Keeping Luna Read online

  Guess that’s the point though. They want us to be comfortable while we get to know each other, he thought.

  But all of these amenities, these soft and luxurious things, from the couch to the floor to his coffee, just served to make him uneasy. All he could do was stand there and feel the sun. He liked the sun. Always had. Summer was an easy pick for favorite season, but he had had his fill of the sun over these last three years and had looked forward to this new assignment almost solely because it would afford him some time in a milder climate. A bit of rain. A cold wind.

  But here he was in this stuffy warm room, staring out at a cloudless sky and cursing the carpenter who had installed this giant window with no hinge or latch or any other means with which to be opened.

  He looked down at the front of his shirt and his pants. Is this what people are wearing these days?

  They were, at any rate, the clothes that he had been issued upon arrival a week prior. The pants were navy blue, and made from a feathery, light material that breathed well and didn’t cling to his legs. The shirt was dark grey and short sleeved, also light and airy, made from a combination of cotton and bio-poly-something.

  It rested well on his muscular, somewhat bulky frame, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was going to tear it if he twisted his torso or lifted his arms or breathed too deeply. So he did none of those things. He stood at attention, which had turned out to be a hard habit to break, and focused on steady, circular breathing. He couldn’t remember the last time he had concentrated this much on his breathing without feeling a rifle in his hands.

  Even in this state, doing his utmost to relax and keep his body free of tension, his bare brown arms betrayed toned lines of hardened muscle, above which his massive upper arms and shoulders looked unquestionably solid and round beneath the cotton blend.

  His skin was a fair deal darker than the latte he had just finished drinking, but a few shades lighter than it would have been had they not spoiled it with steamed milk before handing it to him. His head was bare, not as a feature of hereditary genetics, but because that was how he had chosen to wear it for the last ten years of his life. Short hair was mandatory in the service, but shaving his head clean was a standard he had set for himself. He just felt it was easier to move about.

  Maybe I’ll grow me a civilian head of hair to go with this civilian life, he thought. I wonder if I still…

  He heard a handful of voices approaching on the other side of the door.

  Three. Two male and one… well, that must be her.

  The handle turned and the door opened into the room. Two men entered, dressed in exactly the same apparel as Owen, aside from the fact that one man’s shirt was a deep forest green and the other’s was a muddy brick red.

  “Good day to you, sir!” the man in the red shirt chirped as he handed him another creamy cup of coffee. “Miss, you may enter when you please.”

  Before the man had finished his sentence, she had taken three bold but unhurried steps and was standing in the middle of the room with her hand extended to Owen. Owen shook her hand and introduced himself.

  She was a handsome woman, if the word handsome could be used here without any connotation of masculinity. Strong features, broad cheekbones beneath very dark, mid-eastern eyes, her dark brown hair bordering on black. Her shoulders were wide and muscular for a woman’s, but they were not imposing so much as elegant as they faded into to her tight pale arms. The top section of her dark pink summer dress was snug without being tight, and hinted at two smallish, firm handfuls.

  “I’m Claire,” she said, smiling modestly. “Pleased to meet you. Your file is quite impressive.”

  “Thank you.” It didn’t occur to him to return the compliment. What he had read in her file hadn’t struck him as particularly interesting. Eight years out of school, the last five of which she had spent working the desk side of the military. Something having to do with computers.

  No one part of her resumé had stood out as an intriguing talking point for him, but now that he was looking at more than just her portfolio mug and profile, he was forced to admit that she was undeniably attractive.

  At this point, the man in the dark green shirt smiled to everyone in turn. Looking very pleased with himself, he nodded his head in a minimal sort of bow and exited the room. The man in the red shirt barely seemed to notice his departure, and Owen was left wondering what his purpose here had been in the first place.

  Now the man in red introduced himself, speaking in a bright tone and in a manner that indicated he was addressing both Claire and Owen, although his eyes remained mostly on Owen. “My name is Marius,” said the man, “and the man who was just here with me is Timothy. Timothy is the regional assistant director of the Coupling Program, and the man personally responsible for this particular match-up. He just wanted to see the two of you meet. Bit of a perfectionist, he is. Please,” he gestured towards the sofa, his hand softly stretching in its direction.

  Claire and Owen obliged, seating themselves next to each other on the couch and trying not to appear uncomfortable doing so. Marius seated himself in the armchair across from them.

  “Now a moment ago I mentioned Timothy and his prowess for match-making because that is what we do here. This firm has been operational for nearly three quarters of a century, and we have a handful of agents that have been working here, in this building, for well over forty years.

  “Over this length of time, we have created a science out of finding two people who fit together, utilizing a unique checklist of personality traits, preferences, physical activity levels, and so on and so on. Now I can’t tell you the exact comparisons we make, but I can say that our matches have been ninety-six percent successful over the last twenty years. That is to say that ninety-six out of one hundred couples remain together not only through their birth quota, but well beyond it.

  “I tell you this now because it is not unusual for people in your situation to be a little skeptical of the process. Often our clients will feel at first that they have just been tossed together randomly for the sake of business. This is not the case, and as time passes almost every couple comes to see exactly how right we were in placing them together, and with what astute degree of precision we make these decisions.

  “We bring people such as yourselves together, not for the sake of a day’s work or any of the smug self-satisfaction that such an aim might derive, but for the sake of a new, bright generation who will one day carry the torch of humanity. We are all about futures. This life isn’t a sprint. And it's not a marathon, either. It’s a relay. We’re here to make sure the baton gets smoothly from hand to hand.”

  Owen felt almost nauseous hearing such an impassioned and spontaneous speech, one that had surely been practiced and practiced and delivered and perfected in this very room for years and years.

  Get the fuck on with it, he thought.

  “Now, if you two will place your trust in us, in the fact that we are professionals and this is what we do, then we can proceed?” Marius nodded slightly to Claire and then to Owen in confirmation of their assent.

  “Good,” he said. “Then here’s what will happen: I will leave the two of you here to get acquainted. Take as long as you want. An hour. Two hours. Five minutes. However much time you feel you need. If you get hungry or thirsty, just pick up that phone on the end table and you can talk directly with our kitchen. Order what you like; it won’t be taken out from your credits.”

  He had finally said something to elicit a small reaction from the prospective couple, so he pressed the point a little further.

  “The head chef is a miracle worker. I personally would recommend the scallop-stuffed chicken breast and scallion cream sauce.” He looked down at his wristwatch and back up at them, diving into the tail-end of his monologue.

  “Whenever the two of you feel you’ve had an adequate introduction, just stop at room 210 before leaving. Obviously, you won’t be administered your contraceptive shots this month, but we do give a sma
ll booster injection to kickstart ovulation,” he shifted his eyes now from Claire to Owen, “as well as one to more rapidly increase sperm count and quality.

  You two could start trying as soon as Wednesday if you like, but I typically wouldn’t expect results until a few weeks have passed. Couldn’t hurt to practice, though, huh?” he smiled through the last sentence, pumping his eyebrows suggestively up and down as he finished. “It was a pleasure meeting both of you.”

  All three rose and shook hands, and then Marius was back in the hallway and on to his next appointment.

  Claire and Owen both inhaled and then exhaled heavily one time, almost in unison, and then looked at each other with awkward eyes.

  “He loves the sounds of his voice, right?” said Owen.

  She laughed a small, fake laugh. “Yeah… Should we sit down?” She began to lower herself back into the soft cushion of the sofa.

  “I think I’ll sit over here,” he said as he lowered his substantial self into the smallish armchair that Marius had used, “so we can see each other while we talk.”

  “Good idea.”

  They sat for about five minutes, trying to find some way into a conversation. They started with work. Cities they’d worked in. Promotions. Awards and accomplishments. None of it led anywhere because they both already knew all of these things. Owen’s entire professional dossier had been handed over to Claire by the Coupling Program a few days earlier, as hers had been handed to him. Where he’d served and what rank he’d achieved. Where she had studied, interned, worked.

  This room is where I will die, he thought. This is never going to end.

  She reached over to pour herself a glass of water from the pitcher that lay waiting on the end table, and saw the phone there next to it. “Are you hungry at all?” she asked.

  “I could eat,” he replied. He wasn’t the slightest bit hungry, but rarely did he turn down food. Plus, they desperately needed the distraction.

  She picked up the wireless receiver and held it to her ear, and was surprised to have a kitchen-hand on the line within seconds. Owen could hear the man on the phone begin to rattle something into her ear, but she stopped him halfway, speaking in a firm and commanding voice.

  “Yes, I heard about the stuffed chicken. Listen. What do you have that will bleed on my plate?” Owen was taken back a bit, and was smiling as he listened to her although he didn’t realize it.

  “A filet?” she continued “Yes. That would be just fine. How do I want it cooked? Perfectly.” She looked over at Owen to ask what he wanted. He held up two fingers. “Make that two filets please. Yes. Thank you.” She placed the receiver back into its cradle.

  When she returned her attention to Owen she saw the way he was looking at her. His thumb was resting on the hinge of his jaw and the first knuckle of his index finger was over his lips. He was studying her, and although his mouth was covered, she could tell by his eyes and cheeks that he was smiling. Then she noticed the hand itself, all cracks and scars and scabs.

  “You use your hands quite a bit? Sorry if that was intrusive or too straightforward or…”

  “It’s fine. Yes. I’ve gotten a lot of use out of these.” His hands were now down in front of him, and he too was studying them. “I’m a fighter. Well, I mean, aside from soldiering. MMA. Mixed martial arts. We have a sort of recreational league in the service. That’s actually what landed me this new detail here.”

  “How do you mean?” she probed.

  “Well, I was undefeated during my last tour of duty. Eight fights over three years. I guess they thought me a good candidate to drill the recruits here in the Capital. Starting Monday I’m teaching hand-to-hand at the base. Guess these won’t be getting any prettier,“ he smiled at her, waving his fingers around in front of him.

  “How’d you get those shoulders?” He asked, not worried that the question might seem a bit indelicate.

  She wasn’t put off in the slightest. In fact, she was almost as eager to talk about her shoulders as she had been to show them off when she slid on her summer dress and left her domicile that morning.

  “I climb!” There was a genuine excitement in her voice now. “Every day, at least once. I’m not sure what it is… I’m… addicted!”

  “Maybe we could go for a climb some time?” he suggested.

  “I don’t think you could keep up.” She laughed. “But yeah, you could try.”

  They both smiled now and the room went silent for a time as their smiles faded off.

  “Could I ask you something?” she started. “You don’t have to answer. It’s a bit heavy, maybe.”

  “You can ask me anything you like.”

  “Have you… ever…” She had her toe in the water for a few seconds before she dove in. “Have you ever killed anyone?”

  This question he was not expecting.

  “Hm,” he sighed in staccato and thought for a second, not about how he would respond, but rather how she would handle his answer.

  “Yes I have,” he said. There was neither pride nor despair in his voice.

  The room was quiet again. She followed up.

  “Can I ask you… What did it feel like?”

  “Well, that depends…” he shrugged.

  “On?”

  “On which one you’re referring to.”

  Chapter Three

  This room was massive.

  Had it been measured merely in terms of its area, the dimensions of the floor would not have been noteworthy, but an extremely lofty ceiling forced one’s mind to make a palace of this room. Or a dungeon. Context has an awful lot to say in matters of perception, and the manner in which this room impacted those who entered it had much to do with the room’s purpose.

  It was a simple rectangle, with massive, unpolished slabs of granite flooring. Six narrow windows dripped from the ceiling to the floor on the long side of the room opposite the door, the sunlight struggling in vain to penetrate the blinds that were pulled down in front of them. The walls and ceiling were nearly white but for a hint of bluish grey, although they seemed a great deal darker in this half-light.

  On one of the narrower ends of the room was a staging area. A countertop stretched from wall to wall, and a washbasin was built in at one end. This space was meant to offer refreshments and snacks for those who would meet here, but as far as anyone could remember it had never been used for such.

  Across the room from this was a grand hearth, hewn of granite, which seemed to grow out of the matching floor. The mantel was a heavy beam of dark-stained chestnut, and would have been rich and deep in color had the blinds not been drawn shut. As it was, the wood was flat and dark and cold. The soot and dead embers of a forty-year-old fire loitered within the fireplace.

  “Moving on to new domestic business. What’s on the table today?” the Chairman spoke.

  As was the custom, this question was followed by outright silence. Everyone glanced from face to face for signs that today there would be a speaker, that someone might make an event of this occasion. Echoing in the vaulted ceiling, this stillness was enormous. Each breath became a gale. Every cleared throat or cough a clap of thunder.

  “Actually, I have something, if I may.” The voice was a car crash. A mangled mess of jagged steel and blown-out rubber tires. In any other room it might have been described as moderate, perhaps uncertain, but here it boomed like a mortar through the turbulent hush. It belonged to the youngest member of the council, and was the last voice that any of the other twenty-four men and women had expected to hear. Typically, an official of her age and relative inexperience would be expected to remain silent during her first quarterly meeting as an active Counselor.

  “Geena Verona. What a delight. Ladies and gentleman, our newest councilman has the floor.”

  “Thank you, Chairman.” She rose out of her chair and stood with a few papers looking up at her from the tabletop. It was an enormous table, crafted of the same dark wood as the mantelpiece over the hearth, and though absolutely straight on the s
ides, its rounded ends lent the impression of an elongated oval. Necessity had dictated its size, as it had to be large enough to allow all twenty-five councilmen ample space to sit without rubbing up against one another, for it is a rather uncomfortable sensation to be in close physical contact with someone you don’t trust.

  Geena’s position at the table was indicative of her status in this room, three chairs to the left of one of the narrow ends of the table, where the eldest member of this committee had his seat. She wasn’t quite at the middle of the table, and certainly not at the head. Neither here nor there. This was lost wilderness. A void in the chamber. And certainly not a spot from which to speak.

  Yet here she stood with twenty-four blank faces staring at her. They were studying her, looking for cracks. Had this been a schoolroom filled with adolescents, she would certainly have heard naught but whispers and malicious snickering. But as it was, nobody in this room had enough trust in the person beside them for any of that. So they watched her and waited for what they assumed could only be an impending train wreck.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the council, good morning. I would like to start by saying that it is an absolute honor to have the opportunity to serve with this group.” Her voice was coming to life.

  “I look forward to working with all of you in helping to shape the policy that makes this nation great. Having said that, I must now insist on introducing a piece of legislature that may help us to maintain that greatness.” She paused for a moment to pick up the neat stack of papers from before her. The room resumed its terrible, silent scream, everyone in it awaiting disaster. Waiting to hear this poor fool’s last words. It isn’t every day that you get to hear someone speaking at their own funeral, putting the flame to their own pyre.

  Three seats to her right sat Lamar, intrigued, although not without a sense of foreboding. He had some very warranted misgivings in regard to this young woman, and he was terrified by her and by the prospect of what she might say.