by K. Makansi
Okarian Agricultural Consortium
19 Fall, SA 102, 2h16
Madam Orleán,
You flatter me and underestimate me simultaneously. After our meeting today I am convinced that you have no interest in using this information for the good of the Sector. I, in turn, have no interest in providing you with the details of my research, and I certainly do not intend to provide you with the key to the encryption. I cannot allow this vital information to go to waste or worse, be destroyed, at your hands.
Regretfully,
Aran Hawthorne
Associate Professor, Biogenomics
Sector Research Institute
I have to bite back the urge to laugh bitterly at his sarcastic response. I can picture her cold anger as she read his last courriel: narrowed eyes, pursed lips, slight frown. Did her desire to possess this information drive her to murder? Was this why Hawthorne and seven innocent students died four days later?
I bury my head in my hands. In the blackness, I remind myself that it could be sheer coincidence. It is possible. It’s possible that an Outsider terrorist just happened to target Hawthorne and his classroom four days after he and my mother argued about—whatever this was. It could be nothing more than a coincidence. I can’t assign blame based on an email argument and one line—hearsay from Elijah and Remy, traitors to the Sector—from the mouth of a murderer. I have to keep looking.
I instruct the computer to do a system-wide search for Hawthorne, but not much else turns up. Only a few mentions of his public research projects, a bizarre black-and-white image file, and the obituary my mother wrote for him in which she called him a “martyr to the cause of Science.” I do the same search for “Elijah Tawfiq,” and this time two results come up: A correspondence between my mother and Evander Sun-Zi, within the last few months, and a map of the Okarian Sector and surrounding territory with a list of known sightings of Elijah. I recognize the map; it’s my own. I made it to use in my board presentation for the mission. My mother has added her own touches: highlights and numerical references that don’t mean anything to me. In the courriels with Evander, he asks my mother if she’s made any progress on the encryption—is he referring to the same project that Hawthorne mentioned? And, in her response, she asks for any new information on Eli’s last location. But why are they so interested in Elijah? And why is Evander involved? He doesn’t have anything to do with pursuit of the Resistance, or with military affairs.
The only possible reason is Hawthorne’s project. Is she tracking him so she can get more information? Is that why she was so eager to have me bring him in to the Capitol? Does this explain her disappointment when she heard that I returned, not with Elijah, but with Remy and Soren?
I do several searches to see if she’s tracking any other members of the Resistance. There are a few hits for Dr. James Rhinehouse, but a quick check reveals that those have to do with assigning people to fill in his place in the research department. All professional business. Nothing on anyone else other than routine notes about people who have disappeared. No vested interest in tracking their movements, as far as I can tell.
Valerian: I can’t leave without confirming or denying whether she was involved in Hawthorne’s death, but I don’t know where to look.
Demeter: Search her research files for the information she and Hawthorne discussed in their courriels and in the meeting that went awry.
She’s right. If my mother has a copy of whatever Hawthorne was working on, then she’s most likely complicit. She could only have obtained the information if she were willing to kill to get it. My face goes hot at the thought, and my breath comes up short. I pray that I won’t find it, but I have to look. I have to know.
A few quick searches for “DNA”, “old world,” and “technology” turn up hundreds of hits, but they all look like legitimate projects my mother is working on or supervising. I search again for “Elijah” and “Eli” and “Tawfiq” but nothing comes up. I search for keywords included her courriels with Hawthorne, such as “powerful tool” and “for the good of the Sector”, but those just direct me back to the correspondence. I run a search on Hawthorne again, but all it brings up is the obituary, the image file, and the courriels. I open the obituary and read it again. Nothing interesting—my mother singing Hawthorne’s praises as a scientist and saying how tragic it was that he was murdered by the Outsiders. I open up the image file. It looks like a sunflower, but it’s in black and white, and when I zoom in it appears to be made up entirely of dots. I try to zoom in further, but then, strangely, a passcode prompt appears.
Valerian: Can you hack it?
Demeter: The password is not contained online. I cannot access a passcode for this file.
That’s fascinating. I’ve never heard of that happening. I don’t even know how that technology would work. I type in a few quick ideas. “Sunflower,” “Hawthorne,” “Elijah,” “old world,” and “DNA” are all busts. I jot off a half dozen more, to no avail. I punch in my mother’s birthday, her wedding date, “Okaria”, “Resistance”, “Philip”. Nothing. In a fit of frustration I try my own name in about ten different incarnations—first, last, initials. I try my birthday. I want to punch the computer. I lean back in her chair, exhausted and irritable. I rub my eyes and stare at the sunflower image.
Then it hits me. What has she hid behind in this whole situation? What is her shield? I type in “Outsiders” and the passcode prompt disappears. My stomach does a flip. I attempt to zoom in further, and I realize that this time I can manipulate the image: It’s not 2D, it’s 3D. I can spin it and look at it from different angles. I select a spot and hone in on a line in the sunflower and notice that the dots aren’t disconnected from each other. They’re connected by a thin filament that weaves around the shape of the sunflower. I select one of the dots and a little symbol “AT” pops up next to the dot. My heart is pounding so hard I’m wonder if it will break through my ribcage. I force myself to breathe and I select a string of dots. “AT-GC-CG-AT-GC-TA-AT,” it reads, and the symbols appear on the side of the screen. I zoom out, struggling to control my breath, my sweating, and I see a message pop up on the corner of the screen from Demeter, but I ignore it. She whispers determinedly into my ear:
“Vale, you’re breathing too fast. You’re going to hyperventilate. You need to calm down.”
I try to relax, but I can’t stop twirling the sunflower. I zoom in on it and select a string of hundreds of dots, and the base pairs line up both on the image and in a dialogue box at the bottom of the glass panel. This must be what Hawthorne was working on. There’s no reason why she would hide this as an image file, encrypt it, and use the word “Outsiders” as her passphrase. Unless she wanted to be absolutely sure that no one but herself ever saw it.
Valerian: This is it.
Demeter: So it would appear.
17 - REMY
Fall 90, Sector Annum 105, 17h30
Gregorian Calendar: December 19
The drugged haze eventually faded from my mind, and Soren was kind enough to inform me that I may have put our lives in far more danger than they already were. I remember the shifting, dancing shapes in front of me, the almost hallucinatory revelation that came from being able to see the shape so vividly in my mind. I remember watching, almost as though the transformation was beyond my control, the sunflower broaden, expand, shift into the lotus. And I remember coming down out of that euphoria to hear Soren calmly inform me that I’d probably destroyed everything.
Thanks, Soren.
He’s right, though. Now that my eyes are working again, I can see the cameras up in the corner of the room, recording everything we do or say. If we thought our project was a secret, it certainly isn’t anymore. And if Corine is after the key to the DNA, she’ll know we have it, too.
Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how I look at it—no one seems to have noticed. We’re still being ignored, driven to insanity by our hunger, thirst, real sleep deprivation and uncomfortable position. My sense of time has disappear
ed altogether, but even I can recognize that it’s been many hours since our encounter with Vale and the old man with the scars. I asked Soren why he was so afraid of the old man, but all he would tell me is that he’s a general in the Sector Defense Forces, and his name is Falke Aulion. I pressed him, but he wouldn’t say more in front of the cameras.
Since then, I’ve been drifting in and out of sleep, trying to dream that I do not in fact have to pee. Just when I’ve finally convinced myself that I don’t, the door opens, and at the prospect of getting let out, I suddenly have to pee so much worse. The stream of bright light hurts my eyes and my heart lurches. I try to focus. It’s not General Aulion or Vale; that fact alone sets my heartbeat at a steadier tempo. It’s just a guard, carrying what looks to be a tray heaped with food.
“Breakfast! Eat up, kiddos.” I scowl at him and can only imagine the look the kid’s getting from Soren. He kneels down and, with a smirk, places the food just out of reach. “The best and the brightest, huh. Maybe you can figure out how to eat with your feet.” Then he leaves.
The rage is hard to contain, and the hunger overwhelming.
“They’re goading us,” I say.
“Assholes.” Soren curses in agreement, but we can do nothing but wait and seethe. The smell wafts towards me, and after so long without food, my stomach is twisting into nauseated coils. I simultaneously want to vomit and devour the entire tray. I close my eyes and force myself to relax.
Something like an hour later, the door opens again, revealing the same freshly scrubbed, pink-faced guard.
“I thought you’d be hungry by now! Guess not.” He picks up the tray and leaves, but the door remains open, and after a quick, hushed conversation, Aulion strides in. Soren tenses, and my heart pounds in time with the clicks of his boots.
He stops a few strides away, feet planted firmly, hands clasped behind his back. I look up and study his face. A large scar runs down the left cheek, matching his crooked nose and burned neck. He’d clearly been through hell at some point. He has small, snake-like nostrils and prominent lips enhanced by finely trimmed white facial hair. His well-groomed and starchy composure overcompensate for what I decide is a bitter and astonishingly ugly man. I can’t help but wonder how Vale can tolerate working with him.
“Remy Alexander,” he says, turning his unblinking, gargoyle-like stare on me. “We have not been properly introduced. My name is Falke Aulion.” He turns to Soren, and his lips twist in a capricious sneer. “Soren. I apologize for giving you such a fright last night. I thought a fully grown man like you would have learned not to be afraid of monsters in the dark anymore.” Behind me, I feel Soren shiver. Who is this man, and what has he done to make Soren so afraid?
His eyes dart back to me, and he just barely shakes his head, frowns, and looks me up and down. Not leering, simply looking, as if I were a specimen under observation. He speaks abruptly: “You both have appointments to keep now.” My heartbeat quickens and I start salivating, wondering for a half second if they’re going to feed us, bathe us, let us pee. Aulion turns on his heel and walks out. The door remains open, though, and four guards enter the room. Two walk to Soren and the others toward me. One of the guards slaps a wet cloth firmly over my nose and mouth and holds it. I panic and tense up, struggle, try not to breathe, but after a moment, I gasp and instantly feel a wave of relaxation—euphoria, almost—flood through me, and I feel like I do when I’ve had one too many of Eli and Firestone’s home brews. It’s a happy drunk and I can feel a silly smile tugging at my lips. As the two guards detach my bindings from the pole in the center of the room and pull me to my feet, I grin stupidly as my knees wobble and the world twirls around me. The guards have to steady me, hands under my arms. I’m overwhelmed with the desire to turn toward Soren, try to talk to him, tell him I don’t really hate him as much as I pretend to, that, in fact, we could be friends, maybe better than friends since Vale … but I don’t want to think about Vale. I will not think about Vale!
I glance at Soren and see that he’s biting his lip so hard a bead of blood rests against his white teeth. My legs don’t work right, and I nearly crumple to the floor, but the guards hold me up by my armpits and lead me out into the hallway right behind Soren. I fight to keep my head up but find I lack the strength, and my chin lolls down to my collarbone. I close my eyes and allow myself to be dragged. It feels like my whole body, inside and out, has been stretched to its limit and then left to sag in the languid sun. My eyes flutter open and closed, open and closed, my legs move forward only because I’m being half-propped, half-dragged down the hall.
We arrive at a door, and one of the guards moves around me to key it open. We enter and the guards deposit me in a deep, comfortable leather chair facing an empty desk, behind which sits another elegant chair. Clarity slowly returns to my mind, but I find I still can’t operate my limbs the way I would normally. Something stinks. I strain to look around, focus and stretch out my neck muscles, and then I realize my pants are wet. Oh fuck, I think. I’ve pissed myself. The smell, coming off of the relaxant, is nauseating. But there’s nothing I can do about that now. Where is Soren? The guards bind my hands, but nothing else. It doesn’t matter. I couldn’t make a run for it no matter how hard I tried. My legs might as well be made of jelly rather than bone and muscle.
The room is expansive, luxurious, but strangely empty. Only the two chairs and the desk decorate it. It’s as though someone prepared this empty office especially for me. Maybe someone did. There are no windows. The walls are decorated only by maps of various parts of the Sector—a map of the city, right down to the neighborhoods and streets, of all of the locations of the Farms and factory towns, and of open land that the Sector has claimed and guards carefully from the Outsiders. There is nothing on the desk except a plasma, which is dark right now.
I start to fully register Soren’s absence. Where is he? They haven’t brought him in yet. Wasn’t he just behind me? Or was he in front of me?
I hear the door open behind me, try to crane my body to see who it is, but I’m not quite functional enough for that complex action. But when the man walks around the desk, my heart stops.
Chancellor Philip Orleán. Vale’s father. The most powerful man in the Sector.
Memories come rushing back. The first time I met him, at a formal event celebrating my father’s designation as Poet Laureate of the Sector, long before Vale and I became friends. Shaking his hand and thinking how nice he was. How genuine. The first time I visited Vale at the chancellor’s manor, when he offered me a ginger beer and a plate of fresh figs. How did he know my favorite foods before he knew anything about me? He always liked me, I thought. Philip always seemed happy that Vale and I had become friends.
Now, I’m not a guest at his dinner table, talking with him about his art collection. I’m a political prisoner working for an organization that opposes everything he believes in, trying to bring down the government he represents. My heart is thumping, thick in the back of my throat. I feel like I am betraying him as much as he betrayed me. I wonder if he agrees.
He sits down at the desk opposite me with a slight smile. “Remy,” he says, somewhat fondly. Distantly, as though he too is awash in memories.
I feel the muscle relaxant wearing off and the energy return to me, gradually. I nod my head in some pathetic half-greeting, half-acknowledgment. He shakes off the reminiscence and glances at the plasma on his desk, then sits back in his chair. He interlocks his fingers, setting his hands on the empty space in front of him. As he stares at me, takes in my haggard appearance, his smile quickly fades into concern, or something like it.
“I’m so sorry that you are here,” he begins. “I’m sorry it’s come to this.” He sounds genuinely contrite.
“What is this?” I ask hesitantly.
“I believe there’s an unnecessary chasm between us, an unfortunate misunderstanding. I know you’ve grown and matured, but to me you’ll always be Vale’s friend, the girl who had a love affair with fresh figs.” He
smiles sadly.
“Is this the way you treat Vale’s friends? Leaving them handcuffed to a pole and sitting on the cold floor for—I don’t even know how long I’ve been here.”
“Ah, I’m sorry about that. You should know I only want the best for you.” His eyes are full of compassion, and I wonder if it’s real. I grind my teeth and try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice, to stay as deadpan as possible.
“The best, huh? So that explains the luxurious accommodations and delicious meals.” His gaze hardens as I continue. The compassion disappears, replaced by coldness. “And the injections, very nice, thank you for sharing. Thank you for providing only the best for me.”
“Remy, I know Vale cared for you at one time. For months all he talked about was ‘Remy this’ and ‘Remy that’ until he practically drove us crazy. Vale had never talked about another girl like that, and we thought at one time that the two of you might have a future together.”
The coppery taste of blood fills my mouth as I bite into my cheek to keep from crying. His words pierce me like a volley of arrows slicing through a paper target, and I wonder if it’s true—if Vale really talked about me. If he really cared.
“But I’m much more than a father. My responsibilities go far beyond you and me, and even Vale. As chancellor, I am sworn to protect all the people of The Okarian Sector, and you have chosen a path that is dangerous to the safety and security of those people. I wish we were meeting under happier circumstances, but that was your choice to make, not mine. And I’m sorry that you’re here, because it means we’re enemies. I wish that was not the case. ”
I push Vale to the back of my mind and lean forward. “You know what I wish wasn’t the case? I wish Tai wasn’t dead. I wish I had my older sister back. But I can’t get her back, not ever,” I say, fighting to keep my voice calm. “Your wife was responsible for her death, and you sit here and say it was my choice to make?”
