by Rae Thomas
The floor creaks softly beneath his weight. He is moving carefully, but this building is very old. I can feel him approaching my doorway. I am crouched. I am ready to spring forward to take his legs from beneath him. Just as I see the toe of one of his boots, I hear him whisper, “Violet?”
David! I allow myself to relax; I lean back against the wall and slide down to a sitting position. I try to catch my breath; I try to regain my composure. David sits down beside me.
“Violet! What’s wrong? Are you all right?”
I cannot speak.
“Violet, talk to me! What’s going on?”
“What’s going on? What’s going on? I thought you were trying to kill me!”
David is confused. “Why would I be trying to kill you?”
I struggle to explain what now seems to be a severe overreaction. “I woke up and you were gone. I thought you’d left me; I didn’t expect you to come back! So when I heard someone come in, I assumed it was The Vox. I thought they’d found me.”
David looks stricken. Perhaps I’m not going about this the right way. “Violet, you thought I’d… abandon you?”
That is what I’d thought, though when he says it, it seems much more traitorous. “I mean, not abandon me. Just kind of…”
“Leave while you were sleeping and never come back.”
“… Yes.” I look down at my hands.
David scoots closer and holds my face in both of his hands. His hands are warm; the skin is rough. He brings his head very close to mine and looks into my eyes. No one has ever looked at me the way he does right now. It’s as if nothing has ever mattered more than what he is about to say.
“I will never leave you. Nothing and no one could ever compel me to remove myself from where you are.”
I don’t know what to say. I love you? No, that’s ridiculous. This is not the time or place for me to go around proclaiming love for someone. Especially because he’s never displayed any particular romantic interest in me. Besides, I’m not even sure if that’s true. Do I love David? I care about him. I want him around. I want to protect him. For now, these things are enough. I’m not sure what it would mean for me to love him, or for him to love me. I decide to change the subject. I smile.
“Well, where did you go?”
David looks a little put out by my abrupt change of subject. Was he waiting for me to say something else? Maybe not proclamations of love, but at least a little reciprocation might have been in order. Well, it’s too late now.
David has regained his footing. He smiles. “I got food.”
We eat ravenously. Granted, there’s not much food. David was only able to get his hands on some stale bread, a little cheese, and some preserved fruit. Still, I’m grateful. Before we finish it off, David decides that we should save some. We don’t have much money, so food might be hard to come by. We don’t know how long we’ll be running.
To pass the time until we’re ready to sleep again, David tells me stories about his childhood. It’s nice to hear stories like this since I don’t remember being a child. I love to hear David speak about his mother. I only wish that I had a story about mine.
“My mother is a great cook. Sometimes, when I was young, she would take me with her to the market. She would tell me to choose three things—any three things. I would walk along through the stalls, looking at this fruit or that vegetable, trying to find something that would finally stump her. It never failed—no matter which three things I chose, she would always make the most succulent meal. Sometimes, when we had a good harvest and a little more money, she would make enough to share with the neighbors. Once I thought I finally had her. Who would’ve thought you could make anything good with spiny figs, corn, and cross-grain? Everyone agreed it was the best soup we’d ever eaten. I still don’t know how she did it. My father always said that it was because my mother had grown up hungry. When you’re hungry, you can make something out of almost nothing.”
He smiles at the memory and I laugh, thinking of David as a child, foiled again.
“What about your father? Is he as much of a character as your mother?”
David’s smile fades; I wish I hadn’t said anything. David has never spoken much about his father.
“My father. Yeah, he was a character all right. My father was assigned to work in agriculture. We grew grain on his family’s land. But that’s not what he was passionate about. He was known to be a great seer. People came from many miles to have him read them. It was illegal for him to take payment, but he did it anyway. My father was someone who always wanted more than what he had.”
I’m not sure how to respond to this. It is clear that David resents his father. I decide not to say anything. David sighs and says, “Well, it doesn’t matter now anyway. He’s dead.”
Now I’ve got to say something. “Oh. David, I’m sorry. Still, it must have been something to have a seer in your family. My father told me about them once. It must be so interesting to know someone with that kind of gift.”
David snorts. “Yeah, it sure would be something.” I’m confused. “Violet, my father wasn’t really a seer. He was a liar. That was his gift. He was a thief. He was a charlatan. He tricked good people out of hard-earned money and goods because he wanted more. He liked the thrill. He liked the game.
“I watched him do it hundreds, maybe thousands of times. He could read people’s emotions. He could sense their intentions. What may have been a slight twitch to someone was a tell as far as my father was concerned. He could put together details; the way a person dressed, the way he reacted when my father mentioned a family member, the desperation in a person’s eyes, these things all told my father what that person was seeking. He gave it to them. He pretended to talk to the dead. He pretended to see the future. He may even do sleight-of-hand or some other type of illusion to convey some type of supernatural power. Every single time they believed him, and every single time, they paid him. When he finally got caught, he got into a lot of trouble. He died while serving his sentence in the mines.”
On Cerno, when a person gets into trouble with the law, he does not spend his sentence sitting in a cell. He does not have access to amenities; he does not get to write letters and view films and finish his education. Confinement is not his punishment because confinement is not productive. If the crime is not serious enough for execution, the law-breaker serves his sentence by working off his crime. He does hard labor, usually in the mines. There is no argument, there is no appeal. The Sententia reviews his case. The Sententia decides how he will repay his debt to society. Usually, that payment is made with sweat.
I feel great sympathy for David. It must be very difficult to have a parent given that type of sentence. To know that he is alive, but that he suffers.
“I’m sure he cared about you very much, David.”
David is angry. “No, he didn’t. He cared about things. He cared about money. If he cared about me or my mother he would have done the right thing. He would have done his job. He wouldn’t have done something that he knew could get him sent away. Do you know how many times I heard my mother beg him to stop? She pleaded with him. She cried. She got down on her knees and humiliated herself, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t see past the money. He couldn’t see past the status. He got what he deserved and I’m glad he’s dead.”
I’m shocked by David’s sudden anger. I can see that his father has hurt him deeply, maybe irreparably. I don’t know anything that I can do to help him, so I just put my hand over his.
David sighs. His anger is spent. “I’m sorry, Violet. I’m tired. I’m going to sleep.”
I sit alone for a long time before I decide to go to bed. I sit, just staring at the wall, not thinking of anything. David’s outburst showed me that there is so much that I don’t know about him. Not that I blame him for the anger he feels toward his father. The man all but abandoned his family. No wonder David felt such intense loyalty for me. No wonder he was so hurt when I told him that I thought he’d left me.
> After a while, I lie down next to David. It is too cold to sit alone. My fingers and toes are icy, and I can no longer feel my nose or ears. The blanket, along with David’s body heat, warms me immediately. For the first time in a long time, I feel safe. I know that our safety is precarious at best, but I believe that with David, I can accomplish what I set out to do. We will find The Cube. We will hide it from The Vox. We will finish what my father started. I allow my eyelids to droop. I let go of my thoughts. Soon, I am asleep.
I may have fallen asleep peacefully, but the sleep itself is fitful at best. All of the excitement about the intruder made me forget something. As usual, my brain has chosen the time when I am supposed to be resting to remind me. There is some question. Something is not right.
I am with David in the meadow. He tells me the truth about my accident. My father and I were in an explosion. I lost my memory. My father faked our deaths. We are dead. I am dead.
I am at my house. My father, who pretended to be dead, is now truly dead. Twice he has killed himself. He only killed me once.
David with a gun to his head. David is going to die. David with a trickle of blood on his temple. David will help me. David knows what we need to do.
I am being interrogated by The Alter. My father is a thief. My father stole the Cube shard.
You will not be prosecuted for your father’s crimes.
I don’t know where it is. He threw my sketchbook on the table. The Alter threw my sketchbook on the table. I am with David in the meadow.
And Violet, there’s something else. I think you should give me your sketchbook.
I think you should give me your sketchbook.
My eyes fly open. It is midday. David is beside me, still asleep.
How did The Alter get my sketchbook?
* * *
I have not been awake long when David begins to stir. Immediately, I panic. I cannot accuse David after everything he has done for me. He has given up his entire life, his future, to follow me on this suicidal quest. Regardless, I cannot ignore the fact that my sketchbook somehow traveled from David’s possession to that of The Alter. The Vox would not be aware of my slight knowledge of The Cube were it not for this detail, and that is something that I cannot overlook. I have not yet decided what I will do when David opens his eyes.
He yawns, smiles at me sleepily, and touches my cheek with his fingertips. I can force nothing more than a close-lipped smile as I stand up and move into the kitchen, pretending to busy myself by rationing our morning meal. I do not want him to see the doubt in my eyes until I am ready to hear his explanation.
I do not have much more time to consider it because suddenly David is standing behind me. He puts one arm around my waist and uses his other hand to cover my mouth. His lips brush my ear as he whispers, “Violet. Do not panic.”
I nod my head. I understand. Someone is here.
David drops his arms and I pull the broken piece of baseboard from the waistband of my pants. After yesterday, I decided to remain prepared at all times. I have a weapon, and I will soon find out if I have the courage to use it.
The baseboard piece is a little less than twice the length of my forearm. I raise it above my head and ready myself to swing. David crouches near a set of cabinets, assuming my position of attack from yesterday. Another moment passes. We wait.
Just as I am about to ask David if he is sure that someone has come in, a small head peeks into the kitchen. It is a small child, a girl. Her fuzzy, matted hair is blonde and obviously has not been washed in some time. Her face is so smudged with dirt that I cannot help but postulate that either she has gone a very long time without a wash, or it was not done by accident. She smiles at the surprise on our faces and steps around the corner so that her entire body has come through the doorway. Her clothes are ragged and torn. Her shoes are falling apart at the soles. She doesn’t seem to bemoan her status, though, as she raises her hands, palms facing us, and good-naturedly says, “Don’t shoot.”
I look at David for guidance. He looks at me. We make the same decision. I lower my weapon as he loosens his body from its position of attack. We speak at the same time. “What are you doing here?” I say, just as David says, “Are you lost?”
I am alarmed that such a small child is wandering around an abandoned building by herself. Surely she has no more than four rotations behind her, and even so, she is small for her age. She seems to sense my concern because she raises her eyebrows, crosses her arms and says, “Look, I’m not the one who needs help. My mother and I are just fine on our own. We just thought we should help you two out before your clomping around up here attracts every V1 in Summus.”
V1’s are low-ranking foot soldiers. Many of them are given city patrol assignments until they are promoted to V2 Officer or even V3 Inspector status. It is very difficult to gain rank in The Vox. Many men will remain V1 for their entire lives.
David seems slightly offended by this girl’s accusations. “Us? Clomping around? We’re not clomping around.”
She looks at him skeptically. “Really? Then how did we know you’re here?” She has a point. “Besides, you’ve chosen the most obvious apartment in the entire building. Clear view of the street from above, fire escape access…”
David is growing impatient. “What are you getting at?”
“They would know that you were hiding here because this is where they would hide if they were running. V1’s have basic training. They’re not taught profiling like Inspectors. They don’t think like fugitives. If a V1 decided to search this building, this apartment is the first place he’d look.”
Maybe we could use this girl’s assistance. David seems to be thinking the same thing because he softens. I set the baseboard down on the counter. She narrows her eyes at me and says, “Keep that.” I decide to take her word for it. I tuck it back into my waistband.
We stand awkwardly for a moment until she steps forward and sticks out her hand. “Name’s Beck. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
I grasp her hand and shake it. “Violet. That’s David.” He nods.
“That’s some grip you’ve got, Violet.” She uses her sleeve to wipe her nose. “Come on, I’ll take you to our place.”
Without a word, David and I follow Beck out the door. Rather than using the main hallway as we did, Beck enters a supply closet at the end of the hall. In the back of the closet is another door. Beck opens it, then turns around and gives a triumphant grin. Maintenance staircase. I shake my head. We have been outdone by this child.
We follow the staircase down the four flights that take us to the ground level. As we descend, the air becomes moist and weighed down with the smell of mildew. When we reach the bottom, Beck opens a small door in the wall. Well, it’s small to us. Beck just barely has to duck her head to get through. It seems to be some type of chute. Perhaps for garbage or soiled laundry. Beck sits down on the edge of the doorway. The interior is so dark that her legs immediately disappear from view. She turns to me and says, “Don’t be afraid.” Then she turns her gaze to David and says, “You come last. Make sure to hold on to this string as you slide down. It will pull the door behind you. All right?” David nods. Beck pushes off, and she is gone.
I do as she did. When I sit at the edge of the darkness, I feel myself supported by a piece of steel set at a 45 degree angle. I test my weight by pressing down. It seems sturdy. I push off and begin my descent. The walls within this chute are very close to the edge of the slide, probably to prevent anything from falling into the gaps. My arms brush against the stone and it is slimy and cold. Within seconds, I reach the end of the chute and my heart stops for a moment when I feel the bottom drop out from beneath me. I fall into a heap of bedsheets. When my weight hits them, a whoosh of mildewy air hits me in the face and I cringe at the sour smell, but it’s better than a three foot drop onto stone. I stand up not a moment too soon; David falls into the heap just as I step away from it.
As David gets his bearings, I take in my surroundings. This must
be a laundry room. There are large vats most likely used for washing. I hear the dripping sound of water, but I do not see the source. That’s a shame, because I suddenly realize that I am very thirsty. Shelves with stacks of sheets and towels line one of the walls. A few piles of folded clothes are scattered among the linens. A woman stands near the center of the room. She is a young mother, but time and stress have added rotations to her face. She is haggard and pale, but not as dirty as Beck. The woman looks at us and with a tight smile says, “Welcome. I’m Elena.” She seems to be about to say something else, but Beck steps out from behind one of the wash vats and Elena sighs and walks toward her. Elena grabs a cloth drying on the edge of the pot, takes Beck’s face in one of her hands, and begins to clean the smudges away. “Rebecca, I’ve asked you repeatedly to stop rubbing this dirt on your face.”
Beck replies, though her words are slightly muddled, being that her face is being squished by her mother’s hand. “Mother, I’ve asked you repeatedly to stop calling me Rebecca. Besides, it’s not just dirt; it’s camouflage.”
This is obviously a conversation that they’ve had many times before, but Elena cannot help but smile at her daughter. “All right, there you go.”
Elena turns back toward us and gestures to the floor. “Have a seat. You can use some of those sheets as a cushion, if you like. Sorry we don’t have any chairs.” She seems a little embarrassed about their living arrangements. “Would you two like some water?” David and I nod emphatically. Elena dips two metal cups into a small pot and hands them to us. The pot is situated beneath a dripping pipe. Elena sees me eyeing it and says, “It’s safe to drink. This pipe is marked so maintenance workers know that it attaches to the water main. We figured out in the last building not to use the faucets.”
