Time Zero

by Carolyn Cohagan

  We trudge to Eighth Avenue, where I know the buses will be heading uptown, but then I’m stuck. We can’t ask anyone which one to take without giving ourselves away.

  I have an idea. I focus on one bus for a few seconds, and, sure enough, the computer gives me the option Scan Bus? I do this for several buses, until I find one that’s going to Columbus Circle.

  Grace and I join a line of men boarding the bus, but they fall back and let us go first. When we step onboard, all conversation ceases, while the driver looks away, demanding nothing. I relish the moment, the authority we hold, but soon insecurity takes over. Should we walk to the back or stay near the front? Should we sit or should we stand?

  I choose two seats in the front, deciding the longer we stand, the longer these men have to notice our diminutive size. After we sit, no one stares, so I decide my decision wasn’t too bizarre.

  At 49th Street, a Herald climbs onboard, sitting across from us. His skin is yellow and gaunt, his expression sour. Despite his aged face, his hands are smooth and delicate, likely from staying indoors and reading all day. The Book rests in his lap.

  He stares at me, seeming to look straight through my helmet. I try not to squirm. His gaze switching to Grace, he gives her the same inscrutable stare, as if he can see not only her face but every sin she’s ever committed. I imagine he must be noticing the length of our jackets, how the too-long sleeves are bunched up around the elbows, or how our pants are triple-cuffed around absurdly oversize boots.

  As the bus stops every two blocks, sweat accumulates across my body and down my face. My helmet shield is fogging, and I’m afraid I won’t be able to see when I need to stand again. Will the Herald denounce us here or wait until we’re off the bus? Or will he wait until there are real Twitchers in sight?

  Since I’ve been watching him, I’ve been too nervous to notice the blinking prompt in my helmet that says, Scan Human Male? I hit YES.

  Brother Harris Lampre, 63, Deserver, 5'11", 170 lb., Diabetic/Type I, Herald. SUSPECTED CONVENE SYMPATHIZER. TREAT WITH CAUTION.

  My clenched body relaxes. Brother Lampre won’t turn us in. In fact, maybe he’ll help us if he knows we’re trying to help the Convenes.

  But the computer said “suspected” sympathizer, which is hardly definitive. Not enough to risk our safety.

  A Spiritual Scan will show me if he’s actually hiding anything subversive, so I hit the button and then realize with horror what I’ve done. I squeeze my eyes shut, but not before receiving a flash of Father Lampre’s wrinkled, blue-white flesh, his brittle, childlike shoulders, and the tiny tuft of white hair on his sunken chest. A small squeal escapes my mouth, while I fight not to dig my nails into Grace’s thigh. Thank the Prophet I didn’t see any lower!

  We reach Columbus Circle. I hold on to my utility belt, nervous it will fall around my ankles when I stand. As I rise, Brother Lampre says, “God be with you and the cause you fight for.”

  I’m so embarrassed that I can hardly nod my head. I exit the bus, barely able to see through my clouded visor, sure I am about to collide with Grace.

  On the street, Grace asks, “You okay?”

  “Avoid the Spiritual Scan button” is all I say. Mercifully, the outside air clears my screen and I can see again.

  “The city is so beautiful!” Grace says, taking in the buildings and the statue of Uncle Ruho in the middle of the traffic circle.

  “I’m glad you like it,” I say, imagining her eyes big and excited behind her glasses. I’m astonished she can find beauty in such a bleak, gray day.

  I point to my building across the street, stark against the charcoal sky. Toots and Buddy stand guard out front, and three Twitchers with machine guns have joined them. How has my home, the one place where I thought I’d always be welcome, become the most perilous place in the city for me?

  Regret grips me like a sudden fever. How can I fix it, make it all go away? I want to escape this dark sky, crawl into my warm bed, and hear my father say that everything’s going to be okay.

  A red light flashes in my helmet. ALERT. Robbery. Union Square Market. Suspect: male, late 30s, brown hair, 6'0", white tunic.

  My heart is heavy; if the man is caught, he’ll lose at least one hand.

  “I think I should go in alone,” I tell Grace. “Are you okay if I leave you outside?” If I’m going to get arrested or shot, Grace shouldn’t be with me.

  “I love being outside,” she says, all cheer and energy.

  I hand her the Taser I’ve been carrying in my pocket. “If anyone tries to grab you, just press this button and hold the front end against them.”

  “Against them where?”

  “Anywhere,” I say, fairly sure I’m right. “And then run. Go back to Macy’s.”

  “I’m waiting for you,” she says. “I won’t need to run.” She places a gloved hand on my shoulder.

  I nod, saying, “I’ll be right back.” Then I pull away, not wanting the Twitchers across the street to see her unmanly gesture.

  Keeping a quick pace, I walk in what I hope is a confident fashion as I approach the entrance to my building. I’m more nervous than ever, afraid that the Twitchers will recognize a fake, like rats sensing a mouse in their midst.

  I head straight for the glass front doors, and, out of the corner of my eye, I see the other Twitchers nod at me.

  I nod back.

  Toots and Buddy make way for me as I open a door. Too bad I don’t have time to perform a basic scan. These two men have stood here my whole life, and I don’t know one thing about them.

  Not pausing, I pass Rab the doorman at the front desk and walk straight to the stairwell. He doesn’t say a word.

  I labor up the seven flights, and as I near the last one, I’m desperate to take off the horrible boots, to rip off the gloves and unzip my jacket, and allow myself some air. How do Twitchers survive in this gear all day? I think this is worse than the veil.

  By the time I reach our apartment, I have a stitch in my side. I look down the hall, to Sekena’s door, and think how much happier I would be to be visiting her. But I have one reason for being here, and one reason alone. I take a deep breath and knock on my parents’ door.

  TWENTY-NINE

  MOTHER SEES THE TWITCHER IN HER DOORWAY, and her face goes slack. Amused, I walk into the living room while her head goes down in submission.

  She follows, shouting, “Zai!”

  I’m relieved Father hasn’t left for work yet.

  He takes his time coming downstairs, since Mother makes a habit of shrieking his name. When he appears, if he’s alarmed to find a Twitcher in his living room, he doesn’t let it show. Instead he says, “Peace” and stands tall, making it clear whose house we’re in.

  Releasing the latches on my helmet, I lift it off. I can only imagine my appearance—my face red, my hair damp and matted.

  Mother must not recognize me, because she reaches for an umbrella leaning near the front door and is about to stab me with its pointed end. Luckily, Father says, “Mina?”

  Mother freezes. “Mina! Good Lord in heaven! WHAT HAVE YOU GOTTEN YOURSELF INTO NOW?!”

  She looks different. She’s always looked angry, but I see a new anxiety in her eyes. Or maybe it was always there and I was too afraid of her to notice.

  “I told you, Zai!” Mother says. “I told you she’d be back to beg our forgiveness. Where else does she have to go, the little heathen—”

  “Be quiet,” I say, tired of her voice already. “I’m here to speak to Father.”

  She’s so shocked, she actually stops speaking.

  I step toward my father. “You aren’t supplying fresh water. Mr. Asher used bad pipes to build the plant—something to do with mercury. It’s poisoning the Convenes.”

  My heart slows in my chest, refusing to beat again until I’ve heard his reaction.

  He huffs, a wheezing noise escaping his throat. “How could you possibly know that?”

  The shock on his face could be from my news, or from my kno
wing the news. I was sure I would know the difference straight away. But I don’t.

  “I . . . it’s a long story,” I say, having no intention of mentioning the Laurel Society.

  “Tell me!” he says, becoming angry.

  “What I can tell you is that Mr. Asher used to own a mercury recycling plant, and he sold the parts to Uncle Ruho for a hundred times their value, and then he became the engineer of your plant.” I indicate my helmet. “It’s all on the computer.”

  “No, no. That’s not right,” he says. His face is ashen. “That can’t possibly be right.”

  “She’s trying to manipulate you, Zai! Ignore her,” Mother says.

  Father keeps muttering, “That can’t be right.” His voice has begun to tremble, and he gazes at the floor.

  I walk to him, putting my hand on his forearm and forcing him to look at me. “You always said Ruho was prejudiced against Convenes. And you couldn’t believe he was putting the first new plant on the East Side.”

  “Show me what you saw,” he says.

  I hesitate. Not only do I not fully understand my computer, I also have no time to spare.

  “She can’t,” Mother says, pulling Father away from me. “Because it’s not true.”

  Father shakes her off. “Show me!”

  After a few false starts, I manage to type “mercury recycling plant” into the keyboard. I hand my helmet to Father, its wire connecting us. I say, “Put it on.”

  After he does, I hit the ENTER button, knowing the information will scroll in front of him.

  While Father stands with the helmet on, Mother whispers, “You think because you told him this he’ll forgive you and let you come home?”

  “Not at all,” I say.

  “The neighbors won’t speak to us. The doorman won’t even look at your father. Your brother has been searching for you nonstop!”

  Dekker has never cared about me. I’m not interested in her lies.

  “He’s ashamed to show his face at the Lyceum! You’ve destroyed his career, along with your father’s!”

  Has Father already been fired?

  Sensing I’m having a moment of guilt, she says, “Either you return to Damon this instant, or I’ll have you arrested and sent to the Tunnel.”

  “You seem to be forgetting,” I say, touching my belt, “who has the gun in this room.”

  I savor the look of fear that dances briefly across her face.

  Father removes the helmet, looking sadder than I’ve ever seen him. I needed to know the truth, but I had no idea how painful it would be to see my father’s dream destroyed.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “You were right to tell me,” he says, handing the helmet back. His face is sunken and, if possible, looks older than it did when I walked in.

  “Don’t trust her,” Mother says. “She’s a nasty little liar.”

  “I’m the liar?” I say, stepping toward her. “You told me Nana was dead!”

  “Ura’s alive?” Father says, disoriented.

  I nod, and he looks at my mother as if she’s a stranger who has snuck into his house.

  “I had no idea, Zai,” she says, feigned innocence slipping into her voice. “A man came from the hospital and told me she’d disappeared. And you know how these things always turn out. Under the circumstances, it seemed like the kindest choice—I thought I would save Mina a lot of pain by telling her Nana was already gone.”

  “Save me pain?” I say, furious. “You haven’t cared about saving me from pain a day in your life! You wanted Nana out of our lives. You wanted to leave her there alone to die like an animal!”

  “This man,” Father says, trying to wrap his head around Mother’s story, “the man from the hospital, he never told you Ura was dead?”

  Father’s never been able to see who Mother really is, not like I have. How can such a brilliant man be such a fool?

  “I thought he was telling me she was gone,” Mother says, modifying her story.

  I can see where this conversation is heading. I turn to leave.

  “Don’t let her get away, Zai. Not again!” Mother shrieks.

  Father doesn’t move, so Mother surges forward, grabbing my sleeve.

  “Let go of me,” I say, my patience with her at an end.

  With her free hand, Mother slaps me across the face. Without thinking, I slap her right back.

  She yelps in surprise. “How dare you!” she says. “You betrayed your family. You ruined us.”

  Taking a step closer, I get right in Mother’s face, realizing I’ve grown almost to match her height. In these boots, I can finally stand eye to eye with the towering, terrifying monster of my childhood. “I’ve never understood why Father stayed with you.”

  She slicks back her hair to make sure no strands have escaped her taut bun. “On your own for one week, and now you know everything? Your father is an angel, and I’m the Devil? Is that it?” She laughs. “The day you were born, you know what your father said? ‘At least we have one son.’ And on the day of your engagement, he was in such high spirits, he said, ‘Praise be to God, we’re finally going to get our money back for this girl!’”

  “Marga!” Father says.

  “What?” Mother says, batting her eyelashes. “She craves honesty, so I told her the truth.”

  Spinning, I face him, knowing I have to ask my most dreaded question. “Did you know about the candle, Father? Were you in on it?”

  His face is pure bewilderment.

  I point at Mother. “She told Dekker to set me on fire at the Offering.”

  “That’s . . . Why would she do such a thing?” Father asks. “That makes no sense, Mina.”

  “Tell him, Mother. Tell him all about it.” My voice rises. “How you wanted Damon to see me without my veil. How you put me in that obscene dress!”

  “Zai has never cared about how household business gets done. He cares only that it’s done well.”

  Father gapes at her, face reddening. Does he disagree with this statement, or is he embarrassed by its accuracy?

  “I was in bed for days,” I say to Father. “You never came upstairs once to see how I was doing.”

  “Your mother said you were indecent,” Father says. “That I should give you your dignity!”

  I laugh. My dignity? He was preparing to sell me like a hog, and he was worried about my dignity.

  He didn’t know about the mercury. He didn’t know about Mother’s plan with the candle. Why don’t I feel better? Sadness encloses me like a winter fog. I tell him, “You dedicated your life to protecting this city. I just wish that one time you could have tried to protect me.”

  “It’s not too late,” he says, an unfamiliar shame filling his face. “Stay here so I can take care of you.”

  I think of Jordon Loudz and the Convenes, and what they will do once they learn about the water plant. “You need to look after yourself.”

  I walk to the door.

  Mother snorts, a short, nasty laugh. “You’re a stupid little girl, and if you walk out that door, you’ll die starving in the streets.”

  “The sad part,” I say to her, “is you think that Grandpa Silna and Mr. Asher and all men respect you because you act like them, treating your sisters and your daughter like dirt. But they see you just as they see every other woman—inferior, ignorant, and weak. Men think you’re a joke, and women think you’re a traitor. You’d better start being nicer to God.”

  She takes a step backward, as if I’ve shoved her. A frown appears on her face, and for a moment I wonder if I’ve actually unsettled her. But within seconds, her expression becomes hateful again. “You’re not leaving!” she screeches.

  “That’s enough, Marga,” my father says.

  “By the way, Father,” I say, opening the door, “Mother actually does know how to read. Nana says she was a star pupil. I would bet she reads everything in this house, including the letter that explains what a loser Dekker is. His career at the Lyceum may be in danger, but let’s please be
honest and agree it has nothing to do with me.”

  My mother jerks forward to seize me, but Father grabs her shoulder. She’s still cursing at me as I walk down the hallway.

  I fly down the steps, not overheated this time, light on my feet, aware that I will never set foot in this building again.

  THIRTY

  I’M NO FOOL. MOTHER WILL SEND SOMEONE after me as soon as she’s able. I expect to hear her howling down the stairwell any second.

  But I delivered my message. Father knows the truth.

  Reaching the ground floor, I bang through the exit door and march through the lobby. Outside, rain batters the sidewalk. Drops hit my visor, making it hard to see as I scurry past the guards and Twitchers once more.

  I’m thinking about how we can sneak back into Macy’s and how upset Ayan will be with us when we get there, when I’m stopped dead in my tracks. Grace is standing exactly where I left her—but a Twitcher is by her side. He appears to be speaking to her. Oh, Grace, what did you do? How did you give yourself away? I imagine her standing under the trees, twirling in her uniform.

  I don’t know what to do. My instinct is to sprint as fast as I can to safety, but I can’t abandon Grace. Although how can I help her? If I go to her, the Twitcher will soon know I’m a fraud, too, and drag us both to the Tunnel.

  I’m still trying to decide what to do, when Grace spots me and waves her hand, signaling for me to join them.

  The Twitcher must’ve made her point me out. Resigned, I cross the street, hoping that once I reach them, Grace will decide to use my Taser. The Twitchers in front of my building will surely notice, but then we can make a run for it. I pray that the Twitcher standing with Grace has not already filed a report on us.

  Crossing the street, I approach slowly and notice that the new Twitcher isn’t much taller than Grace. Before I have a chance to speak, the Twitcher walks up to me and says, “I have a message from your grandmother.”

  I recognize the voice. It’s Rayna.

  Thank the Prophet.

  She looks back at my building, making sure no one followed me. “We need privacy,” she says brusquely, walking away from Columbus Circle.