Fate of Perfection (Finding Paradise Book 1)

by K. F. Breene

  “I didn’t ask for an ETA. I told you I needed to access the console.”

  “Yes, of course, miss. I apologize.” The left guard turned and palmed the screen next to the partition. He entered the code and then sat up straight again. “It’s ready to be moved over when you access the hologram.”

  She nodded to show she’d taken in the info. Now she would stay unaffected until the worst case.

  What is the worst case?

  She eyed the smiling madman. His head sat higher than the guards, indicating he was taller and had a longer reach. With that breadth of shoulder and those arms stacked with muscle, his movements would be powerful. Fast? Probably. She had to assume the worst. A launch from those thick legs and he’d be in her lap before she knew it.

  That was assuming her tech didn’t work.

  Stupid assumption. It will.

  She’d made the necessary fixes and increased the muscle-freezing power. Even a man as big as the one currently sitting much too close to her should be paralyzed by it. Regardless, it would take him time to break through the invisible bindings, and in that time, she’d stab him.

  Her pulse throbbing, she took a deep breath and prepared for the worst. The soft shudder of the vessel docking startled her. She looked out the window in surprise, seeing the walkway into her department, eighty-four floors from the wasteland of the ground level. When she looked back, the stranger was staring at her.

  She stood slowly and braced herself. And then almost threw up when he stood as well, easily. Without flexing.

  The man was huge.

  Was this some kind of joke by the conglomerate?

  “Ma’am.” The stranger’s deep rumble was like an earthquake in his chest until the words worked out, coated in velvet. It sounded like a greeting, and an awfully civilized one considering his hairstyle.

  She jumped when the vessel door opened behind her. The guards edged out of the opening, leaving her alone with the stranger as they took up their posts outside.

  What the hell is going on?

  “Ma’am?” He smiled again. Why was anyone’s guess.

  The open door gaped at her back. Did she have this all wrong . . . ?

  The man’s continued smile said he was reading her discomfort.

  She must’ve had this all wrong.

  Feeling sheepish and desperate not to show it, she said, “Of course,” in the most unaffected tone she could.

  Wind whipped against her in the holding area. The stranger stepped up beside her, and the door closed behind them with a fffuuuup.

  “Long ride, huh, princess?” he asked in a tone she didn’t much care for.

  The doors in front of them opened into a walkway that led along the side of the building, providing access to various departments. Staff could only get into a select few doors dictated by their pay grade. A ways in front of them was a grand entrance. Crystal-clear blue showed in the glass overhead—a delusion of fair weather. Usually she cherished the computer-generated model of Old Earth, but now it seemed like a mockery. The stranger and his enigma wouldn’t let her drift into the pleasant fiction of a time when a blue sky had been possible.

  Against privacy protocol, she very nearly turned to ask the man about his involvement in her morning, but a shout drew her focus away and to the right. A woman screamed, and the pounding of running feet thundered through the hollow entranceway. A man tore around the bend of the building, his clothing nothing but rags and his face covered in slime. Something metal glimmered in his hand. When he saw her small group, determination hardened his features.

  For the second time that morning, adrenaline dumped into her body. Maintaining calm, she thought, Heels.

  One of her guards sprinted toward the intruder while the other crowded in close. He rose his wrist to his mouth and yelled for the craft to reenter the bay.

  Heels! she thought again. Nothing happened. Arm stilts.

  Metal pushed out from her sleeves and clicked into her hands.

  The intruder crashed into her first guard. His hand came up fast before jabbing twice in quick succession. She could barely see a knife at the end of his fist, now coated in blood. Her guard sank to the ground, his weapon unused, before being pushed out of the way.

  She rammed her boot heels together, trying to jog the mechanics into working. Heels!

  The intruder’s rags flared as he started to run again, revealing a black suit of decent quality. He wasn’t what he seemed. But then, she’d already cataloged that from how he worked that knife.

  She leaned forward, prepared to take him out, when metal in his other hand swung into view. Her eyes opened at the same rate as her mouth. Fear choked her.

  With a metallic whine of extending heels, she grew by eight centimeters.

  The intruder, fifteen meters out, slowed and fell to one knee. A tube filled his hand and kept growing until it was one meter long and capable of destroying her day.

  Her other guard banged on the bay door behind them, trying to shoulder it open. The craft hadn’t fully docked, though. They were stuck.

  She’d brought metal batons and razor-spiked heels to a rocket-launcher fight. Her morning wasn’t going as planned.

  Before she could switch weapons, a futile effort since nothing in her arsenal was even remotely able to handle this situation, a crowd of men and women in crisp blue suits ran out from behind the intruder. Undeterred, he flicked a sight on the top and pushed forward a trigger guard. That model had no safety. He was hot and ready, but not altogether stable. It’d throw him back before the explosive left the barrel, which would make the explosive hit the ceiling above them.

  “Let’s go—we have to move! Heels, disengage!” She stepped forward to run, forgetting to put that last command into thought, but she didn’t get very far. Strong fingers wrapped around her upper arm. She whipped about and promptly bounced off a rock-hard body, staggering as her ankles bent and rolled, unbalanced on the damn boots.

  The intruder’s finger turned white on the trigger. She tensed, waiting for the end.

  Nothing happened.

  The intruder looked at his rocket launcher in confusion.

  Thank Holy, Millicent had chosen a suit that adequately recycled fluids, or she’d be uncomfortable in more ways than one.

  A man in crisp blue dived, crashing into the back of the intruder. They spilled to the ground as more conglomerate security arrived at the scene.

  Wind assaulted Millicent from behind, the guard finally getting the doors open.

  Before she could process what was happening, a club smashed down onto the intruder’s head. The metal tube went clattering to the ground before rolling away. Then another strike, this one crushing his skull. Blood splattered upward before starting to pool under the quickly ended struggle.

  “Why didn’t they use a gun?” she asked in a wispy voice.

  “This way, miss!” Her remaining guard reached for her.

  “That was a drill, cupcake.” The stranger turned to her guard. “You’re useless. You should be used for parts.”

  “I . . . But . . .” The guard’s hand dropped in confusion.

  “C’mon, time for work. You’re late.” The stranger, his grip still firm on her upper arm, marched her toward the entrance.

  “How did you know that was a drill?” she asked. She noticed the first guard off to the side, his limbs splayed at uncomfortable-looking angles. She felt a twinge spread through her middle as she noticed the thick deep-red puddle of blood crawling along the cement. He’d been around for years, silently sitting in the craft or walking her to and from her work pod. And now . . .

  She forced her features into smooth disinterest before abruptly facing front.

  Her persona said she wasn’t affected by such carnage. And to an onlooker, she wasn’t. She designed the most heinous weapons the world had ever known. She’d seen the effects of some of her handiwork, and she’d borne it beautifully. At least, that’s what her reports said. They had to, or she’d be retired to some low-lev
el department where they’d belittle and taunt her for being a failed natural born. She’d be beaten up by jealous bosses and starved, moved from her apartment into a tiny dark dwelling with a roommate. She couldn’t live like that.

  They’d bred her with a job in mind, and she would do that job. No matter what it took.

  She rose her chin in defiance of her discomfort. Getting back on track—and into the role intended for her—she thought, Heels—disengage.

  Nothing happened.

  “Sexy.” The rumble was like a deep drum.

  “What’s sexy?” she asked as she stomped one boot, and then the other.

  “The heels. Horribly inefficient, though.”

  She could feel the severe glower on her face. Heels—DISENGAGE! “Flats are for running away. Heels are for running toward.”

  “Not sure I follow, princess.”

  “Stop calling me that.” She unclenched her fists. “Commenting on your sexual approval of my footwear is not permitted within this organization. Surely someone covered that with you . . .”

  “Do you always go into your work pod armed?” he asked, the humor dripping away.

  “That’s none of your concern.”

  “Yes, it is. Answer the question.”

  She scowled at his forceful tone as they neared the entranceway to her department. “I’m afraid that information is reserved for higher-level staff. Thanks for walking me, but now I must—”

  “Good morning, Mr. Gunner,” a raspy male voice greeted the stranger beside her, reading his retinal scan.

  If he could get into this part of the building, why wasn’t he wearing the conglomerate insignia?

  “Good morning, Ms. Foster,” Millicent’s AI said.

  “Since I can tell you won’t give me a straight answer, excuse me, I have work to do.” Mr. Gunner strode away without another glance.

  She stared after him for a moment, mouth agape. He’d never answered her question regarding the drill, not that he was probably permitted to. But two men lay dead on the walk outside. Surely that deserved some kind of explanation. She felt like she was missing a large piece of the puzzle . . .

  Or perhaps the entire puzzle.

  She thought briefly of bringing it up with her superior, but tossed the idea away. The department gave her information as she needed it—if she made any such requests, she’d be asked why she was suddenly getting curious about matters that didn’t concern her.

  She stripped anything not relevant to her daily tasks from her mind—it was safer that way. Easier, too. Shaking her head, she slipped into her work pod, twelve minutes late, and immediately focused.

  She was the job. Nothing else mattered.

  Chapter 4

  The drum of a deep voice reverberated through the open office space and clawed at her focus. Millicent frowned and rubbed her temples, willing the disturbance to fade into the background. But while the speaker was making an obvious attempt at being quiet, the rattle of his speech drew her out of the problem she was working on.

  Sighing in irritation, she stood in a rush, looking over the wall of her work pod. When she saw the person she’d expected to see, she cursed the day as a complete throwaway. For the last six hours, if she wasn’t bombarded by the memory of blood pooling in the little holes in the cement, she was wondering what the stranger had to do with the scene and her ride to work. She’d barely progressed on the program she wanted to finish by the end of the week, and now here he was, interrupting her yet again.

  Beats of his vocal drum kept sounding off, banging away in the dimly lit interior of the spacious and plush surroundings. Heads popped up throughout the work pods, interested in the incredibly distracting new addition.

  Millicent stepped out from her pod and into the hallway before heading toward the coffee vestibule. Her route would take her right by the two men, one of whom was still talking. And still drawing people’s eyes and stealing their focus.

  Both men fell silent at her approach. One, a lower-level security staffer, lowered his gaze out of respect. The other, Mr. Gunner, who had thankfully donned a generalized conglomerate badge, thus stripping away a tiny bit of mystery, stared straight at her from those strange-colored eyes wrapped in slightly curled black lashes.

  She looked at the lower-level departmental staffer, ignoring the anomaly. “Excuse me, but this floor is a place of intense concentration, and that is nearly impossible with your loud voices.”

  “I apologize, Ms. Foster. We were trying to keep our voices down.” The lower-level staffer bowed slightly and took a step back, out of her way.

  She glanced at Mr. Gunner and then raised her chin fractionally when she saw that he was still staring back. Her eyebrow quirked as she waited for either a response of some kind—like an affirmation—or for him to respectfully clear the way, as the other man had done. The strange, uncategorized morning aside, she pulled rank on this floor. That needed to be addressed in either words or action.

  He continued to look at her quietly. Like he was analyzing her.

  Anger rising, she said, “Why is this person staring at me with direct eye contact?”

  “Excuse me, miss,” the lower-level staffer said uncomfortably, “but he is a director of security management.”

  “Director?” she asked in surprise. And just like that, the pieces fell perfectly into place. The unannounced ride, the hostile morning, his confidence . . . It all made absolute sense, only strange because it was the first time she’d ever been in the vicinity of a security director of any kind. “Why wasn’t I told an equal-level staffer would be on my floor? Or on my morning ride, for that matter.”

  “Because I don’t answer to you, cupcake,” Mr. Gunner said with a grin. He bent at the waist, invading her space.

  Arm st—

  She squinted to prevent from thinking the command. The last thing she needed was to flinch and swing a baton at his head. A director of security, especially one his size, would easily catch it, making a fool of her. That was not the way to regain dominance of the floor and get him sent elsewhere.

  She rose up eight centimeters. Damn it!

  Heels—disengage.

  She lowered back down.

  “Anything else?” he asked, his eyes twinkling with suppressed humor.

  She kept herself from glancing around, knowing without looking that this conversation was an object of scrutiny. “Yes. Will you be assigned to this department, or are you visiting?”

  “You’ll get official word this evening, I expect,” he said as the humor dulled and his eyes took on a hard edge. A working edge, tense and dangerous. “I’m still contemplating my parameters.”

  “You’re still contemplating?” She gave him an incredulous scoff. “You tell your superiors how to do their job, do you?”

  “No. I tell my superiors how I will do my job, and expect them to make the necessary adjustments.”

  Millicent tsked. “I must meet your superiors someday—they sound like extremely soft individuals. Easy to push around.”

  “No, I’m just that hard, princess. If you want to stop by my place after work, I’ll show you . . .”

  Millicent opened her mouth. Closed it. She glanced at the lower-level staffer, who was staring fixedly at the ground, utterly tense. Looking back at Mr. Gunner, she saw the sparkle of humor had returned.

  So. That’s how it would be, would it? He’d try to push sexuality on her like a Neanderthal. He thought he could get away with the hair and the ego, so why not try sexual harassment?

  “Yawn,” she said dryly as she continued on her way. “Keep me updated.”

  “One question,” he said before she’d taken two steps. She stopped without looking back. “Why don’t you work in an office? You are totally exposed to the floor where you sit.”

  “Of course I’m exposed. I’m an upper-level staffer. It is hard to manage when you cannot see.”

  “Ah. A micromanager.”

  Millicent tensed in irritation. She rose eight centimeters before sw
earing under her breath. Ignoring her heels, she said, “If you worked for me, Mr. Gunner, there wouldn’t be a question of who was harder. You would do as you were told, or you’d be used for parts. Now. Excuse me.”

  Heads disappeared back into their work pods. They were correct in assuming that that was a warning.

  Near the end of the day, Millicent stood from her work station before wiping her hand through the air. The files on her wall screen scattered, tucking themselves away into their correct folders. Power down.

  “Lovely to work with you again, miss.” Her computer powered down, and the screen blackened. Stretching, she made her way through the mostly empty floor to the restroom. When she returned, she froze and stared at her desk.

  “Congratulations.”

  Starting, Millicent looked around to find Mr. Gunner standing three meters away, dressed in a departmental security suit. She turned her focus back to her desk. Specifically, to the white square lying on top of it.

  “Is that . . . paper?” She touched the cream relic from yesteryear, feeling the strangely scratchy surface against the pad of her finger. Slipping her nail beneath it, she carefully picked it up. It was as light as a portable screen, and the way it fluttered when she turned toward Mr. Gunner also put the seldom-used technology in mind. “They were trying to duplicate paper with the portable screens.” She wiggled it and then fingered the edges. “And they did a great job.”

  Finally, already knowing what it said from rumors she’d heard over the years, she read the black words covering the face.

  Congratulations! You’ve been selected to represent your race as a life-creation expert. Only twenty females each fiscal year are selected for this honored and prestigious role. You will be one of five women during this quarter. We are proud to have you.

  —Dir. Harold White

  Department of Creative Biology

  “I’ve been selected to breed,” she said in a whisper, holding the piece of paper tighter than strictly necessary.

  “It’s your lucky day. Please, come with me.” Mr. Gunner gestured for her to move toward him.