by Joan He
Rising, she wiped the sea spray off her otherwise dry face.
As promised, Leona was waiting back in the house. “We’ll have it transported to the eco-city,” she said as Actinium and Kasey came through the door and into the fuel-bar, where two kettles were going on the stove.
“Keep the boat here,” said Kasey. The island was classified as private domain, prohibiting non-residents from holoing in. That, along with Leona’s lack of an Intraface, would offer her ample protection from the press.
“Then we’ll send it over to Francis,” said Leona. “He’ll patch it up, make it good as new.”
He could destroy it, for all Kasey cared, but she nodded for Leona’s sake—then stiffened.
Voices. Inside the house.
Peeking into the living room, she was taken aback to see the Wangs, Reddys, Zielińskis, and O’Sheas with their twins. It was literally the island’s entire population, minus the temporary vacationers and old Francis John Jr., the handyman who lived in the woods. The couch was crammed, the overflow sitting on the floor, spread with grandmother Maisie Moore’s monogrammed towels, everyone huddled around Leona’s small holograph projector and none, to Kasey’s growing dismay, wearing masks.
The air above her head shifted; she glanced up to see Actinium, leaned in beside her. He took one look at the living room and sighed. An odd sound, coming from him. Even odder was his mutter, something about “going outside.”
Before Kasey could ask what was wrong with inside, a scream bounded toward them.
“Act!” Roma, one of the nine-year-old twins, burst into the kitchen and ran for Actinium, skidding to a stop upon seeing Kasey. “Who’s that?”
They’d met before, but Kasey didn’t blame Roma for forgetting. Celia was the one who’d spent hours making mud-patty cakes with the twins, while Kasey stood off to the side, not very good with children. She was worse at introductions, so she left the honors to Actinium.
“A friend,” he said. Not quite true, but Kasey supposed friend was easier for kids to understand. Simple, clear-cut—
“A girl friend?”
“No,” Kasey said as Mrs. O’Shea’s voice floated in from the living room.
“Actinium? Is that you?”
The next thing Kasey knew, islanders were piling into the fuel-bar. She edged out of the way as they beelined for Actinium, shaking his hand, hugging him. Actinium reciprocated far more woodenly than Kasey would have expected from him. “You told them,” he said to Leona, sounding aggrieved, and Kasey sent him her sympathies as the mob swept him into the living room.
“They were all rushing to evacuate!” Leona called after them. “I had to explain!”
“Explain what?” Kasey asked Leona as the kitchen emptied. “Why doesn’t anyone have to evacuate?”
Leona lifted the kettle from the stove. “Because the air is filtered. Act built a shield around the island.”
Kasey blinked.
She knew perfectly well what Leona meant by shield, as an eco-city denizen protected by one. A filtration and force-field system, invisible yet impenetrable, sieving out toxins and shielding city infrastructure from the effects of elemental erosion. Before the science ban, Kasey had spent an entire summer deciphering shield mechanics and equations. She could recreate a miniature model if she tried. But around the whole of this island?
“That’s . . .” Kasey trailed off as the pieces fell into place. Leona not wearing a mask. The people’s warm reception. And Actinium. Come to think of it, he’d reprogrammed the hospel copterbot like it was nothing, with all the cool-headedness Kasey had witnessed during their first meeting, but those impressions had been erased, like recessive genes, by the episode with the mug. Even now, Kasey could smell the blood, but maybe she’d been too quick to judge.
“. . . a big project,” she finished, the words feeling inadequate.
“It’s my fault,” said Leona, smiling sheepishly as she filled the mugs on the table. Kasey set more out. “Thank you, dear. It’s like what I told you girls: I just can’t bear to abandon Maisie’s home.” Yes, Kasey remembered Leona saying so one time after Kasey pronounced the house structurally unsound. “But with all the talk of worsening storms, Act wouldn’t put up with me staying on the wrong side of the levee.”
“So he built a shield for you.”
“For everyone,” said Leona, and Kasey nodded. It wasn’t the first over-the-top thing a boy had done to woo her sister. The son of an illusion-tech CEO had inscribed every undersky in the eco-city with love poems dedicated to her. In Kasey’s unsolicited opinion, Actinium’s grand gesture was superior. Impressive, actually. Amazing—the word that’d eluded Kasey.
“He only got around to checking the shield on my side of the levee this month, though,” Leona continued. “So I invited them over for my peace of mind.” She gestured at the living room and Kasey looked to it for a second time, gaze pinpointing Actinium. He was facing away from her, talking to Mr. Reddy.
The back of his shirt was soaked through.
How—when—where? It took Kasey a second to figure it out. On the rocks. He’d been standing behind her. The sea must have sprayed him then. Strange, that he hadn’t moved away.
Then her attention was drawn to the center of everyone else’s, to the holographs of tsunamis and landslides befalling ten out of the twelve outside territories, the rest left to contend with microcinogen and radioaxon fallout far more pernicious than the initial megaquake.
It was the moment people had failed to prepare for, as if preparing too well made an event inevitable. A logical fallacy. So was human exceptionalism; 99.9% of species went extinct. The end of their road was not an if, but a when. The world would end.
Was ending before their eyes.
As it should, Kasey couldn’t help but think, and startled as one of the twins began to cry. The sound was louder than she expected; she’d unwittingly drifted into the living room to better see the broadcast and as Mrs. O’Shea changed the channel, Kasey found herself staring at her dad. “The Planetary Protection Committee is set to convene at 17:00 Worldwide Time today,” came the broadcaster’s voice-over as David Mizuhara took the P2C podium. “Together, with Worldwide Union officers and delegates from the twelve territories, they will determine humanity’s next step during its most critical hour.”
The audio cut to her dad’s press briefing. His monotone voice filled Leona’s living room. “Here at the eco-cities, we thought to delay the crisis via lifestyle change, but despite the best efforts of P2C and those under its jurisdiction, the crisis has come to pass. Nevertheless, we remain committed to the health of this planet and its people. As such, we’ve been recruiting solutions for the better part of eighteen months now. And I can assure you . . .” A pause that would be misinterpreted as losing his place in the Intraface-fed lines but Kasey knew, from the way her dad pushed up his glasses, it was because he had seen a factual error. “I can assure you we have the best options, going forward, under our consideration.”
There it was. The factual error. The blatant lie, unless Barry had found a promising submission in the last—Kasey checked her Intraface time—eighty-four hours.
David Mizuhara went on to talk about Environmental Control and Alteration Technologies. But even if every outside territory followed ECAT cleanup protocols, the balancing agents being pumped into the atmosphere wouldn’t be able to neutralize the deadly compounds before their chemical bonds broke and re-formed into deadlier ones, the entire process expedited by increased global temperatures. It was as Linscott Horn had said, Kasey thought darkly. The dominos had been set centuries ago. One quake, and they all fell.
The people had brought this upon themselves.
“Live updates can be accessed through the Worldwide Union forum-feeds,” said the broadcaster, voice returning. “The world will be watching, and we will be unpacking developments as they occur.”
“See?” said Mrs. O’Shea to the twins. “Experts are going to make things better.”
She s
aid more. The broadcaster said more. Both their voices faded as Kasey retreated back against the wall—the wall giving way to a door. It closed behind her, sealing her into the bathroom, Celia’s favorite space in the whole house. Eco-city showers relied on UV and pressurized air, and everfibers, like the sweaters Celia had gifted Leona, were self-cleaning. Using water for anything other than hydration was wasteful. But here, there was a tub and a non-fuel-bar sink. Kasey ran the tap to drown out the news, and as the water gushed, her rank flashed in her mind’s eye.
Rank: 2.19431621
Rank: 2.19431622
Rank: 2.19431623
Her heartbeat rose with her rank: 105 bpm. 110 bpm. 115 bpm. She looked up at the mirror over the sink. She imagined breaking it with her bare hands, like Actinium had.
Couldn’t do it, in the end.
• • •
The world will be watching.
Everyone will know you didn’t help.
No one saw Kasey leave the house, or run to the pier. She stopped when her toes met the edge.
Couldn’t jump, either.
The ache in her chest returned, metastasizing to her lungs. She took a deep breath.
And let the pain out.
THE SCREAM SPLITS THE DAWN when I’m halfway to the house. It propels me into a sprint, over the porch steps and into the kitchen, my eyes darting around to see who’s hurt, who’s died, but it’s just the kettle, come to a boil on the stovetop.
Right. People can do more things than die.
Like prepare breakfast in my absence. “Morning,” says the boy, bustling about the kitchen with a towel tied around his hips like an apron. “Where’d you . . .”
He trails off when he sees my sorry state.
To paint a picture: I’m soaked up to the waist and dripping all over the floor. My feet are caked in sand and some stray kelp’s plastered around my ankle. I have no idea what I can say to dodge the boy’s inquiries so I don’t try, offering up “beach yoga” as my explanation before I climb onto the kitchen counter and toss the house key onto the highest shelf.
There. Now, I might fall and break an arm in the middle of the night, but at least I won’t wake up like I did this morning, standing waist-deep in the sea as the surf hurtled toward me.
Clambering down, I brush past the boy. I’ll field his questions later. But once I’m in front of M.M.’s closet, hunting for dry clothes, his words from the other day resound in my skull.
Your mojo could kill you.
I grip the edge of the closet door. Normally, I can trick myself into seeing the hilarity of sleepwalking to the shore. But today, my mind refuses to reframe the shit I can’t control. Thanks to the boy, it’s stuck on the possibility that I could really die the next time. It’s bad enough for me to assume there will be a next time.
“Hey.”
I take a deep breath, let it settle my nerves, then release the closet. “Yeah?”
The boy stands in the bedroom doorway. He’s removed the apron, unveiling his outfit of the day: an M.M. pom-pom sweater and hair, freshly washed, that drips onto his shoulders. It’s a good look. Would be better if his lips weren’t parting to release a flood of questions in three, two, one—
“I’d like to join.”
I blink. “Join?”
“Beach yoga,” says the boy, and oh, love. He believes me. Why wouldn’t he? The truth—that I sleepwalked to the beach—is just too out there for him to arrive at on his own.
Let him believe it, then. My problems aren’t his, and what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. “It’s an advanced class,” I say, untying my wet cargos and nearly dropping them before remembering such a thing called propriety. I glance at the boy; he’s already turned around. “Not sure you can handle it.” I step into a dry pair, cinch the waist, and tell him I’m good.
“I’m a quick learner.”
I turn toward his voice—and back up into the closet.
He’s stands in front of me, long-lashed eyes slightly hooded. I don’t think we’ve ever been this close before—conscious, that is. Can’t forget about the time he almost crushed the life out of me.
“Some other day,” I say, flustered at being caught off guard. “Gotta run.”
I wait for him to move and let me pass.
Instead he leans in. His head tips down beside mine, hair dripping onto my shoulder.
“Don’t go.”
His voice holds a command, a plea, and an invitation all in one and my stomach answers with a clench of hunger. My veins throb with blood and I know what I want to do—press him up against the closet and devour him, as I would any other boy who speaks to me like that.
Except this isn’t like him. This isn’t the boy I’ve been getting to know. Nor is it the unhearing, unseeing boy who tried to strangle me on the beach, but—Careful, Cee, says a voice in my head as I cup his cheek and turn my head a fraction, my lips brushing his ear. “Unless you want to be kneed in the balls again,” I whisper, “you’re going to step aside.”
For a long moment, nothing happens.
Then he stumbles back. He clutches his face like I slapped him. He shakes his head, mouth opening, closing, eyes looking to me, as if I can explain his strange behavior, before frowning. “Again? You’ve . . . done it before?”
His voice is back to normal. My heart rate sure isn’t; my brain’s confused and whiplashed and it takes a lot of effort to think of a comeback. “Clearly, I didn’t do it hard enough to leave an impression,” I say, deliberately eyeing his crotch.
Then I get the hell out.
“Stay,” I order at U-me as I hurry down the porch, swiping my fanny pack on the way.
I trust you, I said to the boy.
You know nothing about me, the boy said to me.
The score chart as of this morning:
Boy: 1
Cee: 0
• • •
Don’t go.
I can’t unhear his voice no matter how I try, and believe me, I try. I chop trees so single-mindedly that the hours run together. The sun’s setting when I finally drag all five trunks to the ridge; I curse when I realize my maximum load of two trunks per climb means three separate climbs.
Better start now.
The sun is already lower by the time I complete my first ascent. I quickly unload the two trunks at the ridge top. As I prepare to head back down for two more, a sound comes from the shore side of the ridge. I freeze. Again—same sound.
A voice.
“Cee!”
I peer over the edge.
Oh my Joules.
The boy is climbing. Without. A. Rope.
I throw him mine—and not a second too soon. He grabs it just as he loses a foothold. My stomach plummets as he plummets, and my heart snaps taut when the rope halts his fall.
“You’re going to get yourself killed!” I shout. Something glints at the base of the ridge. U-me, loafing around. Failed at her supervision job and can’t even be bothered to be useful now. “Help him, U-me, for fuck’s sake.”
Slowly, she rolls beside the boy as he relocates his footholds. “Strongly disagree. Disagree. Neutral. Agree.”
Eons pass before the boy reaches the top. I grab his hand and tug.
“Explain”—he lurches into me—“yourself,” I puff out.
“Let me—help.”
“No. Absolutely not.” Forget about his weird behavior this morning; I’m not about to let my first guest fall to his death before my very eyes.
The boy finishes catching his breath. “The sun’s setting.”
“So?”
“So we should get going.” He grabs a log and moves toward the edge, as if the descent is as easy as stepping off.
I seize him by the back of his sweater. “Okay, first, you don’t descend with the logs. It’s hard enough carrying them to the top. Let the rope do the rest of the work.”
“Any other pointers?”
No. No pointers. You shouldn’t be here. But the sun isn’t slowing for us as we argue,
and at some point, the boy’s going to have to climb down on his own anyway since I can’t strap him across my back like a log.
I blow a long breath past my lips. “Listen closely.”
I show him how to tie the rope around himself like a harness, then send him on a test climb down the ridge side.
He didn’t lie—he is a fast learner. And with him here, I don’t even have to climb the logs to the ridge top. He can stay at the base to fasten them to the end of the rope, and I can stay at the top to pull them up. The sun sinks past the horizon as we lower all five logs down the shore side of the ridge. We complete our own descent in the after light.
“Thanks,” I say later as we’re dragging the logs across the shale. “But never again.”
“I won’t bog you down.”
“Don’t care.”
“There’s nothing else to do.”
“Remind me to dirty up the house for you,” I say, and he snorts. The sound suits him, fits nicely into the repertoire I’ve collected for the boy-I-think-I-know, a boy whose mysteriousness begins and ends at his lack of memories and who, for the most part, is the opposite of dangerous. The opposite of suave. It’s somewhat of a shame, I think, glancing sidelong at the boy as he wipes the sweat from his brow, because I guess there are a number of human debaucheries I miss and the boy, while a decent helper, is far from an (in)decent partner in crime.
At night we still go our separate ways—bedroom for him, couch for me—but he’s up in the morning, ready when I am, and after some verbal sparring, I let him come that day.
And the next.
We build a routine. I chop down trees. He drags them to the base of the ridge. Transporting them over to the other side takes half as long with our human pulley system, and time goes by quicker when split with someone. Before I know it, I’m only three logs short from finishing Leona, and the boy and I have even wandered through several conversations.
