Assimilation (Concordia Series Book 1) (7 page)

Ritter pokes in his own choices and resumes his conversation with Scuva.

Melayne looks over at them and makes a snoring noise that reminds me of Jake Armadice, and I feel bile at the back of my throat.  I rise too quickly, startling everyone.  Scuva and Ritter rise also, an old-fashioned gesture which might have charmed me if I wasn’t so eager to escape.

“Sorry,” I call over my shoulder.  “I just want to wash my hands before lunch.”

Thankfully, the cleanse is actually in the direction I’m facing. I hurry there.

I stare at myself in the mirror, breathing in fours, until the room feels less likely to fall in on me. I can see in my reflection that my eyes look less wild.  I think of Mina and envy rises like more bile in my throat.  God, I’d love to be her right now.  To just settle into this place that seems to be my fate and embrace that doors are melds and everyone has tattoos called Idix (Idixes?) and that two tubes decide everything I will ever consume for the rest of my life.

I’d like to know what all of these secrets are between them, why Melayne and Scuva looked so strange when Ritter introduced me. Like they knew me.

I am well aware that every minute I spend in this room looks odd.  How long does it really take to wash hands?  I wish, suddenly, that I’d thought to bring my bag with me.  Then I could put a new outfit on and justify every minute spent staving off another panic attack.

I needn’t have worried. Melayne is occupied with her logger when I return, much like people on my Earth are obsessed with their cell phones.  If she’s registered the length of my absence, she doesn’t show it. As I sit down, she puts her logger on top of Scuva’s along the inner edge of the table and smiles at me.

“So, Davinney, we were just talking about how long it’s been since we’ve seen Ritter, much less had him over for dinner.  Would you be up to another dose of us tomorrow night?”

I blink.  I don’t know which answer Ritter would prefer.  I just want to go back to his keeping where I can be alone or at least safe from the emotional landmines I keep stepping on. I’m saved from having to answer as a man dressed in ordinary street clothes and a waist apron brings our food.  As he sets my plate in front of me, Ritter looks my way.

“That’d be fun, right?”

“Sure,” I agree, spreading the paper napkin across my lap.

As we eat, Melayne tells me about a trip they took to a place called Ancia, which I gather from her description is something tropical and beachy.  When she shows me a few pictures on her logger, I think it looks like a marketing photo for Bora Bora, with their thatched-roof, overwater bungalows.

Somehow, I manage to relax.  We’re eating and having easy conversations that I can follow about things that are universal: vacations and family.  When Scuva asks what our plans are for the rest of the day, Ritter says we’ll probably finish poking around here in the district before refreshing ourselves at his keeping. He says we’ll probably spend the night in.

And that’s exactly what we do.  I choose a fresh outfit to put on and put the rest of the clothes away, which reminds me I wanted to ask him about how money works here and how much I owe him for the clothes.

When I find him, he’s standing in front of the mirror in the cleanse, just staring.  He doesn’t notice me, so I back slowly away, the questions dying in my throat.  It will be a long time before I’ll forget the haunted look in the mirror reflection of his eyes.

Melayne and Scuva’s keeping is down a pretty, tree-lined street almost an hour away by slide.  They live in another area. Ritter tells me there are three zones on Concordia, which would be like continents to Attero. The zones are split into partitions (countries), the partitions into areas (states), and the areas into quadrants (cities).  We take two of the supersonics and one of the regulars to get there, which means they live nearly 325 miles from Ritter.  It amazes me to think that if we had supersonics at home, I could be in San Diego in roughly the same amount of time without taking a plane.

The architecture in their quadrant is different than in Ritter’s.  The keepings look a lot like you’d see back east in a coastal town. Theirs is a light blue bungalow with white trim. The glass meld looks out of place, though it is framed by wood.

Melayne and Scuva are gracious hosts, going out of their way to make us feel welcome. On the slides, Ritter explained the odd preparations needed to host a dinner party, which started with him sending Melayne a map of our breath chemistry so that their ScanX could create a series of recipes they could choose from, which could be tricky considering that everyone’s different allergies or intolerances combine, narrowing the field of choices that are safe for everyone to consume. Then, since Melayne loves to do her own cooking, she had to put in an order for anything she didn’t already have on hand.  I sat slack-jawed on the slide trying to imagine there being no such thing as grocery stores.  Raw food items are delivered the same way that our meals have been…through the compartment in the ScanX.  The only difference between Melayne’s servette and Ritter’s is that her ScanX is a model that comes with twice the cold storage and she has a larger oven and cooktop.

The Serdas have a small dog, Zutti.  She is a mixed breed with soft, silky fur that Melayne says doesn’t shed.  Zutti lunges into my lap as I sit down on the sofa, and I ignore Scuva’s apologies about how she’s not quite learned to keep off of guests yet, burying my face in her fur to stop the rise of tears.  I try not to remember Shamu’s tongue chasing my Starbucks, her happy tail thumping against the wall.

“Well, it looks like you don’t mind,” Scuva chuckles.  “Can I get you a drink, Ritter? Davinney?”

He brings Ritter a bottle of something alcoholic and brings me the water I mumble about, still stroking Zutti, who is deliriously content.

When the guys get involved in a conversation about what I think is a sport called Offset, I wander back to the servette to see if Melayne needs help. She takes one look at me and grins.

“Are you finding yourself in the cold during the Offset, too?”

Figuring it is the safest move, I smile and shrug, which she takes to be a yes. “Can I help?” I ask, and after I wash up, she sets me to scrubbing carrots. 

“Did you have a nice time in the district?” she asks.

“I did,” I reply, stopping myself before I say it reminds me of Bricktown.  I think again of Mina and feel another twinge of envy.  If only I were excited about the prospect of staying here forever.

Though she can’t possibly know what I’m thinking, Melayne does a good job distracting me by asking if I like to cook.  I find myself telling her about making breakfast in bed for my mother, remembering at the last second not to say it was for Mother’s Day, which I’m not sure Concordia celebrates. This reminds me that virtually anything I might say could give me away.

“Well, done,” Melayne smiles as I hand over the scrubbed, julienned carrots a few minutes later.  “I appreciate a person who knows their way around a knife.”

She has me mince garlic and chop spinach before shooing me out of the servette to “find out if the boys need anything”.

They don’t.

Ritter and Scuva are still talking about Offset but smile in my direction as I sit down on the sofa, Zutti instantly abandoning Ritter’s lap for mine.

“Oh,” he jokes, “I see how it is, Zutti. Just keeping you warm for Davinney.  See if you’ll get me to scratch your ears again.”

The worst thing, I think, as they go back to their good-natured arguments about the best players and strategies, is being in limbo. I would almost rather the whole thing be decided already. Stay or go?  I try not to listen to the little voice that says
stay.
That’s what Ritter tells me is the likely outcome. But in the meantime, I have to wander through this strange life, which is so much like what I’m used to until something small slaps me in the face with how it actually isn’t.

The latest slap comes when we gather at the dinner table and Melayne holds out what looks like a short, squat pepper mill. I take it from her by slipping my hand under the bottom.

Big mistake.

Searing pain rips across my palm. I swear loudly, my eyes tearing. The thing, whatever it is, crashes to the floor. Everyone leaps from their chairs to chase after it. I leap up for an entirely different reason — to duck into the cleanse to run my burning palm under cold water. 

Life is a minefield.  There’s nothing I can do to keep Ritter’s secret.  Their voices are sharp now.  Or, at least, Scuva’s is.

“What the hell, Ritter?” he demands.  “Who is she? What is she doing here?” He sounds so accusing, so wary, as if I am someone to fear. To hate.

I sob and turn the water up, trying to drown out whatever comes next.

Zutti slinks into the bathroom and ducks into the space between my feet and the cabinet, cowering. Their voices hush to the point where I can’t hear the words anymore.  I wipe my eyes with my free hand, glad I don’t have to listen to Ritter’s explanation.

A shadow rises on the wall, startling me.

Melayne is watching me carefully, her eyes large and luminous but no less friendly than before.

“I’m sorry,” I say, staring down at my palm, at the red center of it where it is blistering angrily. “If I broke…it,” I say, for lack of a word, “I’ll buy you another.” Sure. With money I don’t have.

She shakes her head. “The searer is fine.  Are you okay?”

“No,” I say softly.

Without another word, she moves to my left side and turns off the water. She punches something into the MedQuick and guides me to put my hand underneath the device.  A red light that reminds me of a grocery store barcode scanner dances over my palm and a few seconds later, the device bleeps and spits out three tubes.

She reminds me very much of Ritter, uncorking the tubes and telling me what they hold inside.

“Painkiller.”

“Drink it or wear it?” I ask shakily.

“Drink it,” she says.  I do.  She frowns at the label on the next one, then sets it aside for a moment and opens the other. “Put your hand over the sink.” When I do, she studies my face nervously. “I don’t know if this will hurt or not.”

She dumps the contents of the vial over my hand. It doesn’t hurt. It stings a little, like the cold water when it first washed over my palm.  She repeats her words as she dips into the last tube with a cotton swab and slathers an ointment on the burn.  I don’t feel a thing.  Apparently the cold liquid was some kind of numbing agent.

The MedQuick bleeps again and Melayne retrieves a package from another compartment.  It contains a sterile pad and a self-sticking elastic wrap. I hold the pad in place long enough for Melayne to wrap my hand.

“Come on,” she says, gently taking my uninjured right hand in hers and squeezing.  “Let’s finish dinner. You need to rebuild, and that requires sustenance.”

But I’ve ruined dinner. Scuva is perfectly polite. He asks me as I sit down again whether I’m alright.  I nod, but I can’t forget the suspicion, the accusation in his voice.  Ritter takes the searing unit and holds it over my vegetable mixture so that it caramelizes before doing the same to his own.

Melayne goes out of her way to try to make conversation, but I realize that instead of trying to block out Ritter’s words, I should have listened to how he explained me to them.  Did his explanation clear me or condemn me?

I look from Melayne to Scuva. “I don’t know what Ritter said while I was out of the room, but you should know I’m from Attero.”

That is all I have to say, apparently.

“So I gather,” Scuva says quietly. The accusation in his eyes, however, is aimed at Ritter now.

“I didn’t choose to come here,” I add. “It was an accident.”

“Mmm,” Scuva says.  Melayne says nothing, just puts her hand on my left forearm and squeezes.

“I’m not a bad person,” I say, because I don’t understand Scuva’s reaction.  What have I done?  Why is he looking at me like I shot his dog?

“Of course you’re not,” Melayne says, giving Scuva a look.

Scuva doesn’t respond. He stares at his plate for the rest of the meal.  Melayne tries to draw Ritter and me into a conversation about the festival they talked about at the service unwind. Ritter plays along, but his answers are stilted. I notice he pushes his food around but doesn’t eat much. I don’t, either.

When we all seem to be finished, Melayne excuses herself to clear the table. Scuva takes Ritter’s plate without asking, but he very politely asks if I’m finished.

“Yes. Thank you,” I nearly whisper.  I am so much more confused when he puts a hand on my shoulder and gives it an awkward pat. The attempt at—Comfort?  Apology?—is in direct opposition to the looks he gave me all through dinner.

Ritter fingers the rim of his water glass. He’s a million miles away.  I’m afraid to speak to him.  I’ve done something very, very wrong here but I don’t understand what it is.  The only thing that seems logical is that now they both know Ritter violated the standard.  But are they angry at him?  At me?  Both of us?

I can’t sit still. I grab our drinking glasses and head to the servette.

When I’m just outside the archway to the servette, I can see Melayne and Scuva standing in the middle of it, each with their left arm clasped in the other’s. With their right index fingers, each strokes the other’s mirrored tattoo. Idix, I guess.  There is an unmistakable charge in the air, and Melayne’s cheeks have a healthy blush in them. Scuva’s face is drawn in such a look of tenderness that I feel heat rush into my own cheeks. No one is naked, but there’s something very intimate about it. Private.