“It probably works at Kai’s.”
We went back and forth for a while, but eventually my father gave in, as I knew he would. I could tell he was excited about a visitor—especially someone wealthy and mysterious—and now that he was making all this food, someone had to eat it.
Our family lived in a section of Arch called “the Rails” where trains had once rumbled. Long ago it had been one of the least expensive places to live, but after the transportation system broke down, it was one of the few places where food and water were still available. As the other suburbs collapsed, the Rails survived and even thrived. But the legacy of poverty was hard to shake, and anything that reminded us of plenty held us in an incantatory grip.
It was an easy ride to the Wellington Pavilion. No one passed me on the road, and the wind at my back made pedaling easier. The guards stopped me by the front gate, and I removed my goggles to show them copies of my Certification of Health and Vaccination. Still, they wouldn’t let me inside. Instead they called Kai on an intercom, and in a few minutes he appeared.
“Hi,” I said. “Are you hungry?”
When he cocked his head, he looked like a sunflower, I thought, a rare prize that grew only in hothouses: tall, reedy, with silky blond hair that shone in the twilight. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Inviting you to dinner.”
“When?”
“Now.” I held out copies of our certifications, and he took them tentatively in his hand.
“What are you cooking?”
“It’s a surprise.”
He was only gone for five minutes. When he returned, he carried two plastene jugs and a small satchel on his hip. The jugs were stamped with a seal from the Water Authority, certifying that they contained real water from pure aquifers. He beckoned to me, and the guards stood by indifferently as I entered the compound. In a moment the black limousine appeared from an underground driveway, its powerful gasoline engine growling hungrily. It circled the interior courtyard and stopped in front of Kai. The bodyguard stepped from the driver’s side, machine pistol at the ready, mirrored glasses on the bridge of his nose.
“Come on,” Kai said to me. “We’ll drive you.”
“I have my cycle.”
“Martin will bring it back after he drops us off.”
I looked at the bodyguard, but his eyes were impassive behind the lenses. He stood there, alert, one hand holding open the door, the other on that machine pistol, head constantly scanning for threats.
I climbed into the car and folded myself into the back seat. It smelled richly of leather and coconut—scents I knew only from chemo-washes. There was a glass divider between the front and back, and below the divider—incredibly—were a sink, a dozen small bottles of colored liquid, and six plastene liter bottles of water.
“It’s a bar,” said Kai when he noticed me staring.
“What’s it do?”
“It doesn’t do anything.” He smiled at my ignorance. “You mix drinks for yourself.”
Of course I knew what alcohol was, but no one I knew mixed it with anything. At parties sometimes shakers would pass around home-brewed stuff, and I had even seen my father take a glass every now and then, but no one had the money to mix real alcohol with other liquids. When I looked at Kai I had to remind myself to stop staring at his skin. It wasn’t calloused or dry like paper. A faint scent—real soap, I realized—emanated from his hair. It was all I could do to stop myself from touching him, and I felt my face grow hot from the thought.
The ride was luxurious and smooth. I’d never been in a car like this. The limo’s big tires absorbed every jolt in the road, and its thick windows and doors (bulletproof, Kai said) blocked outside noise. We barely had time for a few words of conversation before we arrived at the front entrance of our building. Martin parked near the unmanned gate, then came around to unlock our doors. Kai gave him instructions for dropping off my cycle, and the man nodded wordlessly. He waited—gun at the ready—while we walked upstairs. My father opened the door. He was wiping his hands on his thighs, but when he saw the water, he stopped.
“Thank you for having me to dinner,” said Kai.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“Dad.” I scolded. “This is Kai.”
“I’m sorry. Where are my manners?” He accepted the jugs. “Thank you, Kai,” he added. “It’s nice to meet you.” His voice sounded hoarse.