by K A Riley
“Don’t let looks fool you,” Angel Fire cautions her. “All of them are over twenty. And some of them,” he adds with a semi-horrified gasp, “are in their forties.”
The rest of my Asylum doesn’t seem to find this even a tad odd, which I guess makes sense. They spent most of their lives in captivity. At least I had a mum and a dad.
I have a mum and a dad.
“Why do you do that?” I ask. “Why do you separate out the older people?”
“Honestly, it’s mostly because of the Cyst Plague. Anyone can get it. But it’s at its most contagious after around the age of twenty or so. That’s when we go from having symptoms to being a human disease-bomb with a very short fuse. Without isolating the symptomatic adults, we’d all be dead inside of a month.”
We all must look shocked because he tells us not to worry. “It’s what human beings have always done. There are specific stages of human development. We’ve determined that our physical and cognitive abilities peak at around the age of twenty-one or so, anyway. That’s when the symptomatic adults start getting assigned here. It’s for their own benefit but also for ours. We’re a community constantly on the move. Which means we’re only as strong as the slowest of us. So the adults who test positive for Cyst Plague—even if it’s just as a carrier—get moved to the Retirement Garrison. And, of course, for breeding. Don’t worry. They have good lives.”
In my ear, Matholook asks, “Is he joking about the breeding part?”
“If not,” I whisper back, “this so-called Army of the Unsettled should change its name to Army of the Reproductive Endocrinologists.”
I can’t tell if Matholook wants to kiss me or punch me.
“It was my nan’s job,” I shrug.
“Just when I think I’ve got you figured out,” he chuckles.
Tapping my temple, I warn him, “Don’t try to get inside here. You might not get back out.”
Angel Fire points down a laneway between two lines of the retirement motorhomes to a cluster of huge white, windowless cube vans. “That’s the Infirmary Garrison.” He sounds sad when he adds, “I won’t take you there.”
About ten feet ahead of us, Sara returns to plying Angel Fire with questions. “Seriously,” she asks as we all turn down a new laneway between two rattling and very smelly rows of angle-armed backhoes. “How do you all not get run over?”
“The RVs, cube vans, construction vehicles, tractor-trailers, and pretty much the entire fleet stays in sync through a propulsion guidance system,” he explains. “The Advance Teams scout the terrain. The graders smooth out what they can. And GLOPS keeps them all talking with each other and making speed and navigational adjustments in real time.”
“Glops?”
“It’s what we call our Geo-topographical Locator Piloting System. That’s our off-grid network that keeps us from getting lost, crashing into each other, or plummeting down a canyon like lemmings on wheels.”
“You have that kind of tech?” Sara asks, flicking a wide-eyed glance back toward the rest of us.
Angel Fire puts a finger to his lips and winks.
As we continue on our way, we cut to the left where we’re slowly overtaken by a row of long yellow school buses, each with a green crest adorning its hood and another one emblazoned on each of their sides. The shields are neatly stenciled and have Latin writing in a banner with the silhouette of a vulture in the middle.
“Motus liberi vivit,” Arlo says, reading the Latin motto out loud.
“It means ‘freedom lives in motion,’” Angel Fire translates.
Jogging up to the nearest bus, he taps his knuckles on the glass door. The driver—not more than twelve years old and with his small, bare arms spread wide as eagle wings on the tire-sized steering wheel—gives a thumbs up and the double-paneled door whooshes open.
“I didn’t know you were in the Education Garrison,” the boy stammers, beads of sweat coating his forehead. He swipes his hand over his head of hedgehog hair and wipes his palms on the leg of his jean shorts.
Dressed in a honey-brown pantsuit, an only slightly older girl in the front seat of the bus leaps to her feet and makes a noble, frantic, and ultimately futile effort to pat down her lion’s mane of frizzy blond curls. “Governor…I didn’t…I mean…I don’t—”
“It’s okay, Nylssa. I’m just giving our recently liberated former criminals a little tour on our way to the Security Garrison.” Angel Fire urges us to cluster deeper into the bus as he introduces us to the two dozen, wide-eyed children sitting in either rigid terror or bent-forward curiosity. “This is one of our schools.”
“You have schools?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Here? In the Army of the Unsettled?”
“Yes.”
“But what do you teach?” Ignacio asks, slipping in front of me. “I mean…why bother?”
Angel Fire surprises me by laughing at this. Ignacio is strong and has the Brohn-like build where it looks like he’s been chiseled out of polished stone. But he’s also a rough-around-the-edges boor with no sense of diplomacy or decorum.
But Angel Fire doesn’t skip a beat. Doubled over, with one hand on his knee and the other gripping the back of one of the bus seats, he continues to laugh out loud. “It’s not always going to be like this,” he guffaws, rising up to wipe happy tears from his eyes. “It wasn’t always like this. Things were bad before Krug, but people got by. The older folks talk about it all the time. Everything was five steps forward and four steps back. It sounds like a frustrating way to live, and it’s no wonder everyone was stressed to the gills and anxious to the core. It’s one of the many reasons why we keep moving. One step forward, no steps back. That’s our motto. Forward motion. Inertia conquers all. The country was built once. It can be built again. There’ll be roads again. And water. There’ll be enough room for all of us inside the arcologies and safe places outside of the Wealthies’ walls. It’ll be good again. And we need to make sure we’re prepared for when it is.”
Arlo squishes past me to stand next to Ignacio. The kids in the front rows gasp at his scar-covered face. Arlo returns their stares with a clenched-jawed growl and the fingers on his raised hands curled into predatory claws.
The kids snap back in their seats and squeal with feigned terror while Arlo flips his hands up in surrender and promises he won’t kill them.
Instead, he clucks his tongue at Angel Fire. “It all sounds so happy and, I don’t know…foolishly optimistic.”
“What’s so bad about ‘happy’?” Angel Fire asks, dropping his pleasant grin. “And there’s nothing foolish about optimism. Believe me, one day, the world will be better.”
“Funny,” Libra says. “It’s kind of our job to make sure that happens.”
30
Haida
A litany of rubbery beeps sounds from behind us, and we edge to the side as four small, canopied golf carts trundle by. Each toad-green cart is driven by a young girl dressed in all white, with an assortment of passengers—a few teenagers but mostly much younger kids—sitting sideways and shoulder-to-shoulder on the outward-facing bench seats.
The drivers shout their greetings to Angel Fire as they pass, and he answers back with a flutter of two-handed happy waves as the carts go bouncing off into the distance.
“Our internal transport carriers,” Angel Fire explains. “People-movers. It’s one of the ways we get around the different Garrisons when we’re not walking or tooling around on dirt-bikes.”
“I wish we could have hitched a ride,” Ignacio whines. “My feet hurt.”
“But then you wouldn’t get the full experience of the Army of the Unsettled,” Arlo explains with a helpful swat to the back of Ignacio’s head.
Ignacio grunts and pretends to stumble forward like he’s been shot, which makes us all giggle.
At the same time, Angel Fire—still operating as our personal docent and shouting to be heard above the noise of some of the louder vehicles we pass—continues to point out different pa
rts of their rolling city and promises we’re now only about fifteen minutes from the Security Garrison where our weapons are being stored.
If this is a delay tactic…or a trick…or a lie…
But, oddly enough, my suspicions fade, and I’m feeling unusually relaxed, which is maybe why I’m so startled by the white flurry of motion I catch out of the corner of my eye.
Everyone ducks as Haida curls through the air around the braided wires of a nearby truck-mounted crane before dipping low and alighting on my outstretched forearm.
Where’d you come from?
~ More scouting.
Checking out the future for us?
~ Not this time.
Why not?
~ I think I’ve seen as far as I can see.
And?
~ I just wanted us to be together at the end.
Wait. What do you mean? What’s “at the end”?
~ I don’t know the “what,” only the “when.” And the “when” is soon.
Desperate for answers, I try to maintain our connection, and I can feel her trying to do the same. But the bond between us fizzles, and I’m left staring dumbly at the white raven on my forearm, her curved talons pressing little divots into the sleeve of my red leather jacket.
Haida has hinted about treachery and danger waiting for us sometime in the future. Now, she’s talking about “the end.” But the end of what, exactly? The end of our time here in the Army of the Unsettled? That wouldn’t be so bad. Although I’m enjoying our tour, I’m still focused on getting our weapons back and getting out of here.
Could she mean the end of the war before it even starts? We know there’s a huge conflict looming on the horizon. But that doesn’t mean it’s inevitable. Maybe the Devoted and the Unsettled are going to declare peace instead of war.
Or could Haida mean something simpler? The end of our adventure, maybe?
Or is it something more ominous, something too paralyzing for her to convey and too catastrophic for me to hear? Could she be talking about the end of my Asylum? The end of me and Matholook? The end of the Emergents, our Academy, and our mission to save the world?
I try to reach out to her again, but my Asylum has crowded around, and everyone is taking turns reaching out to run their fingers along the top of her head and down the sides of her body. As they do, Haida makes velvety, purring sounds from deep inside her chest.
She usually doesn’t like being touched like this, so I’m equal parts surprised and worried that she’s sitting so still while everyone greets her.
Is she letting them say goodbye?
I try to shake the most negative possibilities from my mind.
After all, things could be worse. The Unsettled haven’t been the savage cannibals we expected. Angel Fire, despite not being any older than the rest of us, is turning out to be an interesting sort of bugger who handles leadership like it’s a baby bird he needs to nurture before it leaves the nest. We may be deep behind enemy lines, but the ideas of “lines” and “enemies” is proving to be less binary than I ever thought.
“And who is this?” Angel Fire asks over his shoulder.
I quicken my pace until he and I are walking side by side. “This is Haida Gwaii. She’s a white raven and has been my friend for as long as I can remember.”
“A white raven.”
“She’s not an albino, if that’s what you were going to ask.” I put my finger under Haida’s beak and lift her head a little. “See. You can tell by her eyes.”
“Black.”
“A true albino raven would have pale or pink eyes. Haida only has partial pigmentation loss. It’s called leucism.”
Angel Fire nods and repeats the word. “You’re from England, right?”
“London. Not that there’s much of it left.”
“Out in the Pacific Northwest, there’s a story about how ravens got their color.”
“I know the story. The first raven was white. Gray Eagle refused to share the natural elements of the world, so the white raven snuck into his lodge and stole them. The raven flew away, but he dropped water and fire to the earth, and the smoke from the fire rose up and turned his feathers black.”
There’s a cheeky twinkle in Angel Fire’s eyes when he smiles and points out that Haida is white.
Matholook and I exchange a glance before I ask, “Yeah? So?”
“It means,” Angel Fire laughs, “that Haida, unlike all the black raven, didn’t drop the fire.” He pauses for dramatic effect before adding, “Don’t you see?” When Matholook and I don’t answer, he elaborates with a happy grin. “She still has it. The fire. Fire can both burn and blind. But it also provides warmth and vision. In the story, fire represents healing, wisdom, and the miracle of spiritual revelation.” He pauses again while the rest of my curiosity-filled Asylum nudges in close. “Haida,” he says, his eyes on mine, “has something to show you.”
I flash back to the visions she shared of me and my friends encased in glass in the middle of a war, and I wonder if maybe she already has.
Angel Fire continues strolling ahead, whistling, his hands in his pockets, as if he just announced the weather as opposed to dropping a mystical wisdom-bomb.
31
Vultures
With Haida’s premonitions and Angel Fire’s interpretations baking my brain, I jog to catch up with Angel Fire. He leads us around the next corner where we run straight into a bustling, open-air market, filled with kids, haggling, buying, and trading.
I can’t speak for the others, but I’m stunned, impressed, and a little saddened by this chaos of commerce.
“This is Market Garrison,” Angel Fire announces, pointing at a neat progression of open-sided, eighteen-wheeled heavy-haulers. Loaded with white canvas tents and rows of wooden bins, the long, flat-backed rigs move in perfect coordination over the ridges and creases of the crusty desert floor.
“Are we going to go shopping?” Arlo asks, eyeing the dozens of vending stations.
Angel Fire tells him, “Unfortunately not. The Security Garrison is five minutes up this road. Come on.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask.” I tell him, pointing to more of the stenciled shields we keep seeing all over the place. “What’s with all the vultures?”
“You mean the heraldry? It’s our logo. We adopted vultures as our mascot about ten years ago. The First Generation of the Unsettled liked the bobcat as their symbol. But when the bobcats all died—”
“Died? All of them?”
“They wound up affected by radiation in the ground water. It didn’t take more than a few years before they went extinct. The Second and Third Generations of the Unsettled liked the mountain lion. But then those all disappeared, too. So the Fourth Generation adopted the last of the semi-predatory animals left: The vulture. They’re nomadic. They’re survivors. And their natural heightened resistance to bacterial toxins helped them survive when other animals, and even the water and air, turned deadly after the Atomic Wars.”
Impressed, Arlo gives a long, hearty whistle, but walking along next to him, Ignacio wrinkles his nose. “They’re such ugly critters.”
Libra elbows Ignacio who says, “Ouch” but doesn’t seem to get the hint about not insulting our host as he adds, “Plus, they eat dead stuff.”
“So does Haida,” I remind him.
As if to confirm the truth about that statement, Haida hops up to my shoulder and does a little shimmy as she leans over and clacks out a mocking snap of her beak at Ignacio.
“That’s different,” Ignacio says, his voice softening after being chastised by my bird. “Haida’s…different. Haida’s…pretty.” I can practically hear his boots digging into the ground as he tries to backtrack.
“So are they,” Arlo says, pointing to a row of vultures perched wing-to-wing on a thick wooden dowel stretched across the back of a metallic-blue pickup truck. “If you look at them from the right point of view.”
Ignacio squints at the mangy collection of bald, pimple-headed clumps of hi
ssing and hacking birds. With their red heads, scabby necks and with their plum and dirt-colored feathers dusty and splayed out in random directions by the wind, they’re not exactly a flock of idyllic sparrows twittering away in a tree.
“To other vultures,” Angel Fire reminds us, “I’m sure they look—and smell—very pretty.”
“While you, on the other hand,” Sara sneers at Ignacio, “look butt-ugly from the point of view of any species on the planet.”
“So…,” Ignacio drawls, sliding his fingers through his hair and puffing out his chest. “You’ve been checking me out, eh?”
After an exaggerated bout of coughing, Sara pretends to be about ready to offer up a sloshy serving of pavement pizza. “I’ve been checking out the number of ways you repulse me.”
“Ha! You know I’m the best-looking guy in the school. Why don’t you just admit you can’t take your eyes off of me?” Ignacio flexes his arm muscles (which I hate to admit are sort of impressive), but Sara answers with a finger down her throat and an open-mouthed gag.
For as long as she’s been at the Academy, Sara has never been one to shy away from an opportunity to be a total, agitating prat, always on the lookout for a chance to insult someone or stir up trouble. Ignacio, always a glutton for the spotlight, doesn’t seem to care one way or the other, as long as someone’s paying attention to him. Although Sara tends to annoy me with her not-so-passive aggressive digs, it’s Arlo who looks the most upset at the moment. One of the scars running vertically from his hairline down into the middle of his eyebrow compresses into an accordion wrinkle as he frowns. Usually, it’s me or Libra who’s willing to tell Sara to knock it off.
Grinding his teeth, Arlo barks at her to quit picking on Ignacio. “Or else the only number you’ll be checking is how many of your teeth I’ve knocked out.”
Sara responds with a stunned stare, which I’m pretty sure matches my own. Sure, she can be annoying and pointlessly hostile, but Arlo looks like he’s about ready to hit her in defense of Ignacio. (Who doesn’t need anyone to defend him since, frankly, he’s usually the instigator of these little rows.)
