“Yesterday I discovered that at thirty-five, which at the time would have been considered my prime, I died when my plane crash-landed on a bluff. Then, by some magical twist of fate, a drunk woman ordered my DNA to be injected into a manupartner kit, which malfunctioned and brought me back to life. Now everyone I know is dead. Everything I had is gone. And the future is so bizarre it’s making my fucking head spin. But believe me, I’m trying my fucking hardest to make the best of it. I’ve been given another opportunity to try to make something of myself—I know that—but don’t act like you have any idea what I’m going through.” He steps into the spare room, slamming the door in her face.
He realizes she’s only trying to help, but he needs a minute alone to gather his composure. But first, change. He peels his way out of the clothing, discarding it in a pile in the corner. A minute later, he has a loose pair of pajama pants on. He sorts through the items he unceremoniously dumped on to the bed. There are a few other pairs of pajama pants, along with some boxer briefs, but no T-shirts. They must be in another package. He eyes the door as if it’s an affront to his person. He’ll have to venture out to retrieve the rest of the packages. God, the thought of having to confront her smiling face again. She’ll have probably thought of a clever retort by now.
Bracing himself, he exits the room, making a beeline to the stack of bags and boxes. He feels Kate’s eyes on him before he even turns to confirm. As he addresses her with an annoyed glare, her eyes dip to the waistband of the pajama pants and lower.
She swallows before redirecting her stare to meet his. “Those are nice.”
A pink flush crawls up her neck. Then she looks away as if she knows she’s violating some unspoken agreement.
If he’s being honest with himself, which he is without fail, he can acknowledge that an attraction lies between them. Purely physical. But inappropriate. Even if he gave in to the attraction only to relieve a little stress, which he’s pretty sure she’d be willing to do, she’d only be letting him because that’s what she originally intended to do with him. Because she’s desperate for anyone who will ease her loneliness. But he’s a real man, not a sex doll or programmable companion. And it’s not like she’d be picking him for him.
What is he saying? Even if she was picking him, James wants nothing to do with this woman, considering she’s become the symbol of his plight. He can’t even look at her, with her unnaturally bright eyes, and perfect—well,everything, and not see his unwanted reality.
Part of him is desperately clinging to this new opportunity he’s been given. Another part mourns the life he’s left behind. Not only the money. The comfort. The control. The familiarity of his world. Being able to expect what comes next and the sense of ease he took for granted. Hell, he even misses his Social Security number. So much better than the awful tags on his feet, which are nothing more than a product code. He clenches his jaw, refusing to let these feelings overpower his resolve.
“I can help carry these to your room,” Kate offers, drawing him out of his momentary lapse into self-pity.
“No,” he barks, wincing at the unnecessarily aggressive tone. He doesn’t want her in his space. Her eyes become glassy for the second time since he’s known her. He sighs, unable to apologize. More like unwilling. “I’ve got it.”
Kate reverts to the quiet, observant woman he first met as she watches him move the packages to his room. She isn’t gawking at his physique anymore. Only observing as if he’s some sort of lab rat. Or an experiment she’s trying to understand. He almost prefers the excessively chipper version of her from the dog park. It feels less foreboding, at least.
Before he shuts the door once more, she says, “I’ll order us some food.”
Shit. He was supposed to talk to her about that. “Okay.” He winces, hoping to God it won’t be another box of bland rice.
When James finally emerges with a slightly clearer head, he spots a takeout container waiting for him on a coffee table. Kate has opened the lid and set a glass of Vine and a VitaShot next to it. The pangs in his stomach are at odds with the revulsion he feels toward the food. Triangles of a spongy bread sit in a neat stack next to what appears to be cubes of sautéed tofu in a brown sauce. At least he’ll get some protein.
He sighs as he takes his seat. “Listen, Kate, we need to discuss a few things.” He’ll ease into the conversation with something simple, like dinner. Build some resolve. Then set some ground rules about their dynamic and clarify expectations. “I appreciate you taking care of our dinner, but we’re going to need to get some proper food. I can’t survive on”—he waves his hand at the spread before him—“whatever this is.”
Her brows twitch, but stay mostly frozen. “Thisisproper food.”
“No, I mean I need some chicken and vegetables, or steak. A salad would be fantastic. This is just . . .” He takes a bite,trying not to grimace as he chews, then swallows. “I mean, I don’t know how people stay so fit if this is all you eat.”
Kate gives him a slow nod. “I see. I’m afraid this is something else you’ll have to come to terms with.” She scratches her head. “I’m trying to figure out how to explain this. The food that you are describing is a thing of the past. Literally. Think, James. If humans can’t survive the atmosphere, how could a cow? We have meat substitutes now that are so close to the real thing, from what I understand, I don’t think you’d be able to tell the difference.”
That’s right. He should have made the connection at the dog park. At least imitation meat would be better than eating rice and noodles all the time. “Then can we get some of that?”
“REAL Steak and enviro-greens are premium products. Most people now can only afford to enjoy that on special occasions, like their birthday or Holiday. If I shifted some things around in my budget, we could probably afford them once a week. But . . .” Kate’s Scientist Face slips back into place. “No, I don’t think that would be wise, considering your lease. With the clothing, the extra food . . . I don’t think we should splurge. You’re going to have to get used to the food I provide. As far as nutrition goes, that’s what the morning pick-me-UP nourishment packets and mealtime VitaShots are for.”
It takes him a moment to process what she’s saying, noting she didn’t mention forgoing the expensive shoes as an option. He eyes the packages still sitting inside the door.
“This brings up something else I’ve been meaning to ask you about.” He considers the best approach. There must be a financial services industry, even if there isn’t a stock market exactly. People retire still, right? And there are still scientists. And cosmetic surgeons, or whatever the equivalent is during this time. Surely that means that there are still financial analysts and venture capitalists. Someone has to own all of these businesses and buildings.
He’ll have to start from the bottom, but he’s done it once before. He never touched a dime of his trust fund. It was like a rite of passage to him. This would be the same.
But here in this future world, he isn’t supposed to be a real person. For all intents and purposes, he is a product. Solving his identity is a top priority. “Now that I’m here, there’s no going back.”
When he pauses to gauge her reaction, she urges, “Go on.”
“I don’t suppose we can take out a loan or open a credit account with GROW?” Surely, if that were an option, she’d have already mentioned it.
“No. Credit is a thing of the past. Loans in all forms are banned. If you can’t pay with unicoin upfront, then you don’t get it. And that includes loans from your friends,” she explains. “NHOS set laws in place banning any of the pitfalls of prior societies, hoping to avoid those same outcomes. The current economy is a highly regulated system, which limits speculation.”
He nods, processing. “Which would include extending credit.”
“My friend Aurone can tell you more about it if you’re interested. It’s not really my field of expertise. He’s a systems engineer, so it isn’t his either, but he likes to dabble with his little side projects.” She nonchalantly waves a hand through the air.
Side projects? That sparks James’s interest. He definitely wants to meet the friend she’s referring to. “Okay. That means I have a little under three months to figure out a way to make an income. Then I’ll get my own place and pay you back, as we discussed. I assume I’ll have to get some sort of identification to do this, correct?”
