Chapter 10 Laura #3
Gently touching Ellen’s shoulder, I say, “It won’t be as good as his, but I’ll do my best.”
“Thanks.” Shooting me a grateful smile, Ellen ducks out to rush off somewhere else, and I turn my attention to the innocent looking mounds of dough in the containers.
Dom’s shadow looms over me, getting close enough to touch again. “Law… Female, what do we do?”
“We get them out, one at a time.” I unsnap the tupperware lid, a rush of yeasty goodness washing over me. Trying to hook my fingers underneath it, I succeed in sinking them into the squidgy round ball.
Dom simply turns his container around and the dough plops obediently into his huge palm. “And then?”
“Spread a bit of flour down, then press and roll the mixture into a circular shape. Some people toss it in the air, but I have no idea how it’s done. I have Deliverfood on my phone for a reason.”
“Between us, we’re sure to work it out,” Dom says, his voice a low rumble.
He presses his large palm over his dough and rolls it out with languid, massaging strokes. The pre-pizza is literally putty in his hands.
“Well, you’re doing great. All I’ve achieved is ruining my manicure.”
“Then allow me to labor for you.”
It’s not really in my nature to step back and let a man take over, but he’s not quite a man. Male, yes, with plenty of masculine energy in his tight jaw and imposing muscled physique. Mm.
Dom pushes more dough balls out, sprinkling a pinch of flour over the top. “If I may ask…?”
“You may.”
“What do you do to occupy your time, Law… female?”
I whisper, “You can call me Laura. We’ll pretend we’ve introduced ourselves properly to one another.” As opposed to introducing myself by stripping him in search of buried treasure to see what I'm working with.
“Law-rah. Yes.” He keeps his eyes on the dough he's kneading, but takes his time over the syllables of my name like he's tasting them.
I resist the urge to nudge his hip with mine. Not in public. “As for what I do, I'm a corporate lawyer.”
“Law… sayer? Is that a law maker?” He stares at me, jaw slack with awe. “You make the laws here, Law-rah?”
A chuckle escapes me. “I don't make the laws, lawyers weave a way through them for their client and their goals. The only thing I make are arguments, and sometimes contracts.”
“What are contracts?” He eases the dough out into a pretty good round for his first try.
“They're binding conventions between two or more parties. Like, rules laid out for everyone to agree beforehand, so there’s… no surprises…” I trail off as I realize how much this chimes for what I'd been thinking about my sex life earlier.
Urgh. I hate deep self-reflection.
I inform him, “I think that pizza base’s done, so set it to one side and we'll work on the next.” He does so, responding to my orders easily. “So, what about you?”
“As I described, I am a Base for Nevare, the foundation for him to soar from. Parthiastocks are enforcers, able to work together seamlessly with our thoughts tied to seek out dissenters and law-breakers through their own mental admissions.”
“So, the mind police?” Cold creeps over me.
He inclines his head. “We enforce the laws of females.”
Despite the dystopian vibes, I'm curious. “And what are those laws like?”
His jaw tightens. “Rigid. Inflexible. Built as a tight confinement around the clones, to keep them in check.”
“But due process is followed, right?”
“Yes,” he says slowly. “Due process for a clone suspected of a crime is arrest, and most arrests end in summary execution.”
Shit. “Don't they get a trial? A fair hearing?”
“A trial, yes.” He goes quiet for a moment. “I've only seen one so far that didn't end in execution, however.”
Fuck. “Ellen said the women were in charge and treated the clones like shit, but this sounds like a totalitarian, autocratic regime writing rules that suppress and oppress!” I wish I had dough to pummel now. “Which females make the laws? All of them?”
His brows dip further. “I don't know. All I know is they're branded into me.”
I'm almost afraid to ask this. “Literally?”
“In my genetic coding, yes. Obeying laws handed down by those higher than me and a need for orders threads through me. Without orders, a Parthiastock will go mad, and I could sooner fly than disobey them.”
I've seen that for myself, of course, but while Arik and Nevare relax when given instructions, Dom nearly swoons. He loves being told what to do.
I squint at the glint of silver on the horizon. “How do new laws get made, out of interest?”
“I've only seen punitive laws developed and passed, and those happen during trials.”
I’m fuming. “Is it the burden of the prosecutor to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt? Is there a jury?”
I suspect there isn't, and the way he's giving me confused puppy eyes confirms my theory.
I continue, “You said you'd seen trials. What are they like?”
“For a new type of transgression, the male is brought before a panel. Females judge what the law should be, led by the Voice, the one who speaks for them all.”
“Is that the leader?”
“No. The Prif is the leader,” he says patiently. “Once females decide the punishment for the new transgression, it is carried out.”
“So there's no process for determining his guilt? Whether he actually did it or not?”
He looks at me like I've grown a second head. “He will have been arrested or turned himself in. His guilt is guaranteed, and once the females have determined what should be done about it, that is applied to all such crimes going forward.”
That's how they build the penal code? “Most trials, therefore, end in a guilty verdict?”
“Yes. Execution follows immediately afterwards.” His hands clench slowly as he works the next dough. “But we need orders. Orders are good.”
“Yes, but ones that work for social harmony, not just killing people whenever you like and justifying the murders.” I chuck a handful of flour down in disgust.
“We need… contracts.” Looking sideways at me, a small smile crosses his face. “Rules for everyone to agree. No surprises.”
“Yeah.” I chuckle briefly, but my belly still slides around uncomfortably, tossed about by the realization that he and the others came from a horrible society where the law is as misused as they are. “Fuck me.”
His eyes widen. “Is that an order?” he chokes out quietly.
My cheeks heat. “No, no, it's an expression.”
Nodding slowly, he whispers, “I did wonder when the nanites translated for me, as it crosses your boundary.”
Good, he remembers. The anger dissolves a little, but I still can't shake the idea of all these clones on another planet living like that. It's horrible.
He sets aside the next pizza on the counter. “I wish I could be more useful here on earth. I'd be delighted to enforce laws for you, Law-rah.”
“Well, they're mainly dances with words and paperwork.” I love the mental image of Dom as my paralegal assistant, gatekeeping the timewasters in my emails like a gruff internet bodyguard.
My phone buzzes in my jeans pocket and I slide it out, my stomach plummeting when I see the caller ID. Morgan, the partner who doesn’t remember my name, ever.
“Excuse me, I need to take this,” I say, walking as calmly but quickly as I can out of the tent, leaving Dom to tackle the rest of the pizza bases.
Keeping my voice bright, I answer, “Hi Morgan. How's Mary?”
“Mary? Who gives a fuck,” Morgan seethes. Shit, I can hear the steam coming out of his ears from here. “I emailed you just now, Lisa, and I get an out of office reply.”
I quickly check my watch. “It's nearly six thirty, Morgan—”
“And? If a client wants me at three in the morning, I fucking answer, and I do it with a smile. You know why?”
“Because you can charge out of hours fees,” I state, wrapping my hand around the receiver. I don't want to piss him off with ambient noise and the wind around here can be pretty loud.
“Because I charge out of hours fees and administration. It takes me far too long to track down my fucking paralegals.” The rush of air on his end—probably from his flared nostrils—nearly deafens me.
“I'm not a paralegal,” I reiterate. “I was promoted to—”
“So you think you can skive off work because you're higher up the food chain? Sweetheart, that means more work, not less.”
Anyone calling me sweetheart gets the side eye, but when it's said in that condescending tone, they get a scathing look and a call to HR.
Hold back, Laura. Don't fire yourself.
Pushing my shoulders down forcibly to make myself feel more relaxed, I say with a sweet voice, “How can I help you, Morgan?”
“Good. My document templates all went missing just now, so I can't send a letter. I've sent you the text I need.”
My grip on my phone tightens. I bet he doesn't call John for jobs like this.
“Lisa? Hello? Fuck, are you still there?”
“I'll get it done, Morgan.”
“About fucking time.” He doesn't say thanks or bye, just hangs up.
I make sure the call is disconnected before I roar, “Fucking asshole!” into the teeth of the wind.
“Law-rah.” Dom stands outside the tent, dark hair whipping in the breeze. “Nevare said you were enraged, he could feel it spiking over. Are you alright?”
“I can handle it,” I say. I don't want to snap at him.
In two steps he's right next to me, blocking the wind with his proximity. “Where's the threat, Law-rah?” he asks, glancing around before his gaze falls on my phone.
For a second, I want his heavy arms around me, pulling me into the protection of his broad chest.
But only for a second.
“Just a jerk at work,” I explain. “I have to go fix his document because he's too incompetent to do it himself.”
His brows knit together. “Can I help, Law-rah?”
The image rises again of him as my eager assistant. This time I chuckle. “Nah, I've got it. Tell Ellen I'll be ten minutes, tops.”
He stays in place as I leave, a beacon of stone in the wind. Only when I get inside do I realize he might have thought I was laughing at him.
It takes an hour of back and forth to fix Morgan's document, because of fucking course he didn't put in anything like the client's address or the proper references to the case.
Then, every time I drop the text into my template, the formatting goes crazy.
When I finally track down that every line ends with a paragraph break like he was pushing return on a typewriter, I'm incensed.
“Earth-vexing scut of a prick,” I mutter.
Shade twines around my fingers, more mobile than before as he feeds off my anger. Yeah, well, I have a lot of it. I hope it doesn't poison the little guy.
I send Morgan his document and barely resist the urge to slam my laptop shut. I don't mind helping people, but his entitled attitude pisses me off. Morgan might be having a bad day, but he's shoved his mood onto me through his actions.
I take deep breaths. I can choose whether to pass this on or let the negativity die with me. “Or with you, since you seem to feast on it,” I tell Shade.
The little plant waves its fronds, shivering slightly.
The wind keeps picking up, but it isn't until I hear a huge roar that I glance outside.
“Laura!” Ellen's voice is panicked.
“In here,” I call. “Sorry, I'm nearly done—”
“It's Arabella.” Ellen runs in, face soaked. At first I think it's from the rain, then I realize.
It's tears.
“She collapsed. She's really ill, and Gara’s taken her to Oloria for testing. He thinks that's the only way to figure out what she has.” Ellen hiccups. “He's never seen it before, but Olorian science is obviously way more advanced than ours.”
“She will be safe,” Ilia rumbles, but my ears are still ringing.
Arabella's gone.