Grey

“Experimental!” called Xavid.

“That’s it! Anyway,” he continued, “we can demo it at the product show and keep our biggest customers, like BrainBrain, SLT, iip-2, and LETTT from leaving. They’re all calling me and freaked out because they’re afraid a freeboot is going to jump out of their closet and shoot their balls.” Father laughed sadly. “It’s not easy to talk them off the ledge, but this will help. We need something new. You with me?”

“Sir,” said Joelene, “this seems quite rash. Are you sure?”

With his upper lip curled, he asked, “Am I sure? I don’t know! But we can’t show any weakness now because we’re just about dead.” He turned to his crew to scoff at Joelene. “The guy who runs Ribo-Kool is Chesterfield Kez, and he’s lard.” He let out a breath. “Look,” he began again,  “even if Ribo-Kool’s thing is a big ol’ green turd, it’s going to save us for the product show.”

The photo he had handed me finally turned into a discernable image. It was a girl who looked about my age. She might have been pretty, except that she was terribly over-done. She had fake, gold hair, green eyes with heavy pink mascara, and lips covered with thick, violet paint. Her nose was pointy and pinched, as if she were wearing an invisible clothespin on the end. Worse, she was laughing and had her mouth so wide open you could see a half-inch of gum above her white teeth, a glistening, golden, made-up tongue, and a uvula hanging in back. Dressed in a fluttering mass of polka dots, and what looked like a white furry, little ear-bot hanging from her left lobe, she looked like one of those flighty, imperceptive, and giggly girls who read CuteKill, Ball Description, or Petunia Tune.

“Don’t worry if she looks like more than you can handle,” said Father to me with a sly grin, “I’ve got some fully charged sex-pods you can borrow.”

I scowled at him.

After a laugh, he said, “Anyway, you’re going to go on a big publicity date with her to get a buzz going, then we’ll have you two French or something at the product show. They’ll love it!”

My jaw went soft. He was serious. This was his solution. I wanted to laugh at him, or somehow cut his notion in half with one perfect word. But all I could do was imagine Nora floating farther and farther away.

“Michael is devoted to the family and the business,” said Joelene. “But he is still suffering from both the trauma of the attack and a broken heart.”

“Trauma?” shouted Father as he stood and climbed back onto the stage. “You want trauma? I’ll give you a trauma.” Toward the back of the auditorium, he shouted, “Crank up Massive Bladder Tumor!” An instant later, the sounds of drums began firing and some male singer wailed in pain. Father treated us to his same dance moves he had just five minutes before.

Holding my hands over my ears, I closed my eyes and waited for the cacophony to stop. When it did, and I opened them, Father was standing before me. Dumping the rest of the papers in my lap he said, “Tomorrow. Eight o’clock. That’s the whole deal.”

I saw logos of what looked like more sponsors, blueprints of what was probably the meeting place, pie charts, diagrams, bullet points, and pages of contracts. I let the papers slide off my legs as I stood. “I can’t do this.”

“Bullshit!” He bared his teeth like an angry dog. “We don’t have a choice! Everyone’s laughing at us. Our stock is worth half a bug fuck.” Waving a hand toward Xavid, he added, “We’re selling everything just so we have electricity.”

With a shrug, I said, “I won’t do it.”

“You will!”

“I refuse.”

“I’ll make you,” he said, stepping forward. “I’ll make you do it, you little shit!”

“You will not.”

“Sir,” said Joelene. “This operation of yours is a surprise. Can’t we have time to recuperate and figure out our next step?”

“It should be a surprise! It’s a genius surprise. I thought of it in my own head! And if we don’t we’re dead. Right guys?”

Ken pumped a fist. “Otherwise, we’re dead!”

“Expired!” chimed Xavid, as he tickled his hands over his oily shirt.

“Just today,” continued Father, “we lost seven thousand customers. Seven fucking thousand! I’ve been on the phone begging the buggers not to leave, but they’re so fucking stupid, it’s real hard.” As Ken echoed the words fucking stupid, father got in Joelene’s face. “And you! I’m tired of your worthless input. I want to see you working for RiverGroup.”

She stiffened. “I am Michael’s tutor.”

“Yeah? Well, tutor him this: He’s going to fuck Elle’s stinkin’ hole at the product show or you’re finally out of here. You got that?”

I wanted to tear his head off. “I’m not doing it!” As I spoke, tears ran down my face. “I’m out of this horrible family.” I could barely see as I stumbled past him, around the stage, past Ken Goh, and past Father’s idiot film crew and back outside.

I ran to the garage, got in my car, and said, “Europa-1,” to my driver. We started moving, and as I strapped myself into the seat, I added, “To the MKG complex… to Nora.”

Four

The two-lane highway that traveled around the world roughly at the Tropic of Cancer rose high above the desert, cut through mountain ranges, floated over oceans, and was the way to get around the globe fast. After we exited the compound and wound our way down the slope, we came to the desert floor and then began to curve around Ros Begas, toward the long entrance ramp. No other Loop cars were out, so it felt like I was the only one in the world moving, and I liked that. As each of the sixteen vacuum-arc motors started, wound up to speed, and then kicked in, I was agreeably pushed into the seat. Although I was stylistically against speed, I couldn’t help but feel a surge of adrenaline and allowed myself to enjoy it because I was heading toward her.

From the outside, my car was shaped like a giant teardrop with the fat end forward and the back slowly tapering down to a needlepoint. The metal skin was covered with millions of little fibers that felt velvety when it was still, but vibrated at high frequency when the car was in motion. It had something to do with aerodynamics, but I wasn’t sure. Dozens of skinny tires protruded below and made the whole thing look like a fat centipede. Mine, like the other RiverGroup Loop cars, was painted the company orange and blue, and on the stabilizing fins, like the dorsal fins on a fish, were the logos of the company, products, and those of our strategic partners.

Soon we were on the Loop nearing full speed. The white road and the orange guard walls on either side were a blur, but the distant mountaintops passed in stately fashion. We had left the city and were traveling through the slubs, where millions of tiny orange and yellow houses and small square buildings covered the landscape like so many bits of sand. A few of the taller and steeper mountaintops were bare, or unicorned with a transmission tower. All around, in the valleys, the air was thick with a grayish haze.

“Four point three,” announced the driver.

Releasing myself from the safety seat, I stepped back to the bathroom and leaned over the toilet. Nothing came up, but I wished I could have vomited what was supposed to make me part of my family—whatever nurture, or DNA. Finally, I stood, unhappy that I couldn’t rid myself of my lineage so easily. At the duralumin sink, I splashed water on my face then studied myself in the mirror. First I closed my left eye and lamented the pinkish tone of my cheeks and ears, which made me appear bothered and anxious. But when I closed my right, and the flush faded away, I felt I looked stronger and in control. This black and white version was the real me—the me beneath the hues.

Once I got back to my seat, I checked the camera views of the road flying past us. They were clear, but just in case, I asked the driver, “Anyone following us?”

“Negative, sir,” was the answer through the intercom.

“Nothing?” I asked, surprised.

“Negative.”