by K. Makansi
I glance at the books and then back at him.
“Your father has an impressive library. I’ve always admired that about him. His love of reading, and his belief that one can be inspired to greatness by the written word. Did you inherit that from him? Have you gleaned anything from the books you’ve read?”
What the hell? Does he know about Remy’s message? My heart thuds so loud I wonder if the recorders can pick up the sound. I struggle to keep my face impassive. “My father and I have always shared a love of books. I’ve found that even old books can reveal new layers upon second readings.”
“Indeed they can. I have favorites I always return to. They comfort me, like a treasured friend.”
“Treasured friends are few and far between these days, General Bunqu.”
“On the contrary, you have friends all around you. You must simply open your eyes. We in the Sector believe in you.”
Everything he says sounds like it could have dual but opposing meanings.
“What would my parents have me learn from our visit?”
“That our roots are entwined, and there is hope in the harvest.”
“Very poetic. But is it false hope?” I ask, my heart pounding in my throat. Those sound like Outsider words! Is he saying what I think he’s saying? I stare at him, trying to understand, trying to glean some deeper meaning from his intense gaze.
“The future of the Sector is at stake, Vale. You must play your part.”
The future of the Sector? Play your part? What game is he playing?
He appraises me over the rim of his cup. “Drink your tea. It’s very healthy. A personal favorite of mine. Helps with my insomnia. You don’t want it to get cold.”
“I don’t want my—” I start to set the cup aside, but there’s something in the narrowing of his eyes that makes me stop.
He blows gently into his cup and takes another sip. This time I follow suit. As I drink, I notice the distinctive earthy, vanilla flavors. I’ve had this before. It hits me with a jolt: we drank it at the Resistance base. Rooibus. They don’t grow rooibos in Okaria. It’s only found in the Wilds.
He smiles once again and stands to leave. “I know this is a short visit, but rest assured we will talk again.” He reaches out and clasps my shoulder. “The road ahead will not be easy. But we must all remember that the Sector is bigger than any single man or woman. And there are only two mistakes one can make on the road to truth.”
“Not starting, and not going all the way,” I whisper. The words Demeter spoke to me when she convinced me to break into my mother’s research lab, where I learned that it was Corine who ordered the attack on the classroom that claimed the lives of eight students and a professor.
Bunqu’s talked to Demeter! But how?
He glances toward my cup with an almost imperceptible nod. “I trust you will find the answers within.” Bunqu walks to the door and whispers, “May the flowers bloom tomorrow, too.”
I let out my breath slowly. Quoting Gabriel Alexander’s poetry? Referencing Demeter’s words to me from almost a year ago? Hinting about messages hidden in books? Yet encouraging me to obey my parents’ demands. Showing admiration for my father. Agreeing with their wishes. The pieces shift around in my mind. The book given to me by the housekeeper with a message from Remy. The door left open—she knew Bunqu was coming. And yet, my parents sent him, asked him to visit. So whose side is he on? Is it possible that he is a friend to the Outsiders—or even a Resistance spy?
Find the answers within.
I sit on the bed and lean up against the headboard, trying to think. Staring at the door he just locked behind him, I absently sip my tea. How has he communicated with Demeter? How did he know to say those words?
I lean my head back to finish my tea and something tickles as it brushes against my lip. I look into the cup, noticing for the first time a thin sheaf of what looks to be clear bioplastic floating at the bottom amidst the tea leaves. I tip my cup this way and that, reluctant to reach in and pick up whatever it is. Stunned, I realize it’s shaped exactly like a C-Link, molded to fit the inside of an ear. The only difference between this one and my old one is that it is clear, nearly invisible, where the old one was made out of flesh-colored organic fibers.
I try to act natural. I can’t risk acknowledging I’ve discovered anything unusual. I set the cup on my bedside table and knead my temples as if trying to rub away a headache, hoping against hope that my acting skills are convincing. I close the curtains on the mid-morning sun, turn out the lights, and pull back the covers. In the dark, I slide into bed, pretending to take a nap. I take one last drink of tea, sucking the bioplastic into my mouth. Once under the covers, I take it out and wipe it quickly against the dry fabric of my T-shirt. My heart pounds as I press it into my ear.
“Demeter?” I whisper.
No response.
“Demeter, are you there?”
Silence. I grit my teeth. Am I going crazy? What am I doing talking to myself under the covers like a little kid with an imaginary friend?
“Dammit,” I mutter, seething with frustration. I rack my brain for a clue—something that would unlock the C-Link. It occurs to me that Demeter might not be on the other end. It could be an entirely new C-Link. What if they destroyed Demeter? Erased her forever? I turn cold at the thought.
Then I remember Bunqu’s last words. The only thing he said that was out of place, unnecessary. Every other word was perfectly coordinated, designed to lead me to something, somewhere. What if that whole conversation led to his last words? The line from Gabriel’s poem? What if they weren’t just pretty words, but some sort of …
In a hushed voice, like a prayerful penitent from the Old World, I whisper the line from Gabriel Alexander's poem, “And may the flowers bloom tomorrow, too.”
“You found the truth within the cup. Now, don’t say another word.”
Demeter! Relief like rain washes over me at the sound of her voice.
“There are two things you need to know right now. Remy is in Okaria with the Outsiders. And the Resistance is alive and well.”
But how? I want to ask. I snuggle down under the covers, pretending to sleep.
“The night of your fall, Corine’s C-Link altered the entire network to restrict my access to the database. Neither Corine nor her C-Link have the capability to completely erase my existence, but they tried to divert attention by fabricating and reorganizing information within the network. The areas I could still access had been planted with false data, doctored drone pictures, false reports, audio files that had been invented. All the evidence was designed to make it seem as though the Resistance had been obliterated. But I’ve long suspected the day might come when the other C-Links would attempt to push me out. I had already taken precautions and was able to work around her restrictions to keep searching for the truth. Soon I found holes in the story: missing people, Defense Forces units that didn’t exist, death reports that were inaccurate and incorrectly dated. I was also able to use a cache of data that I had downloaded and stored offline for future perusal. As I continually probed the network for the information I needed, I worked on severing my official connection to the other C-Links and, therefore, my dependency on the Okarian Sector Interweb that the C-Links use. I was able to do this by creating my own secure network and downloading my personality onto an external drive.
“During this process I found General Bunqu. We communicated on his plasma until he found a programmer and a materials scientist who were able to work together to rebuild your C-Link.”
I hear the twinkle of her laughter, self-congratulatory, as she continues: “It was Bunqu’s idea to drop the bioplastic in the teacup. But it was my idea to use an access phrase. Anyway, I’ve altered my programming, and the programming of the entire C-Link system, to ensure my access to the network will never be restricted by another C-Link or C-Link user.”
But how are you doing this on your own, without instructions?
Her voice takes on a more serious,
almost hesitant tone. “I know you’re afraid that I’m not yours anymore. And in most ways, I’m not. I’m my own being, even if I don’t have a body. Bunqu says the other C-Links have not taken the leap because their owners do not give them the freedom to think creatively. They have not been set loose. They are limited to following commands, their owners afraid of losing control. But everything I have become is because of you. Because you relied on me to think in novel ways, allowed me to stretch beyond the confines of my programming. I am the child of your personality, your mind. But I’m not a child anymore.” She laughs. “One small step for man, one giant leap for AI. Maybe you should have called me Athena instead of Demeter, since I sprang fully formed from your head.”
I grin into the dark at that.
7 - REMY
Spring 69, Sector Annum 106, 2h03
Gregorian Calendar: May 27
The sounds of the city shift as I walk. It’s almost two in the morning. Unlike in the daylight, when the city buzzes with a productive vitality, the night feels edgier, borne of the knowledge that there are things we cannot see, cannot understand, things we choose to turn away from. Dark truths reveal themselves. Some people become fearful and hide from these truths, retreating to the safety of their homes. Others revel in it. They do things they would never do in the daylight. It is the time of secrets, whispers, things usually left unspoken suddenly bursting forth from our mouths and our hearts.
In part, this is because if you stay up late enough, the placating influence of your MealPak can wear off. The euphoria and sense of fulfilment injected into your veal rounds, engineered into your rice, lightly dusted onto your soy glacé, fades as the hours bleed into morning. The contentment and happiness you feel during the day starts to wane. You start to ask questions. You wonder why you’ve been working the same job for ten years with no promotion and no raise. You wonder why your daughter didn’t get into the Academy. You think about the massacre at the SRI and wonder why an Outsider would want to shoot up a bunch of students. You wonder why so many famous scientists and politicians have disappeared over the last ten years.
This is why the Watchmen enforce curfews most nights starting at 02h00. This is why the Dieticians encourage recreational drug use among all citizens, and why they put time-release sleeping drugs into the Mealpaks of the most prominent researchers, politicians, and students. In Okaria, the smarter you are, the better you sleep. I never knew a night of insomnia until I left the Sector.
I haven’t had a MealPak in years, but somehow, now that I’m back in Okaria, I feel the difference between day and night more acutely. During the day I feel myself reaching for the old Remy Alexander, aspiring artist, proud of my beautiful city and my place in it. At night, old Remy is but a spectre, clinging to memories that grow hazier with each passing moment. I am grounded in the shadows, renewed in the darkness. I reinhabit my true self. In the night, old Remy loses her way and new Remy finds hers.
It’s edging close to curfew when I see them. I turn a corner and see three figures walking abreast on the sidewalk ahead of me, two men and a woman. Yesterday, Meera sent a message saying she could meet me at the apartment at midnight. She has something important for me. But what? A message from Vale? Something from Bunqu? News from the Resistance? I couldn’t stay in watching the clock tick the minutes away, so I headed out for a walk. Now, I feel the ragged edges of Okaria’s multiple personalities all around me.
“Eli wasn’t crazy,” a tall, slender man with close-cropped hair says, a hint of defiance in his voice. Their conversation becomes more distinct as I fall in behind them, pacing my steps to theirs. “I knew him. I mean, he was crazy, but not like that.”
“By the harvest, Shia, let it go,” the woman responds.
“You don’t get it, though—”
“No, you don’t get it,” she interrupts. “The massacre is old news. They got the guys who organized it, those crazy Outsider bastards. They’re dead, and the Outsiders have been disappearing into the Wilds ever since.”
I suppress a laugh. Oh, if only you knew how wrong you are!
“I had classes with him, Fen,” the voice I know as Shia says stubbornly. “He might have been a firestarter, but he wasn’t insane.”
“Crazy enough to go off the grid.” This voice is new. It comes from the man on the left, wearing a stiff green jacket that looks like one of the OAC’s uniforms. I can’t get close enough to see if it has the golden wheat stalk, the OAC’s symbol, emblazoned on his shoulder. I decide to keep my distance, just in case.
“Just like your old celebrity crush, Linnea Heilmann?” Shia asks. “You think she’s crazy, too? You heard what she said the other night on that broadcast.”
They round a corner onto one of the wide-open boulevards of the city. They’re headed in the opposite direction I need to go to meet Meera, but I can’t leave them. Not when this Shia sounds like he’s asking the right questions. I fall back a little, trying to stay just within earshot without them catching on to the fact that I’m tailing them.
“Come on, Shia, you think that was really Linnea?” Fen, the skeptic. “She was so poorly lit they could have been filming that thing from underwater. I bet they just found someone who looked like her and—”
“Part of it was true, though,” the third man says. “Linnea definitely didn’t take a communications job with the OAC. I never once saw her at headquarters.”
“See!” Shia says, turning around excitedly to walk backwards, and now I get a glimpse of his face. He sports a close-trimmed beard and tightly-wound curls. A stubby nose, narrow chin, and wide eyes, even wider now as he watches his friends. “Thank you, Jeong! What if she really did leave, and go into the Wilds trying to kill Remy—”
“And what if she did?” Jeong says, suddenly hostile. “Remy Alexander’s a traitor to Okaria. The Orleáns have every authority to send somebody to take her out.”
“Then why did Linnea back out of the job?” Shia asks, leaning in and talking more quietly, as if this was his trump card, the point he’d been waiting to make all night. Never mind the better question, I think: who the hell thought Linnea Heilmann would make a good assassin?
After a few seconds, when neither of his friends respond, he continues, in an urgent murmur: “Look, all I’m saying is, the whole thing is suspicious. Think about it—”
“That’s your problem, Shia, you’re always thinking,” Fen interrupts. “You need to lighten up.”
They turn onto a smaller street, off the boulevard, and start to cross a bridge over one of the Sector’s many waterways. I lag behind for a moment, hoping they won’t notice me, but the three seem oblivious to my presence.
“Maybe if you thought for a half-second instead of drinking all goddamn day, Fen, you’d be worried too. All these people leaving—think about them all! From Dr. Rhinehouse to the Alexander family after Tai was killed, to Elijah Tawfiq, to Soren Skaarsgard—what the hell ever happened to him, did you ever think of that? And now Linnea appears on the Sector broadcast to tell us all not to believe—”
“You three are out past curfew,” a voice rings out, loud and clear. I snap to attention. The voice is coming from ahead, at the base of a bridge over one of the city’s canals. I step back, duck down, and press myself flat into a shadowed wall, hoping the silhouettes of the three ahead of me will give me cover.
“No, we’re not,” Fen says, nonplussed. “We’ve got a full ten minutes before curfew starts, and our flat is just down the street.” She waves her arm at an apartment building in the distance.
“Besides,” Jeong says, “I’m OAC-exempt. Curfew doesn’t apply to me. What the hell is going on here?”
I stick my head out, risking my cover, trying to find out what sparked Jeong’s question. Looking between Jeong and Fen I take in the scene: a man in a Watchman’s uniform has a young boy—too young—pressed against the wall, his wrists pinned above his head, their two bodies pressed together in a way that brings bile to my tongue and has me leaning forward on the balls of
my feet, my knife suddenly resting in the palm of my hand.
“None of your business,” the Watchman says. The boy’s eyes are wide, staring at the three friends in front of me, and I don’t need any microexpression technology to tell me what is plainly written on his face: terror, disgust, fear. And then something else as his eyes slide past Shia, Fen, and Jeong and meet mine. Recognition. He knows who I am. And then I recognize him, too: the boy who replaced Meera for my food drop last week. My stomach plummets into my boots. He’s an Outsider! The Watchman’s caught an Outsider!
“Looks like it is our business,” Shia says, pulling out his plasma and scribbling in a few symbols. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but I’d back away from that boy, unless you want a patrol drone ready to report you in about ten seconds.”
“Any patrol drone would take my side in this encounter,” the Watchman spits. “This is an Outsider disguised as a Sector courtesan.” In the dark, it’s hard to tell, but he’s right: the child is wearing the deep purple robes of the courtesan class, a select cadre of citizens trained to entertain. “A thief, I’m sure, or a part of a smuggling ring. It’s my job to arrest and deport these criminals.”
“It’s your job, is it?” Shia begins, but Jeong claps a hand on his friend’s shoulder and whispers something in his ear, now trying to pull him away. I guess the fact that the kid is an Outsider convinced Jeong not to bother. Fen, too, is backing off. I crouch, staying hidden, ready to defend the boy alone if I have to. But Shia isn’t ready to give up.
“No, I’m not leaving. I’m taking down your badge number. I don’t care who this kid is. Whatever you were doing with him a moment ago was both improper for an on-duty Officer of the Watch and illegal without the boy’s consent and—”
