“It’s okay, Ma. It really is,” I tell her.
“They are shits, Will. We work our guts out so they can drink champagne. Don’t give them anything extra, okay? No supervision work.” I hadn’t told her that I was applying for the promotion because I knew she wouldn’t approve and I wanted to get it before I told her, but Ma has friends all over the plant and it was only a matter of time before she found out.
“Okay, Ma.”
“It’s important you don’t stand out for any reason.”
“Okay, Ma.”
“Promise me, Will. People don’t like supervisors. There’ll be too much talk. Promise me.”
“I promise, Ma.”
“And Will, stop talking about having a wife and kids. You know that can’t happen. Stop standing out. Just survive, Will, and try to be happy. That’s all there is. I know it isn’t easy. But it matters. I want you to find something that makes you happy. Promise me?”
“Okay.”
“Just survive. Do the minimum for the Corp. And live your life. Okay?”
“Okay, Ma.”
•
Later that morning, I tell Belinda to withdraw my supervisor’s application because most of the applicants are a couple years older with more experience and besides, I’m worried about the twenty unit fee. Belinda is disappointed, and Melissa looks victorious—I wasn’t one of the guys she was rooting for, so she was totally sour about me applying. A few days later, Melissa organizes a cake for the guy who ends up getting the position, a dude from Floor 8 of the desal—Evan. At the congratulatory celebration, Evan shows me a picture of the car he’s put a deposit on. He’s already ordered a catalogue of up-and-coming Shadows from the Incubator and he’s thinking about taking the next step of opening a thirty-year lay-by plan.
•
One Tuesday evening, Rob arranges to pick me up just inside the Gray Zone at sunset. He’s tense, and when I ask him about my next job, and why we’re starting so early, he just says, sarcastically, “Corporate work.” Instead of heading east, farther into the Gray Zone, we drive north, toward the center of the Corp.
Rob is a Corp lawyer. Some Gray Corps affiliates start out as Westies like me, then work their way up the Breeder running or drug smuggling chain and climb the Gray Corps ranks that way. But Rob is true Corp, born and bred. I don’t know why someone born into the Corp would take a bad turn—sure, he makes loads of money as a Gray Corps affiliate, but he has a lot to lose. Maybe he has a drug habit? Maybe he enjoys the thrill of life in the Gray Zone? Maybe he’s a naturally crooked guy who couldn’t walk a straight line if he tried?
Rob drives onto a ramp and I realize we’re on the exclusive Corp freeway that cuts across all the zones—the module at the top of his car windscreen beeps happily as we pass each checkpoint scanner. I’m dying to see inside the other zones but the freeway is bordered by fifteen-foot walls, so I see nothing.
Then we go down another ramp and his car slows in front of a physical checkpoint marked ZONE B. It’s a large sandstone gate with about twenty armed CSOs holding semiautomatics, along with the usual Tasers. One steps forward as Rob rolls down his window and holds out his wrist for scanning.
Rob says, “We’re here for Case Three-Eight-Two-Seven,” and the guard nods.
“We’re going to send an escort with you to the magistrate’s court.”
We roll through the gates with two CSO motorbikes in front of us and two following.
I put my mask on and roll down the car window because I’ve never been in Zone B before. I’ve heard about it from Ma, but she doesn’t remember much from her visits over fifteen years ago. As we drive along the main street, I see how clean it is, and how streamlined: the sleek, high-rise buildings; the tree-lined streets. I take as much of it in as I can: the astounding variety of beautiful clothes that people are wearing; the bright colors of the shopfronts and restaurants.
We follow the CSO bikes down a spiraling driveway—down, down into the parking garage of a high-rise building.
Rob is very anxious. I’ve never seen him like this.
“Don’t say a thing,” he tells me. “Just follow my lead.”
The CSOs lead us to an elevator, which takes us into an enclosed room—a courtroom with insignia and expensive furniture and a stenographer in the corner, ready to take notes. An older man in a uniform is sitting on the edge of a large bench at the front of the room. He comes over and tells us he’s a court officer and that he needs our names and details. Rob writes some lies on a form. During the next half hour, more senior Gray Corps affiliates, like Rob, file in. I’m the only Wall Kid, of course, but nobody seems bothered by me being here.
Then we’re asked to sit, and the court officer lifts a hammer and lets it fall.
“All rise for Irregular Hearing No. Three-Eight-Two-Seven of Year 352 of the Corporation.”
We stand again as the door at the front of the court, to the left of the long bench, opens and another old man comes in, wearing black robes.
The old man sits in a golden chair behind the front tables.
The old man—the magistrate—starts talking. He speaks quickly, in a bored tone. It’s 7:40 p.m. on a Tuesday night and he’s probably meant to be at a fancy dinner in Zone A. The stenographer taps away.
“This is an Extraordinary Trial of sixty-eight Shadows based on events that took place earlier today.”
What events? I look at Rob, but he doesn’t meet my gaze.
“Given the urgency of the matter,” the magistrate continues, “I am applying Regulation Thirty-Five of the Laws, which suspends the Rule of Law. Accordingly, I am going to provide a brief account of facts and charges, and then a verdict. Then I will move immediately to sentencing. For the sake of brevity and to prevent further disturbances, I will leave the defendants in the holding cells until the time of sentencing. Since these defendants fall under the Special Laws, they are not entitled to representation or a voice in this court. Stenographer, I’ll begin by setting out the names, ages, and occupations of the sixty-eight Shadows who have been charged.”
The stenographer nods and the magistrate begins: “Cynthia Watts, thirty-five, clerk; Rachel Garner, thirty-eight, accounting officer; Stacey Nesles, forty-two, teacher; Ellen Hooper, forty-one, paralegal . . .”
It takes a long time to read through all the defendants. It sounds like they’re Zone B profesh Shadows. To be Zone B profesh, Shadows must have come out of the Incubator with an excellent fertility record and still be physically and psychologically strong enough to take up a profesh position. I can’t think why a legal assistant, publisher, or scientific officer would give up a life in Zone B, so hard-won, to commit crimes against the Corp.
Then the magistrate describes the acts: “On this day, the defendants assembled at Corporation Square in Zone B. They accosted passersby and tried to engage them, and then set off an incendiary device, killing thirty-five innocent Zone B citizens, eleven CSOs, and three members of their own group.”
I look at Rob, who turns away from me. There was an explosion in Zone B? How come we didn’t hear about it? I’m still thinking about this when the court officer brings a black square of fabric to the magistrate, and the magistrate puts it on his head.
“The charges of mutiny, unrest, and murder have been made out,” the magistrate says. “I find the defendants guilty on all charges. Officer, could you bring the defendants up from the holding cells for the reading of the sentences?”
The court officer goes out the door that’s behind the magistrate and we hear murmured voices and shuffling feet. Then a hatch opens right in the center of the courtroom floor, and a procession of Shadows emerges, climbing up a circular staircase from the holding cell beneath the ground. As they emerge, the magistrate begins to read the sentences.
“Cynthia Watts, thirty-five, clerk, I find you guilty of the charges so laid. You are sentenced to death.”
> Cynthia Watts raises her right fist and shouts, “Long live the Breeder Response!”
The court officer bangs his hammer, but she ignores him and keeps chanting.
“Rachel Garner, thirty-eight, accounting officer, I find you guilty of the charges so laid. You are sentenced to death.”
Rachel raises her right fist and also shouts, “Long live the Response!”
“Stacey Nesles, forty-two, teacher, I find you guilty of the charges so laid. You are sentenced to death.”
Stacey is also shouting, and there’s more shouting coming from the people behind her. I can’t hear the magistrate, who’s looking desperately at the officer, who can’t do anything. So the magistrate just keeps reading through all sixty-eight sentences, even though nobody can hear him, as quickly as he can. Then he clears his throat and nods to the court officer, who opens the little door and the magistrate scurries away.
Rob and the other Gray Corps affiliates step forward as security corrals all sixty-eight Shadows into small groups. Each Shadow has a CSO holding her wrist. Rob motions for me to come help him. We lead six of the CSOs with their Shadows, still shouting, out of the courtroom and down the elevator into the bowels of the garage. Then we take them to Rob’s car and one by one, load them in the back. I’m conscious of how fragile their spines feel as I push them—as gently as possible—into the back of the SUV. They’re slow and careful with each other, murmuring directions, so as not to hurt each other as they climb up. The last in the line is Stacey. Unlike the others, she doesn’t look down with care as she steps up into the back of the SUV but looks at me, defiant. When I step near to help her, she throws her arm back to strike me. But she misses, and Rob slams past me and grabs Stacey, then roughly shoves her inside and slams the door shut.
We drive to another security checkpoint. When we pull up, some of the Shadows start to wail and I look out the window at the sign across the gate. The Incinerator. Otherwise known as the Rator. It’s about sixty feet tall and out the top plumes black smoke. This is where you go if your units are irretrievably in debt, or you’re sentenced to death by law, or the Corp otherwise wants to get rid of you. Rob hands the court documents through the window and we’re waved through.
We unload the Shadows so they can be processed into the Rator individually. Stacey turns to me again, her eyes still bright with rage.
She looks me in the eye. “Traitor!” she shouts, and spits in my face. I wipe the spit off and get back in the car.
Rob and I are silent as he drives away, and when we’re back on the Corp freeway, he says, “I wanted you to see what happens to members of the Response, Will.”
His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. What has he heard? “The Response killed fifty people through some stunt today, and now you just saw sixty-eight members get executed. None of it made any difference whatsoever to the Corp. It’s totally futile. I’d hate you to just throw yourself away like that. Do you understand?”
I nod.
“Obviously, you can’t mention this to anyone. You won’t see it appearing in any news feeds either.”
I close my eyes, feeling heartsick with myself. I’m shaking, and I can see Stacey’s eyes in front of me: Traitor. She’s right—I just handed them over without hesitation. I tell myself to put those thoughts in the black box. I tell myself I need to rest during the hour’s drive back to the Gray Zone, because soon my shift of Breeder running will start.
•
I’m still shaking hours later, after I’ve finished Breeder running and am dropped off at the diner. I’m still shaking thirty minutes after that, when Alex comes in and I’m drinking my seventh cup of coffee. She must be able to tell, because she comes and sits next to me, rather than opposite. I’m conscious of her leg touching my leg, of her hesitating about whether to put her arm around me. I’m scared—I don’t want to touch her again, and yet I do.
When Alex asks me what’s wrong, I can’t tell her about the Breeder running, I can’t tell her about the Shadows and the court case, so I just shake my head. Then she says, “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me,” and she takes my hand. Her hand feels very warm and very good. She can never know that I’m a runner.
I order food—screw the expense. I don’t have the strength to be cheap. Our waiter, who’s also the owner’s son, bangs the plate down in front of me, resentment oozing out of him—everyone assumes that us Wall Kids are diseased, criminal, and violent Moods—so I make a sudden move for the ketchup and watch him flinch. He glares at me and humphs off, and I find that I’m staring at the ugliest plate of eggs I’ve ever seen. On the edge of the plate are two pieces of toast that look like they’ve been dragged along the filthy floor and then left under a running tap. I don’t care; I’m starving.
“Just looking at your breakfast makes me want to kill myself,” Alex says cheerfully. She’s ordered her usual black coffee, and it’s arrived in a mug about the size of her big, weird hat.
“Don’t look at it, then,” I tell her, and shove in a forkful. Alex sips her coffee. As I shovel more food into my mouth, I notice someone is watching us: a Gray Corps affiliate at the next table is openly staring at Alex. With those eyes, Alex always gets a lot of attention. But the paranoid part of me can’t help but wonder if he can see the tip of her Breeder mark below her hat. I can’t see her mark, but I reach over and pull her hat down extra tight just in case.
“Hey.” Alex says. Then I see Alex clock the Gray Corps guy staring at her, and I blurt out, “Where do you go with Mr. Goldbags, anyway? I never see you down at the Wall. You’re too little to fight. What does he make you do, anyway?”
Alex laughs, and I feel uneasy.
“What? What’s so funny?”
“Mr. Goldbags isn’t a ‘he.’ She’s a woman.”
“A woman?” The word is strange in my mouth. Alex never uses the words Breeder and Shadow. Always girl and woman and person.
“Yeah, a woman,” Alex says, drinking her coffee. I live in a world of boys and men. In the Before times, there would have been girls in my class, women in the streets. There aren’t girls or women anywhere now—only Breeders and Shadows. But Alex doesn’t see herself as a Breeder, she sees herself as a girl. An old-world concept. Alex sees the world differently and she doesn’t care that the way she sees the world doesn’t match up with the Corp’s view. What would she think if she knew I was a Breeder runner? She would hate me with all her heart. I know Alex wouldn’t be a runner for any reason—not even for her own life.
“You work for a Shadow who works for the Gray Corps?” I whisper to her. It doesn’t make sense. Alex looks at me closely.
“No, not the Gray Corps,” she says. “She’s part of the Response.”
Oh fuck. “How does a Shadow do Response work in the Gray Zone without getting taken down?” I ask. The Gray Zone belongs to the Gray Corps. They turn a blind eye to Alex and the other kids of Gray Corps affiliates, they’ll even look after them, in their way—but I don’t see why the Gray Corps would let the Response operate in the Gray Zone in plain sight.
Alex just shrugs and smiles.
“Hang on. You’re not part of the Response, are you?” I ask, panic rising.
She stops smiling. She doesn’t answer.
“Alex?” I say. “Don’t you trust me?”
She shakes her head. “I can’t tell you any more, Will.”
“But . . .”
“In the meantime,” Alex says, opening her hand, eyes glittering. “You up for it?”
In the palm of her hand are two pills. Her Shadow has given her some Jazz. For weeks now, Alex has been obsessed with me skipping work and taking Jazz with her, and then both of us heading into Zone C. I’ve been obsessed with not being sent to the Rator. Memo is one thing, but with Jazz . . . anything can happen to you on that stuff. She grins at me again and holds up her hand. Fighting with Alex is useless—it’s better to let her t
alk up her plans and then say goodbye when I’ve finished my breakfast.
“Please let’s go to Zone C today,” Alex says. “We could go shopping.” I laugh, because the thought of Alex bouncing around a shopping center is unreal. What the hell would she buy? I try to imagine her going into a fancy department store and buying . . . another fucking hat?
I don’t say anything. I just eat my eggs and try to distract her with something I’ve actually been thinking about.
“Hey, you know how you said it’s all lies about the . . . you know . . . the End Times and stuff,” I look around to make sure nobody’s listening, and Alex laughs at me. “Well, I’ve seen the burnt ocean from the desal plant. I’ve seen the burnt land from the top of the Wall. And I’ve seen all the Westies waiting outside the Wall. People aren’t making that stuff up. So what do you mean?”
“Sure, there were End Times,” Alex says. “And the badlands are terrible—but not all areas were hit as bad as ours was. The Corp has deliberately cut us off from those other places. There are rumors that other cities are trying to contact us and the Corp won’t let them. The Corp’s ‘exploration’ is actually about keeping us isolated. They’re blowing up any bridges or communication lines that they can find.”
“But why?”
Her exasperation takes me by surprise. “Because our Corp overlords have it great here! Their Zone A life is amazing. They have it all worked out. They don’t need to trade. They don’t need or want contact with other countries, other people. They can just live off us Westies.”
I’m shaking my head. Alex and I sit still, glaring at each other.
“I don’t know,” I say. My voice sounds more pissed than I intended.
“Why are you arguing with me?”
“Well, why are you arguing with me?”
“Is it so incredible to you that the Corp would lie about our history, about what it’s doing?”
“Well, no. But . . . but everything we do here is for all the zones. Not just Zone A. Westies benefit too.”
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