4

She stepped out of the foul-smelling, chrome train station and into the

sidewalk.     

    She took a short-cut home, through the wealthy side of the

neighborhood, where  the houses were five stories high and the doors

shone till they sparkled and the occupants walked tiny dogs, some wiry

and nervous and some fuzzy and stupid.  Past the semi-transparent

membrane to her right cars rocketed up and down in their tubes- to the left

were gleaming walls, always colored and usually changing colors,

occasionally turning to glass for a store or restaurant.  The light panels

beamed as though it could best the sun she knew must be Aboveground.

    It would look odd, she thought, from Aboveground-- this mess of tubes

and tunnels and squares writhing across and beneath the great expanse of

lifeless dust.

           Her feet ached, and she walked faster. The glassy, greedy stare of

the dogs made her weary, and tension coated her surroundings like snow

on a landscape, muting it.

           She stopped and shut her eyes and leaned on a wall near a

particularly gaudy display receiving fashionably-dressed guests.  She was

sick of such thing-- she was sick of everything-- she wished...

           “Are you the girl?”  The voice was soft, solid, dark.  She opened her

eyes, stuttered, and succeeded in saying nothing.  He was much taller than

her, pale, with very light hair and very striking eyes.   

           “The girl, the girl who’s supposed to be here.  Are you the girl I’m

supposed to meet?”

           She half-opened her mouth in wonder, wondering what he meant,

wondering what to say.

           “I-- maybe… I think maybe yes.” She said it again, “Yes. Yes, I'm

here.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the party. She was

suddenly very self-conscious and very glad she'd decided to wear

something nice to work.

    “Don't say anything stupid,” the man reminded her, and she decided not

to say anything at all.

    It was calm inside, and people mingled easily, cocktail glasses in hand.

She was introduced as Jemyl-- Jemyl William-- and was greeted cordially

by the other women as they pursed their lips at her clothing. She tried to

keep her eyes from widening as she stared at the opulent rugs, the plump

furniture, the blatantly concealed affairs, the expensive chandeliers, the

bright and fashionably-cut dresses, the obvious magnetism of everyone

there. She was an imposter to this world of sex and social warfare, and

how she was aware of it... she kept her mouth in a frigid, gracious smile

and her eyes narrowed in fear and calculated suspicion.

 **********************************************************************************************************************

    Emmet glanced methodically around, trying to locate the host of the

party. It shouldn't have been hard, but bleached hair had come into fashion,

and Emmet couldn't pick his father out from among the white-blond heads

turned away from him.

    He considered the girl beside him. She was a mistake. For this party

they should have sent one of the unremarkable waifs who flitted in and out

like so much plastic and eyeliner. This awkward innocence was obvious,

her eyes round and her face odd and dreamy... taking her hand, he led her

into a back room.

    “Stay in here,” he told her absent-mindedly. “Leave the door locked. I'll

be back soon.” She opened her mouth a fraction, but he didn't have time.

He heard the lock click behind him as he left.