Awakening

by Margaret Ball

  The nearest transit stop was half a mile out of her way, and anyway Devra didn’t feel like trying to sit and look nonchalant with her basket full of black market supplies. She felt she would only look – well, as guilty as she actually was. One little attempt to cheat, just to get some decent stuff to bake with, and look what it had led to. She decided to walk home; the exercise would be good for her.

  As she walked, her mind drifted back to the time when she’d thought she actually could be a perfect citizen… It had started nearly twenty years ago. Devra was standing against a wall, watching her crêche-mates playing some game that involved a lot of pushing and squealing. She didn’t understand anything: nobody would tell her why her parents had gone away, why she had to leave the collective to live in this place with so many tall buildings and so little grass, what she was supposed to do at this place full of children where the woman called Gran left her every morning. The other five-year-olds all knew each other from years of full- or part-time crêche attendance. Devra had been taught not to run, not to scream, and above all, not to have anything to do with strangers. So during “free time” she stood at the wall and watched, occasionally sucking the middle two fingers of her left hand.

  On the third day, two of the little girls who’d been tagged out of the game approached her.

  “I know something you don’t kno-ow,” the taller girl chanted in an irritating singsong.

  “We know something you don’t know,” chimed in the shorter girl, twirling a finger in her light brown curls.

  “I guess you do,” Devra said, puzzled. Didn’t everybody know things that were secret and private to themselves? Just that morning she had discovered that by crossing and uncrossing her eyes, she could make the flowers on the wallpaper of Gran’s apartment seem to float in midair. Was she supposed to offer that discovery in return for their knowledge?

  “You don’t know anything about me, but I know something about you.”

  “You don’t know anything about us, but we know all about you.”

  Devra grasped that they didn’t want to trade information; they wanted her to ask. After two weeks of sudden changes and everything in her world turning upside down, she was getting good at figuring out what people wanted. “What do you know?”

  “You shouldn’t be here,” the taller girl announced.

  “I know that,” Devra answered scornfully. “I should be on the collective. Only nobody’s told me yet when I can go back.” Tall grass, and a pebbled yard full of interesting rocks and puddles, and silly chickens that squawked and fluttered up in the air when you took their eggs for the mommies to cook. The collective was a real place. This city wasn’t real, this collection of tall and short grey cubes that all looked alike.

  “No, I mean you shouldn’t have been born at all. Your parents didn’t have a child-license for you. That makes them traitors.”

  “Never should’ve been born, never should’ve been born,” both girls chanted.

  Devra’s fist collided with the tall girl’s chin, and she got the short one with the point of her elbow. “Don’t say that, you haven’t any right to say that! My parents were good citizens and so am I! At least I will be,” she said, calming down slightly, “when I’m grown up.”

  But after that she was kept in for fighting, which would’ve been all right except that Teacher talked to her the whole time about the duties of citizenship and how sorry she was to see that Devra was following in the way of her parents. And Devra wasn’t nearly tall enough to hit Teacher.

  And her crêche-mates had learned the perfect way to tease her.

  By her sixth birthday Devra had learned three things.

  She could not knock down all of her crêche-mates every time they insulted her parents.

  Her parents were never coming back, and Gran wouldn’t tell her why.

  The only thing she could do was ignore the taunts and try to be a model citizen, somebody who obviously should exist no matter what anybody said about her parents.

  Devra had lost her enthusiasm for exercise by the time she reached Block P and discovered that both elevators were out of service. Oh, well, not a big deal; she was only on the third floor. And hauling the loaded shopping basket up the flights of syncrete steps took her mind, temporarily, off everything else.

  A syncrete walkway with a half-height outside wall led past Apartments 3D, 3E and 3F. Devra saw the twitching of curtains in the windows of 3E and quickened her steps.

  “Oh, Devra dear!” fluted a honeyed voice. Amazing, Devra thought, how fast a little old lady with arthritis could get to her door. “Are you all right? You look a little dizzy.”

  “Just out of breath, Citizen Partrij,” Devra said to the puffy bun of grey hair that was just below her eye level. “I really ought to take the stairs more often.”

  “You’re lucky, with your young legs, at least you can do that.” She looked up at Devra and batted her eyelashes. It had probably been a charming look fifty years ago. “I hardly ever get out when the elevators are broken. It’s so hard to go down those stairs, and you know how I get that stabbing pain in my right hip? It gets much worse when I have to use the stairs. I wouldn’t dare do it today, it’s already hurting so much, and so are my knees. No matter what the newsers say, I’m positive the fall rains are about to start. At least that should cool things down a bit. I hate these hot, cloudy, muggy days just before the winds change, don’t you?” She paused to take a breath.

  “I would definitely trust your right hip over the State forecasters,” Devra said. “It’s never been wrong before, has it? Sorry I can’t stay and chat, but I need to get these things inside. The butter needs to be really cold when I cut it into the flour.”

  Citizen Partrij’s wrinkled face brightened. “Oh, you’re making pastry again!”

  “Abrazos,” Devra said, “and cuernos and thornberry tarts and profiteroles. And I’ll save you one of each, but I really need to get started.”

  “Oh, my,” Citizen Partrij breathed reverently. “Where did you get – oh, oh, mustn’t ask, must I? Did you know, the newsers said there was an unexpected shortage of flour. Because of saboteurs, or maybe it was on account of the Colony Debt. They’re very worried about the Colony Debt, you know.”

  “I know,” Devra said, “it’s always a problem, but we have to trust that the Central Committee will find a way to pay this year’s installment. They always do, don’t they? Excuse me, I have to get started on the puff pastry.”

  Yes, I know, dear. You want to get on with your baking, not waste time chatting to a silly old woman like me.” Citizen Partrij sniffed and shut her door.

  I ought to spend more time with her. She probably hasn’t talked to anybody all day. Devra made a mental promise to take her neighbor the first pastries that came out of her oven tomorrow. She would sit down over a cup of kahve and spend at least half an hour there. Lili Partrij did need the company. There was a Seniors Recreation Hall half a mile from their block with all sorts of activities to entertain old folks and give them some sort of social life, Central made a point of seeing to the needs of every citizen, but there were always people who slipped through the cracks. Citizen Partrij couldn’t walk that far; she couldn’t even count on getting out of the apartment block regularly, the elevators broke down so often.

  “Questioning the Central Committee, now, are you?” said the sane, adult part of her mind as she went along the walkway to her apartment. Her bright, airy apartment, so big that it was almost like having two rooms. The apartment that Harmony gave her, rent-free, as part of her teaching salary. “And lying to habbers, and buying black market goods. What kind of citizen are you, anyway?”

  That battered, scrawny old stray cat was on the balcony again, just outside her door. She didn’t need it bringing its fleas in. “Shoo!” she said. “Scat! Making the rounds to beg from everybody, are you?”

  Encouraged by her voice, it wound between and around her ankles as she held up her hand to let the door read her chip and slide open. H
er hands were shaking so hard that she had to put the basket down and hold one elbow steady with the other hand before the sensor recognized her. And by that time, the cat had its square head in the basket, sniffing for something to eat.

  “What kind of citizen am I? Soft in the heart and soft in the head, that’s what,” Devra announced to the shuttered emptiness of her apartment. She pushed the cat away from her basket, squeezed inside and shut the door on it. Then she put the basket down and brought out a cracked bowl that she wouldn’t really miss. She’d brought home a fried fish for dinner last night, more than she could eat, and she wasn’t leaving the leftovers in the refrigerator for another night; they could give her flaky pastry dough a fishy flavor. If the cat would eat them, it would save her a trek to Level 3’s community disposal tube, and surely feeding the scrawny beast just once wouldn’t make it think she was taking it on. Once? What about the milk last night? “Going sour,” Devra said aloud. And the night before that? “A scientific experiment. Who knew cats would eat cold scrambled eggs?”

  As soon as the door slid open the stupid cat launched itself at her, claws extended, as if she were a mountain he had to climb to get at that fish. She took a hasty step back, half off balance, and dropped the bowl. Scraps of fish decorated the floor. The cat hunched over them, growling.

  “Oh, all right,” Devra said. “Just this once, and just because it’ll be easier for me to clean the floor if you get rid of the fish first. Once that’s done, you’re out of here, understand?”

  One tattered ear flicked briefly, as if to say Don’t bother me when I’m eating.

  She slid the door closed for privacy but waved open the shuttered windows overlooking the balcony. Maybe that would let out some of the heat the apartment had been soaking up all day. The generous space of her long room felt even larger when the windows were open. Now, finally, she could start taking the parcels out of her basket and organizing them. That – thing – at the bazaar had been scary, but it was over now. Nothing bad had happened. Tomorrow is another day, Gran’s voice said in her head. Tomorrow’s orgy of baking would be fun; almost like having Gran back for a day. Nothing to think about but silky-smooth pastry dough being rolled and folded and rolled again, the smell of melting chocolate, the tarts oozing with thornberry preserves.

  The last parcel she picked up was flat and floppy and heavy, and carefully wrapped in brown paper – several layers, it felt like -, and tied up in cords that made it impossible to open with anything less than heavy kitchen shears. Ferit’s mystery parcel. Well, tomorrow would take care of that too. Ferit would come to collect it, he would explain to her exactly what stupid practical joke had gotten him in trouble this time, and she would be able to stop worrying that she had plunged in over her head with those impulsive lies. Right now she didn’t have time to worry. The profiteroles and the crust for the tarts could wait until tomorrow, but she needed to make the dough for the abrazos and cuernos now so it could chill overnight before she started rolling and folding. And she definitely didn’t have time to ruin a knife sawing at those cords just so she could find out exactly what she was hiding for Ferit. Devra tucked the parcel under the sink, next to the trash box, and told herself to put it completely out of her mind.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Forgetting about Ferit’s parcel was easier said than done. Devra concentrated furiously on her baking, verbalizing each step.

  Water, yeast, sugar, milk… What if I’m harboring stolen goods? Cut the butter into tiny pieces and add the flour. He said it wasn’t that. The sweet-sour smell of working yeast, the foamy mass of bubbles in the bowl. His exact words were, “Nothing so trivial.” Gently fold dry ingredients in with the yeast mixture. It’s something worse than stolen goods, then. Wrap the dough and stash it in the cooler for tomorrow. That didn’t take nearly long enough. The parcel was out of sight, but she couldn’t forget about it.

  Was the cat finished yet? Devra glanced towards the door. The bits of fish had disappeared, but so had the lean grey and black striped cat. A flash of grey caught her eye; when she turned back to the sink, she saw the cat perched on its edge, trying to get its tongue under the perpetual slow drip of the faucet. “Oh. I guess you’re thirsty too.” She picked up the bowl, filled it with water, and set it down near the wall where she wouldn’t trip over it. “Look. Water. On the floor, stupid!”

  Trying to redirect the cat’s attention from sink to floor cost her a couple of scratches. “Scat, dummy!” She gave it a forceful shove. The beast landed hard, yowled in complaint, and then began lapping up the water.

  What to do now? She could fix herself dinner, but she’d snacked in the bazaar, considering it research. Well, it would have been research if she were a baker and not a teacher. After cheese-filled börek, spinach in some kind of flaky pastry, and sweet pistachio katmer, it was hard to think about dinner.

  All right then, she’d open her CodeX and listen to the news. It was her civic duty to stay well-informed, and one she all too frequently slighted. Huh. The kitchen shears were right there, beside the flour canister. When had she taken them out?

  Claws swiped at her left ankle, and the cat yowled again. “Oh, you! Ready to go out now?”

  No. It leapt up to the kitchen counter and began pawing at the sink again. “Still thirsty?” He must have inhaled that water; the bowl was empty. Devra refilled it and set it down again. This time she didn’t have to wrestle her uninvited visitor off the counter; as soon as she stepped back from the water bowl, the cat was there.

  “Forecasters say not to worry, folks, you’ve still got a week to ten days to enjoy healthful outdoors pursuits before the fall rains begin…” The newser went on reading a list of statements all with the same cheerful singsong inflection. Sasena farms were unexpectedly reporting results of ten to fifteen percent below quota for summer; sabotage was suspected, possibly by Esilian infiltrators. All citizens were urged to cooperate with the Central Committee’s efforts to make the year-end Colony Debt payments. The administration of Harmony University had set an example by voluntarily committing to a ten percent budget cut. Due to the lower quantity of sasena extract in this quarter, the few needleships that came to collect the sasena extract could only import vitally needed medicines and other supplies. Citizens were strongly urged not to complain about any resulting temporary shortages of consumer goods.

  Devra’s cheeks felt hot. She’d just been sounding off to the habbers about her problems in getting baking supplies. Even in the smallest everyday matters she continually failed to meet expectations for good citizenship. She tried to think about something else.

  This was hardly the first time Esilian saboteurs had wrecked things for Harmony. They must be hateful people; why else would they cross the ocean just to mess over the economy here, not to mention depriving civilized people everywhere of the finest pain medication ever discovered? Wasn’t it bad enough that they refused to pay their fair share of the Colony Debt? Their ancestors had taken it on in good faith.

  The debt problem was explained in every crêche school, simplified for young children but with more and more detail for the upper levels. So Devra knew, without exactly being able to explain the physics, that the basic problem was the subtly destructive effects of wormholes. Many early explorers had died before engineers figured out how to protect ships from the minute molecular shifts that occurred during wormhole passage, and their solutions were far from perfect. The tiny needleships used for exploration and communication were proofed against such effects, but the cost of wormhole proofing went up exponentially with the size of the ship. A nail-class freighter was so expensive to build that it was used only for vital shipments of materials and trade goods. As for the massive spike-class ships that could ferry thousands of people to start a new colony, their cost was so high that only a nation-state or an international consortium could afford one. And most of those were taken out of service after only ten wormhole passes, so a colony that started with enough settlers to require four ships – like Harmony –
had to repay forty percent of the ship cost. Most colonies – again, like Harmony – had to borrow that cost against a promise to repay, with interest, over generations. And they had to show a business plan that detailed exactly how they were going to make those payments. In the case of Harmony, the debt was being paid off over time by shipping extract of sasena on the needleships.

  Sasena extract was the Holy Grail of pharmaceutical researchers: a pain medication that was not addictive and had no side effects. Every civilized world wanted to have regular supplies, and none of them had been able to design nanoswarms that would generate anything remotely resembling the extract that Harmony made by actual physical processing of the tall, wavy grass that grew in the river bottomlands. After the first attempts at direct replication failed, a number of worlds tried to smuggle plants off Harmony to grow their own; Fortunately, most of these attempts failed at the spacepad, where Harmony customs officials hanged needleship pilots who had been caught smuggling. And after the few successful smugglers discovered that sasena grown on other worlds didn’t yield any pain medication at all, the motive to risk one’s life getting a clump of sasena complete with roots was considerably diminished.

  Devra didn’t like thinking about that part: that her own people had once been so barbaric as to support a death penalty! Nothing could be more dissonant. Fortunately, the exploration of the world’s other continent had offered a more humane solution. Vicious and dangerous criminals could be shipped off to the barren, overheated southern continent. First named the Penal Colony, it had been rechristened Esilia – the land of the exiles – after the deportees made so much trouble that Harmony graciously granted them independence.

  Since no one now would support the inhumanity of prisons and executions, medical rehabilitation had replaced deportation as a remedy for treason and other serious crimes. The Committee said it was much more humane…