CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 18
Office phones are ringing. One of the fluorescent lights overhead flickers, excited to trigger some unsuspecting person’s epilepsy, or so I’ve read in human literature. I’ve also read that employees are due safe working conditions by the government. Not for the first time, I shake my head. If employers don’t have the alien decency to make their work environment safe for those in their care, they should comply because the government cares.
When I verbally processed this to my nearest cubemate—a word to mean they are ‘next door’ to me in our maze of what I’velearned is called a cubicle farm—my cubemate laughed and laughed.
The smell of stale, poorly brewed coffee permeates the air, along with frustration and hopelessness, the default scents here in our office.
Except for my cubicle. I have supplied the means to enjoy a much cheerier cube of space. It’s been three weeks since I was moved to the cornermost desk on the outer labyrinth row of desks, not so subtly the farthest away from my coworker herd. My nearest fellow cubemate is eight cubicles away, and is of low social status due to an unfortunate habit of spitting every time they speak—not venom, just human saliva—which is doubly unfortunate because they also have a lack of awareness in regards to personal space, violating it by standing directly in the face of whomever they speak to. By placing me even further back than this personal space-invading, saliva spraying herdmate, it”s quite clear that I have been firmly, deliberately isolated.
They believe that I take joy in spoiling others” pleasure. Which, if this were true, would make me a very unpleasant individual to interact with. I can sympathize with their concern. I accept my social status here.
Despite my acceptance, Julie was quite protectively, aggressively upset on my behalf that I’ve been singled out and pushed out of the fold. I had to assure her that I did not require her intervention. I am happy to take the opportunity to practice differentiation and sharpen my human homologizing skills without being in the observational crosshairs of a group of humans.
I am also fascinated to observe the black sheep effect in action. It’s a phenomenon not so peculiar, we see it in herd animals on my planet—but to see humans single me out so coldly here fascinates me. The humans I am fortunate enough to know on my planet are very affectionate toward me so this was unexpected. Being outcasted is not as unwelcome as one would assume though, because the more the humans avoid me, the less chances there are for them to accidentally order me to complete actions for them without my agency.
My cloak-covered back is to a line of office doors belonging to the associate attorneys nested here. My cubemate is taking their break allotment. And my cubicle smells incredibly pleasant.
Inhaling the ‘proprietary’ blend Hannah helped me create—it possesses sweet tasting notes of fine cocoa, warm vanilla, and a bold caramel—I set down my writing instrument, momentarily distracted. Carefully I adjust my framed photo of Saphkarra, which was a delightful gift to me from Hannah. Every time I look at it, I am touched. I nudge it thwartwise to my alien aloe plant in its decorative pot on my desk, pressing it closer to my satchel of roasted, synthetically flavored ground coffee beans that naturally aromatize my desk space with morning cheer. It”s my way of combating the—
“YOU!” a female barks.
I tip over my aloe plant. Quickly I right it, and lurch around in my office chair.
A woman is staring hard at me from an open office door.
Alarm fills me. Her tone and posture are aggressive, and despite the fact that she is not familiar and I’m not certain what I might have done to earn punishment, with her explosive, commandingly delivered word I am more than certain punishment is imminent. I profusely apologize instinctively springs to my tongue, but I manage to swallow it back as I force myself to stand, and not to bow to her as I’m compelled to do, and I utter a slightly stronger reply. “Yes?” I ask cautiously, bracing myself.
She is holding her door with one hand—a clawed hand, with long scarlet red nails so like a Gryfala’s talons that my eyes widen. She snaps the fingers of her other hand and points to the carpet under her feet. “Get over here.”
Obediently, I scramble away from the safety of my desk and arrive at the spot she’s indicated, where I drop to my knees, cringing.
“What the hell are you doing?” she bites out, glaring into my eyes until I’m properly tyrannized.
“Obeying you…?”
“Get up!” she barks.
Instantly I’m on my feet.
“Do something for me,” she demands.
“Anything you order,” I agree, my hearts sinking. “But I belong to Hannah. And I am working for Julie.”
Her brows scrunch. “Hannah who? And who’s Julie?”
“Julie is one of our firm”s secretaries. Hannah is—”
“A secretary?” She shakes her head. “Forget her. Forget them both.”
Light explodes behind my eyes. I suck in a breath past my clenched teeth and clutch my head. My skull throbs.
“Are you—” the female starts, then sighs impatiently. “Are you all right?”
“No…” I tell her honestly. Because my system is in a riot. It’s not biologically possible to erase memories by willpower, and this is a good thing. Otherwise this female would have just forced me to callously destroy every interaction I’ve had with my mate by her inconsiderate order.
Breathing heavily, shaken by the seriousness of the threat, I narrow my eyes on her.
She sighs again. “Look, I’ve got errands to run but I don’t have the time. You’re a legal assistant?”
“Yes,” I manage weakly, struggling.
“Why are you wearing a cloak at your desk?” she asks, peering at me as if my appearance just occurred to her. Her gaze darts over my shoulders. She draws herself up even straighter. Her eyes narrow. “There’s something weird about you. What’s wrong with your back?”
Rubbing at my aching temple, I find myself nearly glaring at her. How very rude of her to ask in this way. I know this is rude because Hannah is shocked whenever people around the city have asked me thusly. “You could say that I have a condition called kyphosis,” I tell her carefully. “And I conceal this with my cloak.” My stomach twists and I want to escape her more than I have wanted anything in some time.
She doesn’t look satisfied by my answer. “Are you allowed to dress like that?”
It’s understandable that she would wonder. I”m in yet another variation of a hooded cardigan complete with a knit cloak. It doesn’t quite match the average office wear here. But even my coworkers have grudgingly complimented my style today, leading one to extrapolate that they approve.
I attempt to clear my dry throat. “I have been allowed—” by Julie “—to wear concealing items of clothing,” I begin to tell her.
She rolls her eyes, losing interest in my answer. “Fine, whatever. Look, I have a job for you to do.”
My Comm unit beeps. Shakily I draw it out of my breast pocket and attempt to read the screen through blurred eyes. There are two messages sent three of Earth’s increments, called minutes, apart. I must have been too absorbed in my space to hear the earlier chimes.
JULIE:Time for you to take your break. I”ll sit nearby like usual and make sure no one orders you to do anything.
JULIE:Did you get lost?
JULIE:Jonoh, you have thirty seconds to show up here or reply or I’m going to hunt you down.
The Gryfala-like woman snaps her fingers again to regain my attention.
Just as my gaze is forced up to hers, my Comm, which now mimics a cell phone and receives human communications by some Na’rith magic, rings. I look down at my Comm again, and the identifier JULIE flashes over my screen. Julie is calling. Julie will save me!
The Gryfala snaps, “Don’t answer it.”
My head whips up and I gape at her in horror. “Please stop giving me orders.” I turn from her, frantically searching the cubicle labyrinth. “JULIE!” I shout.
“Oh, shut up about Julie,” the human Gryfala orders impatiently.
To my horror, my mouth snaps closed.
“For now, you’re mine. You can just ignore her until you take care of a few things for me. Let me get you the cleaner’s card. It’s got their address and my order info. They told me they’re closing early today but I have a court date first thing on Monday so I need you to pick up my dry cleaning for me before they close, got it?”
“Yes, princess,” I mumble.
Her head snaps back and her eyes narrow slowly. “What did you call me?”
My own eyes have widened. “I meant no offense!” I say quickly. “It’s what the female—it’s, ah, what the women I have lived with prefer to be called. I meant no disrespect.”
Eyeing me suspiciously, her lips purse. “Just shut up. Phone number,” she demands.
Silenced, utterly unable to do anything but what she”s commanded, I frantically tap through my Comm’s menu to find my unit”s number and hold it up to fulfill her behest.
My Comm rings again.
The human Gryfala orders, “Ignore it. Take care of my stuff first.”
Tripping as I back away from her, my cloaked wing talons worrying at never before seen speeds, I race out of the office, unable to ask for Julie’s help or to even check my device and read her missives.
Cars honk at me as I cross the busily trafficked transportation tarmac in a rush. I crossed at the appointed time, but as Hannah and Julie explained to me weeks ago, humans in this city are uniquely impatient and I’ve since noticed that they almost honk at me as a courtesy, especially if I wave at them in greeting.
Today though, I don’t wave. Not to anyone. I feel very rude as I swiftly charge past humans stepping onto the graded curb and I take to the tarmac as if it’s a raceway.
Clutched in my hand is the parchment rectangle for the cleaners, my destination. On the other side of the card is the mock-Gryfala’s name so they can identify whose clothes I am retrieving. But once I reach the launderer’s, how will I communicate with the humans I encounter as I complete the Gryfala’s orders?
By typing my needs into my Comm and holding it up for others to read as if I’m mute, I suppose. I draw my forearm over my face, sweating profusely from stress.
The garment cleaning shop appears in front of me and I slam to a stop, causing a commuting human to crash into my back. I frantically make silent, apologetic gestures over my shoulder as I veer toward the garment shop door.
I enter the dry cleaners, and when the clerk asks me what I need, I find I can reply verbally, much to my relief. “Hello. I need to pick up this princess’s laundered items—erm, this human female’s—I mean, this woman’s clothing!” I finish, stumbling over my words in panic.
The very tiny clerk behind the counter peers up at me as if she’s concerned I’ve lost my mind.
But she helps me. And soon, loaded down like an unwilling pack animal, a stolen one, one who wants to return to his rightful person, I stumble to the door. Feeling despondent and harassed, I leave the establishment and begin the considerable trek back to my place of employ—
I halt, staring. Serendipitously, across the street is Hannah”s shop. I was so discombobulated I didn’t recognize the street I was nearing. Hannah is near! Clutching garment bags to my chest, I dash for her.