Page 36 of Born for Silk
Rome
“What temperature did Aster choose?”
My ears twitch to the sound of her name, and I find myself detouring from the double doors that lead outside to the hunting grounds. Instead, I follow Cairo’s voice toward his rooms. I wonder what he makes of her.
At the far end of the hall, the door to his chamber is open and a Watcher stands in the gap.
He doesn’t allow anyone to enter his space except for me. Had he a choice, he might object to that, too. He does not.
“Scolding, Master,” she answers.
Cairo nods. “And the flower?”
“Aster, Master.”
“And the sheet?”
I continue down the corridor, the hard rap of my boots on the concrete draws The Watcher’s attention. Noticing my approach, she swallows and bows, her chin to her chest, her eyes cast downward as I pass her.
“Sire.”
“The sheet?” I press, strolling into Cairo’s pristine quarters. Wall-to-wall bookcases carved from the rich, red flesh of ancient trees surround a matching single desk and leather studded chair.
Cairo doesn’t look away from the three-dimensional screen across from him—a giant vision that covers the wall. He swipes his finger and pinches to move through the depth of the screen. Documenting the finer details hidden in each answer and filing them accordingly.
The Watcher clears her throat. “Yellow, erm, gold.” She cannot read, though her eyes follow the holographic numbers and lines as though a secret may be revealed.
She is fascinated.
Outside Trade-approved buildings, there is minimal tech available. A single, large vision screen is in every tower to broadcast a weekly update and weather cautions. The Trade Connect Building has centralised computer networks to store data, and communication between other TC buildings is done through underground copper wiring. This is used strictly for security and intel purposes. We uncovered an old disc a few years back and are working on locating a satellite from the old-world, but throwing signals out into a hazy-cloaked abyss is the same as wishing on a star.
That is it.
Besides the Trade medical laboratories, all other tech has been banned since the Gene Age, when everyone had a device and the ability to communicate, create their own propaganda, influence… Dangerous times.
The Trade resurrected the land with the peaceful notion of returning to our roots, to Meaningful Purpose.
No entertainment. No confusion.
Basically, we don’t fucking trust Common with tech anymore, nor do we think they are capable of peace and sustainability when they have access to it.
History proved this.
Cairo hums approvingly. “She is very agreeable.”
Conditioned. He means conditioned. Compliant. I must admit, I am somewhat surprised she didn’t choose a different colour or flower and give her individuality away.
It’s there.
Cairo finally offers the girl his attention. “Isn’t she.” Then he looks at me. “Paisley,” he adds, “Why do we have different Trades?”
She straightens, thinking it’s a test. “So we all contribute to The Cradle, Master. So we all serve The Cradle.”
“Yes, of course, sweet girl,” he muses, “But why just one each? They link in some cases. Blend. For instance,” —he leans backward in his chair— “why not have you dress Aster, too? Or bathe her?”
Her breaths become shallow, feeling an ulterior motive to his conversation. She is right, but not in the way she suspects. It is for me. Not her. “I was born for parchment. I'm to guide, watch, and convey.”
“Yes,” he keeps his face impartial, “but why can't you do more if it relates to your current role and placement?”