Episode One: Look Back in Anger Read online

  Episode One

  S. N. Graves

  www.sngraves.com

  Look Back in Anger

  Copyright © June 2014 by S. N. Graves

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from S. N. Graves. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  ASIN: B00N18HXHG

  Editor: Serena Stokes

  Cover Artist: S. N. Graves

  Published in the United States of America

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning

  Look Back in Anger is a serial. Individual episodes may not have a completed story arc, as they are building blocks to a larger work, much in the way a season of television can be broken into smaller parts. Individual episodes may not all include the same elements, such as sexually explicit scenes, violence, mature language, but it should be understood that these are elements of the series as a whole and any individual episode may in fact include these elements.

  Dedication

  To my first and most enthusiastic fan. Miss ya, Mom.

  Also

  To my far too patient husband who brings me coffee and makes me awesome noms.

  And to my two amazing sons who helped me find my voice again when I thought it was lost.

  Love you guys more than you know.

  Acknowledgment

  My mentors

  Barbara Miller and Randall Silvis

  My crit partners

  Kathleen Calhoun, Jessica Barlow, Serena Stokes, Stephanie Dunn, T. M. Avery, Troy Bucher

  And my beta readers

  Jessica Barlow, Lori Giles, Michele L. Montgomery, Michelle Ofeldt, Morgan Graves, Rachell Nichole

  Thank you guys for all stepping up to help make this the best story possible.

  Ferrah

  Wozo missed his eyes—the little shiny buttons Mother had sewn back on so many times before. There was no mother to sew now, or to patch up the tears in his ragged hide. No one to bandage Ferrah’s wounds either. No kisses to make the pain go away. She and Wozo were on their own in the frigid damp of the basement.

  “Shh, you’re fine. There’s nothing to see anyway,” Ferrah whispered to her mangled friend in the darkness. She clutched Wozo to her chest and rocked away his fears and sadness as her mother had once done for both of them.

  “Bet you’re cold, huh?” She certainly was, but the Connor boys had cut off most of Wozo’s fur when they took his eyes. All he had left to keep him warm was her desperate embrace and the strip of duct tape she’d used to reattach his arm. Setting the bear in her lap, she pulled off the threadbare baby blanket from her shoulders. Besides Wozo, it was the only thing she’d been allowed to take with her to the Connor house. She swaddled the bear with it, then brought him back to her chest.

  “Better?”

  The bear didn’t reply. He never did these days.

  The basement was silent save for the occasional hiss from the water heater she’d settled them against. She imagined it must have been late evening, for the tank hadn’t kicked on in quite some time, and so the Connor boys had probably already been fed, bathed, and tucked into their beds above her. She remembered dinners—SpaghettiOs and mac ’n’ cheeses. She remembered warm baths and kisses good night, but the longer she sat in darkness, the less she could remember her mother’s face, her smell, the soft caress of her hand across her cheek before she’d leave Farrah snuggled in her bed at night. Her mother’s scent had long abandoned Wozo, and her skin was so cold and raw most of the time the very thought of being touched made her cringe.

  She drifted in and out of sleep, the chill in the air biting her awake and making her shift and bury her face against Wozo to escape it. It was a wasted effort; the ice that crusted the blacked-out windows high above her had sunk deep into her bones as well. She couldn’t sleep, and so fell into a zombielike awareness that left her staring into the darkness.

  Until the door at the top of the stairs cracked open and a shaft of light forced her to squeeze her eyes shut and turn toward the wall.

  “You keeping her in a basement?” The voice was male, unfamiliar.

  “Have to keep our boys safe. The little beast is dangerous.” Mrs. Connor. She sounded tired, angry, like she did anytime she came downstairs.

  “Scrawny li’l ting as she, how dangerous she be?”

  Mrs. Connor snorted. “That’s what it wants you to think. The little bitch is vicious. It tore a hunk out of my Jimmy’s arm, and look here.” She stopped halfway down the stairs, flipped on the overhead light, and pulled up the hem of her pink floral nightgown to show off a stout, hairy leg marred with bites and scratches. “Don’t let it get ahold of you, or you might lose important bits.”

  “Merci, cher. I keep it in mind.” The man left the steps and crossed the floor to crouch in front of Ferrah, tipping the end of his hat in greeting. She’d seen people do that before, in some of the old westerns her father used to watch with her when Mom was out. It was supposed to be welcoming, polite. Ferrah wasn’t convinced.

  Many men had come down to see her since she’d been put in the basement. Most made the Connor boys and their touching and taunts seem friendly. They wore suits or dark jackets, all with severe scowls and bruising hands. This one was more clown, all smiles and funny clothes. His long trench coat was a bright purple splash against the gray backdrop of her prison, the brim of his hat wide enough to serve as a turkey platter. Turkey. She missed turkey. Any food, really. All she’d had in the past few days, maybe so much as a week, was the occasional candy bar tossed down the steps to her by Mrs. Connor.

  “Bonjou, boo.” He reached a hand encrusted with gold and silver rings out to her.

  She scooted back a bit, eyeing the hand as she wedged herself farther behind the water heater. “I bite.”

  “So I hear.” He chuckled softly and traced his finger over the mark another such strange visitor had left on her forehead. “Had lotta visitors, cher?”

  She shrugged a shoulder and pulled from his reach. That mark on her forehead—a glyph, the other man had called it—burned cold. She’d been able to put the discomfort from her mind for what felt like weeks now, but this man’s touch ignited it all over again. “Don’t. Not supposed to mess with it.”

  “Oh, why not?”

  “Make my head explode.”

  “It won’t did dat. Don’t let ’em scare you. Just a way to keep you where dey tink you belong.”

  “In the basement.” She nodded, hugging Wozo closer. “You talk weird.”

  “Don’t I, though? You know what I find? People so busy workin’ out what I say, dey not so careful mindin’ dey own flappin’ gums.”

  “Are you going to buy me?” She’d heard the Connors talking, knew the men who came to poke and prod and appraise her were looking to own her. That wasn’t a good thing.

  He smiled, and once more reached out to her, his hand falling on Wozo’s head to turn the bear to look at him. “How long you had dis raggety ting?”

  “Mama gave him to me.” She tightened her grip on the bear, not wanting to risk that he might tear Wozo away from her.

  “Did she now? Sickly-lookin’ ol’ ting.” He petted the bear’s head, b
ut didn’t try to take him. “Like to see a bitta magic?”

  “Please don’t take him.”

  “I wouldn’t never. Lookit da bear, cher.”

  His big hand enveloped Wozo’s face, and Ferrah’s heart pounded in her throat. If he took Wozo, if he ruined him more, she’d have no one—she’d be utterly alone in the long darkness. She jerked as static rose in her tightly coiled arms, the fine hairs along her flesh pricking as the scent of ozone wafted over her. The man’s fingers lit up, glowing red-hot as if someone were filtering a powerful light through them. Wozo’s hair crawled along his stuffed scalp, rippling in waves away from the man’s hand, and somewhere in the recesses of her mind, the part of her not startled stiff, she knew she should let go of the bear and run for her life.

  He pulled away first, little sparks of light dripping from his fingertips like burning drops of water. She watched the drops fall, resisted the urge to reach out and catch one, was almost mesmerized until he pointed back at Wozo.

  The bear had eyes. They sparkled up at her, like black jewels set in his scruffy face. She turned her gaze back to the man who smiled at her from under his big hat, but her questions hung in her throat.

  “I thought y’might need some watchin’ over. Just till I come back to get ya.”

  “You can’t take me now?”

  He shook his head. “Lotta tings to work out first. But I’ll be back, f’true.” He ruffled Wozo’s fur, and then lifted his hand to push his fingers through her own tangled mess of hair. “Got lotta plans for you, cher. Wait and see.”

  I

  “He’s defective. I don’t care if you have to gut him and replace every circuit in the damn animal—I want a dog that works.”

  Samantha crouched in the grass, trying not to smile as the golden-haired dog happily chased its tail in stumbling circles. He was making himself dizzy with all that round-and-round, which probably only fueled the animal’s desire to continue. He’d found a way to keep himself entertained. “He’s just bored. It’s perfectly natural. Nothing to worry about.”

  “It’s goddamn embarrassing. Not to mention the wreck he’s making of my lawn.” The dog’s owner kicked at a tuft of uneven earth with the toe of his expensive shoe. “For what I am paying you, I expect you to make him work.”

  “SynthPet Industries prides itself on authenticity, Mr. Morris. Dogs chase their tails. They also dig holes and nose your crotch. I’m sure all of this was in the breed brochure you got before your purchase.” Sam clapped her hands and the animal fell on its butt. Tongue happily lolling from its parted jaws, the dog trotted over to shove its nose in her face, all waggly tail and slobbery maw. She chuckled as she lifted her head to keep the overly excited pup from licking her eyeballs. “The retriever model is especially known for these things.”

  “I didn’t pick the damn dog. It’s my boy’s; I just paid for it.” The man sneered and pushed his hand over his bald head, the few wisps of hair he had left sticking up willy-nilly in the wake of his swipe. “Can you imagine what the neighbors think? I see them laughing when they walk by.”

  She scratched at the dog’s ears and glanced around at all the perfectly landscaped yards and the redundant houses, each damn near identical save for the occasional pastel yard gnome or vividly painted front door—a ticky-tacky village with cute little cut-and-paste Stepford homes, courtesy of AnyTown USA. Why anyone would choose to live in one of the AnyTown projects was beyond her. If the dress codes and uniformity weren’t enough to be distasteful, the chemicals in the water more than did the trick. “They probably think he’s adorable.”

  “They think he’s cheap. They think I’m cheap!” The way the man roared, they probably thought he was a bit of an ass too.

  “Mr. Morris, there is little I can do. At best I can reset him to factory defaults, but that—”

  “Then do that. It’s what I’m paying you for.”

  “Sir, I can’t do that. You don’t want me to do that. It will kill him.”

  The man’s brows furrowed. “Then take him back and have him junked, for all I care. Just get me a working dog.”

  Sam sighed. Her head settled on the dog’s own. Why did people get pets if they saw the animals as nothing but lawn ornaments? It certainly made it easier to understand why most of the districts now required licensing and so much red tape. Living, breathing creatures were almost impossible to acquire because of people like Morris. “If I set him to factory default, he’ll lose everything that he is. He’ll be a completely different dog. It kills the dog you have now. Erases him. Wipes him clean. You don’t want that.”

  “Why the hell would I care if it’s a completely different dog? As long as it’s a dog that doesn’t run around in circles making my whole family look like idiots.”

  Sam snorted. Apparently, that was his job, and he was seriously protective of it. “Don’t you think your son would miss his dog?”

  “He can keep the damn dog! Just fix it.”

  “I really don’t feel comfortable with that, Mr. Morris. It’s just cruel and needless besides. He behaves like an authentic, and there is nothing cheap about that.”

  The man seethed. His teeth pressed together in a snarl, and he paced away to kick a defenseless concrete gnome before stomping back to wag his finger menacingly in her face. She had the bristling urge to bite it. “Listen, you fucking cow. I paid for the full service plan. I don’t give two flying shits what some pig parading her fat bags around for all to see feels comfortable with.”

  Sam’s face grew hot, her hand lifting to cinch her blazer closed to hide what little cleavage she knew was visible from her crouched position. She should have been used to the insults by now, to how colorful men got when being hateful. She wasn’t, and she knew herself well enough to know she probably never would be.

  She might as well have been the last fat girl in existence, so all the assholes in the world seemed to leap at the chance to fling their stored-up vitriol her way on sight. It was rare for anyone who wasn’t perfect to show themselves anymore. People like her, who had some medical condition or were simply too poor to afford a trip to a physician or a handful of pills to control their size or other imperfections, now just hid in their homes. They lived through their DNI—direct neural interfaces—through virtual avatars, and through alternate realities they could program to accept them. Maybe even find them attractive. Sam wasn’t the sort to hide in her home or behind a data-jack in her head. She didn’t want to live a fantasy of being beautiful. Even if she were the type, without a clean bill of health, the cyber docs wouldn’t touch her.

  “Don’t stare at me, cunt. Do your job.”

  “I’m sorry.” She wasn’t. It was hard to shake the sting of the man’s words, though. For a moment she wondered if she needed a reboot to her own brain, to give it a swift kick to get the wheels turning again. Too bad she wasn’t a synthetic pet; she might have had a programmed response for assholes by now. “If you’re sure…”

  “I’m positive. Fix the dog and move your fat ass along to a doughnut shop already.”

  She looked between the dog’s ears, to the little red bicycle leaning against Mr. Morris’s garage door, and her gaze lingered there. The man’s son was going to come home and find his dog gone. No friendly head tilt and wagging tail to meet the child as he got off the school shuttle, just a shell of the beloved pet he’d probably nuzzled good-bye on his way off to morning classes. Mr. Morris was a monster.

  But then again, she was the one actually killing the animal.

  With a reluctance that made her clumsy, she rubbed the sensitive tips of the dog’s ears and then gave the verbal command that would shut him down. Once he’d fallen to the side and lay flat on the ground, she pulled the tools she needed from her bag and opened his belly to find the control panel. She hesitated before punching in the factory reset code, but an impatient curse from Mr. Morris hurried her fingers along. And then she was done.

  Sam sealed the dog up in silence, and then slung her tool bag over her sho
ulder before giving the voice command to activate the animal. She swallowed down the ache of tears as it stood, staggered a bit, and then tucked its tail between its trembling legs and froze there looking lost. A little too late, she wished she’d thought to slip something nasty into the animal’s programming, like Jerri’s Cujo virus. Or at the very least, a code to give the dog the compulsion to piss on the man’s shoes. “He’s all set.” She improvised a customer-service friendly smile. “Have a good day, Mr. Morris.”

  He snarked after her, but she’d already turned her back on him, hurrying to her car to close herself inside its protective shell. Jerri could find someone else to take the punishment from here on in. No more AnyTown jobs.

  * * * *

  “The AnyTown project will of course be completely audited and overhauled. All agreements made with the local government will need to be thoroughly reevaluated.” Arles flicked another warped paper clip toward his stepfather’s desk. It landed on its rounded end to twirl brilliantly in that suspended moment before flopping over flat. Its hard lines emphasized a pair of words he was sure his adversary would assume purposeful—title forfeit.

  There were several bent and misshapen paper clips all around Marx Donavan now, tiny metal pretzels of targeted malice, littering the surface of the austere document Arles had moments earlier dropped in front of the old man. The tragic little twists underscored numerous words, seemingly by design—incompetent, irrelevant, faulty…pickle. The last one was definitely an accident, but Arles was willing to bet Marx’s mind would find a way to twist it up just like all those mangled paper clips, desperate to find insult in the subtext. At least, he hoped so.

  “Don’t look at me that way, Father. If you were an old dog, I’d have shot you in the back of the head and rolled you into a Dumpster years ago.” Arles’s voice was strong and unwavering; he knew this because he’d practiced it, acquired the illusion of authority as a skill. As young as he looked, a commanding presence was necessary for survival in the corporate world. Not that this meeting had anything to do with business. It was part pure pleasure, part necessity. “You should be very grateful for the severance package as outlined before you.”