The Fly House (The UtopYA Collection) (3 page)

And then, there was the third choice, which wasn't so much a choice as a possibility.  Death.  And it could happen with either the first or second choice, depending on how things went. 

Maeve sucked her lip ring between her teeth and traced the tangy edge with her tongue.  She sat like that for a while before she picked up the phone, released the jewelry from her teeth, and dialed In Deep Ink.  A guy with a buttery voice answered.

"Hi, Chili?  Yeah, it's me, Maeve.  Do me a favor and let Wyatt know that I'm not coming in today," she said.  Before the guy could answer, Maeve darted her tongue across her lips, jiggling the ring at the corner of her mouth.  She cleared her throat.  "Let him know I quit, alright?"

***

Fuck it, Maeve thought as she pulled up her sputtering carbon footprint to the Archive's valet's curb.  A young guy in a red vest and black pants jogged over.  He popped open her door and thrust his hand inside.  Maeve took the offer of assistance, scouring the valet's face for signs of recognition.  His eyes lit up like sparklers, his gaze flowed down from her pierced eyebrow, past her septum ring, to the toes of her shitkickers.  She had a dozen sharp remarks ready to raze any attitude she got from him, but the guy only glanced back at another valet, who was sitting on the valet's bench, tapping his watch with a smirk. 

Maeve was relieved.  They might know who she was, but it didn't matter to them; she could've ridden in on a camel.  The two valets were having some sort of contest and all she had to do was get the hell out of their way.  She complied.  The Valet roared off as soon as she cleared the fender, and Maeve noticed, as she walked to The Archive's revolving front door, that the valet still seating on the bench was frowning now as he stared at his watch.

Good.  She couldn't help but smile to herself.  Team Maeve should always win.

Swirling into the building, Maeve paused half way across the lobby.  A high, glossy black counter stood in front of her, hiding almost everything behind it, but the elegant blond top knot on a receptionist's head.  As Maeve drew near the counter, she saw a silver and glass elevator ascending up the farthest wall with her mother and father inside it. 

Her mother wore a teal pencil skirt and matching suit coat that had carefully tailored, elegant ruffles at the pockets.  She could make out her mother's lips, twitching like cat's whiskers as she spoke to Maeve's father.  There was no mistaking the topic of their conversation when Mr. Aypotu thrust his index finger in Maeve's direction.  Maeve smiled up at them, jutting her lip ring a bit as she waved, until they'd risen so high that Maeve could only see the black bottom of the elevator. 

The buckles on Maeve's leather shitkickers rattled as she crossed the last bit of marbled lobby floor to the front desk.  The receptionist, attached to the hair knot, glanced up at Maeve with an immediate little frown.  With another blink, the woman recognized Maeve and quickly swapped the disdain for an ass-kissing smile.

"Oh!  Ms. Aypotu!  Welcome to the Archive!  It's wonderful to meet you!  My niece is a huge fan!"

"Thanks," Maeve said.  This kind of thing was always miserable.  Fan of what?  The tabloid accounts of her vast failures?  Maeve was acutely aware that she'd never done anything to earn someone else's admiration, aside from being born into a family with a heap of loot.  The receptionist still rambled on.

"She's nine years old and she's Miss Independence.  She drives my sister nuts wanting to get her face all pierced up like...well, she thinks all that is..." The receptionist circled a finger over her face, ending at her slightly jacked upper lip.  Maeve didn't help.  She was past apologizing for her appearance.  Instead, she gave the woman a blank stare.  The woman straightened in her chair, finger-padding invisible from the keyboard in front of her.  "What I mean is...all your, ehm...style...is impressive.  Olivia loves all that craziness!  She buys every magazine with your face on it."

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 electricity 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."