“Oh, Natasha,” Min-he squealed. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”
Natasha shook her head, staring around in wonder.
The Garden looked stunning: crepe paper streamers of blue and yellow draped between opposite rows of trees; flowers so bright with color that they seemed ready to burst reached from their beds; and all the trees were trimmed and pruned to perfection. At the back of the room, several rows of white chairs faced a high platform, built for the occasion. On the far wall, behind the platform, towers of colored blooms made a picture of a yellow sun with bright, reaching beams.
Most amazing of all, though, the thing that captured Natasha’s attention and would not let go was the two rows of thin, tall torches lining the edge of the Garden’s lawn: each erupting at its tip with identical, dancing flames.
As they passed between the first set of torches, Min-he gripped Natasha’s arm in fear and excitement. The smell of the burning oil mixed with the strong perfume of the flowers, and the heat of the nearer torch touched the side of Natasha’s face, making her shudder and steer Min-he to the center of the lawn. Fire was a great rarity in the settlement, not only because of its inherent danger, but also because of its wasteful consumption of purified breathing air. Natasha had only seen the torches once before, at the party commemorating the three hundredth anniversary of the Storm. She was sure they had not had fire at the Wolf Celebration, the year her generation turned eight, perhaps because that sweep was so small.
The roommates walked together toward the neat rows of white chairs; here, though, Min-he broke off to join a group of other archivists, while Natasha continued to the front, where the members of the Office of Mercy had gathered. She took a seat in the second row, next to Eric. Jeffrey sat on the opposite side of the aisle, directly facing the platform and talking with some Betas. He looked both nervous and resigned, as if being publicly honored by the Alphas was some slightly unpleasant task that he had to go through now and then. Natasha stared. A female Beta was saying something to Jeffrey and he laughed. Natasha quickly looked away, the air catching in her throat. Her hurt was still raw and it made her shaky with jealousy to see him interacting so casually with other people.
Once they had all found their places, a hush fell over the crowd. The first notes of a familiar melody sounded from four Beta violinists, who stood in the shadow of trees. Then the citizens rose as a line of hooded men and women entered through the Department doors, some as upright and sturdy as the Epsilons, others walking on wobbly legs and hanging their weight on Beta escorts. The Alphas. In all, there were forty-one people in the Alpha generation. Not every Alpha had come, though. It looked like only ten or twelve at most. That was expected; most Alphas preferred not to leave the Department of Government. As two men stepped gingerly by, Natasha wondered who among them had read the message that she and Eric had sent. What had they thought? If any of them noticed her and Eric standing together near the aisle, they gave no distinct sign of recognition. Natasha could just make out the ashen skin and deep wrinkles beneath their hoods. Their features were sharp, and their cheeks heavy and sunken. The last two people to pass were a woman and a man: the Mother and Father. The positions were not permanent ones; the Alphas elected their leaders every fourth decade. But for Natasha, as for all the Epsilons, the Mother and Father had been the same two Alphas all her life.
The Alphas arranged themselves in a section of roped-off seats to one side, except for the Mother, whom a Beta man escorted to the podium at the center of the platform. She was the only Alpha who did not wear a hood, and Natasha guessed that the expressive features of her broad, pale face were visible even to those citizens seated in the very last row. The Epsilons had only laid eyes on her eight times before—at Celebrations and on a few special days when she had visited them at school—but Natasha knew her face well. The Mother’s real name was Elsie Miller, but as long as she held the highest leadership position in the settlement, everyone called her Mother.
“What pleasure it brings me,” the Mother began, her gaze falling lovingly over the crowd, “to see our children gathered here before us in good health and happy spirits. These have been difficult times for us all, and it is very fortunate that we should have this opportunity to recognize the good in our continued state of peace and vitality, the peace and vitality of our fellow citizens all over the world and—what brings us here tonight—to recognize and celebrate the peacefulness in death of the one hundred and thirty-eight members of the Crane Tribe.”
Here the Mother’s voice expanded with the fullness of her compassion and, among the citizens, there was a collective rise of emotion.
“This work is the same work that we began three hundred and five years ago, when the Alphas from every settlement in the world launched the simultaneous sweeps that eliminated from existence fifty-nine billion suffering souls. When, by the power of our own intelligence and will, we prevented what would have been the end of worthwhile human life on earth. This is the work that continued when we realized, with deep regret and agitation, that the Storm, despite its grandness and its power, had failed a scattered population in the northern regions. Failed them by letting them live. Since those first reports, and the sweeps that swiftly followed, we have brought an additional 8,300,019 lives to permanent relief on this continent alone. It is a number that includes this most recent annihilation, which we have gathered to honor tonight.”
She cast a warm look upon those from the Office of Mercy.
“In the second week of June, a Tribe we had never observed before entered from the north into our field. We called this Tribe the Cranes after the sandhill cranes that once populated this area, and for the Tribe’s practice of building camps by the water. Our hard workers in the Office of Mercy watched them for many weeks, waiting until the group assembled in one place, until they could confirm the count. . . .”
As the Mother talked on, a feeling of pride now swelled from the citizens, a recognition of their own goodness growing within them all. Only Natasha did not feel this. And as the Mother expounded upon the particulars leading up to the Crane sweep, which every Office of Mercy worker knew already, Natasha’s eyes fixed on the orange flame of the torch closest to her. Fire like the fire that the Pines had: hot, dangerous, unbridled energy, and beautiful too, the most beautiful thing in the Garden by far. Did the others feel that way too? Did the Alphas know the beauty in danger, even while they stamped it out of existence? They must.
Looking at the flame, feeling its heat on her eyes, made Natasha remember the children she had seen down in the cave, how the mother had clutched the boy’s arm so hard he’d cried out. Mother and mother, she thought, Father and father; the same words but not the same meaning. She remembered the man named Raul. How had he learned of his family’s death? Did he see their bodies? Had he put the woman and boy and girl in the ground as people did in the Pre-Storm books? But bodies meant nothing, Natasha knew, once the force that kept the parts connected had gone. Those people no longer existed; those disklike eyes of the boy and girl had gone to nothing, and the world was emptier than it had been before. Natasha took in a sharp gasp of breath, but the Mother had just said something amusing and, in the ripple of laughter that followed, no one noticed Natasha’s distress. To end suffering, Natasha’s education reminded, but that reminder was weak and pleading, and it paled against the fire and the will to live.
Natasha missed hearing the moment when the Mother called Jeffrey’s name. Only the startling burst of applause (not to mention Eric’s whistle right near her ear) forced her attention back to the Ceremony.
“. . . for one hundred and thirty-eight lives delivered to peace,” the Mother was saying.
Jeffrey stood on the platform, his face bright pink with embarrassment. He bowed as the Mother lifted over his head the red ribbon that supported his gleaming gold medal of service.
The entire crowd rose to give Jeffrey a standing ovation; the noise grew deafening and c
haotic, and Natasha felt like she was going to be sick. From the podium, Jeffrey’s eyes met hers and a shadow of unease crossed his face. Only then did Natasha realize that, though she’d managed to stand, she was neither smiling nor applauding for her beloved Jeffrey like everyone else. The heat of the crowd became unbearable; she had to get out of here right away.
The Mother had hardly left the podium before Natasha was pushing to move past Eric.
“What are you doing?” he hissed, purposefully blocking the way with his elbow while he continued to clap.
“I’m tired. I want to go to my sleeproom.”
“But we still have dinner and the party after!” he said, shocked by the mere idea of leaving. “Hey, this isn’t about the message, is it?”
“What message?”
“The Alphas. You didn’t check?”
“No, what? I was getting ready with Min-he. They wrote back? What did they say?”
“What we expected. They’re definitely not going to meet with us. Actually, they’re kind of put out. Told us, in the future, to report our problems to Arthur.”
At that moment, both Natasha and Eric realized that the Mother herself had paused in the aisle right near them, and they turned to face her, stunned.
“I hope you enjoyed the ceremony, children,” she said.
Natasha waited for Eric to answer, but in vain. “Yes,” Natasha whispered, at last.
“Good,” said the Mother. “Then perhaps we can put that other nonsense behind us.”
She continued on, the applause still loud around them, while Natasha’s face grew hot.
“Well,” Eric said, slowly coming back to life. “I guess we know where they stand.”
Without responding, Natasha ducked past Eric’s arm and into the aisle. By now, the rows at the back had begun to empty, and only after some effort did Natasha escape to the open lawn. Volunteer teams were rolling out buffet spreads from the Dome and assembling the tables for dinner. Natasha rushed by them and hit the control for the first door past the trees.
The metal door rose and then sank down with a whoosh behind her. A loud sob broke from Natasha’s lips. She collapsed against a wooden fence built to keep the livestock away from the exit: forty dairy cows grazing in an open pasture.
She did not know how long she stayed there. She had draped herself over the wooden beam, in a position to vomit, though the sickness never came. The cows observed her with their large, stupid eyes, their jaws patiently churning the warm-smelling grass and their chins dripping with greenish saliva.
There were no skylights in this room, only the vast brightness of long, low-energy bulbs. The cows must have only recently entered this pasture, as the grass stood high and lush. Along the two side walls, narrow troughs ran with fresh, clear water. At the far end of the pasture, beyond another wooden fence, Natasha could see the door to the stalls where the cows went for milking. She could also hear the distant squawking of chickens from that direction, though she could not see the coop. When the sound of new music came muffled from the Garden, Natasha’s tears fell harder, blurring her sight. Her misery had forced her to feel so alone that, despite her proximity to the celebration, when the door rose behind her, she whirled around in surprise.
“What’s going on?” Jeffrey asked, walking into the room. The door fell closed. “Natasha?”
The glow of merriment still showed in his cheeks, despite his obvious concern. Natasha turned back to the cows, furious that he had found her here.
“Hey, are you all right?” he asked. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Natasha sniffed and tried to wipe her face dry.
“I realized that I don’t like Celebrations very much,” she said. “You should get back, though. They’ll notice you’re gone.”
But, amazingly, he did not go away. He was already walking over to her; and then (though Natasha could hardly believe it) he was pushing the damp strands of hair out of her face. He looked so confused, so worried. The mask of anger he had worn since the mission, and since she had kissed him, had disappeared from his face. The sincerity of his concern disarmed her. Suddenly it was impossible to pretend, impossible to hide her anguish.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she said. “Ever since the mission, since the Pines . . . it’s like I never came home. I’m sorry for what happened in your sleeproom, but you have to understand, I’m all messed up. I don’t know if I’ll ever go back to just living normally again.”
“No, Natasha. Don’t say that.”
His hands stroked firmly through her hair.
“It’s my fault,” he said. “I’m sorry I was hard on you. So sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“You shouldn’t be sorry, though. You’re angry that I screwed up the mission.”
“No.”
“You are! You told me! I was in the medical wing for a week and you didn’t even come to see me.”
“I was upset, deeply upset, that the mission failed. And it terrified me, having things get so out of control like that. Having you disappear. I’ve never been so scared in my life. But I didn’t mean to put the blame on you.”
Natasha shrugged. What would it matter to the dead who took the blame for the manual sweep? And who cared what Jeffrey said to her now? His words could not temper her pain. She had thought he felt one way when in fact he felt something different. No words could take away that sting.
“Forgive me, please,” Jeffrey said. “This is my responsibility. I’m angry with myself.”
“I was the one who kissed you,” Natasha reminded.
She blushed and looked at the cows; for the first time in her life, she was beginning to understand why the Alphas recommended that all sexual play take place in the Pretends. It wasn’t worth the pain, the disruption to the peacefulness of one’s work and well-being, just to satisfy the body in situations where close friendship would suffice. And yet. As Jeffrey looked at her, her heart beat harder and, in the rush, she forgot it all again; she would not trade her feelings for anything.
“I did visit you in the medical wing,” he said, bending to rest his arms on the fence, so that his face was level with hers. “I came after my shifts, in the evenings. You were sleeping, but I was there. I thought you knew. I thought one of the nurses would have told you.”
“Stop,” she said, briefly closing her eyes. “We don’t have to talk about it. It doesn’t help anything.”
“Then tell me,” his voice was strangely desperate, “tell me what will help.”
In response to his movement, she leaned into him, allowing her cheek to press against his shirt. She breathed his smell, feeling how it mingled with the smell of the cows and the sweet grass and the warm stench of manure. Thoughts of her Free Play in the Pretends came creeping into her mind, but she pushed them back, embarrassed. She was just glad to have Jeffrey. He squeezed her close, crushing her chest against something cold and hard. She drew away; she hadn’t noticed the gold medal.
She let go of him and turned back to the pasture, her weight resting against the fence. The bad feelings that Jeffrey’s appearance had pushed away were drifting slowly back.
“Eric and I wrote to the Alphas,” she said. “We requested a meeting.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“Yes, they told Arthur and me. It’s best that we have a complete understanding of what’s going on in the Office.”
“Did they tell you they denied our request?”
“No. But I figured they would.”
Natasha bent down and grabbed a handful of untouched grass growing near the fence post. She held it out to the nearest cow who, after contemplating the offer for some long moments, lumbered one step forward. And yet, still as Natasha remained, the beast would not eat from her hand. It huffed hot breath through its nostrils; and, eventually, Natasha dropped the gra
ss to the ground.
“Can I ask you something?” Natasha said.
“You can ask me anything.”
He leaned against the rail beside her.
“Instead of growing new babies for the next generation, why don’t we take in Tribal children?”
“What made you think of that?” He was trying to sound casual, but his whole body had stiffened.
“It’s just . . . seeing them up close. That boy and girl. It seems like the most ethical thing would be to make use of the life that’s already here.”
“And what about those eighty-three Zetas in the Office of Reproduction?”
“I know it’s too late now. I was thinking for next time.”
“The Wall, Natasha,” he said with quiet urgency.
She nodded vaguely.
“You’re letting your fear get to you,” he said, speaking the way a teacher or a teamleader would. “It’s impeding your abilities. It’s giving you tunnel vision, as fear often will. Right now, you are making conclusions based on the particulars of one, isolated situation—in this case, a very brief interaction with a forest-dwelling Tribe—instead of seeing from a universal perspective. Plus, you’re doing something very dangerous. You are trying to bend ethical thinking into a form that will help you cope with the horror you perceived in the field. I want you to build a Wall right now.”
He was no longer leaning on the rail; he had turned to face her, waiting. Natasha closed her eyes, but she was not concentrating on the Wall, not really.
“How do you think they do it?” she said at length, opening her eyes.
“Who?”
“The Pines, the Tribes. How can they see from a universal perspective? Do you think they build Walls in their minds?”
“I wouldn’t consider it likely,” Jeffrey said, an expression of grim amusement touching his face. “It’s not necessary for them to perceive the world in that way because they’re not making decisions for vast numbers of people like we are. They worry about themselves, their children, occasionally their immediate relations and allies. For a Tribesperson, tunnel vision, or a nonuniversal perspective, actually helps them survive.”
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