Fixed

by Beth Goobie

  The central garage door shot upward and the first van slipped into the tunnel that led to the surface. Two vans back, Nellie leaned against a window, feeling the reverberations of the convoy’s long echoing roar as it passed along the tunnel. On a few occasions she’d traveled to Street Games that had been held in other Interior cities, taking the trains that sped deep beneath the surface at over two hundred miles per hour. It was only at times like these, on a subterranean train or in a van rising toward ground level, that she actually thought about living underground. Up on the surface, everything was different. There, children lived with their mothers and spent their time in school learning entirely foreign subjects. When she was aboveground, Nellie sometimes caught a glimpse of that difference, or rather a sense of what it could mean — something alien and unknown that vibrated through her like an ache.

  At the surface checkpoint the convoy paused briefly, waiting as a second door slid upward, leaving a rectangular space of blinding light. Pressed to her window, Nellie blinked rapidly. Though the underground complex was well lit, it faded to a dim murkiness compared to the mind-searing sunlight they were headed toward. As her van passed into daylight, she eagerly scanned the scene before her. To her left a large truck was being unloaded, and beyond it were parked several rows of military vehicles. Ahead loomed the towering concrete walls that separated the aboveground section of the Detta complex from the city of Marnan. As Nellie watched, the first van slowed and the driver extended his wrist for the scanner at the outer gate. A few words were exchanged with the guard at the booth, and then a shudder ran through the ground as the huge double gates swung open. A second smaller shudder ran through Nellie’s body as the van started forward. It was like this every time — that moment at a scanner when her breathing stopped and life stood still, waiting for approval.

  “Soldiers of light, have you prepared yourselves?” demanded Lt. Sanders. Stopping the van at the booth, he extended his wrist for the scanner. Quickly Nellie straightened with the others, pumped up her breathing and began to chant, “Soldiers of light! Soldiers of light!” But in spite of her determined efforts at chanting, she still found herself tensing as the van drove through the gate and the invisible security beam passed through her body. What if the guard in the booth screwed something up, what if he turned on the kill signal by mistake? Acid sweat filmed her skin and her blood screamed in silent panic. Then, without incident, they were through the gate, and the Detta complex was fading like ugly vibes behind them as the van headed through Marnan’s streets toward the city center.

  Ramrod straight, pumping her breath and chanting with the others, Nellie stared eagerly through the window. Everywhere she looked, she saw people hurrying along sidewalks: mothers with young children, teenagers in T-shirts and shorts. Street vendors plied a busy trade, and on one corner a theater troupe was performing a Goddess legend for an admiring crowd. Since it was the peak of summer, school was out and many of the girls were wearing swimsuits and sandals. A pang hit Nellie and she bit her lip. Obviously her sex-goddess jeans would be overkill in this heat. “Soldiers of light, soldiers of light,” she whispered, scanning the bright laughing faces, the vendors and their cartloads of flowers and cold drinks.

  “Code 73N,” called Lt. Sanders from the front of the van, and Nellie pulled her gaze hastily from the window. No more sightseeing, it was time to prepare for their emergence onto the front battle lines. Once again she opened her purse and ran her finger over the silver ballpoint pen. All was in order. Closing the purse, she lifted her head and focused on her breathing, pumping it in out in out, but softly so that only she could hear it. Soldiers of light worked to make themselves look indistinguishable from the average civilian, but they’d been taught secret private rituals to remind themselves constantly of their difference. It was important at all times to remain aware of the difference.

  They were now deep in the downtown district. Nellie grinned slightly, recognizing the area from previous trips, and leaned forward as the van turned a corner and Group A’s destination came into view: the Museum of Natural History. Five stories high and fronted by eight massive columns, the white building was an impressive sight in the midday sun. For a moment Nellie’s pumped-up breathing faltered and she stared open mouthed. Such a huge glowing structure, so white it was almost incandescent — how could it be a haven for the Dark?

  But Col. Jolsen had said it was a gathering place for the servants of evil, and a true cadet never questioned the words of a Star Leader. Slamming her mind closed to such blasphemy, Nellie focused on her breathing as the van eased into the curb.

  “Now remember,” said Lt. Sanders, turning in his seat to face the four cadets behind him. “You have ten minutes to locate your targets and give them the gift, and then you’re to walk two blocks south to the Galaxy Theater where I’ll be waiting with the van. Don’t rush it, the gifts are coordinated and you have five full minutes after the last prayer pin is clicked. I expect to see you in fifteen minutes.” With a grin he pointed his right index finger upward and said, “Reach for the stars.”

  “Reach for the stars,” echoed the cadets, repeating the gesture. Then the boy seated next to the side door slid it open and leapt out without a backward glance. The others followed, emerging into the brilliant heat and losing themselves in the crowd. The last to exit the van, Nellie wasted no time trying to locate the cadets who’d preceded her. They were all on their own now, alone for the next ten minutes with their primary tasks. The main question, she thought as she slipped through the crowd, was where would be the best place to fulfil hers — outside the museum or inside? The fountain area in front of the building was crowded with holidayers and vendors selling small statues of the Goddess and other trinkets, and there must be hundreds more people inside. Which of these happy laughing faces would the Goddess want her to choose as today’s recipient of the gift of light?

  Inside, thought Nellie, her eyes drawn irresistibly to the gleaming structure before her. Surely the Goddess would want Her light taken into the very depths of Darkness. Heading toward one of the entrance scanners, she passed her wrist under it and entered the museum lobby. Here she paused and scanned the area. On the far side she could see Lierin heading up a wide staircase. The other two cadets had probably also chosen one of the upper levels — Advanced cadets quickly developed a hefty preference for aboveground places blessed with light. Spotting an elevator, Nellie crossed to it, pressed the button for the basement and rode it down.

  The doors slid open and she stepped out into a display of prehistoric mammals. Floodlit skeletons loomed against dimly lit walls that had been molded to resemble caves, and at the center of the room knelt several plastic humans, arranged to look as if they were engaged in an archaeological dig. Huddled before the various exhibits, tourists conversed in low tones. Funny, thought Nellie as she scanned the area for a staircase leading to the first floor, how people instinctively whispered in the dark, even in familiar places. Her eyes fell on a side stairwell, and she nodded slightly before turning back to the room. Which of these men, women and children looked like the most appropriate recipient for the gift of light? Who would the Goddess wish Nellie to choose for this honor?

  Behind her the elevator doors hissed open and a small group emerged — a girl, two younger boys and a woman. Yelping eagerly, the boys tore off toward the nearest skeleton but the girl paused, hesitant. Rifling through her purse, the woman stopped beside her.

  “Now where did I put my pen?” she muttered. “I want to write down that phone number before I forget.”

  “Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll remember,” the girl said casually. Unlike most of the people in this gloomy place, she wasn’t whispering. “You know I always remember phone numbers.”

  “You might forget,” said her mother. “And it’s an unlisted number.”

  “Mom!” said the girl, insulted. Eight or nine years old, she was chubby, with glasses, the kind of kid who looked as if she collected postage stamps for a hobby. Or played the violin �
�� terribly. Nellie’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and then she rejected the pair. The girl remembered phone numbers, and that put her in a risky category. Too smart. Way too smart. Checking her watch, Nellie moved on. Seven minutes, time to spare.

  To her right a couple leaned against a rail, studying a large skeleton. The man’s suit pocket gaped casually at his hip, and the woman’s purse hung forgotten from her shoulder. Nellie paused, glancing around the room for anyone who might be watching, then moved on as a security guard came around the corner. Six minutes. Time began to tick loudly inside her head.

  Then she caught sight of an elderly woman watching the crowd from a bench on the far side of the room. Several well-worn carrying bags were piled at her feet — she was obviously a collector of bottles and odd scraps, though she wasn’t dressed like a derelict. Old people got like that, Nellie thought, remembering something from her Psychology class. They went senile and forgot their caste, even upper caste members like the Masters and the priests. Sometimes they went about collecting street waste and cashing in bottles as if they needed it to survive.

  Well, whatever caste the old woman belonged to, there was no question she would go for the pen. Praise be to the Goddess, today’s recipient of the gift of light had been found. Quickly Nellie crossed the room and settled onto the bench beside the elderly woman. Then she took the pen and a small notebook out of her purse. Flipping open the notebook, she began to scribble aimlessly, writing down whatever came into her head. Time was ticking down to four minutes and soon it would be three, but all she had to do now was fake a distraction, dump the pen, and take off. She was laughing, she had time to spare.

  Something jabbed her arm and Nellie looked up, startled, to see the old woman leaned toward her. Dark eyes glinted within drooping pouches, and a small web of spittle hung from the woman’s lower lip. “Bless me but you’re a special child,” she said in a wavering voice, peering at Nellie. “Look at your eyes. Was your mother a chosen one then?”

  Nellie’s mouth opened and she gaped. “I don’t have a mother,” she said stiffly. Ducking her head, she scribbled furiously in her notebook. Soldiers of light weren’t supposed to interact with the civilian population. More than anything, they weren’t supposed to give out personal information. Cursing under her breath, Nellie scribbled and scribbled, trying to get a grip. Okay, so she’d slipped and told the old bag an insignificant personal fact. She wouldn’t be punished, no one knew but the old lady, and in a few minutes—

  “You don’t have a mother,” repeated the old woman, leaning closer. “Tsk tsk, that’s too bad. And of course you wouldn’t know anything about your father, would you?”

  Nellie’s head shot up and she stared at the woman. How did the old bag know that? While most kids were given the basic data concerning their fathers, Nellie had never been told anything about hers. This had always bugged her. Catching her stunned expression, the old woman chuckled and smoothed the skirt of her dress. Instinctively Nellie’s eyes skimmed the inside of her wrist. There beside the blue hammer that was the woman’s caste tattoo, she saw a second tattoo — a tiny orange flame. Nellie gasped softly. This old bag had once been a priestess! She knew the language of the stars and had been privy to the great inner mysteries. What was she doing in a den of iniquity like the Museum of Natural History, on today of all days?

  The old woman smiled and pointed to her flame tattoo. “I thought you’d notice. You’re a child of the Gods, all right. I know one when I see one. You listen to me, girl.” She touched her tattoo again. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Bunch of golliwash. Lies and superstition, pure and simple. On the surface.” Sunk deep in their pouches, the woman’s eyes burned, intense with meaning. “There is no Goddess and the temples are empty — on the surface,” she repeated, clutching Nellie’s arm. “But there’s a deeper truth, if you go looking for it. The lies they’re feeding you are a code, pointing to what’s underneath. You’ve got to figure it out. Figure it out.”

  Saliva dotted Nellie’s face as the woman repeatedly hissed her last words. “Okay, okay,” Nellie snapped, yanking her arm free. As she did, a vacant expression drifted across the woman’s face and she leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. Ducking her head, Nellie studied her with quick runaway glances. The old bag seemed to have forgotten whatever it was she’d been going on about and was now staring dully across the room. Either she was a nutcase, or so old her brain had shriveled and could no longer get a grip. That must be the reason for the blasphemies she’d just spit into Nellie’s face, or maybe she’d really meant them. Maybe the entire time she’d served in the Goddess’s temples, she’d been an unbeliever, an infidel, a traitor.

  All things considered, she would make an ideal recipient for the gift of light. Nellie glanced at her watch. Less than a minute to go. Tucking the notebook into her purse, she pressed the prayer pin hidden at the pen’s base and set the pen gently on the bench between herself and the woman. She now had five full minutes, more if the others hadn’t yet clicked their prayer pins. The old bag beside her hadn’t noticed the pen and was still staring in a trance across the room. Quickly Nellie got to her feet and headed for the staircase she’d located earlier. It wasn’t wise to use an elevator in this kind of a situation — the power system could shut down, or you could get trapped behind someone in a wheelchair or a pack of daycare kids.

  On the third stair, she paused and looked back. Soldiers of light were never supposed to look back, it was a bad habit she allowed herself only when no other cadets were around to report her behavior. From where she stood, she could clearly see the old woman still seated on the bench and reaching for the pen. Nellie held her breath. Nothing could undo the prayer pin once it had been set, but the suspense was unbearable. As she watched, the woman placed the pen on her knee and stroked it happily. Just as Nellie had predicted, she hadn’t been able to resist the silver gleam and smooth cool lines. From across the room, Nellie thought she could hear the old bag actually crooning under her breath.

  Tell me what you think of the Goddess in five minutes, pagan, Nellie thought contemptuously. Then she turned and ran swiftly up the staircase, across the first floor lobby and out into the sunlit square.

  Six

  THE SUPPER HOUR news was devoted exclusively to coverage of the bomb blasts, which had occurred almost simultaneously in four different areas of the city. Seated cross-legged with the rest of the cadets on the Common Room floor, Nellie hugged her knees to her chin, her body quivering with exhilaration as pictures of the devastation flashed across the floor-to-ceiling monitoring screen at the front of the room. The damage was impressive. Team B had targeted various small businesses around a local outdoor market, and the debris from the explosions within the buildings had wounded and killed many who’d been milling about the vendors’ stalls. Team C had focused on a children’s rec center and Team D, under Col. Jolsen, had hit a festival celebrating the Goddess’s birthday at one of the major parks.

  But it was the pictures of the Museum of Natural History that had the blood pounding in Nellie’s ears. Almost sick with excitement, she stared at the gaping holes in the massive building. The three bombs that had gone off in the upper levels had weakened the structure so the upper half had collapsed inward. The lower half was still standing, but sagged dangerously due to a fourth blast which the newscaster somberly announced “had gone off in the basement.”

  With a grin, Lierin elbowed Nellie in the ribs, and Nellie elbowed her back. This was better than anything they’d expected. Even Col. Jolsen looked impressed as the floor-to-ceiling images of the devastation vanished and the newscaster’s face returned to the screen. “The body count continues to rise,” she intoned into the camera. “Several hundred are confirmed dead, and the hospitals are flooded with the wounded. City Administration is asking that trips to hospitals and clinics be limited to life-threatening emergencies.”

  As the news program broke for ads, the cadets turned to each other with a roar of triumph, tackling their n
eighbors and rolling about the floor in glee. The soldiers of light had struck, slipped in and out unseen, and left a trail of judgement in their wake. Blessed be the Goddess, all hail to the Star Lords! At the front of the room, Col. Jolsen and the other team leaders talked animatedly as ads for toothpaste and deodorant lit up the screen behind them. Cadets who hadn’t been involved in today’s primary tasks begged for details from those who had, and Team A received the greatest amount of attention. All eyes were focused on Nellie; even Tana was sending her glances of sulky admiration. By now everyone knew she was the one who’d chosen to go into the basement. Without her efforts the damage would have been far less — the building could have been repaired, and the death toll would have been considerably lower.

  As the news broadcast returned to the screen, Col. Jolsen blew into a whistle that sent a mind-splitting squeal through the room. Instantly the cadets resumed their places, quiet and attentive, their eyes on the screen.

  “The question is,” the female newscaster was saying to the man beside her, “who could be responsible for an attack of such a scale? No attack mounted by an Outback rebel group has been this successful. How did they get past the museum’s scanners?”

  “Unfortunately,” the male newscaster sighed, nodding into the camera, “it isn’t difficult to get a false ID chip on the black market. And investigators have already uncovered evidence that indicates the chemicals used in the explosives are widely available. Many farmers use them in their daily routines. It’s the specific combination of the chemicals,” the man stressed, looking sternly into the camera, “that creates such a powerful blast. The police think at least fifteen to twenty people were involved in the attack on the museum, each carrying a bomb hidden under their clothing. Suicide bombers.” The man shook his head sadly. “A common method used by Outback rebel groups.”