Compromised on Torei

This story is part of the broader Torei anthology. I am trying to balance exposition with readability for familiar readers. If something seems badly explained or out of place, please let me know and I'll correct it.

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Sneaking out of the compound is easy. I barely have to sneak at this point. Nobody questions a 23-year-old, organic-clothed freewomb walking out of the embassy after dinner, even if she’s the daughter of the Ambassador, and heiress to one of the most powerful royal families on Aetheria. I used to be scared that someone might follow me, but in the more than a year that I’ve been doing this, I’ve never been called out, nor have I seen a single eyebrow raise. I walk confidently from the front door of the mansion in the centre of the compound, and follow the path to the main gate.

The compound is a monument to off-world rectitude. A perfect rectangle of polished beige granite, every slab cut to the millimetre, glows under soft golden uplights that rise from recessed channels in the ground. The light never wavers; it pools upward in warm cones, leaving no shadow longer than a fingertip. Low office blocks—three storeys, identical, their windows dark and square—sit in exact rows along the inner perimeter. Between them, the dwellings are smaller cubes, doors and windows aligned so precisely that a plumb line dropped from any roof would kiss the centre of the path below.

Alien bushes—imported from Aetheria’s temperate moons—have been disciplined into perfect cuboids. Each leaf is clipped to perfection; where a single blade protrudes from what would be a perfect line, the gardener’s lazer shears slice it along the leaf, leaving a razor-straight edge. The hedges form corridors of green geometry, their tops level with the lintels of the doors. Not a petal, not a twig, not a breath of wind disturbs the order. The air itself seems starched, carrying only the faint scent of heated stone and the low electric hum of the uplights.

I smile at the faceless drone and wait for them to operate the huge golden doors.

I step out of the ordered and tranquil compound, and out into the contrastingly vibrant street. I’m always taken aback by the sounds, smells, and vibrant lights of Zephyria. Unlike in my home, there are no private vehicles to whoosh by. There are the carriages, there is the train, and most importantly, there is The Lead. Along the edge of the boulevard, directly opposite where I stand, I can see The Lead in operation. From a distance, it looks like two parallel chrome bars, stretching into the distance, branching off with junctions at all of the major roads. It hangs from buildings, lamp posts, whatever is necessary to keep it just out of reach of the tallest person. The only hint that it could be a mode of transport is the hitch points hanging from the bars, sliding along the rail at walking pace. Every time I see it, I feel a twinge between my legs as I imagine what it must be like to be wearing a collar, my leash attached to The Lead as it pulled me along mercilessly at its own pace to my destination.

That twinge—that notion of having control taken from me—is what drove me to do this for the first time, over a year ago. It’s infectious, and intoxicating. I’ve not yet worked up the courage to try The Lead, but I know it’s only a matter of time.

I hail one of the carriages and board. I present my fake ID chit to the scanner and tell it where to take me.