by Taya DeVere
Two fleece blankets wrapped around her aching body, Iris sits back on her bed and reaches for the laptop. The green code keeps running, numbers and letters taking on a life of their own. Hacking into databases is soothing. Overwhelmed by her day at the barn, Iris hasn’t been able to fall asleep after tossing and turning for an hour. She fires up her computer—as she has so many times before—and dives into a world where Timothy Walker has no place.
But he does, Iris reminds herself. This is exactly the world the great Mister Walker rules.
She opens another tab and refreshes the website.
DRESSAGE WORLD CUP 2084
She browses the site, clicking on headings.
COUNTRIES PARTICIPATING
RIDERS – TO BE CONFIRMED
TRAINERS – LISTED IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER
As she has many times before, Iris scrolls down to the end of the trainers' list.
MISTER TIMOTHY WALKER (USA/ICELAND)
Never in a million years had she thought to find herself in this position; working and training for the one and only Mister Walker. Iris is shortlisted for the last World Cup of dressage. It’s between her and Timothy’s other working student, Tina. Though both of the girls are anxious for the trainer to make it official and announce which of them will ride at the Cup, all signs point toward Tina. But Iris hasn’t given up. She just has to prove herself.
Show off.
Work harder.
Become more visible, louder—impossible to ignore.
If Tim’s home country, the United States, wasn’t in such turmoil, he would never have ended up here in Iceland. After the mass-murders ravaged most of the great American cities, the phenomena people now call The Great Affliction has made dressage along with other great sports a thing of the past.
Iceland is the only place in Europe where unrest, death, and violence haven’t taken place at all. It’s no wonder the American Dressage Society turned its hopeful gaze to Iris’s nearly deserted northern home. Timothy isn’t the only American trainer to pack his bags and horses and move up north. But as far as Iris knows, it didn’t take the other barns long to close their doors and give up.
Iceland isn’t without its own problems; births have been few and far between for decades. Older, retired people hardly had anyone to take care of them as the government slowly shut down. More and more of the nation was forced to participate in the relocation program moving people to live in compounds in central Europe. Tourism is now just a distant memory. Even in the one resort left open for business, the incoming buses are canceled more often than not, or else they simply arrive at the hotel empty.
But it is peaceful. No mass murders. No riots. Nothing.
A cling sound from the laptop startles Iris and pulls her back to this moment. She switches tabs and leans closer to the screen. The computer she’s hacked into is located in the Netherlands.
“In-house trainer Mila Van Dijk…” Iris mumbles as her gaze scans the backend information that is not meant for her eyes. The server and database belong to the record-holding dressage facility Van Dijk Sport Horses. Though the unrest has interrupted most of the dressage business in Netherlands’ provinces, one of them is still thriving; Friesland. Out of the five countries participating in the World Cup—Iceland, Netherlands, Sweden, France, and Germany—Netherlands has been the winner for the last five years.
“Huh…” Iris breathes out as she dives deeper into Van Dijk’s database. “What’s this, an algorithm?”
For the next four hours, Iris studies the numbers. She memorizes all she can, learning how her trainer’s opponent uses AI to analyze each rider, horse, and training session, finding the ultimate combination to participate in the World Cup. Her mind takes over, numbing down all her body’s aches, her fatigue, her self-doubt.
The alarm clock startles her, making her jump up from the bed. Four o’clock.
“Fuck…”
She’s spent the whole night reading the code. Learning what makes the perfect rider, the perfect horse, and the perfect combination of the two. Could this be it? Her ticket to success?
Two fleece blankets fall onto the floor. Iris pulls on her breeches and ties her white-blue hair in a tight ponytail. Without a bite to eat, she takes the stairs down to the barn and starts piling grain buckets onto a wheelbarrow.
She could make this happen. She could win. Show Tim and her own mother how wrong they’ve been about her. Prove that she’s not a mediocre rider, doomed to muck stalls for the real riders. Her education in computer science and her passable programming skills might only grant her an entry-level job if she were to apply to work for the big four—a handful of multimillion-dollar corporations that are the only employers left hiring. But just because that’d be good enough for Iris’s mother doesn’t mean that it’s good enough for her. Because now, here in Timothy Walker’s world… those same skills might just bring her the fame and fortune of winning the last Dressage World Cup and securing the riches it’ll take to survive the looming catastrophe.
***
The barn’s viewing room window is completely steamed up. Iris wipes a spot clean at the corner of the window, tapping her finger against the laptop’s closed lid. It’s late at night. She’s just put in another sixteen-hour day.
In the arena, Tim talks to Tina, who sits atop the number one horse in the barn: Alfred. Iris has never had the pleasure of riding the stallion, even though she was promised the opportunity when she was hired to work for Mister Walker. But she and the horse still share a close bond; Iris is the one who feeds, grooms, and spends the most time with him. On those late nights when she feels herself crumbling under the pressure and the exhaustion, it’s Alfred who listens to Iris’s venting. Sitting in the corner of the stallion’s stall, she watches him eat hay, telling him how badly she wants to give up but won’t. And though the stallion hardly responds to her venting, he’s always there, soft-eyed and calm, radiating unworldly comfort that Iris barely understands. Whatever the connection between them is, it’s strong. Iris has even taught Alfred a few tricks, like “high five,” where the stallion rears on his hind legs when Iris says the trigger word— “up!”
Tina stops in the center of the arena, where Tim stands. She throws her head back and laughs at something the trainer says to her, brown ponytail dancing around her narrow, muscular shoulders. When Tim grabs Tina by the boot with one hand, then places his other hand on her thigh, Tina gives him a knowing smile. She’s only five years older than Iris, but in Iris’s eyes, she acts closer to Tim’s age. Forty-five? Fifty? Iris has always had a hard time estimating how old people are. The trainer’s long mustache and bald head make him look older than he probably is. It’s hard to tell when it comes to professional riders; their excellent fitness level makes most of them look younger than they are.
In the middle of the arena, Tim moves Tina’s lower leg, placing it by the saddle’s girth. He gestures at an invisible line that travels from the horse’s mouth to Tina’s elbow, and from there to Alfred’s hind end. Tina’s leg isn’t positioned wrong; Iris, just like any advanced rider, would know. Yet, Timothy corrects her in the beginning of each lesson. Squeezing her thigh, Timothy moves Tina’s boot back a few inches along the horse’s side. When he slides his other hand higher on Tina’s thigh, Iris’s finger stops tapping the laptop. She stares at the scene intensely, holding her breath. As always, if Tina’s bothered by her trainer’s intimate touch, she doesn’t let on.
As Tina nods at her trainer and the stallion finally moves on with his swinging gait, Iris lets out a long exhale. Her fingers return to their rapid drumming against the laptop’s lid. The window steams over, and Iris moves her hand to wipe it off, then quickly changes her mind. She leans back on her seat and stares at the neat row of double-bridles hanging on wooden hooks on the wall.
Even if he finds the algorithm useful, she thinks, gripping the edge of the wooden bench she sits on, Is it enough?
Tina is Timothy’s protégé. She moved away from America and over to I
celand with him and the horses. When Iris started working for him a year ago, she was more advanced in her dressage riding than Tina seemed to be. But even so, Iris has always seemed like an after-thought for Timothy, no matter how much work and effort she put in.
Staring off into space, Iris misses the sound of the viewing room door opening. It’s not until Tim drops his riding gloves on the table with a loud thud that she snaps out of her thoughts.
“Night check done?”
Iris places both of her hands on the laptop, fingering its smooth lid. “All done,” she replies. “I left Alfred’s grain bucket outside his stall door. I’ll stay and wait until he’s ready for it.”
A low grunt is all she gets for an answer. Tim shuffles a stack of papers in his hands, then pulls out a pen from his chest pocket to make a note. It looks like printed invoices, or maybe sign-up forms of some kind. Iris sits taller and wets her lips to ask but decides to keep her mouth shut instead. She takes short peeks at the man, her finger again tapping against the laptop. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Alfred in silhouette walking past the viewing room window as Tina brings him back into the barn to put a fleece cooler on him.
“Would you cut that out?” Tim snaps without taking his gaze off of the papers.
Iris’s hand freezes. Slowly, she places her palm on the laptop. She wets her lips again.
The words stick in her throat. The mere thought of asking Tim a question terrifies her. It’s not unlike him to explode over what seems like nothing—especially when Iris is around. She seems to be a trigger to him, hard for him to tolerate for longer than a few minutes at a time. This doesn’t happen with Tina—or the rare occasional guests visiting the barn. Just Iris.
It’s because you’re worthless, she thinks. It’s her familiar inner voice that comes around at moments like these, scolding her with its ruthless tone. A fuck-up. No wonder you never get to ride Alfred. You can hardly hold a freaking counter canter for a full twenty-meter circle.
She closes her eyes, knowing that her inner voice is just getting started. This is just the top of the rollercoaster, about to push forward into a free fall, listing all the fucks-ups she’s made today and earlier this week. Earlier in her life.
You shouldn’t even be allowed to exist in the same building as Timothy Walker. All you do is piss him off. Like that time when you put the wrong bridle on Whisper… what the hell were you thinking?! Any nincompoop could see it was Shadow’s noseband, the one with extra padding…
“I found an algorithm,” Iris blurts out, just to interrupt her inner voice’s joyride.
Tim closes his eyes, takes a breath, then lowers the hand that holds the papers. He opens his dull eyes and stares at Iris, his lips turned slightly downward. “A what now?”
Iris clears his throat. She nods at her laptop, then folds her fingers to stop her hands from shaking. She glances at Tim, then looks away at the bridle hooks. “I hacked into the Van Dijk Sport Horse database. I have access to their server and all the information stored there. A lot of it has to do with the World Cup.” She forces herself to look back at Timothy to see his reaction.
Tim blinks twice. His brow furrows as he glances at Iris’s laptop. “And?”
Iris takes a quick breath before continuing. “They use an algorithm to analyze each horse, rider, and training session at the barn. And not just riding, but feed, medication, rest, supplements, shoes… you name it.”
For a moment, something that Iris has never seen before shadows Timothy’s face. Not surprise, but… approval. He stares at Iris, rubbing his mustache with his thumb and index finger while thinking hard about Iris’s words. Heart racing, Iris forces herself to take a breath while she waits for him to say something.
Why would you do that? He’s just going to tell you that all that information is useless. Useless—just like you. What kind of a moron…
“You said information about the World Cup…” he finally says, taking a slow step toward the table. “Which year? This year?”
Iris exhales and nods. “Yes. Preparations, the rider and horse participating, their compatibility, a full SWOT analysis, and detailed training schedule and nutritional plan.”
Timothy takes the two steps separating him from the table. With stiff movements, he reaches for a chair, pulls it back with a loud screech, then sits down across from Iris. He leans one elbow against the table and cups his mouth and mustache with his palm, leaning against his hand.
A minute passes. Then another. Then thirty. At least that’s what it feels like to Iris, as she waits for the man to react in some way. Almost wishing that Tim would just explode and yell at her until her face is covered with his spit, Iris zones out and enters her mental vessel. In her mind, she jumps into the laptop in front of her, dives into the network, changing her whole being into raw data with no feelings, no emotions. She travels across the ocean, line after line, one wireless router to another, all the way to the Netherlands. Just like the algorithm, she’s now powerful. Strong. Something. Someone.
His hand lands on Iris’s. She gives a start as she snaps back into the viewing room, blinking at the steamed-over glass and then Timothy’s intense stare. She swallows hard, unable to turn her gaze from his. Something dark has taken over his eyes, but it’s not the darkness that Iris notices in his expression. It’s the faint smile, twitching the corners of his lips. When he opens his mouth to speak, Iris can’t help her panicky gasp.
“Well, well, well. Maybe you’re not as dumb as you look, after all.” His clammy palm pats Iris’s hand twice, then pulls back as Timothy crosses his arms on his chest. He nods at Iris’s computer. “Show me.”
CHAPTER 3 — THE RESORT
Her winter boots thump against the barn’s wooden floor. Moonlight enters the building through the stall bars, throwing long shadows on the barn aisle. The horses lift their heads, some nickering uncertainly, some ignoring Iris completely. It’s not feeding time. Tonight, she doesn’t have night check. It’s Thursday—her only day off.
Brisk, raw air slaps against her face as Iris walks out of the barn building. Across the yard, an enormous three-story house with a porch and balcony stands in the moonlight. The upper floor belongs to Tina; the two other floors are Timothy’s alone. Tina has a separate entrance, but Iris sees her entering the house from Timothy’s front door more often than not. In fact, she sees her downstairs more than upstairs in her own living quarters. Not that Iris means to stalk her or anything—it’s just that the house has no curtains to block the clear view inside.
She walks over to the garage and heads for her bicycle with its brand new studded winter tires. As she swings her leg over and is about to ride off, her gaze locks with the main house’s living room window. Iris gasps for air and freezes to watch.
Tina sits on the couch, her chin tucked in and arms resting at her sides, palms pointing up. Timothy stands behind her, rubbing her shoulders, circling his thumbs on her collar bones. Tina sits still, not smiling, not talking. When Tim lowers his hands toward Tina’s V-neck, Iris gasps again, this time inhaling wrong. She doubles over, coughing loudly. When she gathers herself enough to look up again, the couple inside the house is staring out the window, listening.
Iris kicks the bike forward and starts pedaling down the driveway as hard as her exhausted legs will let her. Her intermittent breath in her ears, she makes her way down to the lava fields, forcing herself to focus on the winding road instead of her raging, restless thoughts. The farther from the farm she gets, the more even her breathing becomes. When she sees the blue lagoon glimmering in the moonlight, she’s utterly lost in her mental vessel, somewhere far away from this place, from this life, from herself. She focuses on the turquoise water, trying to block out the hotel rising in the distance. For a minute or two, she can just stay in this moment. For a tiny while longer, she isn’t a nobody with calluses and bunions, working for something that she might never achieve. Right now, in this time and place, there is no Tina. No Timothy Walker.
For a fl
eeting moment longer, she’s not about to meet with her mother for a late-night dinner.
***
“Fix your napkin, Iris.” The woman with green highlights in her hair and too much make-up on—Iris’s mother—dabs her pink lips with her own napkin while giving Iris a disapproving look. “How am I ever going to bring you to the yacht club to meet a decent bachelor when you can’t even dine without embarrassing me?”
Iris chews on her tofu steak, dodging her mother’s gaze. This is hardly the first or the last time she’s pressured Iris to take a new direction in her life. A ten-year-plan. That’s what she needs, according to the woman sitting in front of her.
“Iris?”
“Yeah, I heard you.”
“And?”
“And…” she says and looks down to work with her fork and knife, cutting another piece of steak. She puts the knife down against the plate with a clank, then digs her fork into the bigger part of the steak and brings it to her lips. Before she takes a bite, she says, “And the yacht club isn’t really my scene.”
“Well that’s only because you’ve never given it a fair shot. No one will approach a Negative Nelly with no table manners… Jesus Mary and Joseph, would you put that down?” her mother nods at the chunk of steak, “Immediately.”
Iris hesitates for a moment, keeping her gaze on her mother, but then takes a mouthful and sets the steak down on the plate. Struggling to chew on the large piece of soy meat, she brings her hand to her mouth and wipes off the drippings. “It’s just not for me,” she replies once her mouth is less full, catching herself just in time before she sets her elbow on the table.
“Well, as disappointing as that is to hear,” her mother says, reaching for a piece of bread, “I can’t say that I’m surprised.”
Iris clears her throat. After a soothing breath, she asks, “And why is that?”
