1
Nova Cold Sleep Solutions–Personnel Division
New Chicago
Earth, 2199
The protesters outside are getting louder. Their chants are still faint, but somehow clearer than before. Or maybe that’s just Ophelia’s guilty conscience.
Their favorite seems to be “Montrose blows!” which does offer a certain pithiness, especially with the rhyming element. But there are plenty shouting “Fuck the Brays!” A perennial classic, though not usually directed at her personally.
But she certainly deserves it this time.
Ophelia flinches.
“Hold still, please,” the young tech says politely. He readjusts his gloved hold on her wrist and then slides the needle into the still healing port on the back of her hand.
“Sorry.” She tries to smile at him, pulling the crisp edges of the disposable gown tighter against herself with her free hand. She’s naked beneath the gown on the mobile exam bed, and the cold air blowing down on her exposed neck is about to set her teeth chattering.
It’s fine, though. She’s about to be much, much colder.
“All right,” the tech says a moment later, releasing her hand and peeling off his gloves with a snap. “Let’s give that a few minutes to kick in. I’ll be right back.”
The digital name badge on his lab coat flashes “RAYON. CALL ME RAY!” with a smiley face. But Ray doesn’t meet her gaze as he pushes back on his rolling stool and then stands to exit the tiny prep room.
Shame floods through her, and she squeezes her eyes shut with a selfish prayer.
Please, please let this work. I need this to work.
In the silence of the prep room, broken only by those chants and the clatter of metal wheels somewhere down the hall, her QuickQ interface gives a friendly bloop sound.
Relieved at the prospect of a distraction, possibly in the form of her younger sister calling, Ophelia opens her eyes.
But it’s her uncle’s face that appears on the blue-framed interface in her right eye, as if summoned by the scent of her desperation.
Fuck. Ophelia’s heart sinks. Good old Uncle Dar, coming in for the kill.
Her privacy settings allow her to see Darwin but not the reverse, a small blessing. His artfully silver-streaked hair rises above his preternaturally smooth forehead in a perfect peak. He is the image of the dashing, handsome CEO of a wealthy, multigenerational company, one who lands his air-veh to play an “impromptu” game of pickup with a group of Miami refugees from the encampment in Grant Park.
Until he opens his mouth.
“I know you can hear me, you little bitch,” he says through his affable smile. “I’ve tried to be reasonable.”
No, he tried to pull strings with her employer, which, surprisingly, hadn’t worked. Probably only because her family’s company and her employer are fierce competitors with a lot of hard feelings, not inclined to grant each other favors. Blackmail, espionage, rumors about hard-core kink preferences among senior executives. And that was just what she knew about.
“You need to think about the family for once. Come home to Connecticut and stay quiet. Let everything die down again. That Carruthers woman is digging again, and you’re only making it worse.” Darwin makes a scoffing noise. “What kind of a name is Jazcinda anyway?”
The name of a very respected journo-streamer, as it happens. Her channel tends toward the tabloid, but her own reports are solid. Very respectable. If you aren’t worried about her turning your entire existence upside down and inside out.
The sensor monitoring Ophelia’s heart rate gives a distressed bleat.
Darwin sucks air through his teeth, shaking his head in a tight jerk. “I knew you were trouble the first time I heard about you. We should have just left you there.”
“Is everything all right, Dr. Bray?” Ray appears at the door again, glancing at her and then at the vitals monitor on the wall doubtfully. He is so young, maybe only a half a dozen years older than her seventeen-year-old sister. His hair does that swoop thing across his forehead that requires altering how the hair grows—no one’s hair comes out naturally at a sharp right angle.
She gives him a smile full of reassurance that she does not feel. “Of course.”
“Fucking pick up, Ophelia!” Darwin bellows in her ear, through her implant. “You’re making things worse, drawing more attention we don’t need.”
Her pulse throbs in her neck, her hands tremble at her sides. But it’s a vestigial fear, left over from childhood. That’s all. She has vivid memories of Uncle Darwin leaning down to shout at her for some offense—real or imagined. She can still feel the warm spray of his saliva against her cheek, mixed with the bitter scent of his latest greens supplement.
But that was a long time ago. She’s an adult and well outside of his reach now. Even with private security at his disposal, Darwin wouldn’t send them here to get her. He’s not that desperate. Or stupid. She’s fairly sure.
Still, better to move this along.
“Is something wrong?” she asks Ray.
He shakes his head, stepping inside. “It’s just I’m going to need to ask you to deactivate all communication implants,” he continues, closing the door after himself. “It’s to prevent the possibility of interference. You won’t be able to use them out there anyway. Your messages and contacts will all transfer to the wrist-comm that has been assigned to you.”
Ophelia straightens up quickly. “No problem.” She concentrates on the six-digit code to deactivate her implant, while Darwin continues yelling in the background. She only left her QuickQ active in the hope that Dulcie—her younger sister, half sister, technically—would reach out. Ophelia is going to miss her eighteenth birthday next month. Wherein they were supposed to “ditch these mad dabbers and party like you’re actually still young.” But it seems Dulcie is still mad or, more likely, the family has gotten to her. The family gets to everyone.
The deactivation code numbers appear in her QuickQ interface right across Darwin’s mouth, first hazy and then growing sharper. She double-blinks deliberately to confirm, and he vanishes. If only it were that easy in real life. Of course, he probably—definitely—thinks the same thing about her.
“Right, so you should start feeling some drowsiness,” Ray says. “And then—”
Footsteps rush toward them behind the closed door, growing louder in their hurry. Ophelia grips the edges of the exam bed, fingers digging into the padding.
The steps stop outside the door, and Ophelia’s breath catches in her throat as the door to the prep room swings open. But it’s not the riot-masked, Pinnacle-branded mercenaries that she’s half expecting.
Instead, it’s another white-coated technician, accompanying a familiar figure, one with broad shoulders like an old-timey football player and a smooth, brown shaved head.
“Julius!” Ophelia sags in relief, grinning at him with a mix of bewilderment and delight. “What are you doing here? I told you last night I’d be fine.”
“Like I was going to believe any of that nonsense.” Julius waves his hand dismissively. But he looks rushed and ruffled, his vintage tie loose at the neck, and one crisp edge of his collar pointing upward above his bright yellow vest.
They’d said their good-byes at his apartment last night at her three-person—four, if you counted Marlix, Julius and Jonathan’s daughter, sleeping upstairs—going-away party, less than six hours ago. It ended only after a little too much synthetic tequila (Julius and Jonathan) and far too much of the nasty grape-flavored prep drink (Ophelia).
She and Julius both came up through Montrose’s Employee Psychological and Behavior Evaluation training program, several years apart. But they’d been friends as well as colleagues since the day she moved into the dingy office next to his.
As a bonus, he never once asked her about her family or even hinted that he knew who they were, though of course he did. Everyone did.
“I’m sorry, sir, but this is a private facility and—” Ray begins.
“First, it’s ‘Doctor,’” Julius says.
Ophelia works to not roll her eyes. He does like to trot that title out, usually when he’s looking to impress. Or get away with something he shouldn’t.
Copyright © 2024 by S.A. Barnes
