In Charge

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Cloud Atlas

Copyright: David Mitchell/Tom Tykwer/Andy & Lana Wachowski

"Seer," Yoona-939 whispers, "Are you happy?"

Of all the questions to ask. During business hours, Seer Rhee would have snapped at her to be quiet, perhaps cuffed her upside the head if no customers were watching. Right now, lying next to her on the floor of the supply closet, sticky with sweat and other bodily fluids, pleasantly foggy with Soap, all he can do is grunt and stare at the ceiling lights.

"I suppose not," she continues, "If you were, you would not be doing this."

He slowly shifts his head in her direction. Yoona-939 stares back, looking as she always does, exactly like every other fabricant of her stemtype: bobbed black hair with blue and orange streaks in it, pale golden skin, a face and body genomed for optimal aesthetic value. Her short white nightdress, as always, is hiked up around her hips. But her eyes – her eyes are uncanny for a clone, following every move he makes, no matter how small. There's a twist at the corner of her full mouth he's seen often enough on the faces of upstrata customers: Foreman of a diner? At fifty? Seriously?

"Shuddup," he grumbles, irritation breaking through in spite of the Soap. "Think you're smart? If you're so smart, why am I the one in charge?"

"Are you?"

Her tone of voice is soft, polite, the same voice she was trained to use on their customers, the same voice all fabricants use. It's not how she says it that gets under his skin. It's what she says.

"One word outta you … and I could have you excised." He tries to sit up, tries to force himself to speak clearly, even though his tongue seems to be made of cardboard. "You know that."

He struggles to his feet, leans over her, takes in every inch of her, from her glossy hair to her tiny bare feet. One word from him to their superiors and she could be destarred, her retirement delayed, perhaps indefinitely. Her memories erased, her too-bright eyes clouded over. What's more, although her contract is with the franchise as a whole, she belongs to him in every way that matters. She's his for the asking, every night. She never says no.

It's not rape if she doesn't say no.

That's what he tells himself, anyway.

The floor seems to sway, making him unsteady on his feet. The yellow lamplight turns a darker gold, then fades to gray. The shelves begin to til. He stumbles –

- and feels two slim, deceptively strong arms holding him up.

He narrows his eyes and sees Yoona-939, a tiny frown between her eyebrows. Her skin, with that fabricant metabolism genomed for long working hours, is burning hot through the fabric of his uniform.

Chairman damn her, there is pity in her eyes.

"You had better not drive home, Seer," she says, changing her grip to lead him toward a tattered sofa at the back of the room.

Too dizzy to object, he follows her.