Claimed: Future Found

by Mima

  eBooks are not transferable.

  They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520

  Macon GA 31201

  Future Found

  Copyright © 2008 by Mima

  ISBN: 978-1-60504-225-1

  Edited by Anne Scott

  Cover by Anne Cain

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: November 2008

  www.samhainpublishing.com

  Claimed: Future Found

  Mima

  Dedication

  To anyone who has ever enjoyed Guild Wars. /flex

  Thanks so much for all the questing. /bow

  Kurzicks unite! /cheer

  Chapter One

  The laser gate of the compound fractured, hissing harmlessly around the car. Entry codes her elite client had sent let her into his sanctum. Sliding soundlessly on a cushion of air, the car ceased hovering as soon as it entered the tiny holding lot between fence and house. Shay took a slow, deep breath. She always dreaded meeting her clients. When you were the best tree singer on the planet, and charged as much as she did, they usually demanded an in-the-skin meeting. As if it mattered. The trees she sang to thrived. That’s all they needed to know.

  It was a small-enough concession for the pleasure of her work. Sometimes the elite who commanded her presence sickened her. The emptiness of their souls, the assessing greed of their stares. It was enough to suck the life out of anything. No wonder they needed her to save their ancestral trees. If only she didn’t have to leave the comfort of the other singers in her compound. Walking among the elite was like dodging a psychic obstacle course, but meeting new trees was worth it. Trees were worth any inconvenience and every discomfort. Singing to the few left was how she served Spirit.

  She was not the only singer to note the irony of how the technologically enhanced elite were the ones in complete control of the few living organisms humanity had managed to save after the Cataclysm. True, they were the ones who saved humanity in those first generations, but now that the singers had emerged, many felt it was time the caretaking shifted. Then there were renegades like Shay who felt the caretakers should be the nulls, the ordinary people who had no voice at all. For now, the few reconstructed gardens and trees that existed were firmly in the elite’s cybernetic control.

  The aircap around the velvet car seats faded, letting the stale, purified compound air wash in. Shay tucked her knees together, swung to the side and daintily placed her bare feet on the plascon drive. Her red toenails gleamed like cherries against the gray. Knives, jabbing deep. No one would know her pain by looking at her reserved, controlled face. The compound was new, a geometric set of blocks in chrome, silver and mirrors. She kept the disgust off her face. Poor tree, trapped in such an ugly box.

  She stood, her black veil slithering reluctantly off the red velvet. Gathering herself, she did a body check. Red cap of hair smoothed, big brown eyes subtly tinted, lashes enhanced, lips gleaming with a tasteful nude gel. Her veil aligned around her body, a massive piece of transparent synthsilk that lay over her head and trailed on the ground around her. Synthsilk was the only material singers could bear to have near their bodies. Shay went nude when she was at home in her singer compound, but she preferred a veil when faced with strangers. She’d chosen black woven with filaments of silver. It darkened her form, and the glitter drew a person’s eyes to her veil, not her bare skin beneath. She was good to go.

  The lasered door went down, and to her surprise, a textured swath of steelron emerged from the trans-droid that swept through. The machine laid the pieces out quickly right to her very red toenails. It hurt singers to walk on plascon, a wholly unnatural chemical mix. Not many knew that. Gratefully, she stepped onto the cool metal. The texture was one of rounded nubs, which was interesting and energizing on her feet. The droid zipped in ahead of her, silent on its air cushion.

  She heard the lasers sizzle into being as the hem of her veil passed the threshold. The elite with their layers of security. So paranoid, when they were the ones who were the greatest danger with their scheming and politics. She stopped. The entire foyer was laid with stone. Called marble, it was ancient, freezing with age and power. Her astonished gaze traveled over the smooth expanse, noting the wonderful imperfections that marked it of the natural world. Swallowing, she let herself be lost in the subtle shades of white and gray. Her breath was coming in little pants as she willed herself forward. Stepping off the pebbled steelron, she clenched her teeth against a moan of pleasure. Stone of the earth. Glorious. There were so few untainted resources left. The singers collected what they could, but the elite held more money, more power.

  When she was able to focus again, she became aware of the man walking toward her from the far wall. His footsteps were an ominous drumbeat marking counter-time to her heart. He was slightly more original than the compound’s architect. He wore black instead of gray. It matched his hair. He was as pale as she. With the air poisoned, no one could bask in the pure sun anymore, but even many singers roasted themselves under elite sunshine lamps. He too was barefoot, not typical of the elite she met. A wide, tall, solid column of black, he stopped just out of reach, a polite distance. His shirt was loose and looked soft. His pants looked even softer.

  Mesmerized by the density of the fabric, she was reaching for it before she was aware of her own need. Her foot took one small step onto a cooler patch of marble. Then her mesh-covered fingers brushed the fabric above his stomach.

  “Ohhh,” she moaned. She was sure now it was cotton. This fabric had been alive. Warmed by the human presence under it, it was magnificent. She stepped closer, her hand flattening against a hot, hard torso. A strong body to match a strong life force, his chi. The whole of him hummed to her. She cursed her veil. She needed to be closer.

  “Are you Elite Sandor?”

  “I am. Greetings, Tree Singer Shay-non.” His gravelly voice was textured, like the stone her feet pulsed against, like the black cotton.

  She smoothed her hand over his ribs, pulling the cotton tight. Only when her other hand rose to join in the decadence did she realize what she was doing. Freezing, she took a step back, the marble’s chill racing up her legs to wrap around her lungs. What had she done? Incredibly, her hands were still upraised as if fighting for the chance to touch him—no, his shirt—again. She forced them down, curling them into fists.

  “My apologies. I have never seen cotton before. It took me by surprise.” She had just laid hands on an elite, of her own free will. She held her breath.

  “No apology necessary, Shay-non.”

  Her breath eased painfully from her frozen lips. Her brain still struggled to understand her loss of control. She raised her gaze to his for the first time. Her lips parted. Green. He had blessed eyes. And he was not fooled by the dark glitter of her veil. His stare burrowed right through it and pinned hers ruthlessly.

  “It would of course be my pleasure to accept your request. I take you into my keeping.” He waited, watching.

  Her heart burst alive again in her chest. “Sir, I know you understand that I did not mean—”

  He interrupted her by taking his hand out of his poc
ket. He held an irregular, thick glass that fit his huge hand perfectly. The latest in personal video-player models, it was very elegant. It replayed a distance shot of her reaching for him. Taking that extra step toward him. The next vid replayed the shot at a closer distance and a different angle, the awe and lust on her face clearly visible. Then it showed a devastating close-up of her veiled fingers, the short narrow nails unsteady, resting against him. Despite everything, her fingers pulsed with the need to return to him. Without her veil.

  She tore her eyes from the damning screen to his steady regard. There was nothing for her to say. She had just signed her life away for the next twenty-four hours. Multi-Class Regulation Nine: Singer-initiated contact indicates a physical request the chosen elite shall attend to for one standard day. Shay closed her eyes. For the first time in her life, she’d been tempted. No, she’d been tricked. Trapped. Her stomach churned. The room dipped. She would not be sick. She’d grown complacent, unwary. Now she would pay.

  The only thing that kept her from screaming was the lack of gloating in his face. No triumph lit his eyes and no smirk tipped his lips. He was a mask of calm.

  She knew better than to ask why he did this. All the nature singers were trophies to be coveted in bed. Or so she’d heard. Some elite collected them. Apparently, Sandor was one of those who craved the rush of chi they brought to their partners. It was a paradox how the sex between a singer and cybernetic elite could temporarily boost their mechanical enhancements. Machines shouldn’t be affected by the untouchable force of shared pleasure. By touching him unasked, she had triggered a contract. The law said he was her patron over the next day. His charge was to pleasure her, combine their chi, and thus ground her with an essential life component she could not get alone. Grinding her teeth, Shay stared at the beautiful gray marble floor.

  When she simply stood before him in her glittering veil, silent, he stirred. “I will show you to your apartment.” He held out his arm, fist clenched.

  In formal circles, she was to lay her forearm along the top of his, fingers resting on the back of his fist, elbows stacked. She remained still, aching fists at her side. She would not participate in this. Not even for the touch of cotton without her veil. Let him try to earn the chi he craved from her unwilling body. It would only transfer to him if he gave her pleasure.

  He lowered his arm, but did not lead the way. They stood there in that gray hall with gleaming chrome accents. She was a singer. He was a fool to try to outwait her.

  Finally he said, “Shay-non, you are safe here.”

  Locked in, no doubt. Guarded by lasers. She didn’t fear the low masses, the wild gangs, the hungry hoard. She was a goddess to the nulls. She might be safely guarded in this compound, but she was in terrible danger. Mentally. Sexually.

  “You think I tricked you. But your actions reveal a deep need. Our contract will be beneficial for both of us.”

  As if she couldn’t have gone her whole life without an elite pawing at her sex and still been able to heal an entire forest. If any forests existed.

  “The law exists for just this reason. Singers need an exchange of chi, and often fail to notice when they begin to fade. Your power makes you arrogant. Fading is not an impossibility for you. But you cannot deny you came to me. Clearly, you are in need.”

  “I came to the cotton.”

  “You did not. You did not reach for a fold of cloth. You took it against my body.”

  She would not argue with him.

  “You will be pleased here, Shay-non. Rejuvenated. The contract has been filed. Face your actions. Face me.”

  As if. Trying to goad her pride. He could face the results of his underhanded deception.

  “Do you even have a tree?” She kept her glare on the floor. Controlled her desire to scream. To run.

  “I do. Would you like to see it first?”

  “Yes.”

  He held out his arm. He could suck spit.

  “Singer, are you so petty?”

  Yes. “Are you?” How dare he force this power play on her. He knew as soon as she touched that cotton, it would all be over.

  He lowered his arm again. “I would afford you every respect. Every care.”

  Uh-huh. “The tree, Elite Sandor?”

  “Please call me Sand.”

  A nature name? Nickname, true, but she’d never heard an elite use one. Sand. Worn by water, blown by air, fired into glass. Beautiful, shimmering, soft sand that she kept in a wood dish on her altar. From what she knew of him, she hadn’t expected him to use such a label for himself.

  Of course she’d been briefed on her newest client. He was a strategist, one of three living. His enhancements were advanced. The government didn’t like to have strategy elites, as they were viewed with suspicion and as true potential threats. Still, Sandor had apparently been too perfect a strategist to deny and redirect to a secondary skill. He’d been slated for the enhancement since he was identified as a complement for it at six, and built at eighteen, to the day of his birth. He could trace deeply into the lattice, their worldwide information and communication grid. There, he could sift vast amounts of data for patterns, and make predictions that were damn near precognitive. He was right. She was arrogant. As soon as she’d seen the strategist designation, she should have refused the above-average, even for her, commission. He probably didn’t breathe without considering every implication and repercussion.

  Sandor, Sand, led the way into one of the three doors off the foyer. She followed two paces behind, pausing only briefly when she realized the floor changed to glass. The fortune this must have cost. She mentally reviewed the file she’d glanced at this morning. This job should have taken an hour. She hadn’t studied it long when she’d received the assignment a few hours ago.

  Age thirty-two. He’d had a good childhood. His parents were both moderately successful elites, and his future label had given them another cushion of status. They both still lived. He had taken to his enhancements easily and risen steadily to top-tier status. Ole Sand moved in exalted circles. Exalted enough for no one to care if she fought this contract. She was the best, but there were several other tree singers in her generation. She wasn’t irreplaceable.

  He’d built this house last year. She expected the tree to be a sapling, a twig of potential, or more likely with his designation, knee-high because he would have had the foresight to invest in one before he had a grand compound of his own. She bet he had one of the showy flowering fruits. The only three fruit trees she’d worked on had all been owned by important government officials.

  He paused in front of a glowing square of light. Unusual to have an interior laser door. He dismissed the lasers, but the opaqueness of a deadly chi field over the doorway remained. He dismissed that and she saw the tree. A generational oak. She stepped forward, bouncing off the skittering energy of an aircap, the same kind that surrounded her car.

  “How?” All six of the generational oaks were accounted for. This was a red oak, the spiky leaves a glorious leathery amber. It had entered its final stage before rest. One of the other six was a red, but she’d memorized all the nuances of every generational tree humanity still had, and this wasn’t it. Expertly assessing, she abruptly ripped her gaze from the maze of majestic branches to the ground. Good spread of dirt, covered in moss, indicating sustained well-being. Scattered, fallen leaves were everywhere. And so were the acorns.

  “Spirit save me.” She was looking at enough money to start a forest. And the means to do it. All of the other oaks were in the government’s hands. Their acorns were physically and metaphorically squirreled away, never seen again. She’d worked on the single pin oak once. Every tree was sacred to her. But that one had visited her dreams longer than most.

  “Let me in.” She pushed impatiently at the ungiving wall of air blocking the doorway. The domed bioroom beyond was old, from a period of prior generations. It looked massive enough, but she needed to verify it wasn’t binding the tree.

  “Shay-non.”

/>   Blindly, she looked in his direction. She couldn’t feel it. It was right there, but without connecting to the earth it sat in, she might well have been looking at a vid.

  “No.” His voice was calm.

  What? “What!”

  “You’ll meet the oak after our contract is fulfilled. You’ll be even better able to serve my tree then.”

  She focused. Those green eyes…such a splash of color between the black of his hair and shirt. Blackmail. He’d thought of everything. She didn’t miss his possessive statement either, claiming the tree as his. The audacity.

  “It isn’t yours. You are merely the caretaker.”

  “I am an excellent caretaker. As you will discover.”

  She turned again to the incredible majesty mere meters away. Her throat swelled in awe, in need. She would do anything. It wasn’t a reward, although it would be that as well. Serving the oak became a physical need in her, a duty that bordered on compulsion. Now that she’d seen it, she’d spread her legs like a whore for whatever he wanted. She became aware of time passing when her feet began to ache and her hands tingled from being in proximity to the aircap too long. Sighing, she thought she’d memorized it enough to dream it if she had to. As she wanted to.

  “Are you ready?” He’d waited next to her all this time.

  Reluctantly, she nodded.

  He did not offer his arm again, which earned him a point, that he didn’t force her retreat from that little skirmish she’d won before. He triggered the layers of protection, the enhanced mesh in his palms and wrists glowing a pale blue, then led her back to the foyer. They went in another door after crossing the sensational marble. This floor was the steelron nubs of before. Her feet were even more sensitive to the sensation of walking on tiny packed-in balls now that she’d stood so long. It felt invigorating, like a massage.

  “All the floors that are not natural will be covered like this while you are here.”