Torn (Lords of the City #1) (4 page)

Holding tightly onto the straps of my canvas bag, which I wore over my skater dress and a cardigan, I braced myself. I had no idea of what waited for me inside the skyscraper. The dark exterior was its armor, protecting its secrets. Pushing myself forward, I tapped a cherry blossom, which glowed brighter under my touch, and passed through the automatic doors to face my destiny.

Where am I?
I thought, awestruck as I stepped into the lobby.
And when am I?

The lobby rose up several stories, creating a wide open space filled with movement and innovation. A split staircase connected the mezzanine to the ground floor, the illuminated steps flashing a sequence of bold colors and abstract patterns. Huge digital screens were fixed across the marble flooring and along the staircase. On each screen, the image of a woman with mocha skin, profound brown eyes, and a friendly smile greeted all who passed by. With her stylish bangs and smooth complexion, she looked like she belonged on the cover of a magazine.

A digital assistant,
I recognized.
Fascinating. It’s like putting a face on Siri.

The lobby was full of people, most in lab coats, but they weren’t dressed like any scientists I knew. Their clothes were exquisite, as if they were attending a corporate event and the lab coats were an afterthought.

“Deborah O’Brien,” one of the scientists said to a nearby screen. “When is my first meeting?”

“One moment, please, Deborah,” the digital assistant responded. A few seconds later, a map of the building appeared. “Your meeting is at three o’clock this afternoon in the boardroom on the research floor. Would you like me to send the brief to your personal device?”

“Yes, please,” Deborah said. “Thanks.” And then she scurried off.

Though the building was dominated by the Technological Age, I was happy to see whoever designed it had incorporated natural elements into the lobby, as if saying the advancement of humankind was as organic as the woodlands outside the city. Tall plants thrived between the digital screens, and to the right a waterfall gushed from the wall, landing in a pond where koi fish swam. Best of all, on the ceiling were lights that charted all the constellations in the sky. The constellations that currently overlooked Chicago pulsed the brightest, a reminder that though we couldn’t see them, the stars, and all other aspects of science, constantly governed us.

Perhaps there was a place for me here after all even though Stafford Scientific wasn’t known for saving the whales or monitoring its carbon footprint. It invented contraptions that offered diabetes sufferers a painless way to inject insulin. Holograms and three-dimensional technologies were developed within its labs. Rumors circulated that they had made massive leaps in nanotechnology, little robots that could repair the human body from the inside.

I’d read almost every press release possible on the company to prepare for the interview, and none had mentioned anything concerning environmental conservation. But now, standing like a lost girl in the middle of the lobby, it seemed there was more to Stafford Scientific than the newspapers reported.

“Miss Clare,” the digital assistant called out to me from a nearby screen. “Welcome to Stafford Scientific. I trust your drive from Milwaukee was not too bothersome?”

I whirled around, wondering how the hell she knew who I was. “Umm, no,” I answered awkwardly, gripping my canvas bag tighter. “It was fine.”

“Fantastic. Your interview will be on the top floor. Please make your way through security and to the elevators.” A map of the lobby appeared on the screen. “Security is located within the central booth.”

“Thanks,” I muttered.

At security, an elderly man with deep laughter lines sat in the booth behind a flat screen computer, his blue uniform perfectly starched. “Afternoon, doll,” he greeted. “I’m Old Ben. How can I help you today?”

“Hello,” I returned. “My name is Imogen Clare. I’m here for an interview.”

I reached into my bag for my driver’s license, but he waved his hand. “Not necessary. I have all your information here.” He leaned towards the computer. “Imogen Clare,” he instructed the machine, louder than what was likely necessary.

Sure enough, on a screen fixed to the front of the booth, my photo, my home address, and even a short personal history appeared. There was nothing too impressive to read. I’d done well in school, despite holding two jobs. My grandma had paid for my tuition, but my books and other costs were on me. Because I was either studying or working, I hadn’t gotten into much trouble.

I groaned. Yep, there it was. The one time I had been in trouble. When I was a senior, I’d been arrested for indecent exposure. A group of us had run naked into Lake Michigan, our decision ruled by the buzz of cheap wine, but we’d been released without charge.

My grandma’s death was mentioned at the bottom of the screen, as was my mother’s abandonment.

No known living family.

“You really do your research, don’t ya?” I asked, slightly uncomfortable with how transparent my life was.

“We have to in a place like this. Everyone is trying to steal our research.” He handed me a tablet with a contract on it. “Sign at the bottom with your name and fingerprint.”

“What is it?”

“A non-disclosure agreement. As you’re walking through the halls on your way to the interview, you may see things that the world isn’t ready for. This contract says you agree to keep everything you see confidential, from the toilet paper rolls in the bathroom to the monster robots in the basement.” He laughed, but I wasn’t sure he was joking.

Quickly, I flicked through the contract. A non-disclosure agreement was pretty common in business, so I didn’t pay much attention to the jargon as I scanned through it. “Anything else?” I asked as I handed the tablet backed to him, signed and sealed.

“Just hold out your arm and roll up your sleeve.”

I did, expecting him to wrap some sort of security bracelet on me, but instead he held a pen-like object against my forearm. Before I could protest, my skin was pinched. “What was that?” I demanded, jerking my arm away.

“A microchip.”

“What?” I rubbed my arm, irritated. “I didn’t give you permission to microchip me.”

“You did. In the contract you just signed. Don’t worry, doll. There’s no side effects, and it can easily be removed when you leave the company. Mr. Stafford insists on it. He likes to be in control. He doesn’t like people wandering the halls of his company who can’t be tracked, possibly lurking where they shouldn’t be. It also expedites the security process. With that microchip, you have access to the elevators. They won’t move unless everyone inside has one.”

I’d read about Mr. Stafford, the man who had founded the company. He was said to be highly efficient, which I took as code for being a tyrant. I didn’t know what he looked like, but I imagined him to be an intolerant devil who made everyone beneath him dance.

“What happens if someone refuses?”

“They’re not allowed in.”

The microchip made me itch with indignation. I wanted to remove it and march out, but I really needed the job, even if it meant becoming one of Mr. Stafford’s lab rats. “Fine. I’ll play. What do I do now? Do you need a DNA sample or something? Maybe a blood sacrifice?”

Old Ben chuckled. “I like you, doll. You’ve got pluck.” He minimized my information from the screen. “You’re all set. The elevator will take you to the top floor.”

“What’s on the top floor?”

“The gatekeeper. You’ll do fine. I’ve only seen a few people leave crying. Just follow procedure, and you’ll be okay.”

“Sounds like fun,” I muttered and headed for the elevators, still uneasy with the idea of a microchip in my arm.

There were no buttons in the elevator. For a moment, I felt the same panic my grandma had when I’d handed her a smartphone for the first time, but thankfully a small huddle of scientists slipped in with me. “Fifth floor,” one of them said, causing the elevator to move.

I waited until they got off before I meekly uttered, “Top floor.”

Purple lasers suddenly streamed across the elevator and scanned me as if I were a walking barcode. “Access granted,” the voice of the digital assistant called out, and the elevator lurched upward.

This thing better not have X-ray vision,
I thought, distracting myself from the nerves that made my hands shake. Only those in power occupied the top floors of Chicago’s skyscrapers. It was the same in every city, every empire. Whoever this gatekeeper was, they far outranked me.

When the elevator doors opened, I was startled by a redheaded young man who stood directly in front of me, so close I could count the freckles across his nose. Finely threaded and creaseless, he was dressed in a black tuxedo and fancy white dress shirt.

“Good afternoon, Miss Clare,” he said, standing with a confidence that surpassed his years. “Welcome to Stafford Scientific. I’m Peter, the butler. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your room.”

“My room?”

“Where you can prepare for your interview.”

“Of course,” I responded, trying to sound as if I was accustomed to everything unusual about this place.

Colossal vault-like doors lined the hall Peter led me down, as if they held giants within. There were no windows in the hall, or people for that matter, but there was wealth, seen in the Italian marble floors and walls. It was stark, like an abandoned hospital, but its minimalism was what made it striking.

“How old are you?” I asked Peter, whose red hair was like a flame against the white. His face had the roundness of a boy still in high school, but he carried himself with a prestige I had never achieved.

“Eighteen,” he answered. “I graduated last year.”

“What high school?”

He slowed his pace so that we walked side-by-side. “Not high school. College. I’m in grad school now, working on a PhD.”

I was impressed. “So you’re like a boy genius. Are you the gatekeeper? Will you be interviewing me?” I didn’t mind working for someone so young. He was obviously well connected if he was eighteen and working on the top floor.

“You flatter me. No, I won’t be interviewing you. I’m just an intern. My job is to greet people, not hire them.”

“Why?” I probed. “You’re obviously a smart kid. Shouldn’t you be in a position worthier of your education? Not playing butler.”

He stopped outside a door and ran his arm across a scanner, unlocking it. How he distinguished it from the other doors was a mystery. They were all identical. No inscriptions set one door apart from another.

“At Stafford Scientific, everyone starts at the bottom,” Peter explained. “Mr. Stafford believes it builds loyalty.” He ushered me through the door. “Please, wait here. You can help yourself to whatever you need.”

I stood in a suite with a view of the lake. In the kitchenette, a basket full of peanuts and fruit sat on a counter over the mini-fridge, but I wasn’t hungry. My stomach ached with apprehension. Digital assistants, butlers, and personal suites — it was all over my head, making me long for the simplicity of Thailand, especially the peace of the sea.

“Thank you,” I said to Peter. “Good thing I’m not afraid of heights,” I joked, pointing towards the window. “I don’t think the birds even fly this high.”

“You’re perfectly safe,” he assured me before closing the door.

The screen on the wall in front of the leather couch came to life. “Miss Clare,” the digital assistant said. “During your interview with Mr. Stafford, there are procedures you must follow. The proper way to address him is ‘sir’…”

“Hang on a minute,” I interrupted, my heart pounding. “I’m being interviewed by Mr. Stafford? He’s the gatekeeper?”

“Yes. Mr. Stafford will be interviewing you today. I do not understand your gatekeeper reference, but this is his company, so he has the ultimate say on who is allowed to work here. When you stand before him, please address him as ‘sir.’ Are you wearing perfume?”

“No,” I answered distantly. My hands were sweaty, and my mind raced. I hadn’t prepared for this. I thought I’d be meeting someone from Human Resources, not the lord of the castle. It didn’t make sense.

“That is fortunate. He does not like perfume. If you are wearing any, I kindly ask that you use the toiletries in the bathroom to wash it off.” She continued to list how I was to behave around Mr. Stafford, but I barely listened. Instead, I was thinking of how I could present my qualifications without sounding like a newbie scientist, inexperienced and naïve.

“Miss Clare,” Peter said from the door, joining me once again. “You okay?”

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Would you like me to call the medic?” He seemed genuinely concerned.

“No. It’s just nerves.”

“I understand. Mr. Stafford is intense. And strict. But he’s not cruel. There’s nothing to worry about. The interview will be quick. Mine was, at least.”

“You interviewed with him too?”

“Everyone does. He has the final word on every new hire and every new promotion, no matter how small or big the position is.”

It made me feel better. I was still nervous, but I was no longer in danger of a heart attack.

“Mr. Stafford is ready,” the digital assistant informed us. “Good luck, Miss Clare. And please, mind the procedures.”

“I don’t remember half of what she said,” I admitted to Peter as we left the suite and continued down the hall, closer to the devil himself.

“The main thing is to call him ‘sir.’ You’ll learn the rest along the way.”

“If I’m hired,” I stipulated.

We stopped at a door at the end of the hall that differed from the rest, breaking the austerity of the floor. It was sheathed in what I was certain was solid gold, giving it superiority over the rest.

“I have Miss Clare for you,” Peter announced, speaking into a device tied around his wrist like a watch.

“Only Mr. Stafford can open the door,” he explained to me. “When he does, go on in. I’ll wait for you out here.”

Slowly, the door slid open, and I walked in, ready to bear the whip.

Mr. Stafford’s office was warmer than the hall. The floors were comprised of the same marble that decorated most of the building, but the furnishings were made of a rich walnut wood that was cordial and welcoming. There was no desk, just couches and a wall full of screens. It was impressive but not as impressive as the man who stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows that oversaw the city and the ports that bordered the lake.