Violet

by Rae Thomas

  I rush up to the front steps, but David holds me back. He gets my attention, and motions for me to be quiet by placing his index finger against his lips. Together, we mount the stairs one by one, and enter the house.

  When we walk into the house, we notice that it is very dim; the lights are off and all of the shades have been drawn. Despite this, we can still see, though not with much detail. Much detail is not required to see the state of my house. Chairs are overturned, papers litter the floor. Forgotten boxes that we stacked in a corner have been dumped, their contents scattered around the room. My mother’s porcelain heirlooms lie broken on the floor, crushed by passing boots. David and I move to the main room, the living area. Everything is much the same. Cushions have been shredded, their stuffing torn out. More papers on the floor. More broken glass. The state of the kitchen is the same as the other rooms. The contents of the cabinets are no more than shards of what were once bowls, plates, and cups. Even my father’s antique wood table has been disassembled and broken, rendered as useless as firewood. There is no question. Someone has been here, and he was looking for something. But where is my father?

  David and I continue to the next room, which is my father’s study. There is a dim light emanating from beneath the door, and I brace myself for what I will see. I want to look for my father, but I am afraid of what I will find. I cringe as I push the door open and hold my breath as I survey the room. I see papers all over the floor, furniture overturned, drawers dumped onto the hardwood. I do not see my father. I exhale in relief; if we do not find him, maybe that means he has escaped. He is hiding somewhere. He will come for me.

  My relief is short-lived. As I walk closer to the desk, I see him. He is sitting on the floor with his back against the wall and his feet stretched out in front of him. His head is cocked sideways to rest on his right shoulder. My father is dead.

  Even in the dim light, I can see that he has been badly beaten, but there is something else. The skin around his mouth is swollen and blistered, and there are remnants of something on his lips. His tongue is the color of a deep bruise and has swollen to fill his entire mouth. I drop to my knees beside him. There is something in his hand. I pry open his fingers to find a plant. I have seen this plant before.

  When my father began his hobby of classifying plants, I would spend time with him as he meticulously documented their characteristics and researched their origins. I remember seeing my father’s drawing of this plant as he created an entry for it. It has a thick, fibrous stem covered in nodules. When the plant is in bloom, large sweet-smelling purple flowers burst from the nodules, obscuring the view of the stem. I picked up the plant to hold it in my hands and watched as my father wrote “Bahaya” in delicate script. He had spent many years in labs surrounded by the latest technology. In the days of his retirement, my father was content with an ink pot. As I fingered the delicate petals, I read aloud as he wrote. “Bahaya. Is that how you say it?”

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s poison.” I immediately released my grip on the plant and allowed it to fall to the floor.

  My father laughed. “It’s not poison right now, V. That’s what’s remarkable about it. Bahaya is completely harmless until it interacts with human saliva. You can touch it all you want. You can put it in your moisturizer; you can bathe in the petals. But if you put it in your mouth, you’ll be dead before you have time to chew it.”

  Now, as I sit on the floor next to my father’s corpse, I am struck by this recollection. My father knew this plant’s poisonous properties. Seemingly innocuous to the casual viewer, this plant is a red flag to someone well-versed in plant classification. If my father put a Bahaya bloom in his mouth, he knew what would happen, and it was no accident.

  Shocked by the revelation of my father’s suicide, my mind is reeling. Our house has been ransacked; my father was beaten mercilessly. Whatever the intruder had been seeking, he had not found it. My father had killed himself to avoid the torture. My father had killed himself to avoid revealing his secret. My father had killed himself to keep them from getting what they wanted. My father had killed himself to protect me. My father had killed himself, and I couldn’t even be bothered to tell him goodbye before I left this morning. I will never truly know the man my father had been.

  I place my hand in my father’s and squeeze it. I know he’s gone, but I cannot help but hope. I want his comfort; I want to tell him what I know. What if they had found him because of the research I’d asked David to do? Is my father dead because of me?

  As I have this thought, I see a gold glint near my father’s hip. His pocket watch. Since I awoke, I have seen my father open this pocket watch many times. Its gold exterior is engraved with a swirling pattern. Just another of my father’s remnants of the past. Often throughout the day, my father would be struck by some memory or another. He would draw the watch from his pocket, peer inside, and smile. I never asked my father to see the photograph that was inside the watch. Perhaps this is because I knew that it would not be of me.

  As I press the latch at the top, the watch cover swings open and my hypothesis is confirmed. On the back side of the cover is a photo of my mother. It is a photo that I have never seen. My mother as a young woman, probably at the beginning of her relationship with my father. She is outside, standing in front of a tree with a very wide trunk, two or three times her size. Her light hair hangs in long spirals almost to her waist. She is laughing, perhaps slightly embarrassed to have her photo taken, but still happy. As the photo is being taken, she lifts her hand to tuck her hair behind her ear. A small tattoo is visible on the inside of her wrist. I bring the photo closer to my face to get a better look. The tattoo portrays two interlocking diamonds. The shapes overlap to create a third, smaller diamond in the center. I have never seen this tattoo; it is not visible in any of the photographs on the mantle. I feel a sharp pang of regret at the loss of my parents; it seems that I will never know them at all.

  I close the watch and slide it into my pocket. Before I stand, I clench my father’s hand one last time. Kneeling beside him, I become aware of someone standing to my left, in the main area of the study. I hear the distinct click of a weapon being readied and I freeze. Slowly, I turn to face the intruder. A man in the uniform of The Vox. The red V on his shoulder. He holds David with one hand while the weapon is pressed tightly against David’s temple. The intruder’s face is twisted with malice as he says, “Nice to see you, Miss Price. I think you need to come with me.”

  Part II:

  CERNO—Summus

  Eight

  I’ve been sitting in this room for what seems like forever; perhaps it’s been all night. I’ve had ample time to think about what’s happened, but mostly one question repeats itself over and over: Why have they kept me alive? I’m worried about David. When we arrived in Summus, we were placed in separate interrogation rooms; for all I know, he’s already dead.

  When I turned and saw the agent with his weapon against David’s head, I could think of nothing but to cooperate. I’m not some kind of secret agent; I don’t have skills to overtake a trained member of The Vox, especially not one who’s taken a hostage. I’d never seen fear in David’s eyes before last night. My curiosity, my insistence to find the truth, has killed my father, and has probably killed David as well.

  I followed the agent to the field behind my house, where a transport was waiting. As transports go, it was rather small, probably only a six-person ship. However, it was a thing to behold. Black at the time because it was night, but equipped with cloaking abilities to camouflage it in any circumstance. Obviously designed for speed, the transport was aerodynamic, with grooves to allow the air to move around it more freely. A large windshield in the front could be transparent or opaque, depending on the necessity of the mission. And, of course, a large logo on the side: the blood red capital V with the orbiting moons. The Vox.

  We boarded the ship and were cuffed immediately. I did not have a plan. I expected us to be executed immediately upon our arrival. Davi
d managed to make eye contact with me and mouthed the words “I’m sorry.” I shook my head. David has nothing to apologize for. He would not even be here were it not for me. One of the officers had seen David speak to me, and responded by slamming the butt of the weapon into his head saying, “Keep your mouth shut.” David winced, and a small trickle of blood slid down from his hairline. I looked away.

  When we reached Summus, our transport was put down on a landing pad located on the top of the main Vox headquarters. This building must be the tallest in the area, because nothing but sky could be seen from my position on the roof. David and I were led to a door. The pilot keyed in an access code. Though there were two people between myself and the keypad, I saw the access point before we arrived, so I had time to position myself within view without seeming suspicious. 291150. There were no retina scans or even fingerprint recognition pads; security was somewhat lax here. The Vox had grown overconfident. After entering through the doorway, we took a sharp right turn and walked down a dark hall. Lights on the ceiling glowed to illuminate our path just before we passed under them, and extinguished themselves as we moved on. I counted my steps. When I had reached 36 strides, we took another right and stopped at the first door on the right. The same officer keyed in his access code; I recognized it from its tones. 291150. Codes must be assigned by person, not by door. The officer followed me into the room, motioned for me to sit, and then attached my cuffs to a link on the table. He left without a word. I heard him enter his code as the door slid shut behind him.

  Now I wait. I pass the time by rubbing my wrists onto the inside of the cuffs. My skin has been rubbed raw all the way around; in some places it has broken and small streaks of blood have begun to appear. I stop moving when I hear a code being entered outside of the door. I drop my head and look down at the surface of the table in front of me. I look up timidly and view the man through the strands of hair that have fallen into my face.

  This man is not so tall. He is not so muscular, but his uniform and haircut identify him as a high-ranking member of The Vox. Though he is not physically impressive, he emanates a sense of authority. This is a very powerful man. I will not underestimate him. He takes a seat across from me and begins to arrange some papers on the table in front of himself. I take this opportunity to observe him more closely. His hair was once a light brown, but has now begun to grey, though there is so little of it that it hardly matters. His eyes are small and beady, his nose is not unlike a large beak spread wide across his face and coming to a sharp point at the tip. His mouth turns down at the corners in a permanent frown.

  My eyes travel from his face to his chest. Here, there is another patch; this one sets him far above any ordinary member of The Vox. In the place where a soldier’s name would usually be, this man’s patch is adorned with letters the same blood red as his sleeve logo, but instead of a V, it says ALTER.

  “Yes, I am The Alter.”

  His voice startles me and I look up to find him waiting to meet my gaze. I say nothing. Nor does he. I never thought I’d be thankful for Madam Aldine’s History of Government lessons, but I am. Without them, I would not know who I am up against. On Cerno, there is one governing body. Every crop we plant, every item we sell, every single decision is made by The Sententia, our high council. The identities of the members of The Sententia are kept secret in the hopes that without public recognition, they cannot be corrupted. When a member is ready to step down, he or she chooses a successor to be voted on by the remaining members. The people have nothing to do with The Sententia. The people have no say in the government. The rationale is that governments by the people have failed too many times in the past. Some of the citizens of Cerno agree with this line of thinking; others do not. But no one challenges The Sententia.

  The Sententia uses The Vox as its physical presence on Cerno. The Vox enforces every decree put out by the council. The Vox is split into two factions: the Manus and the Claro. The Manus is the military brawn; they are soldiers. The Claro includes all of the academics within The Vox, such as scientists, like my father, weapons researchers, and agricultural engineers. The Sententia appoints two men to be the leaders of these two factions. The Solus controls the Manus, and The Alter controls the Claro. These men answer to no one but The Sententia. These men are the most powerful public figures on Cerno. These men are all but infallible. And one of them is sitting across from me.

  I say nothing. The Alter places a small spherical recording device in the center of the table and flips the switch. “State your name.”

  “My name is Violet Massassi.”

  The Alter sneers at me. I can see that his rage is thinly veiled. “We know that your name is Violet Price, daughter of a defected Claro scientist. We know where you’ve been for the past months. We’ve been watching everything that you do. Let’s go ahead and assume that I know the answers to all of the questions that I am going to ask you. Do not lie to me, and I will not lie to you. Yes?”

  “Yes.” I lift my hands and place them on the table, wincing at the pain from the cuts on my wrists.

  “What’s wrong?” He is feigning sympathy.

  “My wristcuffs, they’re very tight. They’ve cut me.” I say this pitifully.

  He looks at my wrists and sees the bloody scrapes. I can see him sizing me up. Deciding. I’m a small girl. I pose no threat. I am no match for his training.

  “Here, let me remove them for you.” He produces a small seal and presses it into an indentation on the cuffs. They pop open, and I remove my wrists. He wants a cooperative witness. He wants me to believe that he is on my side. I want him to believe that my cuffs were too tight.

  “Thank you so much.”

  “You’ve been through a lot tonight, Miss Price. Please understand that you will not be prosecuted for your father’s crimes, but we do need your help. Your father stole some very sensitive information. Were that information to get into the hands of an enemy, our security could be compromised. Will you help us?”

  “Of course.” I am being a cooperative witness.

  “We are seeking a very valuable relic, and we believe your father knew where it is. Have you ever seen in your father’s possession a shard of broken stone?”

  “Broken stone?”

  “Yes. Bluish-grey in color, roughly the height and width of two or three fingers.”

  “No. I have never seen my father with anything like that.”

  “Has your father ever mentioned an artifact or piece of technology known as The Cube?”

  The broken piece of a cube-shaped stone! Could this be the artifact from my dream? Is this what my father was hiding?

  “No. My father has never spoken those words to me.” My heart is beginning to pound. I fear that I will give myself away. I struggle to calm down.

  The Alter begins to speak more forcefully. “Have you ever seen any type of artifact hidden anywhere in your home?”

  “No! I’ve never seen or heard of anything like that!”

  Suddenly, his demeanor is calm. He smiles at me as if he’s won. “Miss Price, I thought we had agreed not to lie to one another?”

  I am confused until he pulls something familiar from the stack of papers he arranged. He drops it onto the table in front of me.

  My sketchbook. He opens it to one of my recent drawings. I know which one before he finds the page. Heavy black strokes come together to form the silhouette of a man. He has no face. I had not drawn the room around him. It is not the room itself, but what is in the room, that is important. The man is reaching toward a waist-high pedestal in the center of the room. Resting on the pedestal is the stone; outlined in the same stark black that I used for the man, I filled the center of the stone with a powder blue. I smudged the black outline to mix some of the black with the blue. Light emanates from the stone, but not full rays, a steady glow. The sketch is unmistakable. There is no doubt that I drew the artifact that The Alter is seeking. He will never believe that I don’t know where it is.

  As suddenly as in my dre
am, a brilliant light engulfs the interrogation room, and it is as if I am no longer there. I am in a room. A lab. The ceiling and floor are stark white, as is all of the equipment. All four walls of this room are formed by the shock-absorbing gel used in the science labs at Nineteen. Throughout the room are large octagonal tables outfitted with an array of microscopes, sanitation areas, and dishes full of various samples. At one of the tables sits a lone scientist. My father. Stretched out on the table in front of him is what looks like a human corpse. My father must be doing some type of autopsy because he is elbow deep in this man’s abdomen. When he raises his arms, I see that he holds metallic pieces in his hands. A BioMech. My father re-installs the piece that he removed, and the BioMech opens its eyes. My father smiles.

  Soon, he stands and begins to pack up his work station. He must be preparing to leave for the day. My father seems jovial. There is a bounce in his step that I have never seen before. He begins to walk toward the door when a scientist working at a neighboring station swivels in his seat to address my father. The scientist jumps up and puts on an exaggerated expression of shock.

  “Whoa, whoa. What in Cerno’s going on here? The most dedicated scientist in all of the Claro is leaving four minutes early? I never thought I’d see the day! Not in all my rotations have I seen something as shocking as this and frankly, I’m appalled.”

  My father laughs good-naturedly as he pats his fellow scientist on the back. “Come on, I told you I’d be heading out. Violet saw her sixth today! Tara has planned a get-together with the family and some of Violet’s friends. She’ll kill me if I miss it.” My mother is still alive. That explains my father’s happiness. I only knew him after his heart had been broken.