"Harrington is of little concern. He wouldn't think of turning you in. That's not how he operates, and the worst he could have known was that you'd snuck into Basil Davenport's fiesta. We just wanted to see whether or not you could think on your feet as well as Max Gaines claimed."
Sela fired another angry glare at Desmond. He rubbed his forehead, looking miserable.
Phil Calhoun listened from his seat on the couch, hardly moving, hardly even blinking behind his glasses. His face was bland and void of any expression.
Sela leaned forward and dropped her mug on the table, not caring that an ounce splashed over the rim. "So the whole thing was a ruse, the whole night?"
Michelle tilted her head, answering, "No, we would never waste an opportunity, and there was a job to do." She let her lips tilt upward, ever so vaguely, "And you did it."
"The virus wasn't fake?"
"Oh no, certainly not!" Ellis tried to lean forward, struggling against the contours of the couch that weren't easy to escape with his aged back.
"No, Sela. The virus was real, and it will do exactly what we said it would do," Michelle confirmed.
"Then you didn't need us there," Sela said. "You could've just sent Ellis," she waved at him, "and left us out of it entirely!" Not very cautious, her mind added.
Michelle smiled wryly. "Not to be too forward, but we don't risk Ellis that way."
"What she means, girl, is I'm no operative," Ellis grunted, lifting his coffee.
"Ellis provides a great deal of information of enormous value to our effort. His position gives him access to many different contacts and agencies."
"Consider me a one-way street," Ellis grinned behind his mustache.
"We will not sacrifice someone so valuable, just to get rid of someone like Basil Davenport." Michelle said.
"That's why we're here," Desmond spoke softly, almost whispering.
She understood that. Those risks where why jobs were farmed out through people like Max Gaines. And also why those jobs paid quite well compared to conventional work that wasn't illegal.
"Now, you did a marvelous job," Michelle said. "Desmond has spoken very highly about your skill and your intellect, which is high praise, considering his standards."
Sela swallowed and straightened her back, now calming her anger, "Desmond is… perceptive." She couldn't bring herself to say anything more, even to acknowledge the compliment.
"There is…" Michelle paused, setting her tablet down on the arm of her couch. "There is a special job that we have been developing, for some time now."
Phil Calhoun finally spoke up from his place on the couch. He was wearing a pair of glasses, slacks, and a grey polo. He had thinning hair and eyes permanently tired from staring at screens. "Sela, my job is to study the Guides infrastructure and try to find ways to… redirect it, to shift the policies to limit the impact of the Remaking as much as possible."
Phil adjusted his glasses and plaintively asked, "Leon Wallis is your cousin, is he not?"
The air vanished from the room. Sela's muscles iced over; all frozen in place; except her eyes, which opened a little wider. Her mouth was open too, hanging open. Panic flooded into her chest like electric shock, a buzzing, painful, surging, grasping seizure that coursed between her heart and her tingling spine.
A ringing toned in her ears, foaming over all other sound, and her eyes flashed red with every beat of her heart. She saw Phil tilt his head, saw him ask the question again; didn’t hear it.
Finally a breath forced its way past her tense muscles. She gasped at the thick air and shivered, standing all of a sudden. Her knee knocked over her mug as she did; she hardly noticed.
"How…?" The word came out in a whisper, scratching its way past her throat. "How did you find out?"
"So he is, then," Phil said, completely unfazed by her reaction.
Sela turned and walked stiffly out of the office, ignoring the voices behind her as Desmond and Michelle called for her to wait.
The door closed behind her, only a fraction as loud as her pulse in her ears. Suddenly stepping into the light outside of the office, Sela squinted. Walking out into the larger room, she was nearly blinded by the glare from the glass wall.
Halos danced in her view. As she blinked, trying to make her eyes adjust, she felt hot tears squeeze through her lashes and slide down her cheeks.
She could see people at their workstations, some of them turning to look at her. Barely able to make out the shapes of aisles and half-height cubicle walls, Sela picked a route and moved. Her breath was coming sharply now. Bumping into something, she almost stumbled. Just a box leaned against the wall of one cubicle.
Even so, her strides came faster and stretched farther. Down the hallway, through the front lobby, and toward the elevator.
"Sela?" Ginger's voice trailed behind her, but she punched the wall three times with her thumb before she remembered there was no call button. She waved her hand.
The elevator opened immediately, and Sela twisted sideways to slide through the doors before they were fully open. She turned back and saw a blur of the lobby, saw a smudge of Ginger standing at her desk, saw someone else rush up to her desk.
Ginger pointed toward the elevator, and the man, it was Desmond, raised his hands and called to her, "Sela!"
The doors were already closing. As soon as they pressed shut, Sela burst out a whimper. More tears tumbled off her cheeks, and she leaned back into the corner of the elevator.
"Please speak your destination." The voice spoke softly, feminine, standardized.
Sela gasped a breath and croaked, "Floor! Ground floor!"
"Level One," the voice confirmed.
She felt the maglift begin to descend, felt the queasy lightening of her body. Tears poured, though she knew she wasn't crying. It was pure panic.
How did they find out? Her breath came in short hits. Sela closed her eyes, slumped further, grabbed the hand rail to keep from fully sprawling on the floor.
How in the world did they find out?!
Somehow, she knew the elevator was slowing. If the doors opened up and she looked like this, someone would think she had been assaulted and needed help.
Grasping the rail, she climbed to her feet, shaky in the knees. Sela forced her breathing to slow, inhaling deeper, and pausing before exhaling with control.
She raised a hand and brushed a fingernail against her eyelashes, flicking away the tears. Not much could be done about her appearance, but if she could clear her eyesi—
The doors opened. She took a deep breath and stepped out into the lobby. There were people still lounging, and others streaming in and out, on the way to whatever other businesses were stacked above.
Sela beelined for the public restrooms nestled against the far wall. No one paid her any attention. She pushed the heavy door to the Ladies' Room open and let it swing shut behind.
The bathrooms were plush. Naturalights fed warm illumination to real plants: ivy and flowers, potted and carefully manicured. Each stall was its own private room, floors of warm, rosy tile, walls laced with intricate patterns of brass inlaid in light maple paneling.
Sink and mirror were of a single sculpture, like the whole room had been built to showcase the glass, reversed image showing deep behind.
Sela was glad no one was in the main chamber, though she had no idea whether any women were in the private stalls. Her image in the mirror was slightly blurred, her vision still plagued by moisture.
She leaned against the carved, marble sink and focused on her breathing. The edge of her panic was dissipating, leaving her feeling spent and sickened.
When she looked again, she felt better. It was clear that she had shed tears. She hadn't cried, but it sure looked that way. The whites of her eyes were reddened, as was the skin under her eyes, and her light eye liner had run in one spot, leaving a short dark streak under her left eye.
That's an easy fix, Sela thought, until she realized she didn't have her purse. Her purse! Her daily makeup
kit was in her purse and she had left it on the couch in Michelle Duncan's office! And the duffel bag too!
A grimace twisted onto her face as she spat a whisper into her mirrored image, "That was stupid, Sela!"
Not only the makeup, but also her emergency card, emergency cash, sunglasses, tissues (which could come in handy now), and her handgun!
Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! She berated herself in silence, huffing angrily at her own face.
There was only so much she could do to hide her distress. The last thing she wanted was people paying attention to her, right now.
She had to get away and… and… What? Sela couldn't think about that right now. All that came to mind was getting away from Hannan Enterprises, the Vines, Desmond; everyone.
They found me, her throat clenched again with the thought. Not the Guides or the Council, but someone knows!
Nothing could change that now. Get out! That was the only thought she had. She wasn’t even thinking of her apartment, yet. Just Leave; that was all Sela could comprehend.
She ran the cold water and splashed her face twice. She had not put on a great deal of make up this morning, just a bit of foundation and eye liner; not even bothering to put on any lip gloss. It was just supposed to be a little meeting after all.
Some meeting! Sela thought angrily. She dampened a hand towel that hung beside the sink, and swiped away the eye liner. Her eyes were already red. It couldn't get much more obvious, anyhow.
She wanted to sit down. Rest and recover for a little while. Not here, though. The private compartments were probably as luxurious and accommodating as the main bathroom. It didn't matter. Sela couldn't comprehend staying in the building any longer.
With one last look in the mirror, she took a deep breath and left the bathroom. It was even quieter in the lobby. Only a few people were reclining now, all eyes cemented to tablets or cards.
Sela walked through the rotating doors and squinted in the bright glare of late-morning sun. Her legs still felt like jelly. It took extra effort to keep her balance as she weaved through the weekend crowds.
The thought of visiting a restaurant to try to calm down crossed her mind. Of course, without her purse, she would have to charge anything she purchased to her account, via voiceprint.
Sela Mason. That was who she was supposed to be. That was the name people should know her by, those few that knew her at all. Her neighbors always saw her name, S. Mason, in the mailroom of the apartment. Max Gaines knew her as Sela Mason…
She began to wonder whether he had been in on this. Gaines had volunteered her to Desmond. On the other hand, Gaines had always kept everything anonymous that his being involved seemed unlikely.
He never bothered to look too deeply into her history, in the first place. So far as Gaines knew, she was some girl that asked for work and happened to be good at it.
He might have been a little intrigued when she had turned down the pre-paid route out of Megora, when she had passed on the opportunity to go to Sovereign City. Gaines hadn't known who had paid for it, or why she would refuse such an opportunity.
All he knew is that Sela Mason needed a job after that. And skillful help was hard to find in his industry.
He had been mortified when she had accused him of being too forward about her abilities, volunteering too much information. No, Max Gaines still thought she was Sela Mason, even if Desmond had found her real name somehow.
Desmond…
How much did you know, Desmond? she wondered. Had he known her real identity? Had he known that Mason was a ghosted name to cover up Wallis? Yes. He must have. For how long, though?
The stairs down into the sub-levels were nicer; tile like the rest of the sidewalks, and cleaned regularly. All of the traffic on the stairs had polished them, leaving matte patches on the sides and in the center where an ornate handrail helped climbers along.
Sela went right down to the transportation deck and hoped the next train would arrive soon. Fortunately, there were not very many people waiting here. Few people in this district had business in others, fewer still that would need to make that trip late on a weekend morning.
It was odd to not have her purse with her. Her right arm seemed so… alone. She crossed her arms to ward away the sensation. Sela scolded herself again for leaving her bags. The gun, the emergency card, dress, her overnight kit… gone.
Gone? she wondered. Was she really writing off Desmond and the Vines, already?
A part of her said that she was jumping the gun, while the rest said she had no gun to jump any more. The only way she could keep safe was if no one knew who her father was. He spent an enormous sum to give her a chance to leave Megora, and she had squandered it under some delusion that she could stay and never be discovered.
The train finally arrived. She boarded and found a seat without anyone nearby. She slumped, finally succumbing to the weariness that had sapped her legs. It was odd, the way emotional stress so overpowered the body.
Sela didn't want to think about Desmond and the Vines right now. She couldn't. She just wanted to get back to her apartment and crawl under a blanket and hide from the world, even hide from her empty, lonely residence.
The ride seemed to take ages, and the lunch rush was under way by the time she had found her stop. In one way, that was helpful, since no one would take notice of her. The odds of someone talking to her, asking her what was the matter, were slim.
She could always ignore it. And yet, it was easier to be ignored. The loneliness she had felt over the past months was finally going to be useful.
Making her way home, the city pulsed all around her, shadows and light battling, just like the smells of the district, dozens of them, hundreds, both foul and sweet.
Vendors hawked and customers bought, and most people went about their lives as though the Provisional Council was a stupid government and their Remaking was tolerable, so long as they could find someone to provide what they wanted in the meantime.
Never mind that people had to live in bright shadows of ghost time. Never mind that anyone's day could be turned upside-down on a whim by the Guides, or any number of the regulatory agencies that decided to bring down the hammer of the gods for a careless attitude exposed in an unencrypted text message or an accidental offense of someone important.
The wealthy districts did not have to work very hard to shun the rabble of the poorer districts. Anyone who had any wits knew how things worked would keep to themselves and out of the way. Those in the wealthier districts could sick the Guides and agencies on whomever annoyed them, an endless phalanx of harassment. Guilty or not; the process is the punishment.
At best, that meant unimportant people had to kowtow to important people, or else face regular intrusion into their lives. And why not? The Council were the epitome of human progress. Everyone else was of relatively little value, compared to those vaunted philosopher-kings.
But Sela knew that worse had happened. If a Nobody really got on someone's nerves, someone moderately connected, they could end up in one of the re-education prisons, formally known as "Sensitivity Institutions."
Sela had always found the mere existence of such facilities distasteful. Although, to this day, she couldn't really express why. It was more of a gut reaction. Somehow it seemed reprehensible to force someone to change their opinion on something or face confinement until they did.
It didn't matter whether all of society demanded the re-education or only one person made the condemnation. Especially since many of those who were sent away were found guilty of expressing opinions on things they had absolutely no power to change or even influence.
Who was anyone to regulate people's thoughts?
It was a foolhardy enterprise, because no neurologist could isolate a particular thought, unless they studied every person for several weeks. So the Council could only oppress expression they didn’t like. Hence the existence of the Agency of Vision, who's task was the shaping of Megora's opinions.
The Remaking. Everything ca
me down to that.
They wanted to Remake mankind in some image fashioned by the intellectuals, by the philosopher-kings that ran the Council worldwide.
And every day, things got worse and worse. People didn't change their opinions. They simply went along with whatever bilge was mandated, and then privately thought whatever they wanted, whispered it to each other if they could be sure of their privacy.
Sela found her building, pining even more for the cover of her own sheets, the privacy of her own dreams. She rode the elevator with interminable impatience building inside. Her neighbor was waiting for the elevator when the doors opened. Sela ignored her greeting and rushed to her apartment.
She hid, and tried to shut out her mind. Sleep came slowly.
But it came.
Chapter 14
Hot…
Sela groaned and kicked the covers off, keeping her eyes pinned shut. An orange glow nagged through her eyelids. Dampness from sweat stuck pillowcase to her neck.
Burning up…
Tossing and turning, she could neither descend back into deep, restful sleep, nor could she envision dragging herself out of bed.
A headache rose with the heat, and Sela rolled again, trying to cool off. The bedroom was almost unbearable.
When she could no longer stand it, Sela slogged over the side of the bed and stood, imagining she could hear her back crack. Her eyes felt grungy and her forehead was slick with a sheen of sweat. A yawn magnified her headache.
It was late in the day, just a few hours away from sunset. The Energy Commission must have shut off air conditioners for her building. That happened about once a week, and it always seemed like the hottest days when it happened.
Sela sighed, swabbing her arm across her forehead, dragging moistened tangles of hair. Maybe a shower would help.
She ran the water cold and slid under it timidly, her skin shocked from the chill. It took willful effort to stay under the freezing spray, and within a minute, she was shivering. The air outside of the stream did not feel sweltering anymore, felt downright lukewarm, so Sela cranked up the hot water.
The Remaking Page 21
