The Fly House (The UtopYA Collection) Read online

  Maeve tried not to return the barely tolerant grin that pulled at her mouth. Someone had to break the chain of judgments and knee jerk reactions.

  The receptionist opened a drawer, rooting for a pen and paper. "If I could get an autograph, it would mean the world to her. It's too bad I don't have any of the tabs with me. That would be incredible. You don't have one with you, by any chance?"

  "Uh, no." Maeve said. The woman frowned as she passed the pen and paper over the high lip of the counter.

  Maeve noticed the time on the receptionist's computer. 5:10. Her mother was probably trotting back and forth upstairs in a tizzy. So much for being punctual.

  Maeve poised the pen over the Archive letterhead. "What is your niece's name?"

  "Olivia." The receptionist leaned forward, staring at the paper as Maeve wrote the name.

  "Could you write her something personal? Just a little note? It really would mean everything to her."

  "Uh, yeah. Sure," Maeve said, glancing over at the elevator as its doors closed on two men that were probably riding up to the floor that she should be on right now. 5:13. Maeve jotted a quick note and handed it back to the receptionist.

  The woman smiled at the paper as she read it aloud. "Dear Olivia, Stay strong and stay true, stay you whatever you do. Love, Maeve Aypotu." The receptionist looked back at Maeve. "Is that Dr. Seuss?"

  "No. It's Maeve Aypotu."

  "Oh! Well, it's very sweet."

  5:17. Maeve tried not to give the woman the I'm-hardly-tolerating-you-anymore face as she pointed to the elevators. "Could you tell me which floor I need to be on?"

  "Oh yes, you just missed your parents." The receptionist poked at her updo as she snapped back into professional business mode. "You need to go up to Intake first. Take the elevator, located behind me, to the fifth floor. They'll take you from there."

  5:19.

  "Thanks," Maeve said. The receptionist plastered a polite grin to her chops, trying not to be too obvious as she gawked at Maeve's boots on her way to the elevator.

  ***

  Maeve rode the elevator up alone. She clacked her ringed fingers on the railing, watching the first floor fall away. On the fifth floor, the elevator rocked down to a halt and Maeve stepped into the Intake lounge, expecting to see her parents. Instead, there was only a man in a long doctor's coat with thinning hair and gold wire glasses, rising off a padded chair with a clipboard in his hand.

  "Miss Aypotu?" he asked.

  "That's me." Maeve said. She was a little surprised that he didn't sweep over her attire. Instead, he pushed his glasses up with one finger on the bridge of his nose and flipped a couple pages over the clip, settling on the third or fourth sheet. He only shot her an efficient and polite smile over the top of his board.

  "I'm Casper Bergen," he said. "I'm here to get you prepared for Archiving. Are you excited?"

  He didn't seem excited himself and didn't wait for her response, but turned and walked toward a door at the back of the waiting room.

  "Sure, crazy excited," Maeve answered anyway. "I've never been an ice cube before."

  "Oh!" he said, lurching to a halt before he turned back to Maeve. He scanned her for the first time, from pierced eyebrow to shitkickers. Not a single emotion registered on his face. "You do understand that this isn't a cryogenic method, don't you? You won't be frozen. You will only be chilled, to reduce your body temperature, and then you'll be put into a suspended state with the use of a Profanyl gas. Do you understand?"

  "Nah," Maeve said. "But I'm good with it."

  Casper stood an extra-long beat, peering at her from over the top of his gold rims that had slid down toward the tip of his nose again. He waited, as if she would give him an indication at some point, as to whether she was being serious or not. When she didn't, he finally shoved his glasses up again and turned away, opening the door to the back rooms. Maeve followed him, although everything in her began shouting that this was some kind of trap and she needed to run before she was turned into a zombie, like Casper Bergen, in his starched white coat.

  "You'll have to remove your metals. All piercings, your boots..."

  "What about the steel plate in my boob?" Maeve asked. That rattled him. Casper's mouth dropped open and then flapped shut. He peered at Maeve again, rooting for a clue that would point him toward humor or simple asshattery. Without any clear indication, he continued with reserved caution.

  "You have a steel plate in your breast?" he asked. "Why?"

  "I wanted big, metal, salad bowl boobs. I figured they'd be safer than implants. No leakage," Maeve said. Casper stared at her so long that she struggled to hold a straight face. He finally licked his lip and looked away, clicking his pen on his clipboard.

  "If that is the case, we have a problem. The Profanyl Chambers..."

  "I'm joking," Maeve said.

  "Any metals could potentially interfere with the chamber's stabilizing abilities."

  "Seriously, Casper. No metal boobs."

  Casper eyed her up and down for another long moment. She smiled. He finally turned and shuffled to a room down the hall with Maeve's buckled boots jangling behind him. He opened the door and stepped back so Maeve could enter on her own. There was a rack of what looked like various sizes of tan pajamas in the corner, a shelf lined artfully with fancy, fabric, cube baskets, another shelf with all sizes of tan underwear and tan sports bras in plastic wrap, and a whole wall of large, square, stacked metal boxes—all of them black with silver edging. They looked like small treasure chests.

  "Please remove all piercings and place them, along with any valuables and your clothing, in one of the lock boxes. Your clothing goes in one of the baskets, along with the lock box."

  "My boots aren't going to fit."

  Casper's eyes slid to her boots with a grimace. "We'll have to tag them for you. The individual keys are inside the boxes. Keep your key on your person, preferably around your neck on the string provided."

  "I thought you said no metal?"

  "They're plastic."

  "What if I take someone else's key?"

  "Why would you do that?" He frowned. What do you know. He really was capable of expressions.

  "I don't know," Maeve said, slipping the string with the plastic key over her head. "To stir things up. Pull some shenanigans."

  "Well, don't." He adjusted his glasses again. "Choose one of the Archive Wear outfits from the rack. Sizes are indicated on the hanging tabs."

  "What if I gain a bunch of weight while I'm frozen?"

  "As I mentioned, the Archive doesn't freeze people. This is not a cryogenic facility. We use..."

  "Propsenal," Maeve grinned. "See? I was listening. You're gassing us. So, I'll have gas. Do you know what that does to my stomach? What if I bloat right out of my PJ's?"

  It took him a moment to puzzle through what she said.

  "Profanyl," he said. "We use Profanyl, and it has never been shown to alter body weight as a side effect."

  Casper was back to his blank stare. He didn't seem angry. If anything, Maeve thought Casper Bergen was a misplaced man. He belonged on a different continent. He would've been a perfect fit for the Queen's Royal Guards.

  "What are the side effects?" she asked.

  "Well," he swallowed hard, as if he wasn't sure he should tell her. There was no way he'd never been asked before. "It depends. Severe effects could include nerve damage, changes to brain chemistry, or issues with the lungs. That would be rare. Less severe effects could include headaches, vomiting, inability to regain consciousness in a timely manner..."

  "That one sounds pretty severe. It sounds kind of like dead," Maeve said.

  "Certainly, death could occur, but it would be unlikely, due to the high level of chamber monitoring. Additionally, the Profanyl system is exciting in that it offers the body a perfect ecosystem. Once the gases and body are...for better word...amalgamated, inside the chamber, there isn't even a need for electricity. No need for any exterior intervention. Of course, we use electric
ity for monitoring purposes, but even in the event of power outage, the chambers will remain stable as long as they are closed. I assure you, the Archive has spared no measure to ensure their guests a safe and comfortable experience."

  "How do we get out of them?"

  "In the year 2030, Archive staff members will be on hand to expel the gases in a proper manner, allowing the body to return comfortably to its former, natural state."

  "What if nobody releases the gases?"

  "I don't have an exact answer to that question, since we haven't tested Profanyl capabilities with all the variables. However, our testing indicates that, as long as there are no leaks, Profanyl has a minimal span of at least two hundred years before possible deteriorations could occur."

  "What if there was a leak?"

  Bergen did a close-lipped mmph. "If a leak were to occur, there would be a general diminishing that would most likely result in the subject waking in much the same way as having a staff member release the gases manually."

  Maeve shivered and bit down on her lip. This was nuts. She should leave the Archive and get her clunker back from the Valet and zoom off...where? Back to the flat she couldn't really afford? Back to a life of struggle, with no hope of being pitied and saved, since her parents were going into chamber lock down? She thought of the gossip mags, that might be time-capsuled so her parents could read them when they woke up in 2030. Seventeen years. The way things were going now, she'd be homeless at best, dead at worst. The Profanyl Chambers seemed more like a chance than a risk, considering the life she was stuck in now.

  She released her lip. "How many people have gone through this and come out okay?"

  "All of them," Casper's dry grin reminded her of a burnt-out physician, tired of assuring patients with colds that they weren't terminal. "Once we refined the system, we conducted volunteer testing of humans in the chambers over a twenty year period. All of our volunteers were able to regain consciousness."

  "How many had side effects?"

  A pager buzzed from Casper's coat. He twirled to catch the pocket and fish it out. He stared down at the screen.

  "I'm sorry, I'm needed downstairs. I'll send an assistant to bring you down when you are ready." He turned to leave, but Maeve caught the sleeve of his coat.

  "You didn't answer me. How many of them had side effects?"

  Casper Bergen only shrugged.

  "All of them," he said and he closed the door quietly upon leaving.

  ***

  Maeve opened the treasure chest and the scent of pine wafted from it. The lip, eyebrow, septum rings and her Industrial barbell hit the bottom of the lock box with resounding tinks. She kicked off her boots and slid, commando, into a pair of the loose cotton jammies from the rack. She didn't really need a bra and she wasn't into panties of unknown origin.

  She kept her own socks on and slipped her belly ring into the top of the ankle band, instead of dropping it into the box with the others. The ring was a small silver dream catcher, embedded with a pink diamond. It was her first piercing, obtained at the age of twelve and a good-bye gift from her last, pissed-off nanny, Agnes, who resigned immediately after she was caught one morning, fucking the guy who delivered grocery orders, on the mansion staircase. She probably wouldn't have even gotten fired, except that in her embarrassment over being caught and read the riot act, Agnes let fly that Maeve's parents should be hung for child neglect. That did it.

  Agnes was fired, just as she simultaneously quit. Maeve stood in the doorway, jaw trembling, eyes wide and glossy as Agnes packed her bags. Agnes had been more like a big sister than a nanny, and she was the closest thing Maeve had to any real ally in the house.

  "Don't you dare cry, Maeve the Brave," Agnes had said, tipping a whole drawer of underwear into her suitcase. Instead of replacing the drawer, she tossed it on the floor. "You'll be fine.

  "Don't go." Maeve bit her lip on her whimper. Crying wasn't brave. "You be brave and stay."

  "It's not about being brave for me, it's about standing up for myself."

  Maeve still needed her caretaker to stand up for her too. But Agnes wasn't going to do that. She was still busy cussing out Maeve's parents under her breath as she trashed the room they'd given her as part of her wages. As Maeve watched the suitcase fill to the top, she couldn't hold back the tears any longer.

  "Please," she begged, "stay! Don't go, Agnes. Nobody else talks to me. I'll be all alone if you go!"

  Agnes paused. "They're not going to let me stay now. Not after what I said to them, even if it was the truth."

  Maeve knew she was right. Mr. and Mrs. Aypotu were black-and-white, bottom-line people. Forgiveness was soft gray.

  "I'll tell you what," Agnes said. "You can come with me."

  Maeve's whole soul floated up, beaming.

  "I want to get you a present before I go. Your parents will love it."

  Maeve's soul deflated as she understood what Agnes meant. Agnes was still going, still leaving Maeve behind. She was only taking Maeve somewhere for a present, before she left for good.

  "What is it?" Maeve asked.

  "That belly ring you wanted," Agnes said. "I'll sign as your legal guardian."

  "Oh," Maeve said. Her guts rolled a little. It wasn't what she really wanted. She wanted Agnes to give her a key to her new apartment; she wanted a room wherever Agnes was going to live. Instead, she trundled along behind Agnes and her suitcase, not even having to sneak away with the fired nanny, but walking right out the front door with her.

  They went to the Piercing Parlor and Maeve laid back in the reclining chair, hiking her shirt up over her belly. She picked out the banana bell with the dangling dream catcher. The alcohol hit her nose like a pin and she took a sharp breath as the guy jammed the needle through the upper edge of her navel.

  "It's over, Maeve the Brave." Agnes smiled and kissed her forehead. Then she sent Maeve home alone. Maeve walked back to the huge, lonely house where she was as much of a fixture as the faucets and counter tops. The piercing prickled and burned beneath her shirt. Her feet were sore after several blocks of walking. The way home seemed a lot further now that she was walking alone. Maeve's faith in both life and people was destroyed. She did the only thing she could.

  She kept going.

  Maeve secreted the piercing away beneath sweaters that fall and winter, so her parents wouldn't see it before it was healed. She liked to rub her fingers over it while she sat at the dinner table, alone, fantasizing about their anger when they finally saw it. It was a changing symbol for her—first of abandonment, then of survival. Finally, it was a middle finger that no one ever saw, so she eventually pierced her eyebrow and then her lip and the middle of her nose to make sure they did.

  Her parents noticed. It warmed her, how they insisted she remove the trash from her face. The piercings became the way they spoke to each other, in demands and resentments and holes that kept cropping up all over Maeve's body.

  But nothing was ever removed. Nothing was left open to heal.

  Maeve made sure the belly ring lay flat as it could against the inside of her ankle. It was a symbol of her entire life, and Maeve was taking it with her.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Hot Season 5, Year 2095

  Diem kicked off his boots, covered to the shins with iridescent, bronze muck. Dragon eggs weren't always great at hatching themselves, and when they weren't, it meant for hours of pounding away at them. Even when successful, the end result was always a huge mess. The eggs stood hip-high, were wider than one and a half men, and chipped away in sharp pieces that left mounds of dust behind. They popped and splattered when the infant dragon, half the size of the egg or less, was finally liberated. Diem had had to sledge open a dozen eggs that afternoon. Seven hens survived.

  Good for business but hard on the body, Diem wasn't in the mood to have the conversation Gra Breathe was intent on having with him now. He knew what she was angling at, since she'd shoo'd everyone out of the Fly House kitchen and common dining area, just to hav
e a talk with him. Privacy in a House of nearly 300 humans was no small feat.

  "It's her face, isn't it? You can't be so superficial, Diem. She might have a horse face, but..."

  "Whatever a horse's face is, it doesn't change anything. It's not her face that makes my decision about her, Gra. It's her." He pushed the boots aside and worked his hands out of his gloves. Protective as they were at keeping his hands from being sliced to bits by shards of dragon shells, the gloves were monstrously heavy and so hot inside that his hands were slick with sweat. He let the gloves fall to the floor with a thomp.

  His biceps ached. He hadn't expected the sheathen he was training, to abruptly lay a catch of eggs in the middle of his training session, but it wasn't a surprise that the new mother wouldn't let him near her catch. He spent three hours trying to move her off by throwing a heap of hampigs into her gullet and when he finally managed to get at the eggs, he recognized that the sheathen had been holding back from laying them for some time.

  The new hens were already tapping inside the shells. Diem wasn't willing to risk the death of any of the catch with a mother dragon that didn't have the sense to open the eggs when her young were knocking. He went right to work, sledging open the eggs, which was even more brutal with a livid sheathen bucking at her tethers, while she tried to roast him from the sidelines.

  He was sure that his afternoon wasn't much different than what was about to happen in this kitchen. He didn't have to look at his Gra to know the expression that was tacked to her face. She was an Older. Her expressions had been worn so many times before that the lines were embedded and their meaning was obvious. The streaks of wrinkles caught between her eyebrows had deepened dramatically in the last two months of talking over this subject with Diem. He made his way past her toward the bathroom, ready to change clothes, but mostly ready to avoid his Gra.