A Time to Speak

by Nadine Brandes

  My thread of spiritual connection is crusty and brittle. If my mind got destroyed and only my heart remained, would I still be in love with God?

  The first verse that comes to mind is the section of Hebrews used as a code for the underground church. “And through his faith, though he died, he still speaks.”

  If I die on this trip to Antarctica, will I still speak? God, is my faith strong enough that my voice will still be heard proclaiming You? Oh how I hope so. But for now I need to focus on speaking during life. To my people.

  Funny, how much harder that sounds.

  My prayers feel flat, only a whisper in my mind against the creak of rocking shipping containers. How do I love God more? Is it okay to ask Him for that, or is that . . . cheating? Hesitant, I open my heart and mind and try to block out the stench of vomit.

  God . . . I hope this is okay, but . . . will You help me love you more? I want to love You rightly because I’ve already seen a glimpse of what You’ll do with my life. I asked you, so long ago, to take my life somewhere and You did. So . . . please somehow grow me and show me what You are calling me for.

  I’m okay asking Him for this. Doesn’t He command us to love Him? So, in asking Him for more love, am I not pursuing His will?

  I let out a long breath and shift my thoughts.

  Toward survival.

  How does one survive on a continent of ice? That’s how I’ve always imagined Antarctica. Ice, snow, maybe a polar bear or two.

  “Hey, Parvin girl.” The milkman’s words remind me of Willow’s funny speech and how she called me Parvin-girl. But she says it with sweet endearment. The milkman spits it out like tobacco chew.

  “What?”

  He turns from the window. “There’s a note for you.”

  “What?” Who would write a note? Who has paper? Who wants to . . .

  Oh.

  The crinkle of paper grows closer, as it passes from hand to hand. I hold out mine and someone presses it into my palm. I unroll it and hold it up to my face. It’s too dark. I try to angle toward the window.

  “Who is it from?” Mother speaks in my ear.

  With the dip of the ship, a glance of sunlight comes through just enough for me to scan the note.

  I know you didn’t want me aboard. But . . . you should know by now that I tend to disobey commands. I’m with you, Parvin.

  –Solomon.

  19

  He’s with me. How can I be upset with a note like this in my hands?

  “So your boyfriend’s here?” The milkman moves away from the window.

  I tuck the note into my bag. “You read it?”

  “How was I to know it was for you if I didn’t read it?”

  Mother’s hand startles me as it touches my shoulder. “Hush, Caprine. Your sour attitude causes more sickness in this boxcar than the sea.”

  Several people chuckle—myself included—and the milkman goes silent.

  “Your name is Caprine?” Dusten is almost crowing.

  “No.” The milkman grunts. “It’s Cap.”

  “But that’s short for Caprine, isn’t it?”

  “Mind your manners, young man.”

  Dusten gives a hollow laugh. “My Numbers are too short to be worried about manners.”

  I’ve seen the milkman on the corner of Straight Street as long I can remember and am hearing his name for the first time. How many people have I labeled in my lifetime, but never stopped to know?

  If only I had a pen or pencil to return Solomon’s note. He must be in the shipping container next to ours. So, they pulled him aboard and sentenced him like a Radical. Will he survive? Is Dusten right, that our Numbers mean we’ll escape Antarctica? I envy the people in Solomon’s container. His kindness and calm probably brings a light to them much brighter than what squeezes through their window.

  We must be approaching land because bird cries join the whip of wind and clunks of ship machinery. Our boxcar grows too hot. The air is muggy, even when it’s nighttime. The warmth starts to cook the filth coating the floor of our car.

  I breathe through my mouth with my sleeve over my face.

  It doesn’t help.

  Soon it doesn’t feel like we’re moving anymore. No rocking.

  “Are we zere?” Frenchie whispers, as if speaking it too loud might jinx us.

  “No, stupid,” Cap snaps. “It’s hot here. You think Antarctica’s going to be hot?”

  Another sack of raw potatoes and two buckets of water are given to us to pass around. Hot sea air blows into our container during the brief opening of the door.

  Morning comes with a fist pounding our metal door. “I’m here for Parvin Blackwater.” Monster Voice.

  Again?

  “What do you want with her?” Mother clings to me.

  “Send her out and you’ll get an extra bag of potatoes tonight.”

  I’m ripped out of Mother’s hands. Yanked. Pushed. I trip over bodies and clang against the metal door. It opens a crack and Monster Voice pulls me out.

  The sun blinds me and I fling my hand over my eyes. As he pulls me along the solar-paneled deck, my blurry vision clears. We’re at a giant metal dock with enormous, blue cranes overhead. I barely keep my feet under me.

  Thousands of shipping containers cover the docks around me. One crane hovers over our boat, and operators lower it toward the end pile of containers. In the distance is jungle. Thick brush with tall grass, and trees that seem to fish for clouds with their fingertips.

  “What’s going on?” The air is thick and I cough . . . but it’s air. I suck in deep breaths.

  “You have a meeting.”

  I frown at Monster-Voice. “With who? Where are we?” Behind me is the sea dotted with cargo ships, sailboats, yachts, and all other forms of boats I could imagine. My gaze travels up the shore to where two canals lead toward enormous black gates.

  “Panama.”

  I’ve heard that name before, but I couldn’t place it on a map. Somewhere south of Unity Village—way south. I suddenly feel stupid, like I should know where this is. Reid would know. If I’d been raised with knowledge caps like the people in High Cities, I would know.

  A man walks around the corner of a stack of shipping containers and I reel backward. The Enforcers yank me toward him.

  Skelley Chase.

  “What are you doing here?” I spit out. He’s going to take me away. I know it. I won’t let him.

  “Walk with me,” he says in his bored warble. A thin metal disc floats a few inches above his green fedora.

  “No thanks.”

  He starts walking and the Enforcers lug me after him. He waves them off. “Release her.” They obey.

  I could run, but I don’t. Every word from Skelley’s mouth is a clue to the Council’s motives. “What made you fly all the way down to Panama?”

  “Oh, I didn’t fly here.” He gestures to the disc above him. “I’m a projection. I can do you no harm.”

  The Enforcers walk a few steps behind us now, giving off the impression of privacy, but I’m sure they can hear everything we say.

  “Why do you want to go to Antarctica?”

  I laugh. “I don’t! You and your Council are the ones sending us.”

  “But you don’t have to go.”

  I peer at him. “You’re right. I don’t have to go. Instead, I could join you as your controllable puppet, spreading televised lies to the entire nation.”

  “We’d let you return to Unity Village at times.”

  I roll my eyes. “Hurray. I can return to a place void of all the people I love.”

  He stops and faces me, a threat in his voice. “Your father and sister-in-law are still in Unity Village. Don’t you miss them?”

  My hand shoots out to grab the collar of his jacket, but passes right through the projection.
“What have you done to them?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What have you done to Willow?”

  He shakes his head. “You don’t get it yet, do you? Nothing. As long as you return and cooperate with us, nothing will happen to them.”

  “Why? Why am I so important to you?” All this effort, all these bribes, for what?

  He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t have the luxury of knowing the whys. All you need to know is what I’m about to offer you.”

  I prepare myself. Skelley knows my weaknesses. The offer will be tempting, but I must not give in. I can be strong, despite my hunger, fear, weakness, and desires. I’m suddenly reminded of Jesus being tempted by the devil when he was hungry and vulnerable. Lord, give me Your strength.

  He waves a hand as if shooing a mosquito. “Just say the word and these two Enforcers will fly you back to Prime today. You never have to step on this ship again.”

  “I’m not going back. Not unless you free all of the Radicals and refuse to spread Jude’s Clock invention.” The crane above lifts a container from our stacks and backs up toward the dock. “What . . . what are they doing?”

  Skelley rests a hand on my arm. I don’t feel it, but I jerk away anyway. Not even his virtual skin is allowed to make contact with mine. “Listen, Parvin, I’ll free all the captives from Unity Village. We’ll send you all home—together. The Council will leave your village alone as long as you come visit us in Prime once a month to shoot a video. To be our spokeswoman. We’ll provide your village with Clocks—free of charge—and make sure you live comfortably.”

  So they want my face. My voice. My cooperation. I must be more powerful than I thought. “And would you update our school system so we can learn with knowledge caps just like the kids in High Cities?”

  He quirks an eyebrow. “You’ve been studying up on the High-City language. Sure. Anything else?”

  “Will you leave Opening Three intact—always open—so that people can cross through if they wish? Safely?”

  “I’d have to talk to my fellow Council members, but I’m sure something can be arranged.”

  That’s the tipping point of the scale—the sign that this is too good to be true. He’s lying. They’re desperate. They don’t stand for shalom. And I’m not controllable anymore.

  “It’s not just Unity people.” My voice is deadly quiet. “I care about every Radical and Low-City citizen the Council is condemning. Unless you revoke the Clock-matching, unless you allow Radicals and Clocked people to live side-by-side with the same rights, unless you free all of us today, I’m not coming with you.”

  “So be it.” He tips his fedora. “Enjoy the trip.” His projection disappears and the disc falls to the ground. One of the Enforcers picks it up and puts it in his pocket.

  I left my container worried. I return encouraged. The Council wants me . . . badly. This tells me I’m the strongest face and voice they can present to the people in the USE. This tells me I have power and they fear it. They want it.

  I can tell the people anything and they’ll listen to me more than to the president.

  If You get us off Antarctica, I will use this power You’ve given me.

  “What are they doing with that container?” I gesture to the one in the sky.

  Monster Voice steers me down my row of shipping containers. “Selling them.”

  I frown. “The container?” We reach mine.

  “No, the Radicals.”

  I grab his hand before it can open the boxcar door. “What? Why? To who?” Selling . . . people?

  He throws me off him and yanks the door open. “As slaves . . . to anyone who wants them.”

  Then I’m back in the darkness.

  We get no potatoes that night. No extra bag. No normal bag. Monster Voice lied. I tell no one about my meeting with Skelley, despite the many questions. If they find out I had a chance to free some of them and didn’t take it, they won’t understand.

  I do tell them about other containers of Radicals being sold as slaves. They don’t take it well, but they don’t take it how I expected.

  “Why aren’t we being sold as slaves?” Cap asks. “Why do we have to go to Antarctica?”

  “Maybe you will get lucky and zey will sell you later,” Frenchie suggests.

  “Why are there slaves at all?” Mother shakes her head. “There was never slavery in the USE before.”

  “We’re not in the USE, Mother.”

  Her arm tenses against mine. “But still . . . how does the USE know where to sell people? Is that why they’re doing this? To make money off the Radicals and get us out of their system?”

  Sounds right up their alley.

  The next day, our door is opened.

  “Everyone out!” Monster Voice shoves Cap out first. We follow, stumbling along. Another container—not Solomon’s—is released with us. We’re led to the edge of the ship.

  All around us are jungle islands. Deep green trees so thick I can’t even see a shore or ground. Pelicans swoop overhead, mixing with black-and-white seagulls.

  “Draw water.” Monster Voice draws our attention to coils of ropes resting on the edge of the deck, one end tied to a cleat and the other to a metal bucket. “We’ll be crossing Lake Gatun for about five hours. It’s your job to get water to every shipping container. That’s the only water they’ll get over the next three days. Their deaths be on your heads. Your container gets no water until you’re finished.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Cap folds his arms. “Why do we have to do this? We’re weak just like everyone else.”

  Monster Voice takes three long strides and knocks Cap in the head with his rifle butt. Cap falls, but remains conscious. “Your famous little Blackwater earned you guys this privilege. Now get to work.”

  He jerks a thumb at us and a group of Enforcers space themselves, monitoring our work. “Oh, and don’t think about jumping overboard. If you survived the jump, there are alligators. Not to mention the panthers, snakes, and disease-carrying insects on the islands.”

  It’s hard work, drawing the water in the ninety-degree heat. All of us sneak sips here and there to maintain our stamina. We get kicked if caught. The good thing is, a whole row of shipping containers are gone from the ship. The bad thing is . . . all those people are being sold as slaves.

  My right arm burns after the first bucket. I have to pull up the rope with one hand, then tie the slack around the cleat until it’s firm enough for me to grab another hand of rope. My left arm keeps inching toward the rope as if I have fingers to help. But I don’t.

  I work anyhow.

  By the end of the five hours, my hand bleeds from blisters and I’m dehydrated despite the stolen sips. I don’t know if we watered every container, but I’ve been given a better idea of how many Radicals are here.

  Too many.

  We’re put back in our shipping container with a single bucket of water. We pass it around and share sips. Then we collapse, able to really sleep for the first time as the boat enters more locks that will eventually deposit us into the ocean again.

  As days pass, I slip one potato a day into my pack. There won’t be any food in Antarctica. We’ll need all we can get and I can’t bear wasting mine on seasickness. Mother does the same and, when we’re not sick, we split the potatoes we choose to eat so neither of us goes hungry.

  Solomon sends me another note.

  I hope your potato tasted better than mine.

  I smile and hug the paper to my chest. It’s a tiny treat—a note with absolutely no takeaway content other than that he wanted to make me smile.

  A few minutes later, Cap reaches through the bars and pulls in another scrap of paper. He holds it for a while with his back to us and then lets out a “Hmph!”

  It’s passed to me in a matter of seconds.

  I’m going off of faith that you’re re
ceiving my notes, Parvin. Your window man doesn’t boost my confidence. Window man, if you’re reading this, give it to the pretty girl who’s stealing my heart. This is boxcar love, dear sir, and you should be wary of hindering it. – Solomon.

  Boxcar love? I read it in a playful manner, but what did Solomon really mean? Would he call our relationship . . . love?

  Is it okay to . . . start loving him? Solomon and I are a team now. We’ve always been a team. I think Jude’s okay with it. I try to move near the window so I can accept Solomon’s notes instead of Cap, but people won’t budge. The window is where the fresher air is.

  I remain near Mother, accepting more notes as they’re passed. They’re always short and funny. Cap gets grouchier and grouchier with each one he has to pass. I’m certain he reads them, but how can he stay so grouchy when he’s reading what I’m reading?

  I lose track of the passing days. Every now and then, I catch Monster Voice pounding on a nearby container, dragging the captives out and putting them to work. From what I overhear, they spend time pounding rust off railings or re-painting sections of the ship.

  After a while, I start to think we got the lighter work by drawing water.

  I thought maybe after a few days of vomiting that I would grow used to it—used to the sway and lurch, used to the burning in my muscles from maintaining what balance I can, used to the overall sensation of being trapped. Every time my skin tingles and my ears ring with the threat of seasickness, I force myself to brave it. If I get sick, I just have to be sick. If there’s a storm, I have to brave it. I still need to eat. I still need to drink.

  Otherwise I will die.

  I didn’t think it possible, but another week passes. At least, I think it’s a week. It might be more, it might be less. Cranes have come and gone, taking containers of slaves with them. How many of us are left?

  All I want is a bar—no, a flake—of soap. I close my eyes at the idea of washing my hands. I allow a waterfall to flow from my imagination through my dirty, sticky, fingers. Clean, pink skin. When I rub my palm over my face, it will be smooth. Fresh. Calming.

  I open my eyes again to darkness. Our container lurches with the tilt of the ship. No one screams anymore. No one apologizes for bumping. My shoulder digs into Mother’s side. She doesn’t flinch. I wait until the ship rights itself, only to lurch the other way.