Betas

CheeseBK

Gingko

Laura  (soapturtle)

Random number peeps:

Sarah (Page 3, comment 12)

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Please email me at ilona.a.gordon at gmail, specifying doc or docx.

Also, one hundred and thirty two comments.  I thought maybe twenty.

Consolation snippet

“May I have your name?” The dark-haired receptionist smiled from behind the counter.

“Claire Shannon,” Claire said.  The smiles looked odd to her.  The aerial had touched down in a parking lot and she had to walk two blocks to the Guardian building.  In the five minutes she spent outside, she realized that people of New Delhi spent their lives baring their teeth.  They smiled when they opened the door, they smiled when they bought groceries, they smiled if you accidentally happened to meet their gaze on the street.  It was deeply unnerving.

“May I ask the purpose of your visit?” The receptionist asked. Behind her on a white stone wall, elegant pale gold letters spelled Guardian, Inc.  Under it smaller letters read: Your thoughts are safe with us.

Claire made an effort to smile back.  “I’m here to apply for the position of the Administrative Specialist.”

A faint touch swept over Claire’s mental shield.  She held her smile, fighting doubts with logic.  She had spent the entire two week flight reinforcing the shell over her mind and thickening the surface layer.  Her mind was well hidden.  Too well, as the interview with the Immigration officer had proved.

“Take the elevator to the fifteenth floor, then follow the hallway,” the receptionist said.  “You will be met.  Good luck!”

“Thank you.”

Claire crossed the lobby to the glass elevator, her heels making quiet clicks on the pale granite floor.  The presence stayed with her, hovering in the background, scanning her mind, lightly but attentively.  Standard practice.  People tended to guard themselves during live encounters, such as being questioned by receptionist.  Once past a check point, the body and mind relaxed, and hidden thoughts strayed to surface.  If she was guilty of anything, her relief at having made it this far would be apparent.

She had to appear normal.  Most people would be slightly nervous before a job interview and Claire allowed herself some mild anxiety.  Nothing out of the ordinary.

The elevator door slid open.  Claire stepped inside.  The door closed and the aerodynamic cabin accelerated upward.

Shaped like an elongated flower bud placed on its side, the Guardian Building contained an inner core of offices and working spaces, up the side of which the elevator now climbed.  This inner core sat within an outer shell of twisting steel beams forming a diagonal grid, the outer surface of the bud.  Solar glass panels sheathed the diagonal spaces between the twisting beams, flooding the inside of the building with a warm golden light that set the polished granite floor of the enormous lobby aglow.  The diagrid must’ve been enormously heavy, but bathed in the sunlight, it seemed ethereal, almost weightless.  It was so beautiful, it felt magic.

Her memory served up the recollection of her home world, spare boxes of skyscrapers, canyon streets, grey apartment, the steel and worn plastic of the spartan spaceship she’d boarded two weeks ago… She couldn’t decide if those memories were a nightmare or if this airy building with its bright colors and smiling people in vivid clothes was a delusional dream.

Deep inside, beneath her shields, anxiety churned.  Making it to this planet had been a miracle. If her shields failed, she faced immediate deportation.  She couldn’t go back.  Not after seeing this.  Besides, if she was deported back to Uley, she’d never make it out of spaceport.  There would be a death squad waiting for her at the spacecraft’s door.

Below her people moved through the lobby.  The men wore formfitting black and grey, the women chose flowing dresses and bright colors.  What must it be like to come to work here every day?  Did they ever became immune to this?

The elevator stopped.  Claire sighed, loathe to leave the view behind, turned and exited into a narrow hallway, its indigo, almost black walls reflective like dark mirror.  Above her long ribbons of dark blue luminescent plastic, set on their edge, ran parallel to each other, curving  and twisting like three-dimensional current of a river.  The transparent floor reflected it, and as she walked down the hallway, Claire had an absurd feeling she was swimming.

The hallway opened into a wide chamber, the transparent floor replaced by grey marble. Pale blue and grey couches lined the walls.  Two men and three women sat on the couch cushions.  Her shield didn’t permit her to actively scan their minds, but it didn’t prevent her from listening to their psychic emissions.  She was open to any signal, like a satellite dish.

The woman on the right, with purple streaks in her black hair, had a loud mind, powerful, but untrained.  All her thoughts floated around her like noise above a spaceport.  An easy target.  The woman on the left was more restrained, but weak.  Of the three men, two were trained psychers, but both were mediocre.  She had more training by the time she was fifteen. The final man showed no psychic activity at all, his mind practically invisible. On Uley, he would be a dud.  Here the term was drone, apparently.

A tall middle-aged woman in an artfully draped, deep red dress stepped through the arched doorway at the end of the room.  She was carrying a tablet.  The woman looked her over, her gaze precise like the beam of a bio scanner.  “Claire Shannon?”

“Yes.”

The woman stared at her with brown eyes.  Her mind sliced through Claire’s surface thoughts with a laser precision and fell short of the shell. That was the beauty of mirroring surface thoughts over the shell – nobody realized the shields were there.

“Take this,” the woman said, handing her the tablet.  “There are three tests loaded on the tablet.  Sit down and complete them.  You will be called.”

Inwardly Claire exhaled.

“Rokero Grenali,” the woman said.

The older of the men rose and approached her.  They disappeared through the doorway.

Claire sat.  The polished wall presented her with her own reflection: a severe grey skirt that clasped her narrow waist, a conservative pale blouse, dull brownish hair pulled away from her face.  Of the three changes of clothes she was permitted to bring, this was the best, most feminine outfit she owned.  She could count on her fingers occasions when she had worn civilian clothes in the last year.

The other two women were looking at her.  One wore a slick silvery business suit, the other a vivid red and orange dress.  Their minds betrayed their reactions: pity tinged with superiority.  They felt prettier. They were bright dahlia blossoms, and she was a drab mouse.  They dismissed her.

It hurt.  It hurt and stung her pride.  The emotions boiled inside and bounced off her inner shields.  Her face, reflected in the polished wall, was calm.  The outer surface of her mind was collected.  Nothing showed except for the mild anxiety, typical to any job applicant. She had too much discipline to let any emotion seep through.

She shouldn’t have been this unsettled.  First the anxiety from the landing, then tests, the echoes of PPP still humming through her skull, and now the realization that she stood out after a lifetime of being told to how important it was to perfectly fit in.  She attracted too much attention.  All those factors shredded her normal poise to tatters.  It’s the sensory overload, she told herself.  It will be fine.  She had over a eight hundred combat missions behind her.  This was just one more.

Claire slid a stylus from its holder on the side of the tablet and scanned the tests.  A written and mathematical proficiency, a psychological questionnaire, and a card test.  The virtual deck contained fifty two cards in two sets, one red, one black.  Each card bore a single symbol: a circle, a triangle, a diamond, or a long narrow rectangle.  The program dealt cards face down and the user had to indicate color and shape.  It was the simplest of psychic tests.

She had to make sure she failed it.

 

 

#

“Shannon,” the woman called.

Claire stood up and crossed the now empty hall to the woman in red. She was the last applicant of the day.  Her chances of being hired had shrunk to miniscule.

“My name is Lienne,” the woman informed her.  “Follow me.”

They crossed through another dark hall.  Claire braced herself.  Whoever waited for her would scour her mind.  Her shields had to hold.

They entered a large room.  To the left a floor to ceiling window showed the view of the diagrid envelope, the light streaming through the solar panels now the deep honey of late afternoon.  Three plush crescent-shaped couches formed a ring in the middle of the room with a cream-colored coffee table made of reflective plasti-glass in the center.   Further a crescent desk of the same material curved from the wall, on which a large screen hung, streaming some sort of data.  A tall blond man stood with his back to her.  He turned at their approach and Claire almost stumbled.

He had a strong, masculine face, with a square clean shaven jaw.   On Uley, blond people had a washed out, sickly look, their skin too white, their hair verging on transparent.  His skin was flawless bronze, his hair a pale, almost white gold.  His broad shoulders strained the fabric of his tailored light-grey summer doublet, the outline of muscle on his chest and arms plainly visible under the thin fabric.  Everything about him, from the way he turned, graceful and perfectly balanced, to the way he held himself now, communicated health, strength, and power.  He was sun-kissed, golden, overwhelming.

His dark green eyes focused on her, reflecting a sharp, perceptive intellect.  The eyes of a man who could be either very generous or completely ruthless. The man smiled, at once charming and reassuring, and she felt the power of his mind.  It was like a typhoon held back, enclosed in a self-imposed cage.

It was too much.  Every coping mechanism that let her make it this far collapsed.  She stared with no idea how to respond.

He was larger than life.

Lienne cleared her throat.

The sound shattered her trance.  Claire closed her mouth.

“You’re Claire,” the man said, his voice resonant, communicating strength as much as his body did.

“Yes?” she answered, reeling from the shock.

“My name is Venturo Escana,” he said.

The Escana Kinsman Family, a distant part of her mind informed her.  They owned Guardian, Inc, and Venturo Escana led the family.  She was facing the god of this beautiful building.

“Please sit down,” he invited her to the couch.

She sat on autopilot, smoothing her skirt over her legs. She felt so out of place here, in this office.  Venturo sat across from her.   Lienne sat in on the same couch as he, leaving several feet between them.

“You’re a refugee,” he said.

She couldn’t sit there, mute, and simply stare.  Claire forced herself to formulate words.  “Yes.”

“As I understand, our planet made an arrangement with your home world.  We agreed to accept a certain number of refugees in return for the use of Uley’s interstellar bases as refuel points.  I understand your home world made these arrangements with a number of other planets.”

“That’s correct,” she said. He was keeping him mind firmly away from hers.  It was an exquisitely polite gesture. She had expected him to batter her the moment she entered the room.

“It must’ve been very difficult to leave your world.”

He had no idea.  “I’ve been very fortunate to arrive here.”

“Do you like it here?” he asked with genuine interest.

“It’s very beautiful,” she said.  “Very bright.”  Too bright.  Too vivid.  Too many smiles.  Men that were… that were…

“We try to live life to its fullest,” he said.

He didn’t intend anything sexual by it, but inside her shields, his words triggered an image of him naked.  It flashed before her, stunning in its shamelessness.  She wanted to touch him.

I’m losing my mind.

“I suppose we have to begin the interview now,” he said, almost apologetic.  “It’s important that you answer with complete honesty.  Lienne and I are monitoring your thoughts.  We will be able to detect a lie.”

His mind touched hers, very gently.  She held absolutely still, terrified that any of her runaway emotions would break out of her shields.

“Don’t be nervous,” he told her.  “It will be fine, I promise.”

She concentrated on the table in front of her, crushing her sexual impulses and painting calm over her emotions.

“What did you do on your home world?” he asked.

“I was a secretary at a munitions factory,” she lied.  “We manufactured parts for the long range coastal guns.” It was her cover.  When asked what she did outside of the Psych Corps, she was supposed to respond with this line.

“What made you decide to apply to become retainer of the Escana family?” he asked.

“It was recommended to me by the Immigration Service,” she said, relieved to be honest.  “As a condition of my deportation, I’m required to follow the employment recommendation.”  Even when it’s cosmic irony.

“Your anxiety level is rising,” Venturo said.  “Why?”

Claire swallowed. Complete honesty.  “I’m afraid.”

“What scares you?” he asked.

“I’m afraid I will be deported if I fail the interview.”  It was the truth.

“As a refugee, you have five chances to obtain employment, before you will face the possibility of deportation,” Lienne said, her voice crisp.

“It’s not a completely rational fear,” Claire said.

“Why did the Immigration Service recommended Guardian, Inc. as a prospective employer?” Venturo asked.

“I was tested and it was determined that I have no psychic ability whatsoever.  The Immigration officer said that your company prefers to employ non-psychics for its support staff to lessen the telepathic interference.  He said that I would make an excellent drone.”

A shadow darkened Venturo’s eyes.  His mind shifted subtly, and she glimpsed the hint of steel will that drove it. All of his pleasant demeanor aside, Venturo Eskala would make a terrifying enemy.

“That’s not a word we favor,” he said.

“My apologies.”

“Not your fault.”  Venturo held out his hand and Lienne put a tablet into his fingers.  “What was it you say you did?”

He remembered perfectly well what she told him. She aligned her thoughts. “I was an administrative assistant.  I answered phones…” She recalled answering a phone at a desk and projected it onto the surface of her mind.

“…I took messages…”

A memory of writing things down.

“…I prepared reports…”

Memory of sitting before a screen filling out a long form.

She had served as a secretary a week out of the year specifically to be able to recall these memories if questioned.

“You are an admin,” Venturo said.  “Your boss is out of touch.  A customer calls.  He is angry.  There was a mistake in his bill. Your move.”

“Ask the customer to tell me in detail about the problem, taking notes along the way.  Assure the customer that I will do everything in my power to resolve the issue and promise to let him know as soon as the solution is found.  Follow the company protocol to initiate an inquiry into the case.”

“Why not just transfer him to Billing?” Venturo asked.  “It’s their mistake.”

“Or wait for the return of your employer,” Lienne said.

“An irate customer wants someone to listen to him,” Claire said.  “If his grievances are heard, the conflict is defused.  Once I transfer him to billing, I lose control of the situation.  I have no way of knowing how Billing will treat him.  And while I will inform my employer of the situation, if the situation can be resolved without his direct involvement, why not resolve it?”

Venturo and Lienne shared a look.

“Your employer’s wife enters your office, demanding to see him.  She is visibly angry,” Lienne said.  “Your employer is in a meeting.”

“Request security assistance via silent alarm. Ascertain that no life-threatening emergency is in progress and attempt to defuse the situation.  If the spouse proves uncooperative, let security escort her out.”

“But she is your employer’s wife,” Lienne said.

“My job is to make sure my employer can function at a maximum capacity.  The presence of his angry wife would hinder the operation of the company.”

“So you automatically assume the worst and push the alarm?” Venturo asked.

She had a feeling she wasn’t giving them the answer they were looking for. “I must anticipate what an angry spouse could do rather than what she is likely to do.  She may be simply angry, or she might have a weapon in her purse.  If I can convince the spouse to leave the premises peacefully, the security would have wasted a few minutes of their time.  But if the spouse becomes unreasonable or violent, and I fail to anticipate it, people might become injured.”

“An employee calls you in a panic to tell you there is a fire on the floor below,” Venturo said.

“Alert authorities and initiate immediate evacuation,” Claire said.

Venturo frowned.

She scrutinized her answer, wishing she could touch his mind and try to figure out what she had done wrong.  It was the obvious answer.  She could think of no alternative.

Venturo leaned back, frowning.  A focused thought dashed from him toward Lienne, and Claire caught it.   His mind was like the beam of a lighthouse.

“Opinion?”

“She would make a terrible admin,” Lienne answered. “Her thought patterns are consistent with that of an executive.  She accepts personal responsibility for every issue. Her answers to the questionnaire demonstrate the same thing.”

Inwardly Claire clenched.  She’d stumbled.  The military conditioning finally betrayed her.

“You’re looking at the product of a seventy year war,” Venturo’s mind said.  “She evaluates her environment for threats and defuses them.  It’s a useful quality.”

Lienne sighed mentally. “Oh no.  Ven, please don’t tell me you found another lost puppy?”

Claire studied her hands.  Lost puppy…

“What if the next firm she goes to reject her as well?  Eventually she will be deported.  Have you seen the images of that place?  It’s hell.”

“I’ve read the coverage, too.  Chemical warfare, casualties in thousands, and everyone with a drop of kinsmen blood turned into a killer. We have no way of verifying who she is or what she is capable of besides what the Immigration tells us. This is a terrible idea.”

“No kinsman would have made it through the immigration screening.  Her mind is completely inert.  What harm can she do? Look at it as a good deed for the day.”

In her mind Lienne smiled.  “Are you sure you’re hiring her because you’re buying her hard luck story and not because she looks at you as if you’re made of gold?”

They knew.  They both realized her reaction to him.  It must’ve been so apparent, a blind man could’ve seen it. How embarrassing.

“Hire her,” Venturo’s thought communicated.  “I can make a difference in her life today and I intend to do so.”

“Then let me put her as one of the junior assistants. As your admin, she would be representing the company. I mean, look at her, Venturo. She looks like a beggar.  That hair… The woman obviously has never been inside a salon in her entire life…”

Deep inside her shell Claire pictured slapping Lienne’s mind.  The older woman was powerful, but not powerful enough.  One slap and Lienne would wake up on the floor an hour or so later, unsure how she got there.

Venturo’s mind focused on his aunt.  It wasn’t a gesture designed to intimidate; he simply “stared” at her, but the force of that mental “look” was nearly overwhelming.  Like standing in the path of an avalanche.

Mentally Lienne bowed her head. “As you wish.”

Venturo held his aunt in the sniper scope of his mental stare for another long second and glanced back at her.  “Claire, how much do you know about extrasensory security?”

“Nothing.”  Everything.

“Most of the computers we use are simply a collection of mechanical parts,” he said.  “However, certain corporations and government systems require higher level of data processing.  They run on biological networks.  These networks are vulnerable to psychic attacks.  We provide security for these systems.  If you choose to work here, you will have to sign a confidentiality agreement.  You cannot discuss the nature of your work with anyone. Will that be an issue for your family?”

“I have no family.”

“You do have a place to stay?” he asked.

“Yes.  The Immigration provided me with an apartment.”

“Good,” he said.  “You’re hired.  Lienne will take care of the details.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“You’re welcome.”  He rose  and walked away to his desk.  Lienne stood up and gave her a pointed glance.  Claire followed her outside through the hallway into the outer office.  Lienne tapped her tablet and held her hand to the slit in the recessed wall to their right. The wall spat a narrow ring of deep red into her palm.

“Hand,” the woman ordered.

Claire held out her hand and Lienne slid the ring on her right middle finger.  “Two weeks advance.  It will be recouped gradually from your pay. Squeeze the sides to view the balance.”  The older woman examined her critically.  “New wardrobe.  Nothing too provocative, nothing too drab.  Nothing like this.”  She indicated Claire’s clothes with the sweep of her hand.

It wasn’t an insult, but it felt like a slap. “Thank you,” Claire said.

“You will be replacing Olemi, Ven’s personal admin.  If it was up to me, I would place you in a position of lesser responsibility, but he insisted.  He will see every mistake you will make and I have no doubt he will overlook some of them, because he is a kind man. But his patience isn’t infinite.”  Steel laced Vienne’s gaze.  “Make no mistake, Claire.  If you betray our family, he will kill you.”

“I understand.”  He would find her a surprisingly difficult target.

“This tablet contains the work manuals that explain your duties and company procedures.  Ven feels sorry for you.  Going through life relying on sympathy of strangers is no way to live.  I suggest you memorize these manuals over the weekend, so you can earn your keep with something more than your sad story.” Lienne pursed her lips.  “Do you have any questions?”

“Would it be a problem if I dyed my hair?”

Lienne arched her eyebrows.  “Dictating the color of your hair would violate Employee Rights.  I can tell you what clothes to wear, because clothes can be removed at the end of the work day.  Hair cannot.  You may dye it whatever shade you wish, although I would hope that it will be something tasteful.  Working here is a privilege even for the most qualified applicants.  You’re been given a gift.  Don’t waste it.”

#

Claire slid into the seat of the aerial.  She felt lost, as if her very being unraveled at the seams and the tatters of her psyche swirled around her, lifted by the breeze.

“Destination?” an automated male voice asked.

“Find a salon frequented by businesswomen.”

“The closest location is Allure.  Eighty six percent of users provided four star or above rating.  Estimated time of travel: ten minutes.  Permission to book an appointment?”

“Book it.”

The aerial hummed and took to the air.  Claire slumped on the seat.  A lost puppy.  She was Venturo Eskala’s rescued mongrel.  The handsome golden man felt sorry for her.  He knew that he stunned her and he felt pity for her.  Her pride didn’t just sting, it twisted in contortions.  She wanted to crack her shell open, show him the full power of her mind, and scream, “Look at me!”

They would throw her off planet so fast, she wouldn’t have a chance to blink.

Fatigue flowed over her in a heavy wave.

She had a job.  She had an apartment.  No matter how bad it was, it had to be better than the concrete box on Uley.

She tapped the tablet and pulled up the employee manual.  Bionet protocols. Basic security.  Data compilation.  She could do this job in her sleep.  She had done it sixteen years ago – that’s how all psychers started.

She would have to make sure that she made small insignificant mistakes to avoid calling attention to her sudden expertise.

“You have reached your destination,” the aerial announced.  They landed.  She stepped out of the vehicle.  In front of her, a building rose, shaped like an ancient ivory hand fan, complete with lace carved in wide panes.  The sign above the rectangular doorway proclaimed Allure.

Claire walked inside.  The glass doors hissed open at her approach.  At the receptionist desk a man with lemony yellow hair glanced at her.

I have an appointment,” she said.

“Claire?”

“Yes.” She could see her own reflection in the mirror behind him: pale brown hair of interminable shade, pulled back from her face into a braid, generously streaked with premature gray and tinted with slight orange.

“What will it be?”

She pointed to her hair.  “Fix this.”

Thirty seconds later she sat in a chair.  A woman approached her.  “Good afternoon, my name is Belina and what will we… oh my.  Horatio?”

A slight effeminate man approached, wiping his hands with a towel.  “Take the braid out.”

Belina unwound the braid and her hair fell around Claire’s face in a dense wave.

“Better already.” Horatio leaned next to her, looking in the mirror at her reflection.  “Why is it stained with orange?” he asked softly.

“Chemical deposits in the water,” she said.

“I see.  What will you let us do?”

“I’ve been hired as an admin by the Escana family,” she said.  “You may do anything that won’t get me fired.”

Two hours later Claire looked in the mirror.  The woman who looked back was about five years younger.  A cloud of copper-red hair fell on her shoulders in artful cascade, glinting with splashes of gold and deep red, softening her features and bringing out her dark eyes.  She turned her head, and the hair moved, shimmering and light.  Claire studied the woman’s face.  It didn’t belong to her.

“Gorgeous,” Horatio said as she settled the bill and she smiled back at him without forcing it.

“Where do business women shop?” she asked him.

“How much money do you have?”

She squeezed the ring, checking.  “Two thousand credits.”

He borrowed her tablet and scribbled the address with a stylus.  “Ask for Sophia.  And use the shampoo I gave you.  Red fades fast.”

By the time the aerial finally landed in front of her apartment, the sky had grown dark.  Claire ducked into the entrance and walked up the stairs to the fourth floor.  She pressed her thumb to the keypad.  The lock clicked open, and she stepped inside.

Walls of warm inviting yellow greeted her.  The floor was textured tile in a dozen shades of pale green, brown, and beige.  Soft green couches waited to be sat on to her right.  A curved coffee table carved from some reddish rock rested between them, and on it in a wide glass dish floated burgundy-red dahlia blossoms. Ahead, double doors framed by diaphanous curtains led to a balcony.

Claire dropped her bags.

The apartment was completely quiet.  She walked across the floor to the doors and slid them open.  A small balcony presented her with a view of the sunset: above her the cosmos was deep purple and far ahead, at the horizon, where the setting sun rolled behind the distant mountains, the sky glowed with bright vivid red.  Wind fanned her, bringing with it a scent of some flower she didn’t know.

She sat down on the floor of the balcony, behind the trellised rail, and cried.