Page 40 of Border Control
“So there's no process for determining his guilt? Whether he actually did it or not?”
He looks at me like I've grown a second head. “He will have been arrested or turned himself in. His guilt is guaranteed, andonce the females have determined what should be done about it, that is applied to all such crimes going forward.”
That's how they build the penal code? “Most trials, therefore, end in a guilty verdict?”
“Yes. Execution follows immediately afterwards.” His hands clench slowly as he works the next dough. “But we need orders. Orders are good.”
“Yes, but ones that work for social harmony, not just killing people whenever you like and justifying the murders.” I chuck a handful of flour down in disgust.
“We need… contracts.” Looking sideways at me, a small smile crosses his face. “Rules for everyone to agree. No surprises.”
“Yeah.” I chuckle briefly, but my belly still slides around uncomfortably, tossed about by the realization that he and the others came from a horrible society where the law is as misused as they are. “Fuck me.”
His eyes widen. “Is that an order?” he chokes out quietly.
My cheeks heat. “No, no, it's an expression.”
Nodding slowly, he whispers, “I did wonder when the nanites translated for me, as it crosses your boundary.”
Good, he remembers. The anger dissolves a little, but I still can't shake the idea of all these clones on another planet living like that. It's horrible.
He sets aside the next pizza on the counter. “I wish I could be more useful here on earth. I'd be delighted to enforce laws for you, Law-rah.”
“Well, they're mainly dances with words and paperwork.” I love the mental image of Dom as my paralegal assistant, gatekeeping the timewasters in my emails like a gruff internet bodyguard.
My phone buzzes in my jeans pocket and I slide it out, my stomach plummeting when I see the caller ID. Morgan, the partner who doesn’t remember my name, ever.
“Excuse me, I need to take this,” I say, walking as calmly but quickly as I can out of the tent, leaving Dom to tackle the rest of the pizza bases.
Keeping my voice bright, I answer, “Hi Morgan. How's Mary?”
“Mary? Who gives a fuck,” Morgan seethes. Shit, I can hear the steam coming out of his ears from here. “I emailed you just now, Lisa, and I get an out of office reply.”
I quickly check my watch. “It's nearly six thirty, Morgan?—”
“And? If a client wants me at three in the morning, I fucking answer, and I do it with a smile. You know why?”
“Because you can charge out of hours fees,” I state, wrapping my hand around the receiver. I don't want to piss him off with ambient noise and the wind around here can be pretty loud.
“Because I charge out of hours fees and administration. It takes me far too long to track down my fucking paralegals.” The rush of air on his end—probably from his flared nostrils—nearly deafens me.
“I'm not a paralegal,” I reiterate. “I was promoted to?—”
“So you think you can skive off work because you're higher up the food chain? Sweetheart, that meansmorework, not less.”
Anyone calling mesweetheartgets the side eye, but when it's said in that condescending tone, they get a scathing look and a call to HR.
Hold back, Laura. Don't fire yourself.
Pushing my shoulders down forcibly to make myself feel more relaxed, I say with a sweet voice, “How can I help you, Morgan?”
“Good. My document templates all went missing just now, so I can't send a letter. I've sent you the text I need.”
My grip on my phone tightens. I bet he doesn't call John for jobs like this.
“Lisa? Hello? Fuck, are you still there?”
“I'll get it done, Morgan.”
