The Line Book One: Carrier (17 page)

“It’s still...nice.”

He missed my hesitation. “Glad you like it. You paid for it.”

Before I could ask what he meant, we arrived in the kitchen. Across the back of the room there was a wall made of brick that had a half-moon hole at the center; I recognized it as a brick oven. It was similar in design to the one in Vira’s restaurant. There was also a large sink, hammered-copper countertops, several wall ovens, a dishwasher, a refrigerator and an eat-in table, complete with upholstered chairs.

Ric flicked a few more switches, turning on the overhead light fixtures, and went to the refrigerator, pulling out some bread, cheese, a pitcher of water and a slab of meat. “Sandwich?”

“Sure.”

His entire demeanor had changed. He was sour.

Cross.

As if he’d eaten a lemon whole and sucked on the peel for good measure.

As he made two sandwiches, I could tell he was bothered.

“What did you mean, I paid for it?” I finally asked.

This caused him to pause. He put down the bread and turned to me then, a butter knife in one hand, the other waving in the air as he spoke. “Auberge owns everything.”

“I know.”

“They own the currency. All credits come from them. All jobs come from them. We all work for Auberge. We can’t get out. We can’t work someplace else. We’re
all
slaves. Even if we’re not on the Line, we’re all getting screwed.”

I frowned at this, but he continued.

“Especially those who think they’re rich. This isn’t my father’s house. This is property of the Auberge bank, purchased with
their
money, paying the mortgage with
their
funds, earned with interest on Auberge investments. They own this house. Me. My brother and sister. You.”

I sat at the kitchen table but didn’t speak. There was nothing I could say to contradict him. I knew he was right. It didn’t sit well within me, but I let him speak. He obviously needed to get something off his chest. He finished the last sentence by slapping some thinly sliced meats on the bread.

“Now we’re trapped in this cage, with no escape. No real money. No real anything. This isn’t a free society. So I guess what I’m trying to say is, when you were on the Line, making Auberge money, you helped pay for all of Auberge’s assets. Including this stupid house.”

“So what can we do to stop it?”

Ric scowled. “I don’t know. I thought by saving one person at a time, it would make a difference, but it doesn’t. No matter what we do, as long as Auberge exists...” He turned back to the bread.

“At least on the Line we knew we were slaves,” I said. “Out here, there’s the illusion of freedom. But it isn’t real.”

“Exactly.”

I thought my response before I spoke it. A part of me wanted to play devil’s advocate, to see how he’d react. I preferred him angry to defeated. “Then maybe I should go back.”

He turned to face me, his mouth hung open. “What? Why?”

He looked angry.

Good.

He wasn’t allowed to give up. If anyone was allowed to feel overwhelmed and dejected, it was me. I couldn’t let him be swallowed by it, as I was. My frustration rose. “If Auberge owns me and my babies either way, why fight it? Besides, maybe then they’ll leave you alone.”

He clenched his jaw and reddened. “That what you want? To go back and for me to leave you alone?”

“No.” I folded my arms across my chest, my stubborn streak rising.

His lips thinned and pressed together. “At least out here you aren’t subjected to daily rapes.”

“Not true. I barely escaped being raped twenty minutes out the Line door.”

“Well, it’s different in South.”

“Is it? Say I get a job as a maid or something. What’s to stop my employer from doing the same thing? Where could I go then?”

“See, this is why there are people like me, working against it.”

“You mean Tym and Sonya?”

This was a low blow; I knew it the moment the words came out. Ric slapped the sandwiches on plates he’d pulled from a cupboard and slid one of the plates in front of me. His eyes burned with unexpressed anger.

Perfect. He was good and mad now.

“There are others too,” he sneered. “I’d hate to have gone through all this just to have you give up now.”

I took a bite of the sandwich, then said, “Fine. I won’t give up if you won’t.”

His face softened as he realized what I’d done. I’d tricked him into encouraging me, when in truth, he’d needed to hear it himself.

His mood instantly lifted and he shook his head, looking bemused. He chewed his sandwich. “Oh, you’re good.”

I stifled a laugh. “You have no idea.”

Ric’s smile fell. Coming from me, the joke took on a whole other meaning.

Would it always be like that?

After we finished eating, he took the plates and tossed them into the sink. “Come on.”

He led me back through the parlor and to a flight of carpeted stairs. We ascended in silence, then turned left. The third door on the right was a bathroom.

Ric flicked on the switch.

It was bigger than the women’s room at the boarding house. There was a large tub, a separate shower with frosted glass doors, two sinks with a mirror over each, a toilet, another little toilet without a lid and a big window with frilly curtains.

“Good grief,” I said. “You could fit half of Central in here.”

“Check it out...” He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Hellloooooo!” Then he faked an echo. “Hello, hello, hello...”

It made me laugh.

He grinned. There was that dimple again. He was damned cute when it appeared. It was easy to forget the mess we were in when he looked that way.

“You’re pretty when you laugh,” he said.

My smile faded. I could tell Ric was sincere, but still, voices sounded in my head from past appointments. “You’re so pretty,” they’d say. “How’d you end up in here?”

I saw his face falter, but he recovered quickly. He walked to the cabinet under the sink and pulled out a couple of towels. “I’ll check Anj’s room. And see if I can’t find you some clothes.”

“Thanks.”

He spun on his heel and left me there.

I watched him go. A tinge of regret floated through me.

I used the toilet and ran the water in the shower, which was instantly hot.

After undressing, I got inside the stall. There was a shelf of bottles I assumed was shampoo. I washed my hair and used a bar of soap. The hot water soothed my aching muscles.

What now?

How long were we going to hide in the mansion? I was sure the brother would come home eventually and find us there. What then?

We weren’t certain my prints had been erased or if my new identity had finished uploading. There was a chance Auberge didn’t know I existed at all. But the Line did, and the creepy guy with the big smile who’d retired me knew. I wasn’t in the clear yet, not by a long shot.

I heard the bathroom door open and footsteps.

“Just me,” Ric said. “Come back downstairs when you’re ready.”

“Okay.”

The door closed.

I stayed in the shower and turned up the hot water. Steam filled the stall. My eyes traveled to my stomach, and to my surprise I had gained some weight. There was a small bulge, just under my belly button. It wasn’t much, but I put my palms to it and tried to imagine the babies inside, rolling around in my gut. I hoped they were okay. I wished I could talk to them and tell them everything would be all right, but I knew that might be a lie.

When I noticed my fingers were pruney, I shut off the water and dried off.

On the sink basin was a pair of pants and a button-down shirt. There was also a clean pair of underwear and a tank bra. I dressed and put my leather gloves back on. They were still sweaty on the inside, but I didn’t figure I had a choice. I rummaged through the drawers to find a brush. The image in the mirror caught my attention.

The girl looking back at me didn’t seem as sickly as she had a few days before. Her face had plumped up a touch, and the bruises and bags under her eyes had faded. Still, she was completely foreign to me.

Would I’d ever get used to her? The fact I hardly knew her felt tragic.

So much lost time. I was twenty-two and had lived more in the two weeks since my release than in my whole life. Still, I was determined to make up for it.

When I found a brush, inside the same drawer was some makeup. I’d never worn makeup, but I remembered a few girls from the Line had smuggled some in.

I used a pinkish powder on my cheeks and black paint on my eyelashes.

The girl in the mirror appeared older and more refreshed.

I brushed my teeth, then hung the wet towels on a rack and entered the hallway.

Off the main hall were several doors. One on the left had a Do Not Enter street sign tacked to it. I went straight for it.

It was a kid’s bedroom. A boy, from the looks of it.

Toys littered every corner of the room, and strange paper posters of old movies were on the walls. On the desk there were a few trophies.

“South Sector Spelling Bee, Third Place,” I read aloud.

There were also ones for Citizen of the Month and Most Likely to Succeed.

The trophies had been awarded by Auberge Secondary School in South, where only the elite of the elite were allowed to pay ridiculous amounts of credits to educate their children.

Most kids didn’t go to secondary school. Instead, they held apprenticeships in the Institution in the same field as their mothers or fathers right after finishing primary school. The others who didn’t get accepted as apprentices were forced to work as manual labor, but those jobs were scarce, and there was a long line of people to fill them.

I’d heard Vira complain over and over again about how much secondary schools cost. She had been paying for her son to attend, which was part of the reason she’d taken on a number of slaves, to cut costs.

Did my parents know what they were doing when they’d sent me away with Vira? I wanted to believe they’d thought I was on my way to a better life.

I guessed it didn’t matter anymore.

I found myself silently praying that the worm program had worked at Auberge HQ and that my hopes of becoming a chef weren’t permanently destroyed.

But there was nothing I could do about it at that moment, so I left the bedroom, found the stairs and made my way back to the kitchen. He wasn’t there.

I took some time rummaging around the cupboards, admiring the shining pots and pans. I helped myself to another sandwich and two glasses of fresh water, lay down on the couch in the parlor and fell asleep instantly.

* * *

I’m waiting in my appointment room
,
but he’s late.

I
don’t mind.

I
sit on the bed and wrap the scratchy sheets around me to keep warm.
The rooms are kept very cold to help the girls appear
“
perky
,”
if you catch my drift.
Five minutes before the appointment time is up
,
they blast the heat until it’s almost unbearable.
It always makes them hurry.
If they’re comfortable
,
they take their time.
And neither the Line
,
nor the girls
,
want that.

Just before the hour has passed the door opens and in walks a man wearing an expensive business suit.
I
can tell because of the fabric.
All wool.
Pressed as crisp as a board.

He’s an older man
,
probably in his fifties
,
with black hair that’s grey at the temples.
He’s not tall
,
but not short either
,
and a little stocky around the middle.

I
get up from the bed and stand naked in front of him.

Instead of undressing like the rest of them do
,
he just stares.

Great.

Another looker.

Every time a looker comes through that door
,
I
wonder what kind of looker he is.

Is he the kind who looks
,
and then uses the last five minutes in a mad
,
violent rush?

Or is he the kind of looker who sits there and drools the whole time
,
and then wants me to touch myself?
Which
,
by comparison
,
isn’t as bad as the alternative
,
but humiliating nonetheless.

Or is he the kind of looker who can’t perform
,
then blames me and beats me until the hour is over?

Any kind of looker is trouble.

Figuring out what kind he is
,
is half the battle.

But this man hasn’t moved a muscle and he’s making me nervous.
He just stares at me
,
like I’m a statue.

I
keep my expression blank.
Any eye rolling
,
any eyebrow raising
,
any smiling or smirking before I’ve determined what kind of looker he is just leads to difficulty.
They always take it the wrong way
,
like I’m making fun of them.

It’s best to stay numb.

He coughs uncomfortably and licks his lips.

Here it comes,
I
think.

“
How old are you?
”
he asks.

“
How old would you like me to be?
”
I
answer carefully.

“
No.
I
want the truth.
When’s your birthday?
”

“
I
don’t know
,”
I
say.
“
And that’s the truth.
”

He looks...disappointed?