The following morning saw me walking slowly down the central north-south axis road of the City, having been dropped off there by Arind on his way to the colony's Archives.
I had slept poorly the previous night. The several hours of this early morning flight should have been spent doing some last-minute research on the DeBlays company. Instead I fell asleep with my face pressed against the passenger-side window glass. I only woke up again when we hit the onshore wind near Damor. The vibration from the aircar shook me awake, and I yawned massively. Arind was humming to himself. He always did that when trying to concentrate. So I stayed quiet, and stretched my arms out over my head. Nothing felt as good as a nap when you weren't supposed to take one.
I exited his car near a less-familiar intersection, and waved as he departed.
For a little while, I strolled down the pedestrian lanes, careful to step aside for the automated delivery trucks rolling by along the pavement. Finally I came to a set of double sliding doors, and the map inside my mind let out a soft ping. Surely this monstrous silver monolith of a building wasn't where I needed to go. Its stark height disoriented me, catching a dazzle from the late-morning sun. Everything looks more immense from on the ground than from an aircar or an autowalk tunnel.
It was early to go in. Either I could stall, go get a quick lunch before my appointment, and risk turning up sweaty and late to what could be the most important meeting of my life. Or I could wait in the building now, and look like an overeager kid.
I stood at the corner by the front door, trying to seem casual. People flowed by me in a warm rush, lunch hours having already begun in Damor. I wasn't hungry yet. Mostly I just wanted to keep my clothes presentable.
I went in the sliding doors. Blessed coldness reached my face, my forearms. I breathed it in, felt it cool me from the inside out. In the lobby was a host sitting behind a polished metal desk. She looked up and smiled, and asked my name.
"Jessyn Skye," I said. My voice sounded resonant against all that icy marble. "Here for an appointment with Markus DeBlays."
She nodded and tapped a few things into a tablet, then held it out to me to validate. I placed my palm flat on the surface. After a moment, I saw my public file appear on the screen.
"You can wait here, or go on up to the eighteenth floor lobby," she said.
I looked around. Lush woven chairs and palm trees in ornate glazed ceramic pots scattered themselves over a number of handmade rugs, all examples of Daltia's exports. I went over to the couches, meaning to sit.
Just then, a group of men entered the building through the same doors I had. They talked quietly to themselves and were unobtrusive. But they didn't smile at the host the way I had, and she pointedly didn't even look at them. I frowned, puzzled. That was unusual.
I decided to pass the time by seeing who they were. I eased up behind them as they waited at the bank of glass-panelled elevators, pretending not to notice me. Their clothes, that's what it was. They were regular citizens' outfits, but tight and crisp, almost obnoxiously so for a tropical place like Damor. I tried to study them surreptitiously. There were four of them, two dark-haired and two grey. Their features were smooth and immobile, as though they'd trained themselves to wear a mask.
The elevator came. We all piled in, one of the men thoughtfully holding the door for me. In the enclosed space, one of them pressed the button for floor thirteen, and so I pressed fifteen.
As we made our ascent, I noticed that they had all subtly moved over to their own corner of the elevator. None of them allowed their face to turn in my direction.
Their hair, I suddenly noticed, was clipped short.
It wasn't unheard of for a Daltian to wear their hair short. We did, after all, live in a very hot place. I'd cut mine before, and while I always decided immediately to grow it back out, it did feel refreshing. It was rare, though, to see a person with this one-centimeter haircut. It wasn't the fashion. I began to suspect, by their quietness, their melancholy air, and their military-crisp business clothes, that they weren't from around here at all.
Next to them, I felt loud, violently obvious, though I made no sound. The length of my hair, my long belted shirt, the looseness of my trousers, all marked me as a Daltian. And it disturbed them, I could see. Even the way I stood, taking up more space than any of them, somehow moving a bit too often, without even thinking about it. I tried to school my face, to match the blankness of their own. But I had very little talent for it, and gave up.
"Are you all doing well today?" I asked. Their heads swivelled towards me, calculating my threat level.
"Um," said one of the grey-haired men. The other three just looked ahead in distaste.
The elevator dinged and the doors opened. As I held the door for them and they muttered thanks and filed out, I stole a glance into the floor they were entering. One desk, with a male host, faced the elevator. A blonde woman stood over it, handing the man some note tablets.
Both of these additional people were also dressed crisply in black, and the office had a starkness to it that made even my bedroom -- notorious among my friends for its minimalism -- seem sensual by comparison.
As I looked, the host saw me watching, and the woman turned in my direction too.
All of a sudden, I felt conspicuous and decadent. I perceived myself as uncivilised, clad in simple cloth and naked beneath. For the first time in my life, I felt fundamentally wrong. It shocked me motionless.
The elevator door shut on our mutual stares.
Shaken, I exited at the fifteenth floor, barely thinking about what I was doing. It was a service and vending floor. I found the lavatory, washed my hands, splashed water on my face. The cool air of the building no longer suppressed the heat on my skin. What did I feel? I asked myself, looking into the mirror and trying to control my stressed breathing. My face, so familiar. Dark sienna skin, full lips, the blue eyes my mother planned as a gift to my dad. But what was so different from those other people?
Did my loose clothes and long dark hair look unkempt to those strange men, in their crisp outfits and haircuts? What planet were they from, anyway, that they'd even bother caring?
I fingered the thin sleeve of my Perihelion-season business shirt. The color of the fabric, the open collar, suddenly made me feel strange. Almost as if, while wearing this shirt I’d worn many times before, I was sharing too much about myself.
So what? That's what clothes were for. Why did I all of a sudden feel deviant?
I smoothed my outfit, checked my teeth. I looked like most everyone else I knew. Well, maybe a little better, I tried to flatter myself. It didn't really work. I still felt rattled and under-prepared. I wondered what it would be like to be so self-contained, a sleek and aerodynamic person. That was so far from possible for me, I had to laugh.
I sat on the plain seats of the fifteenth floor break room. Buildings this large were required to have at least one refreshment floor every ten levels. Would those snobbish people come in here? I imagined they had their own lounge, away from us Daltians, so they didn't have to get any of our germs on them. I could have stayed in that lobby downstairs, waiting patiently like a grownup. But no, I had to go and get curious.
My mood sufficiently dark, it was time to meet DeBlays.