Kline guided Juliet through a sterile, lab-like room, its single desk and built-in data terminal vacant. They proceeded through empty, identical, white, plasteel corridors. Despite the polymer panels lining the walls to deaden echoes, Kline’s dress shoes resonated with each step, a stark contrast to Juliet’s silent, padding steps, her feet shrouded in the material of her bodysuit. Camera nodules dotted every corridor, and, at each junction, bulky scanner arrays sulked in the shadowy corners.
They passed at least a half dozen heavily armored corpo-sec officers on their way, impassive with mirrored combat visors and bulky SMGs pointed at the ground. “Um, not exactly welcoming,” she remarked as they turned down the third corridor.
Kline nodded. “I warned you. We take your security very seriously.”
“Are we underground or, like, in a megastructure? This reminds me of the Helios Arcology, where my apartment—”
“Used to be?” He winked at her as they stepped up to a nondescript door. “Let’s just say we’re safe in a WBD facility.”
He typed a code into the panel and leaned forward so it would read his retina. The door slid open a moment later, and they entered an ample, open space. Bright, yellow-white lights clicked on, revealing white flooring and walls much like those in her room, but also couches, potted plants, and framed photos of nature scenes—waterfalls, forests, waves crashing on a rocky shore, and sunny beaches. A corridor led away on the far side of the bigger room, and Kline gestured expansively.
“This is where you’ll meet with Doctor Chen. She’ll help you recover your memories and deal with any trauma that results. She’s a highly skilled counselor; I take advantage of her services from time to time.” He walked toward the corridor. “Your first session will be tomorrow.”
“How will she? I mean, how will she help me remember?”
“That’s above my pay grade, Juliet. I’m sure she has all sorts of techniques to help you trigger those buried memories.”
Juliet nodded, playing along. He was smooth, that was for sure. Whatever they’d done to block her memories was obviously reversible—Angel was proving that. According to the snatches of thought she’d picked up earlier, he meant to unlock things little by little. So, apparently, they would have Doctor Chen take the credit for things she remembered. Or, worse, Chen would try to gaslight her as Juliet recovered her memories one by one, twisting the memories to suit Kline’s narrative of a benevolent WBD.
Kline paused and softly rapped his knuckles against a closed door on the left. “This is a classroom where you’ll take WBD-employee certification courses.”
“What?” Juliet tried to maintain her “awed scrap-worker” persona, but a little incredulity leaked into her voice.
“Well, Juliet, in the event you decide to work with us, I’d like you to have all of the mandatory courses completed so I can move you into a higher employment classification. Regretfully, despite your special circumstances, the corporation has its red tape that we all must navigate.”
She frowned, wringing her hands before her in an attempt to look nervous. “Oh. Right. I guess that makes sense.”
“I know. No one gets excited about classwork, but I think you’ll like the next stop on the tour.” He moved another ten steps down the hallway and tapped in a code to open the door on the right. When he motioned for Juliet to step through, she did, smiling as the lights clicked on and revealed a small gym.
“Ah!” Juliet slowly turned her head left and right, taking it in. The right side of the room had a bench, a squat rack, barbells, and plenty of weight plates. On the left was an exercise cycle, a rowing machine, and a treadmill. What made her smile—a real, genuine smile—was the pool. It was only about five meters long and two meters wide, but she could see the far end had a wave generator; a person was meant to swim against a current, so, in essence, she should be able to swim without having to stop or turn.
“Just for you, by the way. You’re the only client in the department at the moment.”
“Client?”
“Sounds better than patient or prisoner, doesn’t it?” Kline chuckled and winked again, and Juliet noticed him nervously reach up to his breast pocket and tap at something there. The move reminded her so much of someone she knew that she laughed.
“Looking for a vape?” The words came out unbidden, and as she finished speaking, her mouth hung open, and her eyes betrayed her panic. She felt like she should know why she thought Kline wanted to smoke a vape, but she couldn’t, for the life of her, remember who she’d known with that habit.
Luckily for her, she’d struck a sore spot with Kline, and he sighed remorsefully, looking away. “Ah, it’s a bad habit, and your doctors made me promise not to do it around you.”
“My doctors? You mean Doctor Chen?”
“No. I’m not sure if Chen would mind; I’m talking about the doctors who’ve been monitoring your brain and biological readings while you were unconscious. They’re very prejudiced against addictive substances.”
“Oh. Well, judging by the scars, I don’t think I exactly led a clean life for the last couple of years, and I can tell you for a fact that I’ve spent plenty of time in bars and clubs with people vaping. I’m not a flower, Kline.” She gestured to the gym equipment. “This all looks like a good outlet, but I’ve never been much on going to the gym. What are the odds you could get me a workout aid to plug in?” She tapped her temple, indicating her optics. “I can tell I upgraded my optics; my old ones didn’t look this good.”
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about your request. I’ll talk to the team and see if we can get you a limited deck or maybe a hobbled PAI. The issue with that is that we’re hoping to get you and the PAI-alpha rehabilitated, and I don’t want to mess things up by plugging some dumb chip into the slot. I have to talk to the techs to see if that’s a risk.” He sounded sincere, and Juliet’s gut told her he wasn’t bullshitting. She supposed it made sense. They could easily modify a PAI to limit its connectivity and functionality. It wasn’t like she should be able to do anything nefarious with it—as far as they knew, Angel was nowhere near her brain.
She leaned against the door frame, folding her arms over her chest. “Why would that be a risk? I thought a PAI was just a chip you could swap out any time you wanted.”
“It’s the synthetic neural fibers. The prototype left a lot behind in there.” He moved a pointer finger toward her head but stopped short of touching her. “Nothing dangerous, but I’m just wondering if they’d interfere with another PAI or if maybe having another one installed would do something to risk the reintegration of the prototype.” He shrugged. “I’m no expert. I’ll let you know in a day or two. Fair enough?”
Juliet nodded. “Fair enough.”
“On to the next stop on the tour!” He backed out of the room and continued down the corridor, and Juliet followed. “You’ll have a regular schedule and escort when I can’t be here myself. I wish I could let you wander freely, but people above my pay grade would frown on that. Anyway, the food machine in your room is really just for snacks or an early breakfast. You have two meals on your schedule—kind of a brunch appointment and then dinner. Both will usually be delivered to your room.”
“Ah, I see.”
“I’m mentioning that now ‘cause I’m about to take you up to the executive lounge. We might run into some other employees, but we might not; there are a few lounges in the facility, and we’re early. It’s only a quarter to eleven.”
Juliet nodded, though she was almost positive they’d run into no one. She was sure Kline had cleared out their entire path. So far, the only people she’d seen were the corpo-sec officers. Thinking of their gear as they walked, Juliet asked, “Hey, Kline?”
“Yeah?”
“When the, um, accident happened, was I wearing or carrying anything? I wonder if some of my belongings might help me remember.”
“Uh,” he paused, and Juliet could see the wheels turning in his head. “That’s a great question. I’ll ask around. I wasn’t present when you were first recovered.” While he spoke, Juliet stared hard at the side of his eye and tried to dig into his mind, wondering if she might get a clue, but nothing came to her.
She frowned and gave up when he stopped to activate a small, narrow-doored elevator at the end of the corridor. She decided she’d ask him again the next time he came to her room to ensure she had a good, clear view of his eyes. It seemed easier to gather someone’s thoughts when she could do that, or, she supposed, if she could close her own eyes, which wasn’t practical right then.
As she’d predicted, the hallway where the elevator deposited them was empty, save for two corpo-sec officers. She followed Kline to a dimly lit restaurant with about a dozen empty tables and booths. When they sat down, a fully plasteel-and-plastic synth approached to set glasses of sparkling, lemon-flavored water before them. “Good morning. Your meals will be delivered shortly.”
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“Thank you,” Kline said, sipping his water. The synth nodded and marched away, moving gracefully on its rubber-lined plasteel feet.
“No menu?” Juliet asked, also sipping her water. The bubbles tickled her nose, and the hint of lemon made her want to gulp it down. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she’d become.
“They’re not up to full-service yet. I had to choose a meal ahead of time. I, uh, selected lasagna. I hope that’s all right; it sounded like a good comfort food, and I can only imagine how out of sorts you must be feeling.”
Before she could modulate her tone or think about her words, Juliet leaned forward, smiling. “I love lasagna!” It was true; she did and hadn’t had it in ages.
“Your mom used to cook it?” Kline guessed, arching an eyebrow. Juliet supposed it was a safe guess, something a lot of people, especially those with an Italian last name, might be able to relate to. Juliet shook her head, though, and smiled at a memory she hadn’t thought about in a long, long time.
“No, my grandma. She and my grandpa owned a house near where my mom lived when I was really little. My grandma would watch me sometimes . . .” She trailed off, her conscious mind finally catching up with her rambling mouth and rushing memories. That wasn’t something she wanted to share with the likes of Alec Kline.
“Oh? My, uh, well, this is kind of embarrassing, but my big sister introduced me to lasagna. My parents worked graveyards in an assembly plant, and they were always either sleeping or working, so my big sister took care of me.” Kline frowned and got quiet for a moment, and Juliet hated that she felt a little sympathy at the distant, haunted look in his eyes. It only lasted a couple of seconds. He shook it off and chuckled, drinking his water. “Let’s hope this chef knows what she’s doing, huh?”
“Right.” Juliet smiled, playing along. While they both sipped their water, for the first time since the tour had begun, Angel whispered into her mind:
Juliet, have you considered looking more deeply into Kline’s mind? It might be the only way to learn what we need about the ‘listener' in time.
“Um,” Juliet started to say, then caught herself. Kline looked at her, though, and she had to say, “How long do you think my recovery is going to take? Do you have any idea how, um, how good my chances are?”
“Well, I think there’s a damn good chance!” Kline leaned forward a little, smiling earnestly. “Especially after speaking with you today. I think you’ve got what it takes, Juliet. If we can show progress, it’ll keep my bosses off my back, and I can keep pushing for as much time as we need.”
“What’s . . .” Juliet licked her lips and tried to act nervous—not hard with her mind racing, contemplating a deep dive. She’d utterly forgotten about those. It wasn’t that she didn’t remember what they were; it was more like some crucial memories tying them to the lattice were missing. When she’d thought about listening to Kline’s thoughts, the idea of diving into his mind hadn’t even occurred to her. Now that Angel had mentioned it, though, she couldn’t stop her mind from racing. She shook her head slightly and tried to focus on Kline’s face, finishing her question. “What’s going to happen if they don’t see progress?”
“Well, if I stop coming around, that means they’re running out of patience, and they’ve sent me somewhere awful as punishment. If that happens, they’ll probably take you to a WBD factory somewhere and give you a job. They’ll try to get you settled into a new life where you can try to forget about this whole big mess.” He shrugged and looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, but I don’t want to lie to you.”
Juliet forced a smile, knowing full well that he’d already lied to her a dozen times. “It’s nice that you don’t pull your punches. Thank you.” They sipped their water, and then Juliet’s nose told her the food had arrived. She turned to look over her shoulder as the synth approached with a tray and two steaming plates. It deposited the plates of Lasagna, garlic bread, and roasted vegetables in front of them without a word.
Before it could depart, however, Kline said, “Two glasses of Chianti.”
“Apologies, sir, but we’ve yet to receive our full inventory. I’m afraid the best I can do is a California Merlot.”
“Good enough.” Kline looked at Juliet and raised an eyebrow. “That all right?”
“Um, sure.” As the synth padded away on the new-looking gray carpeting, she locked eyes with Kline, bit the bullet, and asked, “Can you tell me a little about that? I, uh, only know about red versus white when it comes to wine.” The truth was, she wanted to get him talking, so she had an excuse to stare into his eyes long enough to get a deep dive going. She was glad Angel had reminded her; the whole process was foggy, but she knew she could get what she needed if she just dug deeply enough.
“Oh, right. Sure. You see, there are different kinds of red wine, and they all have different qualities and complement different sorts of food . . .” While he spoke, he had a pleasant expression on his face, apparently glad for the distraction. Juliet stared into his greenish-blue irises and slowly inhaled, remembering it was a good way to pull thoughts to her. Mentally, she urged him to tell her what he knew about listeners, scans, and her fate with WBD. When the world lurched and shifted, she caught her breath, cleared her throat, and reached up to straighten her tie.
“Ahem,” Kline said, coughing as he straightened his tie and then his collar. The trip had been too damn long, and now he was following this damn synth through a rat’s maze of corridors with air that felt stifling and dead, as though the air cyclers hadn’t been fully enabled. “Why couldn’t we meet on the lab level?”
“My instructions are to bring you to the Regional Vice President’s office.” The synth sounded robotic, which wasn’t surprising; the thing looked like one. When was the last time he’d seen a non-human-modded synth at a WBD facility? It was unnerving that he couldn’t remember one, and so far, he’d seen at least a dozen since his arrival. “We’re almost there, sir.”
Kline decided to save his breath and just follow the thing. It led him down a few more corridors, and then it stopped before a nondescript door with a paper label taped to the surface that read, “Regional VP Montclair.”
“Here we are, sir. I will wait here to show you out.”
Kline nodded and knocked on the door. An all-too-familiar voice barked, “Come.” Kline pulled the door open and stepped into a disturbingly empty room. The walls were bare. The floor was the same plasteel as the corridor outside. The only light source was an overhead LED fixture, and the only furnishing was a standing desk with a single data deck sitting at its center. Before the desk was Regional Vice President Montclair. Kline sighed in relief that at least it was only him and not also his three creepy counterparts.
“Hello, Mr. Montclair.”
“Stand closer, Mr. Kline.” The man turned to regard him, his long face impassive with drooping, perpetually frowning lips. His eyes were dark, his skin too taut—too many anti-aging treatments, if Kline were guessing. Still, his suit was immaculate, perfectly tailored, probably worth something similar to Kline’s new car. He almost groaned, thinking of the car—he’d had to leave it behind, tucked away in a storage shed under a tarp. “Well?” Montclair prompted.
“Um,” Kline was, as usual, entirely thrown off by the weird asshole. “I’m here?”
“Yes, that’s obvious. What’s your plan with your client? I’ve called you here to put a little urgency behind your actions, to provide a bit of impetus.”
“You should have a full breakdown of my team’s strategy. We intend to ease her into her memories, address concerns incrementally, and help her see WBD in a more favorable light—”
“Don’t bore me with a rehash of the presentation your assistant already sent to my PAI.”
Kline was beginning to feel irritated. This asshole was talking to him like he was the old lady herself. “So, what do you want me to say?”
“I want to know what you’re going to do if . . .” He let the word hang as though Kline could fill in the blank.
“If?” Kline didn’t feel like playing games.
“If your plan takes too long or doesn’t work! Mr. Kline, we’ve allocated far too many resources, in my not-so-humble opinion, to your project. Space is precious. Every human resource needs to be used at one hundred percent efficiency. Putting that aside, we need to consider the cost of this latest acquisition. We’ve lost billions to retaliatory strikes by those allied with her.”
“Those sites were slated for decommissioning.”
“Regardless, Mr. Kline, we had plans involving them. We’ve had to adjust, and our new plans aren’t optimal. Good, but not optimal.” The entire time the man dressed him down, he didn’t scowl or raise his voice. He spoke clearly, without much emotion at all. It was unnerving, to say the least. While Kline tried to gather himself and bite down on the urge to punch him in the mouth, Mr. Montclair sighed and asked, as though speaking to a toddler, “Well? What ‘if,’ Mr. Kline?”
“I didn’t realize there was a ‘too long’ to worry about, sir. I think my plan will work, but I know it will take time. Is there a limit you have in mind?”
“Yes. You have a month to show progress. I warned you about the resources. The space is a big problem, but also the other things—the personnel, especially the listener. We’re down to nine, you know that, yes? Nine critical employees out of a total of more than one million. Think about that, Kline. Do you think your rehab is that important? I don’t. We have the Angel 3.0 models. We have your subject’s DNA. Whether you turn her or not, we’re set to have a spectacular first generation.”
“You’ve started the cloning process?”
“No. We took some of her eggs. We’ve inseminated our samples and begun the rapid-maturing of the first dozen. When we’ve proven viability, we’ll begin the cloning.”
Kline felt his mouth go dry, felt his blood turn to ice as his heart began to race. “Jesus Christ, are you serious?” Something in him broke. Were all of his plans for nothing? Was his desire to turn Juliet, to make her an ally, just a dream? He’d had long meetings, heartfelt talks, with Gentry herself, and she’d agreed with him. She’d spoken long into the night, drinking her damn bourbon, about how great it would be to have a willing asset like Juliet and the Angel prototype. All the while, she’d been working on this plan? All the while, her damn pocket VPs had been creating this monstrous protocol? They took her eggs? They were already growing—
He couldn’t take it. Kline clenched his fist and growled, “You’re going to kill her, aren’t you? You’re going to say my methods are too slow, and you’re going to put her into a goddamn recycler and create your little monsters to do God-knows-what!”
“God has nothing to do with this, Mr. Kline. Juliet’s fate is in your hands. You have one month; however, the first session with my listener will be in five days. We might just wrap things up early, hmm?” For the first time, Montclair smiled, and it was the most awful thing Kline had ever seen. It was a vile expression of pure evil, and his pounding heart couldn’t take it. He gritted his teeth and swung a fist, trusting that Mrs. Gentry would weigh his years of service in the balance when it came time for his disciplinary committee.
He needn’t have worried. Montclair moved like wind and light, there one moment, gone the next. Kline’s fist whooshed through the air, and then a vise-like grip took his wrist, twisted, and shoved. Montclair pressed Kline’s cheek into the plasteel wall as he bent his arm further. Kline screamed as his shoulder dislocated with a wet pop that seemed somehow too loud to come out of his body. Montclair released him, and he slid to his knees. He heard the executive open the door and say, “Escort him to the infirmary. He’ll need that arm fixed before his first meeting with his client.”
“Juliet? You in there?” Juliet felt a gentle jostle of her shoulder, and she blinked rapidly as the sights and sounds of the world came back to her. She felt sick, nauseous, disoriented, and utterly horrified. She groaned, wanting to cry, wanting to scream, wanting to press her hands into her stomach. She thought she’d been violated before—kept unconscious, her mind messed with, put into a prison cell. They’d done so much more, so much worse! They took her eggs and were growing things with them!
Juliet? Angel’s voice came to her, and tears sprang into her eyes as Kline continued to jostle her shoulder gently. She squeezed them shut, biting back on the urge to scream or cry or lash out. Again, Angel’s voice came, Juliet, you did a deep dive, didn’t you? I’m sorry if it was horrible. Is Kline a monster?
As she squeezed her eyes closed and took deep breaths to buy a few seconds, she subvocalized, “I don’t know about Kline, but he certainly works for some monsters.” Kline must have noticed her trying to regulate her breathing because he backed off, releasing her shoulder.
“No,” she heard him say. “Don’t touch her.” At those words, Juliet opened her eyes and saw the synth’s feet stepping back as though it had been about to lift her up. Lift her up? Juliet realized she was on the floor beside the table.
“I’m okay,” she croaked, her throat dry. She hoped Angel would know the words were for her as much as Kline. “God, um, what happened?”
Kline chuckled nervously. “I was telling you about wine, and then you sort of just drooped out of your chair! I would have laughed if I wasn’t so worried. You slid down almost gracefully!”
“I’m light-headed. I don’t think I’ve had enough to drink. Water, I mean.” Juliet pushed herself to a sitting position and saw Kline squatting beside her, genuine concern on his face. Of course, he was concerned! He was probably dog meat just as much as she was if his little rehab plan failed. She saw the synth still hovering nearby and imagined that creepy exec, Montclair, watching her through its eyes.
Determined to put on a show for Kline’s bosses if not for him, she tried to channel her old self, the girl who only knew rumors about how bad corps could be. “I’m fine, really; please don’t make me go back, Mr. Kline! I’m hungry, and I want that lasagna!” She chuckled outwardly, while, inside, she tried to push her horror down into the ball of growing fury at the center of her stomach.
“All right, all right. Let’s take it slow, though.” He turned to the synth. “Get us some more water. Bring us some dessert right away. I think some sugar will do you good, Juliet.” The synth hurried away, and Juliet allowed Kline to help her stand. Shakily, she returned to her seat and drained her water. While she took a bite of lasagna, trying to smile and act like she enjoyed it, she let her mind wander to dark thoughts and dark plans.
What she’d forgotten about deep dives was that she did much more than witness the scene being played out. She didn’t just see the events; she experienced them. Being in Kline’s head had given her a complete perspective of everything he’d been thinking about, including the listener. She knew exactly what it was and what it would do. If Montclair wanted to mess with her, if he wanted to have his pet reach out and listen to her mind, she was going to reach back. They might have nine listeners right now, but, after Thursday, Juliet was betting they’d only have eight.