Rayguns Over Texas Read online

  There were laws against fraternizing with real humans, and she knew what she was, even if he didn’t. The consequences would be terrible. “I should go back to work,” she said. “I have to finish this tonight. The logs will show--”

  “Fuck the work log,” Paul said. “It’s not like there’s anything in it for you. They’re shutting us down. Just in time for the holiday season, per usual.”

  Technically, she was due to lose more than her job. Her grim future weighed heavy, clouding her thoughts like the dry ice fear. “Human Resources won’t like it.”

  “Again, fuck Personnel. Come on. Don’t you ever have fun? You don’t do anything but work. It’s like they own you or something. Hell, you even live here.”

  “I do not! I live next door!” Her life was her work, in more ways than one. However, he attributed the quirks in her lifestyle and behavior to her supposed status as a corporate-sponsored foreign worker.

  “It doesn’t count as next door if the hotel is attached to the building.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Anyway, didn’t you say that you’ve already broken the rules by talking to me?” he asked.

  “You spoke to me first,” she said, hating the fearful tone in her voice.

  “Minor technicality. Come on. You deserve a little fun.”

  One week left, she thought. One. Her heart rammed her breastbone, as she understood she’d already made the choice months ago. “Meet me at the back door.”

  Leaving via the lobby wasn’t an option. Security would stop her before she’d reached the revolving glass door. Luckily, Security’s main concern was apparently stolen property--not what company property might leave of its own accord.

  “Done. It’s cold out there.” He shrugged into his coat and then brought out his smart phone. “I’ll call you when I’m there. What’s your phone number?”

  “I don’t have one--other than the one for this cubicle.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I’ll meet you outside. I just need to grab a few things.” As she turned off her monitor and got to her feet, an idea occurred to her. “May I borrow your Ramones shirt and your Yankees cap?”

  Confusion bunched Paul’s brow and then vanished. “Cinderella needs a dress for the ball?”

  It took her a moment to understand. Programmers were big on cultural references--Paul in particular. So, she’d spent non-programming time researching. Human Resources encouraged it. It was important that she blended in, until it was found no longer necessary. “Something like that. I’ll give it back.”

  “Okay.”

  With her heart already doing a slam dance, she dashed to her tiny quarters. There, she changed her plain, white t-shirt for his ragged black one and ran a comb through her hair. There wasn’t anything she could do about the microchip or the tattoo on her shoulder, but Human Resources didn’t monitor her that closely. In any case, she wouldn’t be gone long enough for either to matter. Gathering her mousey brown hair, she covered it with Paul’s cap and arranged it so that the port in the back of her neck remained concealed. Hopefully, Security would see just another employee leaving for home in the video monitor.

  She was out the door and climbing into Paul’s battered, vintage Mustang before she had time to process the guilt.

  “Aren’t you cold?” he asked.

  “No.” She was engineered to endure broad temperature extremes. She couldn’t tell him, because doing so would destroy what little chance at joy she had. So, she let him assume whatever he would and hoped he would ignore it, as he did her other quirks.

  “Canadians,” he said, shaking his head with a smile. “You’ve got thicker skin than I do. Or something.”

  “Definitely ‘or something,’” she said.

  #

  Dallas breathed in grungy, bar-scented darkness. She could detect illegal cigarette smoke, old vomit, alcohol, and piss. As unpleasant as the mix sounded, it infused the nightclub with an aura just dangerous enough to feel rebellious. She was on the adventure of her life, and she wanted to remember it for as long as she could. So, she memorized everything, down to the sticky grit on the cement floor under the rubber soles of her tennis shoes. She imagined it was glass from a long ago bar fight and smiled to herself. Deep notes from an electric bass vibrated inside her chest, spurring her heart to dance to a foreign beat. Hidden in darkness, she could pretend to be all the things she was forbidden to be.

  “Want a drink?” he shouted, crowned once more with his backwards Yankees cap.

  “Sure!”

  “What would you like?”

  Her heart stumbled, missing the beat, and she lost her sense of belonging. A real human would know. She didn’t, because she’d never ordered a drink at a bar before. Not that I remember. “I--I’ll have whatever you’re having.” It sounded so pathetic, so weak-willed. Subservient.

  The misstep didn’t seem to bother Paul, however. He nodded and drifted off, leaving her alone. She turned her attention to the stage.

  The lead singer was a short young woman with black hair. She’d switched from the fiddle to a bass guitar, which dwarfed her. Her fingers flew over the frets to a rapid, punk-celtic-military beat. She wore low-slung, tight-fitting jeans and a Pogues t-shirt. Her black nail polish was chipped. She was confident, even angry as she sang. Her voice was clear and powerful, with just a touch of rasp. It reminded Dallas of Toni Halliday or Beth Gibbons.

  “Odd that all that can come out of someone so small, isn’t it?” Paul asked, handing her a glass filled with murky liquid.

  “Penny Dreadful is wonderful. Even better live,” Dallas said and took a sip. It tasted milky and sweet, with an edge of bitter. She swallowed, and the liquid burned her throat. Alcohol, she thought, that’s alcohol. The tension in her shoulders relaxed a little. She flinched when Paul put his arm around her.

  “Oh, sorry,” he said and pulled away.

  “No, don’t,” she said. “It’s okay.” What if he feels the port in the back of my neck? “It’s not what you think.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “I, uh…slipped and hit the back of my head the other day,” she said. “It’s still sore.”

  “Oh.”

  “You can put your arm around me. I want you to.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She nodded. He replaced his arm and, soon, she found herself snuggling into the warmth of his body. Together, they listened to several songs. When she finished her drink, he offered her another and then another. The room began to tilt just a little. She breathed deep, feeling more free than she ever had. Suddenly, she wanted to dance. Well, why not? Studying the others, she began to copy their movements. Paul joined her. She laughed and whirled, bumping into one of the other revelers. With a jolt of fear, she understood she was a bit drunk.

  I don’t care. I want this. I’ll be gone in a week.

  Paul was with her. She’d known him her whole life--at least, the part she remembered. He also worked for the same company, which was the closest thing to family that she would ever know. She was safe. He would get her home. She could trust him. She watched him dance and enjoyed the way his body moved. He combined the sensual grace of a feline and the power of a swordsman. Briefly, she wondered how it would feel to kiss him--his naked skin pressing against hers. He had a subtle scent all of his own, amber and musk. What would he taste like?

  What would HR do if they knew?

  Shamed, she was glad he couldn’t see the color in her face. It isn’t fair.

  Fair? Fair has nothing to do with it. You are what you are. The music stopped, and the lights brightened. A DJ took over, and the crowd on the dance floor moved to the bar.

  “Is it over already?” she asked, disappointed.

  “The band is only taking a short break,” he said. “We should grab a seat, bef
ore they’re all taken.”

  He found them a place to sit at the back of the bar, away from the lights, because she told him she felt more comfortable there. He settled on the bench next to her with a fresh round of drinks. They sat in silence for a few moments. Then something completely unexpected happened. He leaned over and nuzzled into the side of her neck. Before she knew it, she was kissing him. His lips felt soft and warm, and the skin of his throat tasted of salt. She kissed him for some time, then risked placing a hand on his thigh. He let out a quiet sigh of a moan. The muscles beneath his jeans tensed. It was a thrill--the sense of power, knowing she could pull such a reaction out of him. She’d never felt anything like it. She even enjoyed the way his beard bristle felt on her tongue. She reached under his shirt and touched the skin of his flat belly.

  It was then that she knew she’d made a terrible mistake, but it was one she couldn’t bring herself to regret. She kissed him again, and again, and this time she let all her fears dissolve like the salt of his sweat on her tongue.

  #

  Paul took her back to the office at the positively sinful hour of four in the morning. She stared out the window of his Mustang. Rain blurred her view of the gravel parking lot and drummed on the ragtop of his convertible. The interior smelled of oil and leather. He reached over, turning off the stereo. The silence between them was fortified by the car’s engine. Its throaty rumble purred against the rain’s drumbeat. She placed a hand on the dashboard to feel the vibration. If a car had a heartbeat, this was it.

  “Was it…did you have a good time?” he asked.

  She hadn’t dared to face him, once the lights had come up for the final time. The bar had closed at three, but she’d begged him not to take her back just yet. So, he’d driven her around Austin, delighting in showing her things that she’d never seen before. It occurred to her that everything he knew about her was rooted in falsehood and that she couldn’t do anything but lie to him. At first, being alone with him was worth the price of a few lies. Now, the need to be honest swelled larger with every moment.

  The green of the instrument lights cast everything in a sterile alien glow. She thought about the future and sniffed. One week. Less than that, now. Six days.

  “Dallas?”

  “It was wonderful,” she said, blinking back tears. “More than wonderful. Everything I always wanted. Perfect.”

  “Oh.”

  She had an urge to kiss him again, but held back. “Thank you so much.” Opening the door, she allowed a rush of cold, wet air to battle the car’s old heater.

  “Wait!”

  Pausing, she looked over her shoulder at him. “Oh, your shirt. Ah. Can I get it back to you tomorrow?” Blood rushed to her face for the third time that evening.

  “No. I mean, keep it,” he said. “I want you to.”

  “Really?”

  “It looks better on you anyway.”

  “Thank you. Thanks so much!”

  “Can you shut the door for a minute?” he asked. “It’s cold.”

  She did as he asked. “Is something wrong?” Did I do something I shouldn’t have?

  Oh, please. You did everything you shouldn’t have.

  “Tomorrow--I mean, today--”

  “We’ll act like nothing happened,” she said.

  “Oh.” He paused. “Right. I know. But...will you be okay?”

  “Sure.”

  He looked like he wanted to ask her something else, so she didn’t move or speak. It was all right with her. The longer she waited inside his car, the longer the evening lasted.

  “Can we--would you like to go out again?” he asked.

  She bit her lip. “Would you?”

  “Of course.”

  Letting go of the breath she was holding, she said, “Absolutely.”

  “Next weekend?”

  That’s four whole days away, she thought, frowning.

  “I’m sorry. I’m pushing you, aren’t I? You want to take it slow. I understand. It’s okay--”

  “Can we go out tomorrow night?”

  He blinked.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just that we only have until the project--”

  “Is eight o’clock too soon?”

  “Make it nine.” Human Resources didn’t leave the building until eight thirty. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Today.”

  She got out of the car. “Tonight.” Then, she ran through the rain to the back door. That’s when reality brought her up short, like a dog on a chain. It was locked, of course. She hadn’t thought of that. Stupid. You have to be more careful. Turning back, she saw that Paul had already driven away. She hoped against hope and used her keycard. In her terror, the door handle slipped through her fingers, and she had to swipe it a second time.

  There was a terse email waiting in her inbox the next morning:

  Report to Human Resources at once.

  #

  The name etched into the black plastic desk plate read ‘George W. Templeton, Human Resources.’ Unfortunately, the blonde man sitting behind the dated, beige Herman Millar desk was scowling.

  “Patent Number U.S. Dallas 2,457,972-1, can you explain why you left the building last night? Was there a fire?” Templeton knew there hadn’t been an emergency of any kind, of course--that was obvious by his tone.

  Focusing on the grey industrial carpet, Dallas attempted to think of an explanation that wouldn’t condemn Paul or herself. “I--I wanted to feel the rain on my face.” It sounded lame even to her.

  Templeton paused. “At four in the morning?”

  Ah. He only has my keycard record to go by. Dallas decided on a half-truth. “I’m sorry. I--I couldn’t sleep. So, I decided to watch the rain. I stepped outside for just a minute. But the door slipped in my hands and closed before I could catch it. It was just for a minute. It won’t happen again.”

  “I see,” he said, apparently too busy reading the file that rested on the beige, plastic desktop to look up. “Your performance record is impressive.”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  “Three years. That’s a long time for someone like you.”

  “I suppose so.”

  He frowned again. “How the hell would you know?”

  Dallas clamped her mouth shut and held her breath. She returned her gaze to the close grey carpet. Templeton could be a total bastard when he wasn’t addressed with just the right amount of diffidence.

  “I told Human Resources that this was a bad idea, allowing you to remain in your position this long. There were bound to be complications. But they said your performance record exceeded that of the others. And the Cost Report indicated it was well worth the risk. I don’t know why I let them convince me. I suppose I’m just too kind for my own good.”

  “Thank you very much, for letting me stay.”

  “Did I say you could speak?”

  Dallas tensed up, preparing for the worst.

  “You’re nothing. You’re a transgenetic. You’re not real. I programmed you. Me. There isn’t a single thing inside your skull that I didn’t put there. Understand? I could put a bullet in your brain right now, and no one would care.” Templeton smiled to himself. Getting up, he walked around the desk. “Well, the cost analysis would take a momentary hit. But I could replace you within a week. In a few months, this place will be filled with others just like you.” Quick as a snake, he snatched up her hand and held it up at an awkward angle. “I can do anything to you that I want.”

  “No! Please don’t, sir! Please!”

  He released her in disgust and went back to his chair. “Remember your place, then.”

  “Yes, sir. I will.” If there were a god for transgenetic humans, Dallas would have prayed many times over. But there wasn’t. What god would have a c
reature without a soul?

  “There are only six days left on this contract. Six. It isn’t worth the company’s time and money to have you reconditioned. Not at this juncture.”

  Nodding, Dallas didn’t show her relief.

  “Do you think you can fulfill your duties without any other problems?” Templeton asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.”

  “Sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “May I...Might it be all right if I walked outside the building sometimes? I’ll stay close. You track me all the time anyway. It isn’t as if I can go anywhere without you knowing.” Dallas didn’t want Templeton to know she knew otherwise. “The other workers do so. They’ve started to notice that I don’t.”

  Templeton tapped his pencil on the desk. His professional mask remained in place. Dallas didn’t know if that was a good sign or not. “All right,” he said. “But if it affects your performance, I’m revoking the privilege. Now get out of here before I change my mind.”

  Dallas focused extra hard on her task list for the day, coding as if her life depended on it. The fact that it did didn’t help.

  #

  “Where were you this morning?” Paul asked, after swallowing a mouthful of stolen french fry. They were sprawled out on the floor of his apartment, having a picnic. He’d ordered their dinner from a delivery service. “Did you oversleep?”

  Dallas set down her half-eaten burger and debated telling him the truth. They’d had sex for the first time, just an hour before. Everything was spinning out of control in the most pleasant way, but her conscience was bothering her more and more. She pulled the sheet that she was wrapped in a little tighter. “I had a meeting.”

  “A meeting? With who?”

  She bit her lip.

  “It’s okay,” he said with a hurt look. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  “It was Human Resources.”

  He blinked. “Why?”