“I’m going with you.” Wyck flings a challenging look at Alexander, but no one says anything about not letting him out of the house.
“Everly and I will take the other ACV,” Alexander says. He shuts down the objection Saben’s about to make with a look.
“What about Fiere?” I venture.
“She’ll be fine for a couple of hours,” Alexander says. “It’s Halla we’ve got to worry about right now. With the extra patrols out because of Kareen—” He doesn’t finish the thought. “Saben, put out an alert. Get the network to keep an eye out.”
I wonder briefly how many people there are in the network and how they contact them. Saben takes off and Alexander beckons for me and Wyck to follow him. He heads for the kitchen. I think he’s getting food to take with us when he enters the pantry and I’m impatient with the delay, but he holds his eye to a hidden iris scanner on the back wall and the wall slides back to reveal a weapons cache. The armory Saben mentioned. He tosses a beamer to Wyck who catches it one handed, and another to me. He selects a crossbow for himself. “Okay, let’s go.”
Chapter Twenty One
In silence we meet up with Saben and descend into the tunnel. I’m jittery, much more so than last night. Halla . . . nothing can happen to Halla. Alexander and I claim the nearest ACV while Saben and Wyck run down the tunnel to where another one is hidden. “Scooter’s missing,” Alexander says tersely as he ignites our two-seater.
We zip through the tunnels. I’m expecting to come out at the car wash, but we emerge into a cavernous warehouse. Checking to ensure that no one observes our exit, Alexander zooms the ACV through the garage-style door and out into the middle of Atlanta. It’s the first time I’ve seen the city during daylight and I’m amazed by how busy it is. At least two dozen ACVs of every size skim over the buckled streets and sidewalks. Several of them have IPF markings. There are still more derelict, deserted houses and buildings than occupied ones, but the city feels more alive than Jacksonville. Some of the houses have flowers growing in planters under glass. It seems frivolous to grow flowers instead of food, but I have to admit the sight of happy yellow marigolds makes me smile. I wonder where all of these people serve, what they do. A gilded dome rises in the city center, the gilt peeling in spots, but still magnificent with the sun sparking off it.
“The Capitol,” Alexander says, observing the direction of my gaze.
I want to ask about the Ministry for Science and Food Production, but I don’t. This trip is about Halla, not about finding access to the DNA registry to identify my parents.
Soon we’re out of the populated city center and skimming past long-abandoned shopping malls with roofs caved in, schools, listing skyscrapers, and heaps of brick, wood and twisted metal no longer identifiable as particular buildings. I notice it all on some level, but pay attention to none of it. After twenty-five minutes, we top a rise and Alexander slows, keeping the ACV in the shadow of an old magnolia grove. Below, a fence-encircled compound sprawls. Low tan buildings. Lightly armored ACVs and heavier tracked vehicles. Sentries. The IPF base. I gape at it in dismay. Halla’s quest was pointless from the word go; she had no chance of finding Loudon. The place is huge and soldiers are everywhere. They all look alike in camouflaged jumpsuits like the ones Alexander and I are wearing. “She could be anywhere,” I breathe.
The hum of an ACV signals Saben and Wyck’s arrival. They hover beside us. “Seen her?” Saben asks.
Alexander shakes his head. “Hopefully, she’ll see how impossible it is and turn around. Position yourselves so you can watch the southern access route.”
Saben nods and he and Wyck whiz down a gentle slope and are soon out of sight. Alexander scans three hundred sixty degrees with binoculars. A slight tremor in his hands makes me wonder how long he’ll hold up.
“There.” Alexander points to a scooter below us. Without ceremony, I grab the binoculars and peer through them. Halla. Her curly black hair bounces as the ACV stutters over uneven terrain. She’s a quarter mile from the base entrance and seems to be slowing. Hallelujah. She’s seen the futility. She’s going to turn around. “Let’s go get her,” I urge, lowering the binoculars.
Alexander’s mouth sets in a grim line. “Trouble.”
I follow his pointing finger and see two two-seater ACVs detach themselves from points near the sentry-manned gate and head toward Halla.
"Her ACV isn't squawking the right IFF code," Alexander says.
A voice in my head screams that we need to zoom down the hill, attack the ACVs, and rescue Halla. Reality is staring me in the face, however, in the form of too many soldiers and weapons to count, all within shouting distance. Rushing to Halla would be suicide. We can only watch it play out from our vantage point. Halla’s scooter speeds up and I can feel her fear from here. The ACVs give chase like wild dogs galvanized by prey running from them. Within thirty seconds they’ve overtaken her. One ACV slides in front of her scooter and the other pulls up behind it.
“No, no, no.”
I don’t realize I’m talking aloud until Alexander says, “There’s nothing we can do right now.”
Two armed soldiers approach the scooter and haul Halla off it. I can’t see clearly, but suddenly she’s crumpled on the ground, as if she’s been struck. I cry out.
“We can’t help her now, not here,” Alexander says, swooping the ACV around.
“We can’t leave her!” I’m turning in the seat, trying to see what’s happening to Halla.
“We must. She’s pregnant; they’ll take her to the RESCO. We have a chance of rescuing her from there. Here, we’d all die for nothing.”
He’s implacable and I subside, knowing that his assessment is probably accurate, but torn apart by having to leave Halla behind. It’s like opposing forces have hold of each of my arms and are pulling so my tendons and joints pop and rip from the force, so my skin splits open. Alexander reaches over to grip my forearm. His grip is stronger than I expect and I wonder how and why he made the transition from surgeon to rebel leader. Now is not the time to ask.
We gather in Fiere’s room so she can be part of our discussion. She, after all, has greater knowledge of the RESCO than any of us. She goes stony-faced when we tell her what Halla’s done and what has happened, and then says, “That poor girl.” I wonder if I would have caught the undertone of fear in her voice if I didn’t know her history. She joins Saben, Idris and Alexander in discussing how many Bulrush sympathizers they might be able to gather.
Idris urges an immediate frontal assault. “We’ve got the manpower, the weapons. This is our opportunity to show that Bulrush is more than a baby-smuggling service.” His eyes are alight.
Alexander listens quietly for a few minutes and then says, “It can’t be done.”
All eyes turn to Alexander. He focuses on Idris. “You know it can’t be done. How many women and babies would die in the kind of action you’re talking about? Bulrush would be exposed, unable to operate in future. We’d lose people. We can’t put the whole operation at risk for the sake of one woman. The best we can do is get word to Pharaoh’s Daughter and hope she can find a way for us to extract Halla.”
“It’s time for us to—” Idris starts.
“We’re not attacking,” Alexander says with finality.
Idris goes rigid with fury.
“You can’t leave her there. We have to get her out now,” Wyck says hotly.
“Alexander’s right,” Fiere says reluctantly. I can see what it costs her. “There’s too much at stake.”
“He wouldn’t say that if it was you,” Wyck yells.
“I did say exactly that,” Alexander says.
There’s silence.
Wyck looks from Alexander to Fiere to me, confused. Alexander pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, and then looks up. From his expression, he considers the discussion over. “I will set about contacting Pharaoh’s Daughter. It may take a day or two to get word to her.”
“You have lost your ne
rve,” Idris says. His face is pale, with a muscle jumping beside his mouth. “You are too old and too sick to be in command.” He locks eyes with Alexander and waits for a response.
Fiere springs forward, clearly planning to deck Idris. When Alexander merely motions her back without breaking eye contact with his challenger, Idris makes a disgusted noise, turns on his heel, and walks out.
I speak into the silence. “There might be another way.”
They all look at me, Wyck hopefully, Saben warily, Fiere with skepticism, and Alexander wearily.
“I can go in.”
Chapter Twenty Two
There’s hubbub and objections and an hour of ranting and trying to talk me out of it, but my mind’s made up. I’ve thought it through and they eventually cave to my logic, although no one likes the plan. That’s only reasonable; I don’t like it much either. I’d rather tramp through the swamp again, dodging alligators, mosquitoes and moonshiners, than voluntarily turn myself over to a RESCO, but it’s Halla.
“I can tell the RESCO I want to volunteer to be a surrogate,” I say. “Once I’m inside, I can find Halla and get in touch with this Pharaoh’s Daughter.” Why couldn’t they give her a simpler code name? Agent 10, for instance? “She can help me and Halla get to a prearranged location where you will be waiting to extract us at a set time. Easy.” I say it breezily, knowing it will be anything but easy. A potential problem occurs to me. “Unless you think they’d know who I am and notify the IPF rather than let me in?”
“Unlikely.” Alexander shakes his head. “It’s not like the IPF would have had reason to alert RESCOs about three runaways. There’s no reason your name should raise alarms.”
“They’ll inseminate you, you know,” Fiere says. She’s busy sketching the layout of the RESCO as she remembers it. There are four buildings labeled “dormitories,” “medical center,” “staff quarters,” and “administration.” The medical center is the largest, a U-shaped building with one arm labeled “exam rooms/insemination suites,” the cross bar marked “nursery,” and the other side of the U tagged “birthing center.”
I give a tiny nod. I know it’s a risk, although I’m hoping to be in and out so quickly that they don’t have the opportunity. “Maybe.”
“We can make sure you don’t get pregnant,” Fiere says. “There’s a pill. You can’t get caught with it, though; it’s a death penalty offense.”
I can imagine.
“Take it immediately after the procedure.” She hands me the map. “Memorize this. You can’t take it in with you. And above all else, remember that they are watching you and listening to you at all times, except in the hyfacs. There is no privacy. None.”
Alexander says, “We’ll have a team waiting here”—he marks the map—“starting day after tomorrow at 0400 hours for three days. You’ll know the spot because there’s a huge oak that was split by lightning right outside the fence. There’s an electrified area extending from the fence to approximately fifty feet into the compound. We will deactivate it when we see you coming. You’ll have three minutes to cross it. If you and Halla can’t make it by the third day . . .”
I nod my understanding. We’ll be on our own.
"God willing and the volcano don't explode, it won't come to that." Alexander says.
“I should go,” I say. There’s no point in waiting. Nothing will prepare me for what I’m about to experience. I won’t be able to sneak in weapons or locators. I’ll have my wits, my pill, the RESCO’s layout in my head, and my ten days of defense training with Fiere and Saben. It doesn’t seem like much.
“Now?” Wyck objects. “I thought tomorrow morning—”
I shake my head. “Halla’s due any minute. We need to get her back before the baby comes; otherwise they’ll take it from her, won’t they?” I look to Alexander for confirmation.
“She’s right.” He leaves the room.
“I’ll take you,” Saben says.
Wyck’s about to argue, but realizes that would be foolish. He comes over and hugs me hard. I tear up, but blink rapidly to keep the tears from falling. We hold onto each other for long minutes.
“Finish up that tunnel while I’m gone, okay?” My voice is shaky.
“See you in a couple days,” Fiere says with an attempt at casualness. “Don’t get too out of shape at the RESCO. I don’t want to have to start your training over at the beginning.”
Alexander returns and takes my hand in both of his. “You’re resourceful and strong,” he says, looking into my eyes. “I’ll be waiting for you at the lightning tree. Halla’s lucky.” When he lets go of my hand, I’m holding a tiny yellow pill no bigger than a poppy seed.
“Right. Don’t give away my mattress while I’m gone.” I walk out, head held high, determined to act like I know I’ll be back in a matter of days. I will be. With Halla.
I don’t even go upstairs for my messenger bag with the feather and my book; Fiere said they’re liable to take anything I have in my possession when I arrive and I can’t risk losing them. “They’ll strip you and get rid of your clothes, and search you, too,” she told me, “so be careful where you hide that pill.”
Saben catches up to me and we walk toward the tunnel entrance. “Wait a sec,” he says, and disappears into the kitchen. He reappears in a minute and gestures to the ladder. “Ladies first.”
We climb down and get into an ACV.
“Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
It’s an hour’s ride to the RESCO northeast of Atlanta. If I weren’t so tense, I’d have been interested in seeing more of the city, including a couple of manufacturing plants that Saben says only started production last year. As it is, I’m too busy studying Fiere’s RESCO drawing to even look out the windows. I’ve got the layout memorized and am staring dead ahead, clasping and unclasping my hands in my lap, when Saben says, “I’m an artist.”
This is so far from anything in my head, that he might as well have said, “I’m an alien.” “What?”
“It’s the reason I’m with Bulrush. You wanted to know why I left my family to become part of Bulrush. Well, that’s why: I’m an artist. I paint and draw.”
I try to read his expression, but I can only see his profile.
“By all rights, I should be a physicist—the gametes implanted in my mother were chosen to yield a great physicist. But I have no interest in physics or science of any kind—none—and not much aptitude, either. From as early as I can remember, I’ve drawn. Any piece of paper that came to hand, I doodled on it, sketched pictures of my parents, my brother and sister, my teachers and schoolmates. At first, no one minded. But as I grew older and it became clear that I wasn’t developing into much of a scientist, they called it a ‘distraction.’ They took to tying my right hand behind my back so I couldn’t use it. I had to learn to write and compute with my left hand. It didn’t help though—I was still a disaster in a lab and with computations. I even got so I could draw with my left hand; in some ways, it made me a better artist, opened up a new well of creativity inside me. The punishments for being caught drawing got more severe.”
His nostrils go pinched and white at the memory. I don’t know what to say. No one calls themselves an artist. Amerada needs scientists and builders, leaders and soldiers—not artists and musicians and writers. The Kube proctor who’d tried to get music added to the curriculum was gone within a week.
“I know,” Saben says of my silence. “You don’t have to say anything. No one understands. I don’t understand; I just know I’ve got to draw. Genes are not destiny. I left when it became clear I was putting my family at risk. There was some discussion at the ministry level that my sister should be removed from my parents’ care and placed in a Kube because they’d failed with me. The committee blamed them, you see.”
“That’s awful. Where did you go?”
“I wandered much like you and Halla and Wyck did, although I had food and electricity ration cards and an ACV, so I didn’t have such a tough time of it
. Eventually, I bumped into two women who were looking for Bulrush; I helped them find Bulrush. Alexander convinced me to stay. I’ve discovered I have something of an aptitude for leadership and planning. Who knew, right?” He looks at me and smiles. “Like your aptitude for fighting. I’ll bet you didn’t know you’d be as good at fighting as you are at dissecting locusts.”
The ACV settles near a culvert on a dirt road. A sludge of algae-scummed water trickles from the corrugated metal tube. The doors unseal. A breeze wafts in; that’s why I get a sudden chill, I’m sure. We get out and Saben comes around to my side of the vehicle, standing close.
I guess he senses my confusion because he continues, “I’m telling you this because I’ve sometimes felt that you’re wary of me. You don’t trust me. I get that. I’m geneborn. Bulrush is the last place I should be. I thought maybe if you understood why I was with Bulrush, you’d trust me more. You need to trust me—all of us. That trust is all you’ll have to hang onto once you’re in the RESCO. You can trust that I—we—will be waiting for you at the lightning tree every day. We will get you out of there.”
I swallow hard. “Thanks,” I whisper. I ask the question that’s been tugging at me. “Did your parents want you to leave?”
“No.”
“Do you miss them?”
“Of course! They’re my mom and dad, my sister. I love them. They love me. They felt like they failed me. In the best of all possible worlds, parents help you become more you—they don’t mold you into someone you’re not. Good parents don’t, anyway. My parents understood that. But this isn’t the best of all possible worlds and they couldn’t do that, not without putting all of us at risk—that’s why they let me go.”
He had what I’ve wanted always, and he tossed it aside. Before I can stop myself, I say, “I don’t know how you could give that up, just to be an artist.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.”
“You’re no better off now.”
[Incubation 01.0] Incubation Page 20
