Mason just stood there, shocked. “Why can’t she see her baby?”
Ciddah narrowed her eyes at Mason, and in a harsh voice whispered, “It’s not Kendall’s baby. It belongs to all of us. And don’t you say another thing that might encourage her to think otherwise.” She tapped on her CompuChart again, and her tone returned to its former pleasantness. “I’ll prescribe you some more meds, Kendall.”
“I don’t want more meds!” Kendall yelled. “I want my sorrow. I need it!”
Ciddah’s face paled. “You want to hurt?”
“Better the pain than numbing myself. And I don’t want meds for the procedure. If I stay awake through the delivery, I’ll get to see my baby before you take him away.”
“Now, Kendall, many surrogates experience depression at some level. In fact, what I think would be best is for you to—”
“What you think is best?” Kendall sat up and swung her legs off the table. “You’ve never given birth, have you? Have you ever even been pregnant?”
Ciddah inched back a step, her eyes getting misty. “I —My body rejects the process.”
“When I got here, they told me I would be happy, that pregnancy would be a wonderful experience. Well, they were wrong,” Kendall screamed. “I should get to keep my baby!”
Ciddah rubbed her eyes. “But it’s not your baby, Kendall. He belongs to—”
“He’s part me. He’s half mine!”
Ciddah chuckled and tipped her head to the side. “You can’t own a human being.”
“He needs me!” Kendall’s bottom lip trembled. “And I need him.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Ciddah walked to Kendall’s side and touched her shoulder. “What good would you do him? Your tasks have primarily been messaging. You’ve had no training in raising—”
“I could manage.”
“If you have an interest in working with children, why not file a task interest form with the Registration Department and retest?”
“Just check with the task director, okay, Ciddah? He promised I could hold my baby.”
Ciddah sighed, as if Kendall’s request was a terrible inconvenience. “Okay, I’ll check with him.” She walked to the door, reached for the pad, missed, then turned and opened it. “I’ll leave that prescription with Rimola.” And she left, the door closing softly behind her.
Mason had stayed perfectly still throughout the outburst, and wasn’t sure he dared move even now.
Kendall eased off the exam table, a hand pressed against her swollen belly. She glanced at Mason, her face streaked with tears. “What they do is wrong,” she said, her voice a whisper.
Mason nodded. He could hardly believe what he’d just witnessed.
Ciddah had said, Once Kendall delivers, they’ll start in with Naomi. The Safe Lands intended to remove Naomi’s child too—a baby that was definitely not theirs to take. He had to find a way to help her—as well as the women of Glenrock, whether they were pregnant or not.
Maybe he was meant to be in this position. He might be the only chance any of them had.
When Ciddah dismissed Mason for the day, he followed the instructions he’d been given at registration and found his assigned apartment on the fifth floor of a building named Westwall. As much as he hated to admit, the place was incredibly nice, and the idea of living there even for a while excited him. The open room was divided by a partial wall that Mason could walk around either side of. The front half held the entry, living, dining, and kitchen areas. A counter ran along the center wall and had a parallel island. After some initial poking around he discovered the bedroom and bath were on the other side of the wall, and a low, king-sized bed sat against it.
The place had light blue walls, a white marble floor, and black cupboards, black appliances, and black trim. Pictures of black and white trees in black frames hung on the walls throughout the apartment, changing every few seconds like the flowers had in Ciddah’s office. The tables and furniture were light sandy-colored wood. A wall of windows in the living room looked out into the city. Best of all, there were no security cameras.
As much as he wanted to linger inside his temporary home, he went back out and wandered the area the doorman of his building referred to as the Highlands. It didn’t take him long to find the harem, which had been built in the center of town like some kind of fortress.
Getting out of the Safe Lands was going to be a lot harder than getting in.
CHAPTER
11
Omar found the Registration Department on the second floor of City Hall, but was told he first needed to visit the Men’s Health and Wellness Department on the third floor. There, Omar received a humiliating physical examination and two SimTag implants, one on his right cheek and one on the back of his right fist, which were injected with a gun-like medical device. Both tags showed a number nine, and both itched fiercely. The medic also noticed Omar’s sniffling and gave him an injection he said would clear it right up. Then the medic sent Omar to the Donation Center. Omar had known this part was coming—the requirement had been reiterated to him several times since he’d arrived.
But that knowledge didn’t mean it was something he’d been looking forward to. After an awkward fifteen minutes, he changed into his new enforcer uniform. He stood before the bathroom sink mirror and took in his new appearance. The navy blue fabric was so much softer than his Old clothes, and it had no odor. It was likely made here by machines. And the enforcer hat was better than his Colorado Patrol hat. He liked the way he looked in uniform, even though the number nine on his cheek seemed to whisper the word traitor in the back of his mind.
He returned to the Registration Department on the second floor, as he’d been instructed. A man named Dallin sat behind a counter. To the left was an open space filled with desks. Dallin’s black and yellow hair was amazing, and Omar imagined drawing him with insect wings.
“Have a seat, and I’ll work up your ID,” Dallin said.
Omar sat on one of the metal chairs. He could now see Dallin from the neck up only. “How do they decide what number we each get?”
“Our blood reveals to the Liberators which life we’re in. A number one marks the first life. Nine marks the last. I’m a three, so I have six more lives before I reach La Vie Dixième. Most outsiders get low numbers. Your nine is shocking.”
It was? “So I’m in my last life? What does that mean?”
“Just that you’re nearly to the tenth life. So you should make this life count. Don’t do anything foolish. Earn as much good fortune as you can. And, according to the Liberators, pairing up with anyone from your own life number angers Fortune—so stay away from other nines so you don’t mess up your future lives.”
Oh-kay. “So the tenth life is heaven?”
“Some call it that.” Dallin slid a handheld computer, like the one Kruse used, on the counter and twirled it in a half circle. A picture of Shaylinn’s fat face filled the glass. “I need you to verify any romantic relationships between these women and men, including yourself.” Dallin swiped his finger across the glass a few times, and the pages turned. “Keep flipping through until you get to the end. Tap each face and type in the relationship.”
Omar picked up the device, which had the word Wyndo etched across the top. His mother’s face now stared at him from the glass, looking tired and sad but hard as always. She’d had to be hard to survive marriage to Justin of Elias. He wondered where she was now.
Tears stung Omar’s eyes. “Why must I look at these pictures?”
“We need to know if there are any pairings.”
“This is my mother.” Omar set his finger on his mother’s picture, and a list of letters appeared over his mother’s face. He touched each letter until he wrote mother, then pressed the word “Done.” The letters vanished, and the word mother was now visible under her picture. He took a deep breath and flipped to the next page, which held Naomi’s image. “Naomi is Jordan’s wife. They’re expecting a child sometime this fall.” He wrote Jordan’s name
below Naomi’s picture. “What will you do with the women?”
“Most will serve a term in the harem and, should Fortune bless them, bear children for the Safe Lands. Then they’ll task and play like the rest of us.”
Omar thought of his fifteen minutes in the Donation Center and nearly choked. “They’ll be bearing my children? All of the women?”
“Not necessarily. All men donate—it’s Safe Lands law.”
Omar paged back to where he’d left off, but his hand had started to shake. Clenching it into a fist, he reminded himself he had to complete this last thing, then he’d be free to find his new home and go with Skottie to the dance club. He forced himself to focus on the pictures on the screen. Nell was his cousin, as were Penelope and Lucy. Chipeta and Janie were his aunts. Mason was his brother. Jordan was Shanna’s son, Jemma and Shaylinn’s brother, Naomi’s husband.
When Omar had completed marking the relationships, Dallin led him to stand by the wall and used the handheld computer to take his picture. “Now I just need your last name so I can finish your ID in the grid.”
“I don’t have a last name.”
“Hold on.” Dallin reached under the desk and pulled out a floppy book with thick white pages. “It really doesn’t matter which name you choose. Take your time.”
Omar leafed through the pages. They were organized by letter, but there were so many it was overwhelming. He flipped toward the end—startled by the number nine on the back on his hand—and stopped in the S section. His eyes fell on the perfect name. “Strong,” he said.
“Omar Strong it is.” Dallin tapped the name onto his glass screen.
Omar handed back the book. “Why do they mark the number in two places?”
“They put the number on your cheek so people can see it—your hair doesn’t hide it. And they put the number on your hand in case you get too drunk to remember what’s on your face.” Dallin chuckled.
Omar laughed too, though he didn’t understand why that was funny. “Alcohol was only used for sickness in our village.” But he’d seen Levi drink when visiting Beshup in Jack’s Peak.
“Yeah, well, you’ll see plenty of it here. But I wouldn’t drink too much if I were you.”
“Why not?”
“Just trust me, okay? You take it easy out there. I’d hate to see a healthy kid like you be liberated before his time. Especially a nine.”
Omar bristled. “I look like a child?”
Dallin pulled up Omar’s picture on his computer screen. “You look fine. Women have a thing for the uniform and for skin like yours. Just don’t question everything. It makes you sound like a shell.”
“Right.”
“Your identification is in your hand tag. Use it to open doors, to buy things, to power on appliances in your home, to start vehicles—pretty much anything. Task credits are posted to your account every Friday morning. Be smart with your credits. If you run out, you’ll be hungry until credit day. Got it?”
“Yes.” It seemed easy enough, anyway.
“Your apartment is in the Snowcrest Building across the street. Any questions?”
A million, but Omar said, “No.”
“Welcome to the Safe Lands, Mr. Strong. Find pleasure in life.”
It was dark when Omar left City Hall. He walked over to the Snowcrest, taking in the spectrum of electric colors everywhere, admiring how these people had embraced all life had to offer and challenged themselves to create new and exciting things. He shoved down the memory of his father, not wanting to think about what getting access to this fantastic world had cost.
Omar pushed past the glass doors of the apartment building and entered a chilly lobby.
A man in a red uniform approached. “Good afternoon, sir. Are you meeting someone?”
“No, I live here now.”
The man held out a Wyndo displaying the image of a side fist print. “Identification, please.”
Omar set his fist against the glass, and his picture appeared on the surface.
“Welcome to the Snowcrest, Mr. Strong. My name is Artie. You’re in apartment number seven hundred sixteen. It’ll be to your left when you exit the elevator. The even-numbered apartments have a spectacular view.”
“I was told you could contact a friend for me,” Omar said. “Can I give you his number?”
“Of course, sir.”
Omar recited Skottie’s number, and the doorman typed it into his Wyndo. “One moment, sir.”
Footsteps clicked over the tile, accompanied by feminine murmurs and giggles.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Combs,” the doorman said.
“Hay-o, Artie,” a woman answered. “The girls are with me.” Her low and raspy voice turned Omar’s head.
Three curvaceous women approached the elevator, carrying with them a cloud of spicy scents. Omar suddenly realized he could breathe! No sniffles. And as far as first smells went, this one was amazing.
Omar had never seen anything like these women. All three wore short black skirts and spiky-heeled shoes, displaying nearly all of their legs. Their shirts were tight and strappy too. No woman in Glenrock or Jack’s Peak ever bared so much skin.
The women stopped an arm’s length from where he stood. The nearest woman was a few inches shorter than him and bore the number seven on her cheek. Her hair was blood red, streaked with fluffy black feathers, and hung down in wide curls past her shoulders. Tiny SimArt flowers ran up the backs of her legs.
The other two women were blonde—both numbered five—one with shoulder-length hair that had been slicked back like she’d just taken a bath, the other a mess of tiny braids under a floppy black hat.
The redhead wore a purple top that was so tight her skin bulged out of the top. As if sensing that he was looking at her, the woman raised one eyebrow and fixed her eyes on Omar. How he wished for paint that deep sapphire color. The closest thing he’d ever made was from blackberries, and it was far too purple.
“Sir?”
Omar turned back to the doorman, who was holding out his Wyndo. Skottie’s face was moving on the glass as if he were trapped inside.
“Hey, shell!” Skottie said through the screen. “Listen, we’re going to come get you in an hour or so, okay? Your doorman says you’re in the Snowcrest. What’s your apartment number?”
“Seven sixteen.”
“Got it. See you later, peer.” The screen went blank.
“Thank you,” Omar said to Artie.
“You’re very welcome, sir.”
Omar stepped toward the elevators and the beautiful women. The elevator button was already lit up. All three women held several bags in each hand.
“Would you like help carrying those?” Omar asked the redhead, proud that he’d managed to speak at all to such a beauty.
Her dark, painted lips curved into a smile, and she glanced at her friends, who giggled again.
The elevator doors slid open with a low buzz.
“You going our way?” the redhead asked Omar. She stepped into the elevator, her friends right behind her.
Omar followed, mesmerized by their flowery scent, their movement, their legs. He reached for the button for the seventh floor at the same time as the redhead. Their fingers touched, hers icy and small and tipped with violet-painted fingernails. Omar jerked back his hand.
The redhead pressed seven with her thumb and studied Omar, her dark eyelashes long and thick, enhanced somehow like the rest of her body, which looked like a canvas to be painted. “Visiting someone?” she asked.
Her attention so flustered Omar that he had to force himself to answer. “I live here.”
“Since when?”
“Since today.”
“Promotion?” She tilted her head closer and parted her lips in a way that made Omar’s heart quicken.
“Yes.”
“What’s your rank?”
“Captain.”
The woman’s finger slowly traced the seam on the front of his jacket. “Really. What area?”
�
�Uh …” He rubbed the scar on his nose. It had been going so well. A longer conversation than he’d had with a female in a long time. The elevator stopped on the seventh floor. Omar followed the women into a wide hallway and glanced at the nearest door: 705.
“You go ahead and keep your secrets, trigger,” the redhead said, walking to the right.
“We should invite him over!” the blonde with the braids whispered. “He’s a cutie.”
“Tonight’s girl’s night, Venita,” the redhead said.
“So? Girl’s night is more fun with a guy, especially one with such great skin.”
“He’s barely out of boarding school,” the second blonde said. “And it’s got to be Roller Paint.”
“That’s not Roller Paint.” Venita turned to Omar. “How old are you, cutie?”
“Eighteen,” Omar lied, puffing out his chest and trying to look like it was a fact.
The second blonde giggled. “Sure you are, baby doll.”
“No guys tonight,” the redhead said. “We’re watching C Factor.”
“We can zip C Factor for later.” Venita turned back to Omar, her braids and hat swaying with her movement. “What’s your apartment number, sweetie?”
“Um, seven sixteen,” he said.
“We’ll come visit later, seven sixteen. Once I talk Bel into it.” Venita winked.
Not knowing what to say, Omar followed the numbers to the left. He stopped at door 716 and looked back. The redhead, Bel, and her blonde friends entered a room on the opposite end of the hall. The door thumped shut behind them.
Omar couldn’t believe those women were infected with anything. Their skin had been flawless. No sign of the flakiness or veins. Would they really visit?
He pressed his fist to the pad on the door. It took him a few tries to get the angle right, but he eventually got inside. He spent the next five minutes trying to figure out which panel turned on the lights.
Once he could see, he discovered that his new home was as rich as the task director’s office, but the brown and cream palette was more relaxing. There was a sitting area with a sofa and two chairs, a sheet of glass on the wall with the word Wyndo etched into the center top, a little kitchen, a table, a bathroom, and a bedroom with a huge bed, a dresser, and a GlassTop desk.
Captives Page 12
