring me to watch his approach.
“You’ve not left your room once.” Lancaster spoke softly, with no hint of emotion. He turned his head, presumably to look at the room behind him, then flicked quick eyes around the small terrace, my face—surly glower still in check—and finally at something on the grass. The lips clamped down again, then released. Whatever thoughts passing through his mind didn’t seem to be pleasant.
I used to study faces, finding them fascinating, which had made me veer toward portrait painting. The little expressions and movements of the face that relayed a person’s thoughts and character were all key factors in making my subjects appear as they really were. Hand and body movements, and those little unconscious things people did when they thought no one looked, were another factor. In the portraits I painted, my subjects did surreal and unusual things, not at all like what they were like normally. My mother’s accountant, for instance, was a serious man and a foot-jiggler. He wasn’t just any old foot-jiggler, but one that seemed to keep in tune with imaginary music. I’d painted him playing a cello—he looked like the cello type—with foot in mid-tap, in a gloomy, smoke-filled room surrounded by musical instruments, his head bowed down to some rhythm. When I’d presented the picture to him, he’d simply replied, “How did you know?”
Studying John Lancaster’s face now, I easily imagined a setting of a pensive but sad and misunderstood man. He’d be propped in a large ornate armchair, arms resting with weary exhaustion on the armrests, head leaning on the headrest, staring off in the distance. He’d be surrounded by a flock of cackling geese, roosters, and other assorted farmyard animals that craned their necks and preened and flapped about him in a jumble of chaos. It surprised me that I’d think this, considering his sadistic behavior the other day.
Sensing my eyes on him, he glanced up, blinking fast. An unguarded moment revealed. I’d momentarily forgot his question in my reverie. Clearing my throat, I tried to form a sour response. In the end, I just shrugged. “I didn’t know I was allowed to go out.”
He clicked his tongue, and a small smile curled his lips as he turned to stare up at the wall. I had to grudgingly admit, he was a handsome man. Dashing, in a dark, brooding way. A man comfortable in his own skin and used to the power he wielded, as if it were second nature. A man who was so consciously in control of his emotions and actions that it conflicted with some real inner-self where he’d just rather be, probably, picking his nose and scratching his balls like any other man. He carried himself as though he was aware of being watched, or like someone used to being watched. It caused him to keep his face under control, thoughts private, head bowed. He was young, thirty-six, I remembered from the news, but the strain and stress of leadership showed around his eyes and mouth. The beginnings of lines and wrinkles formed, and the shadows under his eyes seemed, now in the light, to appear like healing bruises. In fact, at a quick glance, he could pass for a vampire.
“My cousin’s funeral was this morning.” That low, controlled voice again.
“I, I…oh. I’m sorry.” I was. His grief-stricken look struck me hard. Gianni. I clenched my teeth. She did this. How could someone so bubbly and cheerful hide such a deep, dark, murderous streak? Didn’t she care at all about what she did—killing and destruction? Had it even bothered her? Or did she enjoy it? I remembered the woman who had tried to slice my throat in that horrible white room, and changed my mind. Swallowing, I pushed that thought away.
“She was only twenty-one. My mother’s niece.” Lancaster paused, struggling in thought as if he wanted to say more but wasn’t quite sure if he should. “It was her first real job. She’d only just left university, and I suggested…”
He glanced at me—to see if I looked guilty, maybe? No. More to see if I knew what it was he meant. He’d suggested where she should work, and now he was the one feeling guilt. Why was he telling me this?
I caught myself nodding. “I’m sorry.” Madge came to mind, and I swallowed. I was responsible for her death. The reason she had been…cut in half.
“Walk with me.” He said it so casually, like he was offering directions or ordering a drink. I blinked, hesitating, not sure I’d heard him right.
He’d already crossed the terrace, marching through the micro-living room to the door. I scrambled up in haste and followed. He stopped short, glanced at my feet, then up at my face in an intense stare. “You’ve no shoes.”
My feet were bare, and I couldn’t remember if I did have shoes. The clothes I’d come with were lost somewhere, down a dark chute and never seen again and, if memory served me correctly, I’d kicked off my running shoes by the bed. I went to get them, but L
ancaster stopped me with a distasteful, “Not those,” and pointed to the bottom drawer of a wall cabinet. Opening it, I found a pair of canvas moccasin-like shoes in, of course, white. They fit perfectly. I wondered if they checked my size while I slept.
The “outside” was a cool corridor, which I remembered from my first trip down it, which opened up to something like a reception area. An automated guard stood erect, a genial mold of a man pasted onto its face. It inclined its head to us with unblinking eyes, and a light on its chest blinked green. A door slid open behind it and we walked through.
We came to a terrace that led to a well-kept garden dotted with chairs, tables, and benches amid flowering shrubs, archways, and water fountains. A cobbled walkway meandered through these and, off to one side, a small gazebo. To our right lay a covered walkway that connected the gazebo to another building. To our left, another covered walkway, which we followed. It twisted and turned like a labyrinth, and led us eventually to a long building and small annexes with various doors and openings. I didn’t see any of these when I was relocated.
We walked in silence, but it wasn’t awkward. Lancaster gave off a vibe that told me he liked solitude. In fact, he seemed relaxed. We continued on, unhurried and undisturbed, save the odd person who busily strode across the corridors or went in one door, or came out another. Each time, they would greet us, smile and utter pleasantries, and continue on. They were dressed business-like, either in dark clothing or something formally casual, all neatly tailored and groomed. Everyone looked so immaculately coiffed here, I couldn’t stop rubbernecking. The vain side of me was glad I’d gotten rid of my old hand-me-downs.
Turning a corner, the garden still to our right, we stopped before a sliding door. It opened and we entered. It was an elevator, with a chair, a table with a personal unit plug-in, and a tiny amenities bar stocked with chilled water bottles. Lancaster turned to face a panel, muttered “office,” and indicated I sit. I did as I was told.
Like a bored tour guide, he informed me the elevator was more like a tram, it went sideways or up and down, and could carry me anywhere on its pre-determined track. Like a subway. As the smooth ride progressed, I didn’t feel much movement, or register any sense of direction. Impressive. Flashes of words and numbers on a panel above the doorway were the only indicators of where we were on our journey.
Lancaster remained standing, and once he’d finished his quick explanation of the elevator, promptly ignored me, so I in turn inspected him openly. He tipped his head down in his usual manner and stared at some point on the floor, hands behind his back, his face slack and neutral. I tagged that as his “on stage” face, where he didn’t want people to know his thoughts but knew they watched.
“So. Can I use this thing as well?” I asked, spreading my arms in a conservative arc to indicate the elevator.
“Your bracelet,” he glanced at my wrist, paused, then frowned, “will indicate where you can or cannot go.”
“How?” I looked at the bracelet, turning my hand so it shimmered with varying lights and hues.
He didn’t reply, only smiled like he had a stick up his ass, and resumed his gloomy inspection of the floor. I suppressed an expletive.
“You know, I get more response from those walls around my terrace.” I made sure to sound sarcastic.
“If walls could talk, wouldn’t that be helpful.”
With my best evil eye glower in place, I folded my arms across my chest and leaned back in the seat. I wouldn’t be surprised if the walls in my room were bugged with surveillance equipment.
Lancaster seemed to sense my thoughts. He replied with a sneer on his face. “It would be against…protocol…to monitor you while in the privacy of your room. The human rights organizations would have a field day, so to speak.”
“And are my human rights being upheld?”
“They are.” He looked me full on, insulted and but courteous. “You’re being well cared for, fed and sheltered. Your needs are looked after all while under the protection, care, and hospitality of the rules governing this Citadel and that of my government.”
“You just described caring for a dog.” I snorted. “What? Did you have to memorize that to say to every prisoner you have, or did you just pull that out your ass?”
Those damned lips clamped down again, and his jaws locked down. His scowl was impressive.
“If my needs are being looked after, how come I can’t leave this place? Because, honestly, I need to leave this place.”
No reply.
“So? When will that be? Why can’t I go home? Are you gonna fucking answer me?”
Lancaster’s eyes narrowed as we stared at each other, him in calculated thought, me a petulant child daring a parent. It felt rather nice to be the one dispensing discomfort.
“You should not try to remove it.” He glanced at my scratched wrist, disdainful as a cat playing with a half-dead mouse. “You’ll only hurt yourself.”
Did he sound disappointed I hadn’t hurt myself? It was my turn to scowl, just as the doors opened and he walked out. He stopped abruptly on the outside, waiting for me to follow. I disembarked, and we walked through a spacious room where several people were going about their business in brisk fashion. We went down a short corridor, passing a few rooms, until we reached a large door of dark metal that quietly opened to a spacious office beyond.
The office itself screamed masculinity. Metallic and sleek, with dark tones of grays, browns and russet, enhanced by stark white accent lighting from the outer corners. A small conference table was set up on my left, the table immaculate and polished to a high gleam. I couldn’t tell what it was made from, but it looked like a huge slab of obsidian. A water fountain burbled somewhere, and on my right, a cozy meeting area was laid out with comfortable couches. A shiny glass table sat in the middle with a projected hologram of a building. Before I was able to absorb everything around me, a woman strode in from behind us and addressed Lancaster formally.
She stood well over six feet tall. Dressed sharp and sleek, her hair was scraped viciously off her face into a tight, flowing ponytail that crested high on her head. Her skin was a smooth, glossy black that shimmered and glowed with the light. It made me think of those moisturizers that had sparkles in them, and how she must’ve bathed in it. Talk about drop-dead gorgeous, I gasped with girl-envy. Her eyes were large, and her full lips glittered with a dark gloss. She flashed me a wide, friendly smile. My eyes dipped to her feet; she wore those amazing stiletto heels, the ones that seemed to be stuck on your feet by magic. I all but gawped at her. Of all the people I’d met in this future, she was the embodiment of what a futuristic woman would look and be dressed like. She screamed intelligence, confidence, beauty, and witty smarts. While I stared, she muttered something to Lancaster in the most cultured British accent, then strode back out, flashing me that radiant smile again.
“My assistant, Aida.” Lancaster noted my attention. “Please, sit.” He indicated a comfortable chair opposite a curved, crescent-shaped metallic desk. He sat behind it and picked up an object, a paperweight in the shape of an undefined blob, and spun it around on the desk.
A long pause followed while he played with his toy, staring at it intently. I glanced about the room, taking in the conservatory-like indoor garden behind him. To his left I saw a door that led to parts unknown, and just before it, a small table that was surprisingly messy, scattered with pamphlets, papers and books. Actual books. Since waking up to this new future, I hadn’t seen a real book until now.
“What year did you enter your pod?” he asked.
Caught off guard, I jerked and snapped my attention back to him. “What?”
He did his usual, staring at me, inspecting me microscopically. I felt exposed and naked, and wanted very badly to cross my arms over my chest. But I resisted, fearing he might take it for open hostility. His attack was still very fresh in my mind. And, well crap, he moved at the speed of light. I discreetly judged the distance between us, desk included.
; “The year.”
I remained silent and instead stared at his spinning blob. He clamped a hand over it. I looked up and met his eyes full on.
He let out a weary, exasperated sigh. “Josie—may I call you that?” He tipped an eyebrow up, and I nodded. “The longer you refuse to answer, the longer you stay here.”
Shit.
Lifting a shoulder, he looked up to the ceiling. “What is the big secret? Were you involved in some…movement back then? Are you some member of a sleeper organization from then? Look, I want to help you.”
I narrowed my eyes, uncertain what to say. “If I told you, would you believe me?” My heart raced, and I forced another swear word down with much effort. “Would you really just let me go? Because, if I was you, and I heard me telling me the truth, I wouldn’t believe me. And if I did, I wouldn’t let you leave—not after what I heard.”
Lancaster raised his right eyebrow to join the left. It wrinkled his smooth forehead. He cast his gaze down at the blob. He spun it once then, looked up at me sternly.
“That depends,” he said, “on how convincing you are.”
Chapter 18
John Lancaster watched as a multitude of emotions crossed Josie’s face. She was pale and drawn, but stubbornly projected a brave front. He admired her for that. Like a timid creature that knew her doom lay near, she would fight valiantly to the very end. It was an honest sort of willfulness, pride, and determination that regardless of what happened, at least it wasn’t in vain. The self-inflicted scratches to her wrist also told him of her disregard for herself, of her desperation to flee. Escape. Like a caged wild animal; he should approach with extreme caution.
