Ty, a shift manager with an alcoholic wife, creates a female replicant in a dystopia veering toward full mechanization. For Ty, the surreal drudgery of working in a retail environment is interrupted when robotic interfaces are installed at his job...
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What the caretaker threatened stuck with Sam.
Helia. Here. With her.
She attended to her tasks in a daze. Greta taught her the tricks for assembling toys quickly, because the more they netted daily, the less they were bothered. In theory.
Sam theorized that the caretaker had set up her training in the toy room for a reason: another reminder to shut the hell up and work. Or else little Helia would be brought in to make toys she probably played with on the outside.
The compound was similar to that of a house, low security. Then again, who needed guards when gangster-style threats kept guests in line.
During the days, Sam kept her head down and put together toy after toy. At night, she avoided looking out the window. It was no longer a circle of freedom, but rather an unnecessary temptation. Though she knew if she ripped them just right, she could get the rope the right length, the desire to escape had vanished. In its wake, a cold fear rolled in.
If I fuck up, they'll hurt my baby girl.
It was her fifth day as a "guest" before he worried again for herself. Every other day, a guard took a guest to a bedroom. Sam had yet to be chosen. Still, she had witnessed Amaretto and one of the men, Peter, being taken at least twice.
She kept a scrap of sharpened plastic in her pocket. No escape, but Sam was gonna go out swinging. She paused from toy making when a guard hovered behind, nuzzling her neck massaging her shoulders. Talking back or moving away was moot. Sam clenched her jaw and withstood the molestation.
Next to her, Fareed, the bearded man, cleared his throat. The guard stopped, nodded at Fareed, and dropped his hands. He backed out of the room with an odd smile.
"Thank you," Sam mouthed to Fareed
He stood, mouth in a hardened line. As he brushed by, he gently touched her shoulder. Unlike the guard's sweaty and grubby fingers, Fareed's touch was light, comforting.
Until he walked into the hallway, a door closing behind him, and Sam realized what he'd done for her.
Fareedhad negotiated a trade.
~*~
Today she had met quota, and so the guards allowed her to eat outside, seated at the picnic tables. She could watch the breeze ruffle the blades of grass, and enjoy the clouds rolling across the sky in an effort to pretend like things were normal. Some afternoons, she did just that.
But, Sam had trouble enjoying anything, let alone downing her ham and cheese sandwich. Knowing what Fareed had done, was most likely still doing, elicited messy somersaults in her stomach.
Amaretto elbowed her, urging her to eat. "It's not your fault," she added.
Sam smiled, trying to erase the obvious distress from her face.
"If you don't eat, they assume you're difficult, and you go away," Greta warned.
Her empty lunch plate served as a model of acquiescence. Sam begrudgingly picked up her sandwich and took a bite, tasting nothing.
Suddenly, a black and white checkered ball drifted across the cement floor, stopping at Sam's feet. She stiffened, glancing at the kids hollering from the street opposite their picnic area. She held her breath, waiting to see when the guards would notice.
Boldly, Amaretto grabbed the ball. Finally, a guard barked at Amaretto to give the ball to him. She stood, seeming to decide on whether to hand it over or kick it back over herself. Sam held her breath, worried for her friend.
Then, Amaretto dropped the ball into the guard's open hands. She rubbed her palms, casually noting, "Didn't want that dirty thing for a second longer."
They all laughed, and the moment passed.
Not really for Sam. The entire exchange had lit her up with an idea.
