Captives (16 page)

When Omar had completed marking the relationships, Dallin led him to stand by the wall and used the handheld computer to take his picture. “Now I just need your last name so I can finish your ID in the grid.”

“I don’t have a last name.”

“Hold on.” Dallin reached under the desk and pulled out a floppy book with thick white pages. “It really doesn’t matter which name you choose. Take your time.”

Omar leafed through the pages. They were organized by letter, but there were so many it was overwhelming. He flipped toward the end—startled by the number nine on the back on his hand—and stopped in the
S
section. His eyes fell on the perfect name. “Strong,” he said.

“Omar Strong it is.” Dallin tapped the name onto his glass screen.

Omar handed back the book. “Why do they mark the number in two places?”

“They put the number on your cheek so people can see it—your hair doesn’t hide it. And they put the number on your hand in case you get too drunk to remember what’s on your face.” Dallin chuckled.

Omar laughed too, though he didn’t understand why that was funny. “Alcohol was only used for sickness in our village.” But he’d seen Levi drink when visiting Beshup in Jack’s Peak.

“Yeah, well, you’ll see plenty of it here. But I wouldn’t drink too much if I were you.”

“Why not?”

“Just trust me, okay? You take it easy out there. I’d hate to see a healthy kid like you be liberated before his time. Especially a nine.”

Omar bristled. “I look like a child?”

Dallin pulled up Omar’s picture on his computer screen. “You look fine. Women have a thing for the uniform and for skin like yours. Just don’t question everything. It makes you sound like a shell.”

“Right.”

“Your identification is in your hand tag. Use it to open doors, to buy things, to power on appliances in your home, to start vehicles—pretty much anything. Task credits are posted to your account every Friday morning. Be smart with your credits. If you run out, you’ll be hungry until credit day. Got it?”

“Yes.” It seemed easy enough, anyway.

“Your apartment is in the Snowcrest Building across the street. Any questions?”

A million, but Omar said, “No.”

“Welcome to the Safe Lands, Mr. Strong. Find pleasure in life.”

It was dark when Omar left City Hall. He walked over to the Snowcrest, taking in the spectrum of electric colors everywhere, admiring how these people had embraced all life had to offer and challenged themselves
to create new and exciting things. He shoved down the memory of his father, not wanting to think about what getting access to this fantastic world had cost.

Omar pushed past the glass doors of the apartment building and entered a chilly lobby.

A man in a red uniform approached. “Good afternoon, sir. Are you meeting someone?”

“No, I live here now.”

The man held out a Wyndo displaying the image of a side fist print. “Identification, please.”

Omar set his fist against the glass, and his picture appeared on the surface.

“Welcome to the Snowcrest, Mr. Strong. My name is Artie. You’re in apartment number seven hundred sixteen. It’ll be to your left when you exit the elevator. The even-numbered apartments have a spectacular view.”

“I was told you could contact a friend for me,” Omar said. “Can I give you his number?”

“Of course, sir.”

Omar recited Skottie’s number, and the doorman typed it into his Wyndo. “One moment, sir.”

Footsteps clicked over the tile, accompanied by feminine murmurs and giggles.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Combs,” the doorman said.

“Hay-o, Artie,” a woman answered. “The girls are with me.” Her low and raspy voice turned Omar’s head.

Three curvaceous women approached the elevator, carrying with them a cloud of spicy scents. Omar suddenly realized he could breathe! No sniffles. And as far as first smells went, this one was amazing.

Omar had never seen anything like these women. All three wore short black skirts and spiky-heeled shoes, displaying nearly all of their legs. Their shirts were tight and strappy too. No woman in Glenrock or Jack’s Peak ever bared so much skin.

The women stopped an arm’s length from where he stood. The
nearest woman was a few inches shorter than him and bore the number seven on her cheek. Her hair was blood red, streaked with fluffy black feathers, and hung down in wide curls past her shoulders. Tiny SimArt flowers ran up the backs of her legs.

The other two women were blonde—both numbered five—one with shoulder-length hair that had been slicked back like she’d just taken a bath, the other a mess of tiny braids under a floppy black hat.

The redhead wore a purple top that was so tight her skin bulged out of the top. As if sensing that he was looking at her, the woman raised one eyebrow and fixed her eyes on Omar. How he wished for paint that deep sapphire color. The closest thing he’d ever made was from blackberries, and it was far too purple.

“Sir?”

Omar turned back to the doorman, who was holding out his Wyndo. Skottie’s face was moving on the glass as if he were trapped inside.

“Hey, shell!” Skottie said through the screen. “Listen, we’re going to come get you in an hour or so, okay? Your doorman says you’re in the Snowcrest. What’s your apartment number?”

“Seven sixteen.”

“Got it. See you later, peer.” The screen went blank.

“Thank you,” Omar said to Artie.

“You’re very welcome, sir.”

Omar stepped toward the elevators and the beautiful women. The elevator button was already lit up. All three women held several bags in each hand.

“Would you like help carrying those?” Omar asked the redhead, proud that he’d managed to speak at all to such a beauty.

Her dark, painted lips curved into a smile, and she glanced at her friends, who giggled again.

The elevator doors slid open with a low buzz.

“You going our way?” the redhead asked Omar. She stepped into the elevator, her friends right behind her.

Omar followed, mesmerized by their flowery scent, their movement, their legs. He reached for the button for the seventh floor at the
same time as the redhead. Their fingers touched, hers icy and small and tipped with violet-painted fingernails. Omar jerked back his hand.

The redhead pressed seven with her thumb and studied Omar, her dark eyelashes long and thick, enhanced somehow like the rest of her body, which looked like a canvas to be painted. “Visiting someone?” she asked.

Her attention so flustered Omar that he had to force himself to answer. “I live here.”

“Since when?”

“Since today.”

“Promotion?” She tilted her head closer and parted her lips in a way that made Omar’s heart quicken.

“Yes.”

“What’s your rank?”

“Captain.”

The woman’s finger slowly traced the seam on the front of his jacket. “Really. What area?”

“Uh …” He rubbed the scar on his nose. It had been going so well. A longer conversation than he’d had with a female in a long time. The elevator stopped on the seventh floor. Omar followed the women into a wide hallway and glanced at the nearest door: 705.

“You go ahead and keep your secrets, trigger,” the redhead said, walking to the right.

“We should invite him over!” the blonde with the braids whispered. “He’s a cutie.”

“Tonight’s girl’s night, Venita,” the redhead said.

“So? Girl’s night is more fun with a guy, especially one with such great skin.”

“He’s barely out of boarding school,” the second blonde said. “And it’s got to be Roller Paint.”

“That’s
not
Roller Paint.” Venita turned to Omar. “How old are you, cutie?”

“Eighteen,” Omar lied, puffing out his chest and trying to look like it was a fact.

The second blonde giggled. “Sure you are, baby doll.”

“No guys tonight,” the redhead said. “We’re watching
C Factor.
”

“We can zip
C Factor
for later.” Venita turned back to Omar, her braids and hat swaying with her movement. “What’s your apartment number, sweetie?”

“Um, seven sixteen,” he said.

“We’ll come visit later, seven sixteen. Once I talk Bel into it.” Venita winked.

Not knowing what to say, Omar followed the numbers to the left. He stopped at door 716 and looked back. The redhead, Bel, and her blonde friends entered a room on the opposite end of the hall. The door thumped shut behind them.

Omar couldn’t believe those women were infected with anything. Their skin had been flawless. No sign of the flakiness or veins. Would they really visit?

He pressed his fist to the pad on the door. It took him a few tries to get the angle right, but he eventually got inside. He spent the next five minutes trying to figure out which panel turned on the lights.

Once he could see, he discovered that his new home was as rich as the task director’s office, but the brown and cream palette was more relaxing. There was a sitting area with a sofa and two chairs, a sheet of glass on the wall with the word
Wyndo
etched into the center top, a little kitchen, a table, a bathroom, and a bedroom with a huge bed, a dresser, and a GlassTop desk.

He inspected everything, wondering if the girls would knock on his door soon. However, once he discovered the SimPad that turned on the Wyndo, which turned out to be a TV, he became captivated by the color and movement. He could touch the glass to change what was playing—and they weren’t movies of Old, either. Each program displayed the title along the top of the screen.

One show depicted two men trying to kill each other on a stage surrounded by cheering onlookers. On a cooking show, a woman taught Omar how to cook his own strawberry savarin, whatever that was. What Omar assumed was meant to be a beauty program showed
fat people —bigger than Mary, Shay, and Megan combined—and how one woman wanted to go back in time and relive her third life to earn better fortune. On
C Factor
, a man with earrings was having relations with a woman. On TV! There had been a scene like that in the Old movie
Titanic
, but they hadn’t shown it. A channel that seemed to be devoted to displaying things he could buy was selling something called a Personal Vaporizer that could be used to make candy, alcohol, medications, and stimulants—whatever those were—turn into a breathable form.

Omar found all he needed to learn in order to fit in as a Safe Lands National. Two hours passed before Artie the doorman’s voice came through a panel near the door announcing that someone named Dane Skott had arrived.

Omar walked out of the Snowcrest’s lobby and found Skottie waving from a sleek little red car that had bigger wheels in front than in back, so that the body of the car tilted backward. One of the back doors slid over the top of the vehicle to open, only these didn’t look like mesh.

“Get in,” Skottie said.

Omar barely fit in the backseat. A tall guy turned to face Omar from the passenger’s seat, his head nearly brushing the roof. He had a thick neck and buck teeth.

“I’m Charlz,” the guy said. “Skottie says you want more SimTags?”

Did he? Omar smiled. “Yeah, I think I would.”

“Then let’s do it!” Skottie steered the car out of the parking lot so fast, the momentum threw Omar across the seat.

The heaviness of the day drifted from Omar’s mind. Everything was going to work out. Tonight, he could have fun and make friends. He leaned between the seats, trying to think of something flattering to say. “Thanks for taking me out. You seem to know everything about this place.”

Charlz looked over his shoulder. “Skottie is decked. He knows everything and everyone. He says you’re going to be tasking with the enforcers. I task there too.”

“That’s great,” Omar said.
Great?
Why not
decked?
He needed to learn the language so he didn’t sound like a shell. Dallin had told him not to ask stupid questions, but he felt like he needed to keep up the conversation. “Do you have extra SimTags too?” Omar asked Charlz.

“Just a SimTalk. I got the others taken out. They aggravated my skin.”

“Charlz is a little sensitive about his skin,” Skottie said.

“It’s already flaking more than most. I don’t need a rash too.”

“What time you coming in to the enforcer’s office tomorrow?” Skottie asked Omar.

“They told me to arrive at ten,” Omar said.

“Come in early, and I’ll show you something decked.”

“One of Skottie’s femmes works in surveillance,” Charlz said.

“And here we are.” Skottie slowed the car and parked along the side of the street. “Surface is the best SimArt shop around.”

Omar found the door panel and pressed his fist against it, feeling less shell-like as he did so. Smells from the street gusted into the car: popcorn and something meaty. He climbed out onto a bright street. People were everywhere, moving along the sidewalk like two herds pushing in opposite directions. The lights from the storefronts on both sides of the street lit the pavement with vivid reds and blues. It seemed like videos were playing on every glass surface, advertising whatever might be for sale inside.

Omar inched his way across the crowded sidewalk, feeling stupid for finding this so difficult. But he managed to arrive at the doorway in one piece.