Diverse Energies

by Joe Monti Tobias S. Buckell

  “I brought money,” I squeaked. “That’s all, I swear.”

  When she let me go, I scrabbled my hand in my pocket again and pulled out the folded twenty-credit note. I held it out to her with shaking fingers.

  “You’re new at this, aren’t you?” she growled. “First you tell me what you want and then I name the price.”

  Embarrassed, I tried to put the money away, but she snatched it from my hand. “How do I know you won’t just report me?” I asked.

  She came closer. She was a few inches taller than me, so I had to raise my eyes to hers. She had the features of someone who was mixed: Something about the shape of her cheekbones marked her as not entirely Asian; something about the color of her skin marked her as not entirely African. And to my shame, I found her face — even with its tattoos and piercings — entirely beautiful.

  I blushed.

  “Do I look like I’m Patrol material?” she asked sharply.

  “No,” I whispered. Everyone in Patrol was pure-blooded. Nobody down here in the Tunnels was. Not my brother, and not me. I was lucky that my Asian genes were predominant, and if I kept quiet, people didn’t notice.

  “Then tell me what you’re looking for, good girl.”

  Her words stung. Good girls didn’t come down to the Tunnels. “My name is Kyle,” I said.

  She smirked. “All right. Kyle. What are you looking for?”

  I felt like my face was on fire. I lowered my gaze. “I’m looking for my brother. Kit Lin. He disappeared almost a year ago.”

  “And you think he’s down here?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “I haven’t heard the name.”

  She was watching me warily when I looked up in desperation. “Can’t you ask around? I have money — I can pay you —”

  She took a step back, her face falling into shadow, and raised one hand as if to stop me. “I’ll take the name to my boss. But that’s all I can do.”

  Relief poured through me. But I remembered to ask, “How much will it cost?”

  “Fifty credits to take the name.”

  “Fifty? I only brought twenty — it’s just a name.”

  “That’s the rate, Kyle. If you don’t have fifty, I’m not taking the name.”

  “But —”

  She stepped into the light again so that I could see the expression on her face, hard and cold. “That’s the rate. We gotta eat down here. You don’t have fifty, you come back when you do.”

  I stared at her, my mind racing as I tried to figure out how I could get another thirty credits. I only made two credits a week in my part-time job at the restaurant, and my mother made me put half of that into the emergency account. I had saved up for five months to get that twenty. It would take almost eight months to save thirty, and I couldn’t wait that long. The more time passed, the harder it would be to find Kit. “Please,” I said. “I can trade you something instead. I’ll give you the twenty, and you can have thirty credits’ worth of — of —”

  She sighed. “What do you got worth thirty credits?”

  I remembered what she had just said, and an idea clicked in me. “Food. You said you’ve got to eat. My mother owns a restaurant. The Emerald Garden in Chinatown. Come by, and I’ll give you thirty credits’ worth of food.” That much would feed her for at least one month. I just hoped I’d be able to smuggle it out without my mother noticing.

  I could tell that she was surprised by my offer. She didn’t say anything for a minute, but her slate-colored eyes searched my face to see if I was lying. What she saw must have satisfied her, because she said, “I’ll think about your offer. Come back tomorrow, and I’ll tell you my decision.”

  “How do I know you won’t just take the money and do nothing?” I asked before I lost my nerve.

  She cocked her head at me. “You don’t.”

  I swallowed. A droplet of sweat trickled down my cheek.

  “You better get home to your mama before I change my mind.”

  My stomach knotted. I didn’t really have a choice. I was stupid to have come down here expecting anything other than to get robbed.

  I knew she was watching me as I climbed back up the half-broken stairs, grabbing onto the rebar and pipes jutting from the walls to haul myself over the missing steps. Up above I saw the crack in the wall that led out into the world — or what’s left of it — and after my time down in the Tunnels, the gray daylight was so bright I had to squint.

  All I could think about the next day at school was whether or not I should go back down to the Tunnels that afternoon. I knew that the rational thing to do was to stay away from that place at all costs. That girl wasn’t going to help me. She was a criminal.

  But I owed my brother.

  He had always watched out for me. He kept people from teasing me when I was little; he warned me about the Tunnel gangs; he taught me how to blend into the crowd so the Patrol wouldn’t notice me. He taught me how to be perfectly average. And then, almost one year ago, he disappeared.

  The thing is, plenty of people have disappeared. And from what I’ve heard, plenty of the disappeareds ended up in the Tunnels. Nobody knew for sure if they got there on their own or if the Patrol forcibly relocated them as punishment for any number of crimes against the state.

  The day that Kit disappeared had been the day of his government assignment. He went out that morning on an errand before the ceremony and never came back. At first I told myself he was just delayed. Sometimes there were long lines at the stores, especially on assignment day, when families wanted to make a special meal for their children. As I waited, I remembered that he had come to my room earlier, before the lights came on, and said, “It’s going to be a long day. Make sure you eat something.”

  Had that been his good-bye? He always took care of me. It wasn’t unusual for him to say something like that, but there might have been something in the tone of his voice or the way he touched my arm before he left — gently, his hand lingering — that I should have recognized as a sign. When I finally realized he wasn’t coming back, I ran downstairs to our mother in a panic. But she didn’t seem surprised. She seemed tired.

  She filed a missing-person report with the Patrol, but that was it. A couple of months later she stopped mentioning him at all; it was like he had never been born. But I knew he had, and that’s why I had to go back. Because what if Kit was in the Tunnels? I needed to know.

  Besides, I was less than two months from high school graduation. Less than two months from getting my own government assignment. Some of my classmates looked forward to it eagerly: the start of their adult lives. But it just left a sick, sinking feeling in my stomach. I couldn’t help but attach that day to Kit. What had happened to him?

  After school I took off my uniform of gray trousers and white blouse and pulled on dark work pants and a beat-up denim jacket that Kit had found in an alley when we were kids. On the way to Lucky Grocery, I passed a fresh banner affixed to the giant bulletin board in Confucius Square, the letters a garish red against the steel-gray dome of the sky. TREASURE OUR DIVERSITY! GENETIC DIFFERENCE IS THE KEY TO HUMANITY’S SURVIVAL. A rash of mixed-race births had happened a few months ago, and the government was running a new campaign to raise awareness about the dangers of not following the birth plans determined by the Health Ministry.

  On the news they said the babies had contracted Multigenetic Immunodeficiency Disorder and died, and their bodies were cremated to prevent further infection. But not every mixed baby gets sick and dies. I hadn’t, and neither had my brother or that girl in the Tunnels. But nobody talked about that, because nobody wanted to be sent to the reeducation center in the Bronx sector, where the dome was always malfunctioning.

  I pulled the collar of my jacket up around me and hurried past the square, trying to avoid making eye contact with the Patrol officers on duty. The air was cold today, which meant the generators must be off for recharging. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the officers gathered together over a portable heater t
o ward off the chill, flaunting their luxuries as the rest of us shivered. I didn’t let my disgust show on my face until I found the crack in the wall and knew they wouldn’t be able to see me.

  The Tunnels supposedly snaked beneath the entire city; some said that trains used to run through them, carrying people from the southernmost tip of the island all the way up north past Central Farms. I saw some of the old tracks once, on a school trip to the reeducation center. Most of the entrances have been blockaded and put under surveillance. But the crack in the wall in Chinatown has been there for a while. I wasn’t sure if the Patrol didn’t know it was there or if they didn’t care. Chinatown wasn’t a wealthy sector. The higher-ups probably thought we were barely a step above the Tunnel mutts ourselves.

  At the bottom of the broken stairway, the Tunnels stank of old piss. The yellow light flickered slightly in its socket, and at first I thought she wasn’t there. All I could hear was my own breath, rattling around scared in my chest like a rat in a cage.

  From nowhere a hand reached out and clamped down over my arm, dragging me into the dark lurking near the wall, and another hand slammed over my mouth just before I was about to scream. She pushed me down to my knees and shoved me through a hole in the wall. My hip scraped against jagged concrete, and I yelped.

  “Shh,” she whispered, her breath hot against my ear as she immobilized me again. I reached up and locked my hands over her forearm, trying to tug her hand away from my mouth — I could barely breathe — but she wouldn’t budge.

  “Stop it,” she said, her voice so low I could only hear it because she was speaking directly into my ear. “Patrol’s coming.”

  I froze. As my ears adjusted to the sound around me, I heard footsteps approaching. Had they followed me through the crack? Light beams — flashlights — scattered over the far wall. We were crouching beneath a low ceiling in what looked like some kind of filthy nest. There was a mattress on the floor, and a blanket, and a cardboard box full of rags that might have once been clothing. Behind me her chest rose and fell against my back. There were rings on her hand, still clamped over my mouth. The smell of old pennies on her skin.

  I didn’t notice when the Patrol passed. When she let me go, moving away swiftly, I felt cold where she was no longer touching me. She flicked on a dim battery-powered lantern that shed a ghostly light over the space we were in. I realized we were hiding under a counter, like in the ticket booth at the cinema where they showed ancient movies every weekend. She crawled out and sat down on the edge of the mattress, knees propped up and facing me.

  “I’ll do it,” she said. “Thirty credits’ worth of food, and I’ll take your brother’s name to my boss.”

  My mouth went dry. The absence of her hand was like a ghost touching my face. “You’ll do it?” I whispered.

  “That’s what I said. When do I get the food?”

  I had thought about it, of course, because she couldn’t come over in the middle of the day. Not the way she looked. People would notice, and they would call the Patrol. “Come to the back of the restaurant — the Emerald Garden, on Mott Street — at one in the morning. We close at ten, and my mother’s asleep by midnight. I’ll meet you by the trash bins in the alley.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you tonight then.”

  I was dismissed. I scrambled out from beneath the counter. Above it was a cracked glass window, painted black except for some places where the paint had been scratched away to create a few peepholes. I turned around, but I couldn’t figure out how to get out. “How do I —”

  “Through there,” she said, pointing to a dark slit in the wall half-hidden by the edge of the counter.

  I squatted down, preparing to leave, but before I slid through I glanced at her and asked, “What’s your name?”

  She just looked at me, and I thought for a while that she wouldn’t tell me. But finally she said, “Nix.”

  “See you tonight, Nix,” I said, and before she could see my face turning red, I hightailed it out of there.

  Thirty credits of food was a lot. I couldn’t give it to her all at once. My mother would notice, and then she would ask questions. So when Nix came the first night, I only gave her leftovers from that night’s dinner: a box of rice and two boxes of mixed vegetables and tofu.

  She showed up wearing a skullcap over her tattooed head, but she still didn’t look like someone who belonged in Chinatown. “This isn’t thirty credits’ worth,” she said as I gave her the take out bag.

  “I know. It’s all I can do right now. Or else my mother will find out.”

  She shook her head. “You’re saying I have to come back here?” She glanced around, and even though the alley behind the restaurant was empty, I could tell she was out of her element.

  “Sorry. But it’s better this way anyway — thirty credits’ worth would spoil, and then the food would be worthless.”

  She opened the box of mixed vegetables. It was cool by now, but it still smelled good, and I heard her stomach rumble. I handed her a pair of chopsticks. She took a tentative bite and then began to shovel the food into her mouth as if she hadn’t eaten in a week. Maybe she hadn’t.

  She was halfway through the box before she realized I was still standing there in the alley with her, watching her. I could swear that she blushed, but the light was bad. She folded the box shut and said, “Fine. I’ll be back tomorrow night.”

  I kept track of how much food I was giving her and how much it was worth. Some nights there were more leftovers than others, but at the rate I was going, she’d be paid off within four weeks, and then I would ask her again about Kit. For now I let it go, because she was so obviously starving every time she came.

  I began to heat up the leftovers just before she arrived. She began to sit on the back stoop with me to eat some of it before it cooled off. It was kind of like feeding a stray cat. Eventually they stopped freaking out when you approached them. Eventually I got the feeling that she kind of liked having me sit with her while she ate.

  I tried not to stare, but I would watch her out of the corner of my eye as her ringed fingers raised the chopsticks to her mouth. I had always assumed that anyone who lived in the Tunnels must be covered in filth, but her hands were always clean. I wondered what her life was like underground. Did she live in that dirty ticket booth at the bottom of the stairs? I wondered where she had been born, and how she had ended up in the Tunnels, and whether it hurt to get those tattoos inked onto her scalp. But I never asked.

  She would eat in silence, and when she was ready to go, she’d box up her food and say, “See you tomorrow night, Kyle.”

  And that was that. She didn’t know that I sat there on the back step long after she had gone, feeling the prickles that rose on my skin when she was nearby slowly fading. Sometimes I would rub my hands over my arms, as if that would bring the tingling sensation back. Sometimes I closed my eyes and remembered the way she felt when she had shoved me into that dirty little nest behind the wall, the muscles of her arms taut as she held me silent.

  I knew it was a stupid thing to do: to nurse a crush on a criminal who was only there because I was paying her.

  The night I reached thirty credits’ worth of food, I thought about not giving her the full amount so that she’d have to come back. But she would know I was cheating her, and I didn’t want to piss her off.

  As we sat on the back step in the light from the kitchen window, I said, “So you’ll ask your boss about my brother now?”

  “I’ve already asked.”

  Surprise rushed through me. “You have?”

  She nodded as she took another bite of kung pao chicken. “Nobody’s heard of him.”

  For a minute I just gaped at her. “You — nobody?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Who did you ask?”

  “I asked around. Kit Lin’s not in the Tunnels.”

  “But . . .” A buzzing sound filled my ears. That couldn’t be the end. I dug my nails into the palms of my hands. “Where is he, then?”


  She shrugged and began to fold the box shut. “I don’t know.” She stood up and I followed, reaching out and grabbing her arm before I knew what I was doing. She froze, hard as stone beneath my hand, and cold shot through me when she turned to look at me. “Let go,” she said.

  My heart raced. I snatched my hand back. “I’m sorry.”

  Something in her face shifted, as if a shadow slid away. The rings in her left eyebrow glinted in the light from the window. I licked my lips, feeling the hairs on my arms rising. Nobody had ever studied me so intensely, as if she were peeling back my skin, and I relished the feel of it: her eyes scraping against my flesh. I wanted her to see the real me, to see that I wasn’t a good girl.

  “Nix,” I whispered.

  I knew it was a bad idea, and that’s why I did it. I had to do something. She was leaving, all paid up, and I had no information about Kit at all. In another month I’d get my assignment, and it would probably be a monotonous job at the restaurant, and then the rest of my life would unspool ahead of me according to a government-mandated plan that I had nothing to do with. I was only a warm body, doing my part to move humanity forward one more generation until we could finally leave this city of refugees.