Onus 07

Suresh was starting to babble about calling security. Sam was distracted by the buzzing against his right thigh. One buzz, then done. He only knew one person who preferred to text him.

"Listen, Mr. Suresh. You can call security if y-you'd like." He felt his jaw tighten at the slip. "It isn't the first time, and it sure as hell wont be the last. But be prepared to look me in the eye tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. If you truly know Geoff Burns better than I do, then just let me get my no from him, and I'll go quietly. You wont see me again."

Sam was a few inches shorter than the secretary. He knew he was not a physically imposing man. He hoped that his face would be enough. At that moment, he wanted to read the text in his pocket badly enough that he didn't care whether or not the secretary stepped down from his power-trip. He just wanted this pointless little interaction to be done with.

Suresh put a finger to his earpiece. "Mr. Burns, Samuel Desta is here to see you. He has been repelled from the building many times, but he's been persistent. Would you like me to have security escort him from the building?"

There was something monumentally satisfying about the way Suresh's face worked silently during the inaudible reply. Once, twice, thrice, the young man's face twitched. Each time in a new and interesting combination of fury, resentment, and fear.

"Go." The sound was guttural to the point of barely resembling human speech.

Sam decided not to press his luck. The other trick to speaking softly? Having the last word could be problematic. Pride was expendable.

As he stepped into the private elevator, he reached into his pocket to check his phone.

SH:this is ground control 2 Major Sam. Have u made the grade?

Sam felt laughter pressing up through his nose. He sent his own reply.

He huffed, and he puffed, but I still made it through.

SH:good thing ur a brick shithouse

The elevator let out a soft electric chime. The smile on his face felt wrong. He wasn't used to smiling this big. Shiloh's new cell phone had given him a voice, even a sense of humor. And Sam liked that voice.

Ha, wish me luck.

SH:luckluckluck

The doors were made of some dark polished wood. They opened, but the person that slipped through was about as different from the CEO of Generations as it was possible to get. She was a practically Amazonian woman. A few ticks above six feet tall, showing long dark legs from under an ivory skirt that fell to four inches above her knee. Her hair was black, with streaks of bright artificial red through it, twisted into a bun with faux-ivory needles to hold it in place.

Her lips were shiny with some kind of gloss. She had a tablet in one hand and a tall glass in the other.

"Welcome to reception, Dr. Desta." The woman murmured. Her voice was a low purr, her words were welcoming, but barely inflected at all. "Unfortunately, though Geoff Burns has cleared some time for you in his schedule, he is currently in the middle of some urgent business."

She set the glass down on a low table. The table was a slab of polished geode, oblong, six feet in diameter at the widest point. Crystals the color of wine glinted in the rippling light of the room. Drops of condensation sweated from the cool glass. Sam weighed the possibility that Burns was actually tied up against the likelier possibility that he was being screwed with. He resisted the urge to check his phone. The room was elegant, and there were no obvious cameras. But he knew a ThirdEye security system when he saw one. He was being watched.

He found himself thinking of him. He thought about Shiloh a lot. The young Onus was like a sore in his mouth. He couldn't leave his thoughts of Shiloh alone, any more than he could stop worrying a sore with his tongue.

Last night, they had watched a movie together. Sam's only free time was quite late into the night, so Shy had struggled gamely to stay awake, resting one lazy hand in the bowl of buttery popcorn.

Midway through the film, while an animated dragon shed his skin, the sleepy young man had closed the gap between them on the couch. He was wrapped in a very thick comforter, his eyelids drooping, and he snuggled up under Sam's left arm.

Even through the thick quilted fabric, Sam could feel how light and sharp Shiloh's shoulderblades were. He reduced the volume with his right hand, while Shiloh rested his sharp cheekbone against Sam's chest. Within minutes, Shy had been asleep.

Sam took a long drink of the icy lemon water. It was bad manners to leave an offering like that untouched.

A few minutes after one, when the movie was almost over (yet long forgotten, by both parties, for different reasons) Shiloh had begun to stir. Not awake, not quite asleep. He moaned softly. His body twitched and stirred under the thick coverlet he was cocooned in. His brow was furrowed in a look of intense fear or concentration.

The heavy piece of music ceased, and gave way to a new one. Equally heavy, but more familiar. Beethoven's fifth symphony.

Sam felt his pocket buzz quietly. He clasped his hand over it, through the cloth of his pocket. What could it be? Shy was usually very good about not texting him during meetings. He knew how important this one was. So what was it?

Decorum notwithstanding, he took out his phone and swiped to get the message.

The double doors opened once more, just as he read the words.

SH:Call me 2 tell me what happens. I might not B able 2 answer, but I want 2 hear ur voice

Sam slipped the phone in his pocket and stood in time to greet the CEO of Generations, one Geoffrey Artemis Burns II. He walked side by side with his tall elegant assistant. It was like comparing an elderly Shetland pony with a thoroughbred. One was above and beyond six feet, the other was barely clearing five. One had skin that was smooth and dark and tight. The other was a bundle of wrinkles, nearly as pale as an Onus. He certainly had the wispy white hair. His temples were blighted with liver spots.

The man had a handshake solid as houses, despite his frail stature. "I've only ever heard about you after the fact. My staff seem very eager to keep you from me."

There was no graceful way to respond to that. But Samuel Desta did his best. "Will your faithful staff be getting bonuses this Christmas? They play a g-good game of keep-away."

Burns had jaundiced eye-whites. It made him look like his irises were dissolving behind his square wire-rim glasses.

"That depends on the outcome of this meeting, I suppose." Burns cracked a smile full of jumbled age-yellowed teeth. "I can't say you haven't earned it."

Without ceremony, the elderly CEO turned around and Sam followed. The assistant seemed to disappear. One moment she was swaying elegantly behind them, the next minute, they were alone.

"Technically, the board should be here. I assume you have a good reason for trying to push us into a solo meeting." Burns sank into an oxblood leather chair. "You've gotten yourself this window. Let me see what you do with it."

The old man didn't have a hint of a smile on his face. He stared up at Sam over the rims of his glasses, his eyes bleeding into the whites. Sam could feel cold sweat trickling down his back. He had to step carefully.

"You know why I'm here. I have a reputation by this point, even before I spoke to the senate. You must have heard stories about me. Maybe over cigars and whiskey. Maybe on the news. The folks on channel forty are quite enamored with me."

Sam forced a smile, to show how little those 'comedians' affected him. He met the other man's gaze, but this time, his one-eyed stare seemed to be doing jack. Geoffrey Burns was a man that had moved up in the world, he knew how to stare down a man with the best of them.

For a long dreadful moment, Sam thought that he would have to keep talking. Burns showed no inclination of speaking, but after a painful half-moment that lasted an age, he picked up the slack reins of the conversation.

"The St. Anthony Baptist church started openly donating to Our Children. A hot weekend later, someone planted a pipe bomb. It was only through the grace of whatever that they happen to have a veteran in their congregation that was able to warn folks once he heard the ticking. That tech company with all the B's in it's name, they started donating openly, and their shares dropped from 45 dollars a pop to three fifty. You had a hard time giving those peanuts away."

Sam felt a bead of sweat down the center of his chest. "That was from earlier. After I addressed the senate, our anonymous donations have increased tenfold. We know that we need to protect our beneficiaries. It is one of our first priorities."

"And your first priority? Dr. Desta?"

There was an odd gentleness to the wizened man's words. Sam was wary of it. Far as he could tell, it had come from nowhere. He wondered if a lie would serve him better, or the truth.

After a fractured second of agonized thought, he went with the truest thing he knew. "Our first priority is in the name. To protect our children. Them. Like my sister."

It was the first time he had provoked any surprise from the old man. His wiry eyebrows, black where his wispy hair was white, flew like startled birds. Sam rode that surprise, grateful for it. Negotiating was so much easier when the other was uncertain. "We all have, or had them. It's not a question of whether or not the average person has an Onus relative. It's a question of how far they went to distance themselves."

The unspoken insinuation lingered in the air like incense.

The old man gestured to the second armchair. Samuel Desta had earned the right to sit.

"Distance themselves, eh?" The Amazonian assistant was suddenly, inexplicably there again, slipping through the double doors. This time, she had two cups with ice cradled in one hand, and a bottle of top-shelf bourbon in the other. Sam discreetly checked his watch. It was all of twenty-one minutes past nine. "Most folk 'distanced themselves' as soon as they saw red on their pregnancy test. Refresh me on the numbers from America, back in the good ol' days, when it was still fifty states, and we were still worried about overpopulation."

The sarcasm in the old man's voice could have corroded steel. Sam had a feeling Burns knew the numbers perfectly well, same as he did, but he obliged.

"Forty-six percent of affected American women aborted their Onus offspring within the first two months of pregnancy. Another twelve percent joined their ranks before the slew of births."

Burns let out a humorless laugh as the assistant poured several fingers of dark bourbon into each glass. "I was one of the baby boomers. If only our fathers and mothers had seen this boom." He made a twirling motion with two fingers. One that didn't need explaining. Go on those fingers said.

"Out of all of the Onus that were born in America, an estimated ten to forty percent didn't see their first birthday."

Sam took his glass, but didn't drink. Burns took a sip, and interjected.

"The dumpster babies."

Sam continued. "B-By that year, the h-ousing p-pr-ojects were standardized and required by each state." He took a shaky breath and a sip of the bourbon. It burned on the way down, but he didn't stutter again. "The federal law that required housing for homeless Onus was drastically re-written. When our children collectively turned twelve, the communal houses were radically reduced. Feeding, clothing, medical care was no longer required. Just a place for them to sleep. Onii, they called them. Slums, I call them. Ghettos."

"When did your sister die?"

The question was flat. Geoffrey Burns drained his glass and held it up to his assistant for more.

"She probably is dead. But I wouldn't know. I had a great uncle, very wealthy. My mother's only family. He left me the house I live in, now. He offered to take my mother in, pay for my medical school, pay for corrective surgery and speech therapy for me..."

The other man finished his sentence.

"...But only if she would abandon your sister, is that it?"

Sam nodded. "The first time he offered, my sister was two, and I was sixteen. I was taking my first year of college and the bills were mounting up already. Mother still didn't relent for another three years."

Burns stared him down with melting eyes. He gave his assistant an imperceptible signal, and she was off again. "Did you know something my contemporaries don't? Or did you come to me out of intuition?"

Truth or a lie? Thought Sam. The truth had served him well enough.

"There are those who have suspected you for a while. Not all of your contemporaries. Only those in similar predicaments."

The man gave a short humorless laugh and threw back the rest of his glass. "The bleeding-hearts network, instead of the old-boys network. I like it. You probably have your fingers sunk in that network to the knuckles."

"The elbows, more like."

Another joyless bark. "Well, you've coughed up more than enough of your secrets. Time to get everything, everyone out on the table. Jane? This is the man from the TV."

The door opened behind him without his noticing, and when he turned around, the tall assistant had been joined by a small pale shadow. Jane had pale pink sensory patches on both of her cheeks. She was wearing heavily tinted sunglasses, and her white hair was cut into a neat white bob. She wore a blue checkered dress that made her skin look even more translucent. Her fingers were twisting and untwisting a blue silk handkerchief.

"His name is Dr. Sam Desta. His cure helped your mother live a few years longer than some of the others. Doctor? This is my granddaughter, Jane."

He stood to meet her, and she shyly proffered one hand. It was cold and slight, but she gripped him like she never wanted to let go. He could feel the slight dampness of the sensory patches on her fingertips and palm.

He had never expected it to be so quick, so easy, once he penetrated the ranks. Geoffrey Burns had built himself a careful façade. Loving an Onus was, as he said, not good for business.

As if to underline his thought, Sam felt his phone buzz again.

"Desta? Tell me more about what measures you've taken to protect your beneficiaries." The man wiped his mouth. "And clear your schedule one of these evenings. I think Janey and I would love to have you for dinner sometime. Other than Jacinta and a few key others, we don't have much company."

--

When Sam was back in his car, in an underground lot, he felt something in his core finally unclench, and he leaned back into the seat, taking a deep breath and loosening his tie. He felt fragile. He still couldn't believe that it had worked.

Geoffrey had kept the meeting relatively short, and for appearances sake, security had escorted Sam from the building. Sam had to keep a devastated look on his face, while inside he tried to grapple with the numbers. Comprehend them.

He felt for his phone, and Shiloh's words greeted him.

SH:had a strange dream last nite. When we watched the movie? I'll try 2 tell u when u call. I DON'T want to text it to u

He smiled down at the screen in his hand, called Shiloh's cell on speed-dial.

The phone clicked open on the second ring.

"Hah... Hell-o." Sam reclined in the front seat of his car. His cheeks hurt from smiling.

"Do you want to go first? Or should I tell you what happened?"

He could hear the soft sound of Shiloh's breathing. "You. You fff-first."

Sam told him. Told him that they had a larger donor than ever before. That Burns donated more than their top five donors combined. That they had found a powerful, if 'closeted' new ally.

Sam could hear how happy Shiloh was for him. The young man punctuated his report with excited one-note laughs. Breathy, and sexy. His voice was low and husky from disuse. Sam felt guilty at the reaction his body had to that hoarse little voice.

"Shy, you said you had a dream?" Sam felt vaguely helpless as he listened intently to the other end of the line. He could hear the young man's distressed breathing, as if the words were physically caught in his throat. Shiloh could communicate very well when he could supplement his words with gestures, and body language. When they were in person, he could use notes and drawings to get across whatever his mimicry couldn't. But over the phone...

"It was night." Shy managed to blurt the words out in a rush.

Hearing Shiloh struggle reminded Sam of his own form of mutism. One that had been physical as well as psychological. It was harder to comfort Shy over the phone. He was cut off from his own repertoire of body language. He felt his own breath catch in his throat, an empathetic response. He knew better than to ask for clarification. He knew it would come. One way or another.

Sam could picture the young man on the other end of the line. Whenever Shy tried to speak, he would comb his fingers through his hair. The small worry-line between his eyebrows would crease. When he was reaching for a word, sometimes he would bite down on the first knuckle of either hand. Sam hoped that if he was biting, he was doing it gently. Shy had a tendency toward self-harm.

The near-silence stretched out. Despite himself, Sam was about to give Shiloh a gentle prompt when the young Onus came through on his own. "I could see all... all around me. Buh... Behind me, below, ab- above."

Sam could sense Shiloh's growing frustration. It was an emotion he was painfully familiar with. Most people didn't have to think about what they said. It was effortless for them. Their words were just a part of them, like their fingers, or their ears. Most people never seemed to realize how important their voice was. Unless it was broken, or gone.

"Lights." Shy managed to force out. He sounded tired. His voice was waning. Even on his best days, he couldn't find a lot of words. This wasn't one of his good days. "Sky was... burning." Sam flinched when Shiloh let out a frustrated little screech.

Sam checked his watch and made an executive decision. "Shy? What do you say I come home now? I have to be at the Mobile by two, but until then I'm free." That wasn't entirely the truth. But he was feeling reckless.

"Mm. Mm-hm."

Sam turned the key in the ignition. "You should write down the dream. Lots of detail. I can read it when I get there. We can take care of your checkup, and then I'm yours."

"Good." Shiloh murmured. Already he sounded relieved. Sam hung up. He stayed in the parking lot for a few extra moments, flushed and slightly ashamed.

"I shouldn't be thinking about him this way." He whispered. He rubbed at the itchy scar tissue under his patch, and started listing the elements on the periodic table until his unruly erection went down.

Somewhere between Cadmium and Tin, things finally settled down, and he was able to pull out of the parking lot. It was time to go home.

--

As he pulled into his long driveway, he was thinking about needles, and Shiloh's genitals. He considered both subjects with considerable guilt.

He had a rather intimate knowledge of Shiloh's body. He had spent twenty-six minutes removing and cleaning ten badly infected piercings from the Onus' genitals and nipples. The rings had all been designed so they couldn't be taken out. The holes, even the well-healed ones had all been much bigger than they needed to be.

Given that, it was easy to understand why Shiloh hated needles. Now he had three vaccines on ice in a lunch bag, and he was not looking forward to administering them. He wished for the tenth time that he had thought to administer them at the hospital. He could have told Shiloh beforehand, taken care of them while he was unconscious.

He drew nearer to the overgrown mansion that his great uncle had designed. Thaddeus Montrose had hardly been an architect, and it showed. The house looked overgrown. Too many windows, too many rooms. The design was practically simplistic. More like he had been designing a hotel than an opulent house. Sam had thought about selling it more than once. The proceeds could have gone to Our Children. But every time, it came down to the location. Montrose's estate was in the middle of nowhere. And that was one of the best things about it, as far as Sam was concerned. The odd design and out-of-the-way locale made the mansion worth about a quarter of what had been sunk into its construction.