PORTIA BELISI
FOUNDERS’ HALL ADMINISTRATIVE OFFICES, ALBANY CITY, NEW TRITON
478, FIRST QUARTER
ELEVEN AND A HALF TEN-DAYS AGO
Deep green ferns crouched in squat, red-glazed pots throughout the paneled room, like giant botanical spiders lurking in the corners. A three-meter, braided ficus leaned toward the window, and Tia knew enough about plants to know that someone should rotate it before it became permanently uneven. Odd, really. In such an opulent setting, someone should have remembered. While she watched, a single leaf dropped, pirouetting through the air to the floor’s geometric tiles. A bot detached from under a side table to clean it up, then hummed its way back to the charging station.
Tia glanced at the receptionist, who seemed enthralled by the small projection over her desk. It was a nice desk. Real wood, if Tia wasn’t wrong, as polished and smooth as the warm cherry-toned paneling on the walls. The whole room practically screamed credits. Even the high-end, uncomfortable wooden chairs put visitors in their place. Products imported from Ceres were rare enough, so the plethora of carved designs and wooden furniture made the subtle point: Citizens were welcome, if temporarily, in the shrine of bureaucracy.
I’m more than a mere citizen, though. Everything will be fine.
Being nervous was ridiculous, but this was so very different from everything in her mother’s modest flat. Tia wrapped her fingers around the wooden armrests, the dark finish almost as smooth as synthetic material. Philippe wouldn’t be annoyed that she showed up at his office, would he? Maybe she should have waited until their next date.
A bubble of nausea rose in her throat.
Well. Maybe not.
The receptionist powered off her display and patted her elaborate tower of braids. Inadequacy washed over Tia, but she didn’t have time or credits for sophisticated styles. Besides, he loved her hair down. Tia stood and smoothed her best, most professional tunic, feeling like a schoolgirl when the elegant receptionist bestowed an empty smile.
“He’ll see you now.”
The panel behind the woman’s desk slid into a pocket, and Tia steeled herself and passed from the waiting room into an even richer office.
His desk faced the doorway, and he threw her a languid smile. A portion of her worries evaporated. This was her Philippe with his agate eyes, his long hair tied into a loose yet artistic tail, his elegant masculinity. Everything would be fine. He loved her, and she loved him.
The whole situation was simply a bump in their relationship. They would be fine.
“It’s good to see you, gorgeous.” His voice, as polished as his cherry desk with its tapered legs, soothed her nerves. “Unexpected, but not unwelcome.”
“I couldn’t wait,” she began.
His lids lowered, half shuttering his eyes. “And certainly understandable.” Rising from his chair, he strode to her and combed his fingers through her loose hair. “I love these waves tumbling free.”
See? Everything will be—
“Recorder,” he said.
“What?” Startled, Tia jerked back. Her confusion morphed into a rush of adrenaline as the subsequent whine of a drone drew her attention to a gaunt Recorder stepping from an alcove, a drone tangled about her neck and torso.
“We won’t need you,” Philippe said. “You’re dismissed.”
The Recorder’s drone released her, and she took two solitary steps toward the door.
“Take that drone with you.”
“All business performed in service to the people of Albany City must be documented,” the Recorder intoned.
“This is personal.”
The Recorder’s hollow focus zeroed in on him. “You have an appointment in thirty minutes.”
Phillippe flicked a smile at Tia. “Which will more than suffice.”
“Documentation of attempted blackmail or coercion—”
Tia’s stomach flipped, but he chuckled. “I’m not worried, Recorder, so you shouldn’t be either. Besides, it’s your last ten-day here.” He waved a hand at the door. “Take some time for yourself.”
The Recorder ignored his taunt and fastened her eerie eyes on Tia. “Is this so, Portia Belisi? There is no need for concern?”
She knows my name? Tia suppressed a shudder. “Not at all.”
“Very well.” The Recorder hesitated a moment. “As you say.”
The door slid shut behind her and that monstrosity of a drone, leaving them alone.
He frowned. “I’ll be glad to get a new one. That old drone . . .” He shrugged, then turned to stroke Tia’s cheek with his knuckles. “But I’m even gladder that you came.”
Resisting the urge to melt into his arms, Tia caught his hand, and he stilled. She wetted her lips and said, “That’s not . . . I need—we need—to talk.”
His soft expression shifted into something more mechanical. “Do we?” He released her and went to the sideboard in the corner next to another hulking fern. “A drink, before we—”
“No,” she said quickly. Too fast. She’d answered too fast.
He turned to face her.
She wrapped her arms over her stomach. “No,” she repeated. “Thank you, but I don’t . . . I don’t want one.”
“If you insist. Have a seat, my dear.” He turned back to the sideboard, and ice clattered. Liquid poured twice.
“I told you I didn’t need anything.”
He held out a crystal glass with clear liquid, keeping the amber one for himself. “Water. You’re always thirsty when you’re ill at ease. Have a seat.”
She accepted his offering and lowered herself into a sleek fabric chair.
He leaned back against the cherry desk and took a sip, his eyes never leaving her face. “So what is this topic you and I need to discuss?”
“We’ve been seeing each other since my second year. No one has ever made me feel as special, as beautiful, as you.”
A half smile flickered.
“You and I . . .” Condensation dripped from the glass, leaving a dark splotch on her tunic. She scrubbed at the uneven shape, dulling its edges, then took a sip of water and forced herself to say, “I want a contract.”
“No.” The single word flew out, sharp, abrupt, even faster than her earlier refusal.
The glass’s geometric design suddenly felt slick in her hand. “You didn’t even—”
“Tia,” he said. “I already have one.”
The air must have all vanished, for Tia couldn’t breathe. He had to be lying.
He swirled the ice in his glass, downed the amber liquid, and then said evenly, “I assumed you knew.”
Her body went cold, and his statement momentarily trapped her response in her throat.
“No? I find that hard to believe,” Philippe continued. “You know who I am. Most people do their research or keep up with gossip sites and current events.”
“You know I don’t read those.”
“True. One of your positive attributes.” He tipped the glass at her. “My partner and I have been together for, oh, ten, eleven years. She understands me, and I understand her.”
Ice rattled in Tia’s glass, and rather than allowing it to bear witness to how her hands shook, she set it by her feet. “Does your partner know? About me?”
“Not specifically. It isn’t like I talk about”—he waved an elegant hand—“this. That would make poor conversation, don’t you think? But she understands. We have an open but exclusive contract.”
“Open but exclusive,” she repeated like a file error.
He set his glass down on the beautiful wooden desk. “You weren’t worried about being caught in legal suits, were you?”
“No.” But I am now.
“So why does this matter?”
“How can you ask that?”
He pushed a grimace away with an artificial laugh. “You wouldn’t try to contact her or blackmail me.”
“Of course not.”
“Good, good.” He motioned to her glass. “Drink. You sure you don’t need something stronger than water?”
“Given the circumstances,” Tia managed, “that wouldn’t be wise.”
He froze, and his gaze ranged over her figure, lingering over her middle. She fought the urge to twist her fingers around the hem of her tunic.
After an everlasting minute of quiet, he said, “Ah.”
“I’m so close to graduating.” Her words almost ran over each other in their hurry to escape. “I only have three sessions after this one. And you know policies don’t allow . . .” She steadied her breath. “Please, I just need a short-term contract, maybe a year. I promise not to burden you.”
“Impossible. Tell me I don’t have to explain how exclusivity precludes additional contracts, Portia.”
“But you love me.” The protest emerged in a whisper. “You said you loved me.”
His demeanor shifted to gentleness, and he crossed to kneel in front of her and pick up her drink. “Of course I do, gorgeous.”
Under his watch, she choked down another sip. The water sloshed, so she rested the crystal glass on her knee. “I don’t know what to do.”
His eyes ranged over her face. “Sometimes you are so very young.”
She stiffened. Was that what had attracted him in the first place? Being young? Being naïve?
“A contract isn’t your sole option,” he murmured. “Public service is another. You’re bright. I’m brilliant. The combination would be a valuable gift.”
A gift. Her mouth fell open.
He chuckled. “Don’t act offended, Portia, and don’t be stupid. Gifting to the Consortium isn’t a bad decision.”
Why did it hurt to breathe? “Maybe not.”
Plucking the glass from her hand, he stood and carried it to the sideboard, where the ice in his own was melting down to nothing.
Nothing. It all comes down to nothing.
“So. You face three choices.” He returned to sit behind his desk, elbows on the surface, long fingers steepled. “Gifting, a contract, or losing your future.”
“A contract?” A spark of hope lit. “But you . . . what do you mean? You refused.”
“I already explained,” he said as smoothly as pouring oil. “Open but exclusive, my dear. Nothing we did broke that, but a dual contract is out of the question.”
Silence billowed around her. In vids, there was always a separate sound, like an archaic clock or the whoosh of the ventilation system, but not here, in this expensive office, sitting across from the man who’d said he loved her. Moons above, she’d been a fool.
“One of your young friends could be an option.”
“How can you even suggest someone else, like—” She broke off before she could say, like I don’t matter. He had a contract. Of course she didn’t matter.
“Now, personally, I don’t see why they would want to saddle themselves with your baggage for another twenty years, but they might not mind. There’s that red-haired boy who didn’t seem to like me.” His derisive smile made her bristle. He leaned back into his chair. “He’s a belter, I think. They have a different perception of reality in the inner belt. He might be willing to—”
“Leave Eric out of this,” she ground between gritted teeth.
Philippe waved a long-fingered hand. “Then you have but two choices. You’re young, and your life is before you. Without a contract, you will be ejected from university. I didn’t make those rules,” he added quickly, “but they make sense. You can’t divide your attention between studies and other responsibilities and expect to be successful. I can’t help you, so you either gift it, or you quit university. If you don’t want to ruin your future, gifting is your best choice.” He glanced at the alcove by the door. “The Consortium certainly needs quality Recorders.”
For a fraction of a second, Tia saw a miniature version of herself as haggard as the Recorder who just left, standing in that empty alcove, a drone floating at her side, empty eyes staring back at her. Tia shoved the mental picture away. That old Recorder was the exception, not the norm.
Tia made one last attempt. “But if you love me—”
“Love.” Unnaturally white teeth flashed. Why hadn’t she seen how unnatural they were before? His mellifluous voice mocked her as he said, “Love is a complicated construct when we are but biological machines with chemical responses.”
She didn’t want to provoke him, so she suggested, “What if you could sponsor me? I could still—”
“I won’t deal with your mistakes.”
Her cheeks heated. “My mistakes?”
“You’re the one in the predicament.” He shrugged. “A gift is a simple thing. The world will benefit, and you’ll be compensated.”
“But you said—”
“Life as you know it is over if you don’t.” He smoothed the front of his gold-embellished jacket. “You’ll have no recourse but to take a menial job and give up your goal of . . .”
She almost choked on her answer. “Being a forensic accountant.”
He had the nerve to smile. “That’s right.”
Her gut roiled. He hadn’t been listening when they sat, fingers laced, and she’d spilled out her dreams.
Philippe leaned back. “Of course, you could take a job in the inner belt.”
She gaped at him.
“It’s rough in places, but they are willing to take dropouts with baggage.” He studied his fingernails. “I could put in a recommendation for you, get you to a safer location.”
She could hardly breathe. “You’re trying to get rid of me.”
“Portia, there’s no need for theatrics.”
“Really?” She stood. “And yet you play the melodramatic villain so well.”
He adjusted the datapad on his desk, not even having the decency to look her in the eye. “Don’t be a child.”
She swallowed her rising gorge and spat out, “Well, you won’t get rid of me. I will always be here. No matter what it costs.”
Very slowly, he raised his head. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s a fact. You won’t ship me off to some forsaken asteroid to appease your guilt—”
“I’m not at fault here.”
“Or your precious partner.”
Cold eyes bore into hers. “She is not your concern.”
“Oh, so you care for someone after all?” It was either laugh or cry, so Tia forced a laugh. “Or were you lying about that, too? Is that why you don’t want me to contact her? Don’t want her to find out she’s the older, cast-off model?”
His nostrils flared. “Get out.”
“Don’t think you’ll get a credit of the compensation I’ll receive for gifting.”
“Credits?” His well-modulated tone descended into a sneer. “You think I need credits? That I want compensation? Everything I wanted from you”—he snapped his fingers—“I already had. I wouldn’t accept payment for such small favors.”
Tia’s cheeks burned as she stormed from the room. She wouldn’t take a contract with him now if the Founders returned from the dead and deeded her the whole system.
The elegant receptionist jumped to her feet when Tia barged through the embossed door and ran headlong into that Recorder, knocking her back against her drone.
“Excuse me, I . . .”
Her words ground to a halt when the Recorder laid a thin, vein-laced hand on Tia’s arm. “Portia Belisi.”
Tia’s throat tightened. “Yes?”
Pale eyes searched her face. “Are you well? Do you”—she glanced at the receptionist, her drone, back at Tia—“have anything you need to document?”
What was there to tell anyone except that she had been . . . tricked? Deceived? Stupid? That she’d made a perfectly legal, humiliating mistake that would ruin her future? The receptionist took a half step in their direction.
“I serve elsewhere next ten-day,” the Recorder said. “You will not be able to contact me.”
She wasn’t as old as Tia had first thought, not unless the Consortium had some strange antiaging tech. Not a single wrinkle marred her almost skeletal, sallow face.
“Are you all right? I don’t mean to be rude, but do you need to sit down?”
The Recorder blinked mahogany lashes. Surprise laced her voice. “Irrelevant.”
But it wasn’t. And Tia couldn’t find the words to ask what she wanted to—did the Recorder regret her own gifting? Was it the right thing to do?
“Do not worry for me.” The Recorder wobbled, and her drone sent a thick arm around her waist. She leaned into it. “The Consortium takes care of its own.”
“I’ll still be here, though,” the receptionist said. “If you . . .”
She never finished her sentence.
Tia took a hair tie from her pocket, twisted her loose waves into a bun, and secured it. She inhaled and lied, “I’ll be fine.”
Their concern gave her the presence of mind to keep from dashing from the building. Instead of taking public transport, she began the long walk back to the dorms. Her anger didn’t fade, but disappointment deepened. Fear welled up to keep them both company.
Her last work-study tour was coming up in a few ten-days. And after that, she’d make her gift and finish up her degree. Ruining her future, the one she’d worked so hard for, was out of the question. She wouldn’t allow Philippe—that voided piece of rubbish—to ruin her. He’d done enough damage.
A blister formed on her heel, so she stopped at a bench under a mimosa tree to take off her dress shoes. The tree’s delicate pink blossoms dipped slightly as the mammoth overhead fans pulsed, and dappled light filtered through the leaves. Tia set her shoes beside her on the bench, put her face in her hands, and cried.