When We Wake

by Karen Healey

  Joph lifted her head from her arms. “What happened?” she asked. “Did something just happen?”

  I was wondering that myself.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Revolver

  Fortunately for my state of mind, Bethari and I were doing only a half day at school. The whispering stopped, eventually, and by the time Bethari got up and nodded at the door, I was almost in a decent mood again.

  I even remembered to let Zaneisha go out the door first.

  “Gregor’s bringing the car around,” she reported in the corridor. “Media waiting at all exits.”

  I sighed, but I’d been expecting it. Bethari looked intrigued.

  Zaneisha continued. “Head down, don’t make eye contact, ignore the bumblecams, and—”

  “I know. No comment.”

  Master Sergeant Gregor Petrov was my other bodyguard. He smiled more than Zaneisha, but I got the feeling he was laughing at me and my inevitable confusion. He was waiting just inside the door and nodded at Zaneisha as we got close.

  “Go,” Zaneisha said, and for the second time that day, the world exploded into noise and color.

  This time, I knew what to expect. The journalists weren’t allowed onto the school’s private property, but nothing stopped them from shouting questions from the street. Their bumblecams swarmed above them, no doubt getting pixel-perfect shots of my face. I was concentrating on looking blank. I’d never really tried to cover up my emotions before, and it was harder than I’d thought to pull my frown into a neutral line and smooth out my forehead. Maybe Zaneisha could give me lessons on that, too.

  I saw Carl Hurfest’s red hair but managed not to give him the finger or stick my tongue out for the cameras, which filled me with pride. One of the journalists, in plain linen wear much like mine, was standing at the back of the crowd. He stood out because of his calmness. He probably thought he could entice the shy Living Dead Girl to him as if I were a stray cat.

  Good luck, buddy.

  Whatever their tactics, shouting or standing back, they weren’t going to let up. And what Dawson had said was true; it took only one slip. Now that they knew I could be caught, they were going to do their very best to catch me.

  I couldn’t blame them, but I could hate them, and I did.

  “Is that Abdi Taalib?” I heard someone say. “Abdi! Abdi! What do you think of Tegan?”

  “We have reports that there was friction between you and Tegan this morning. Any comment?”

  “But you later assisted her. Are you two friends?”

  “Do you have a lot in common?”

  “What’s your connection?”

  Twisting in Zaneisha’s grip, I caught one glimpse of Abdi. He was standing in the doorway, looking horrified beyond belief.

  But his voice was clear, that lilting accent distinct over the hubbub. “We have no connection.” Then Zaneisha shoved my head down and hustled me into the car. Bethari ducked in behind me, the door slammed, and for a long, lovely moment, everything was silent.

  I fumbled on my seat belt and slumped against the seat as Zaneisha started to move the car, and the flock of bumblecams fell away behind us. “I hate journalists.”

  “Thanks,” Bethari said.

  She didn’t sound offended, though, so I waved my hand. “I’ll hate you later. You’re not one yet.”

  “Of course I am,” she said, blinking at me. “Didn’t you look at my ’casts?” She reached for her computer.

  Bethari’s tubecast node was an interesting mix. There were a few reviews, of music and fashion, with a lot of focus on headscarves and shoes. A lot were opinions on other news stories, all of them sharp and pithy. There was a big category called NO MIGRANT? NO WAY! that had gathered a lot of comments, some of them really nasty. And there was a small section of arty vidcasts, taken on a bumblecam that swooped around Bethari’s cheerleading squad as they somersaulted and soared, behaving as if gravity were an occasional inconvenience instead of an undeniable force.

  There was absolutely nothing about me.

  I made a mental note to check out the node later in more detail. But right then, what I really wanted was gossip.

  “So,” I said, drawing out the word slyly, “what’s the ontedy on Joph? She seems to like you a lot.”

  Bethari rolled her eyes. “Ex-girlfriend.”

  “I thought you didn’t screw the crew?”

  “I don’t now. It was awkward after we broke up. She has a knack for home creation, which is fine and everything, except then she started spending all her time in her lab. She missed dates, she was acting like a total spacer, she slept through class or just didn’t bother to turn up, and I swear she was lying to me. So I broke it off. We’re pretty much friends again now.”

  “Wow. Her parents didn’t notice?”

  “Oh, they’re thrilled. Chemistry firms are dying to recruit her.”

  “Wait. Drugs are legal?”

  “Well, sure. Why—oh! Right. Yeah, about forty years ago. They’re tested and controlled, subject to advertising and enviro standards, like everything else. Perfectly legal for sixteen and up. I don’t take them, of course, but I don’t care if others do.” She shrugged. “It’s just that she’s the smartest person at Elisa M, and now she spends most of her days drifting around looking at the pretty colors.”

  “So you try to look after her?”

  Bethari snorted. “I don’t want to be anyone’s mother. But… I don’t know. No one’s really worried about Joph, you know? Just what she can do. She’s a genius; she could do anything, but instead she’s going to waste all those brains on making happy pills? That’s not right.” Her voice firmed. “I’m going to be the most viewed ’caster in the world. My content’s going to make people think, make them change. I want that No Migrant policy gone.”

  “But if Australia really can’t support all those people…”

  Bethari’s face was fierce. “Australia has the resources to support every single person in those camps. Rising oceans, rising populations, diminishing food production, and a wealthy world superpower won’t accept any refugees, because people are clinging to what they’ve got and refusing to share? That’s disgusting.”

  She reminded me, right then, of Dalmar. Not his looks, but his quiet passion for justice. And Alex, too, who was anything but quiet, who thrust herself to the front of every protest and happily talked to strangers on the street, getting people who tried to avert their eyes to see her, to see the issues.

  I was fine throwing myself off heights or jumping narrow gaps, but I really envied that kind of bravery.

  “I’m so glad you’re my friend,” I told Bethari.

  “Me too,” she said, and we hugged in the backseat, stretching our seat belts to their limits.

  As I sat back, a little bit teary, I saw the church over Bethari’s shoulder.

  I hadn’t seen the Catholic basilica on the way to Elisa M. I’d been so stressed about school that I hadn’t paid attention to anything out the window.

  But I saw it now—the dome, the earthy yellow-gray of the sandstone it was made from, nestled between the skyscrapers on either side. Although no sunlight could reach it through its tall neighbors, the stone seemed to glow with its own warm radiance. I didn’t think about it; I just lunged for the back of Zaneisha’s seat and stuck my head into the driver’s section.

  “We have to go back!” I said. “I want to go to that church!”

  Zaneisha’s jaw twitched, but her gloved hands were immobile on the wheel. “That’s not in my instructions,” she said.

  Bethari was leaning over the backseat to catch a glimpse of the church. She turned around. “Are you denying Tegan her right to free worship, as outlined in the Constitution of the Republic of Australia?” she inquired. She didn’t sound angry; she sounded politely curious.

  “I’m denying Ms. Oglietti her wish to walk into an unsecured area with no notice,” Zaneisha said, equally polite.

  “That’s fascinating,” Bethari said, yanking me out of the
gap between the front seats. I fell back, watching the way Bethari’s pretty face sharpened, like a fox on the hunt. Her computer was in her hand, squished into a tiny ball and held through the gap. It wasn’t quite a bumblecam, but I was sure it was recording just as well; Bethari would have the best media apps. “Sergeant Washington, would you like to tell my viewers more about your opposition to the free worship of Ms. Oglietti?”

  “No comment,” Zaneisha said automatically, then, “Put that away.”

  “Are you also in favor of suppressing the free media?” Bethari asked innocently.

  “I could confiscate that computer under the Media Safety Act and have your credentials revoked.”

  Bethari flinched, but her voice was steady. “I could report the confiscation to Media Monitor,” she said.

  Muscles jumped in Zaneisha’s jaw, but at the next set of traffic lights, she reached for her EarRing. “Gregor. Change of plans. Ms. Oglietti’s going to church.”

  Bethari settled back and grinned at me as we made the turn.

  Okay. Maybe I didn’t hate all journalists.

  I’m not actually a very good Catholic. I was baptized, of course, and I went to Mass regularly for a while. But Mum and Owen and I stopped doing that after Nonna and Poppa died, except for Christmas, Easter, weddings, baptisms, and funerals—although one thing about a big Italian family is that you have a lot of those.

  I was also never much for the church’s position on women’s rights or equal marriage (the Fourth Vatican Council fixed most of that, but back in my time it was pretty horrendous). But I definitely have faith. I believe in an eventual life after death, because the alternative is just too awful. And I’ve felt something, from time to time, a warm presence that felt to me like Divine Grace.

  I’d been confirmed in the church, too; my full name is actually Tegan Marie Mary Oglietti.

  Yeah, Marie Mary. I know, but I was thirteen and going through a stage of really loving the Virgin, and I wanted her name as my confirmation name, even if it meant I had it twice. I still think she’s pretty awesome; she got this big job and she did it very well, even though you’ve got to think her parents and her fiancé were a bit side-eyed about the “virgin pregnancy” deal.

  The second I stepped into the church foyer, my right hand reached automatically for the holy water in the little niche beside the door, and I dabbed it on myself: forehead, heart, left shoulder, right shoulder.

  Bethari had opted to stay in the car, joined by a grumpy Gregor, but Zaneisha had insisted on accompanying me in.

  “Should I do this?” she asked, gesturing at the holy water.

  Well, goodness gracious me. Something I knew that this future woman didn’t.

  “It’s okay,” I said, trying to smother my smugness. It’s not like I would have been any more at ease in a mosque. “You don’t have to do any of the things I do.”

  She nodded infinitesimally, eyes tracking every exit and entrance. Being a bodyguard had to be exhausting.

  I avoided the center of the nave and the woman replacing the flowers beside the lectern there; I wasn’t interested in Jesus on his crucifix behind the main altar. They had a side altar for Mary, though, and I went down to say hi, past the Stations of the Cross depicted on the wall, my steps echoing through the silent space. She was wearing blue and white, and for once she wasn’t holding baby Jesus; she was just being herself, inscrutable and watchful.

  I went to my knees. “Hello,” I said to the perfect stone face. “How are you?”

  Mary didn’t reply.

  “I was thinking about what that Father guy said,” I told her. “I don’t think them bringing me back was a miracle. I mean, I’d rather be alive than not, you bet. And I think it was people who did it, not God. But I don’t think it’s God’s exclusive territory, either. If it was, they wouldn’t be able to do it. And I don’t feel evil or soulless. I feel like me.” I gulped. “Only sadder. And lonelier. It’s hard.”

  Zaneisha would probably have been a lot more comfortable if I’d talked to the Blessed Virgin in my head, which was one of the reasons I was doing it out loud.

  I mean, I mostly liked Zaneisha. I just resented that I couldn’t go anywhere without her.

  “Marie’s good. And I like Bethari a lot, and her friend Joph seems okay. But none of them get it, you know? They don’t really understand what it’s like to be from somewhere so different. I bet Abdi does, but I screwed up, and he doesn’t want to talk to me.”

  Mary didn’t seem to think she needed to comment. I felt the tears stinging at my eyelashes and tightened my jaw. “I just wanted to say hi,” I said, but that was a lie. What I wanted was to feel God, to be certain that I wasn’t some sort of fake person walking around with a borrowed face and voice, thinking I was a real girl.

  I was 99.9 percent sure I had a soul. But 0.1 percent can keep you up at night.

  After a while I decided that no matter how hard I prayed, there would be no choir of angels or tongues of flame to declare my soulfulness. Still, I stayed on my knees and watched that unmoving face.

  “Ms. Oglietti?” Zaneisha asked eventually, and then, though her voice didn’t change, “Tegan?”

  “I’m okay,” I said. The kneeler was padded in memory fabric, and it snapped back to fullness as I got up. There was no dimple in the cloth to show I’d ever been there. “Let’s go.”

  We were almost to the big carved doors when Zaneisha said, “Stop,” her voice so absolutely commanding that I did what she said without asking why.

  My instincts don’t usually work that way.

  “There’s an Inheritor of the Earth outside,” she said. “Gregor’s taking care of it.”

  Fear whooshed into my head like a train into a station, but stronger and louder was the whistling sound of my rage. “I want to talk to him,” I said.

  “No,” Zaneisha said flatly. She had her sonic pistol in her hand. “Let me do my job.”

  Since her job was keeping me alive, maybe even to the point of taking a bullet for me, it was hard to argue with that.

  “He’s coming in,” she said after a moment. “Can’t stop him. He’s citing freedom of worship.”

  “I—”

  “No.” She hustled me backward until we were behind one of the columns holding up the vaulted roof. “Stay,” she said, pressing herself against me from the other side so I couldn’t go anywhere if I wanted to. All that muscle against my back was reassuring. I wriggled my face out a little bit so that I could see. The memory fabric of Zaneisha’s dress had gone hard around us, ready to redistribute any kinetic force.

  Like a bullet.

  Gregor came in at a fast walk, stepping sideways. His pistol wasn’t out, but his hand was hovering right by it, and his eyes were fixed on the door. He edged toward us without ever seeming to look in our direction, taking a position where he could watch both us and the door.

  The entrance of the Inheritor was something of an anticlimax. He was an elderly man with olive skin, long reddish hair, and a beard that was fading to white. He wore loose, undyed linen trousers and a long top made out of some kind of light cotton. He walked slowly into the foyer without touching the holy water. He was favoring his left side, and I wondered if he was hurt. But his eyes were sharp as he peered around the nave.

  I recognized him by the way he stood; he had been the man holding back while the reporters swarmed toward me. Not a journalist after all, but an Inheritor.

  “He followed us here,” I said. My fear was getting stronger, blood thrumming in my ears.

  “I know,” Zaneisha said. “And we didn’t see him, which means he might be a professional, which means stay put.”

  “That’s far enough, sir,” Gregor said, his deep voice burring. “Any farther and I’ll consider it a threat to my charge’s safety and act accordingly.”

  The man ignored him, staring at me instead. “I don’t want to hurt you, child.”

  “Then leave,” I suggested. Zaneisha pressed me a little harder against the stone
. I’m sure that if she could have spared a hand, she would have shoved my face back behind the column.

  The man wasn’t moving. “Don’t you see what’s happening here?” he asked me. “You yearn for a place of holiness. You wish this false consciousness to reconnect with God. You want to rejoin your soul.”

  “My soul is right here,” I said over Zaneisha’s warning hiss.

  “You should understand that you must shape yourself according to God’s plans. To everything there is a season and a time for every purpose under heaven. A time to live, and a time to die. Your time came. What persists is an affront to God, and you must put it to rest.”

  “You want me to kill myself.”

  “You’re already dead,” he said, infinitely gentle. “Child, ask yourself why these godless men of science brought you back. Have you not wondered?”

  “It was a godless woman of science, thank you very much, and they’re doing it to save the soldiers,” I said, but my heart stuttered. I had wondered, in the nights that dragged on forever, when not even Paul McCartney’s most soothing melodies were able to drive the questions from my head. The argument that I was a good candidate sounded all right until you considered all the many people in the century in between who must have gotten themselves frozen the right way, with the right injuries.

  Many of whom would know how to handle themselves in this time a lot better than I did. Many of whom were actually the soldiers they were trying to save.

  He shook his head sadly. “They mean to use you, child, to further their ungodly ways. God created mankind in his own image. In the image of God he created them; male and female he created them. God blessed them and said to them, be fruitful and increase in number; fill the Earth and subdue it. God gave us this world. But the greed of your masters exceeds his bounty. Ask. Ask them about the Ark Pro—”

  There was a sound so loud it was no sound at all, and his chest exploded into chunks of red.

  The stone walls were ringing.