Good question. Keegan said Notelmo was a virologist. Did he die? Perhaps he retired. I’ll ask Keegan over dinner.
Dining at the Crystalwind club is apparently a big deal. Marizat fluttered her hands like she was trying to take off when I mentioned it to her last night. She demanded to see what I planned to wear and when I told her I didn’t have anything except my work jumpsuits and the orange jacket and leggings, she insisted I borrow an outfit from her. I put on the dark red dress now and smooth the silky material over my hips. There is lacing across the low-cut bodice and the material clings through my torso and hips and drifts to my ankles. I protested when Marizat thrust it at me, not least because I didn’t want Keegan to think I was dressing up for him, but she assured me I needed a garment like it to fit in at the club. I’ve never seen, much less worn, clothing so utterly impractical, so useless. I can’t resist twirling around and taking pleasure from the way the skirt fans out.
The club is nearby, part of the built up city center, and it takes me only fifteen minutes to walk there, privately enjoying the way the material whispers around my ankles with every stride. In the club’s foyer, prompted by Marizat’s instructions, I look up to examine the crystals the club is named for. Thin sheets of clear crystal hang in varying lengths from the ceiling, dancing and singing to the pulse of a breeze whispering from vents set at different levels. Their music is eerie, haunting, and I could listen to it all night. The dark-clad man at the front door interrupts my reverie to ask my name. He recognizes it and immediately escorts me to a table where Keegan is waiting. He rises when I approach and takes both my hands in his.
“Thank you for joining me, Derrika,” he says.
I withdraw my hands on the pretext of turning to look around. “It’s lovely.” More crystals tinkle above us. Biolume organisms swimming through a special conducting gel in floor to ceiling columns provide discreet lighting that casts a glow over the tables set with gleaming utensils and floral-patterned china that must date from the last century. Totally twink. We’re by a window overlooking the Chattahoochee River where it flows through the city. It doesn’t have the eerie blue tinge upstream here but is instead a normal rivery color in the slanting light from the setting sun. As I’m looking out the window, the sun’s angle triggers a smoky heliovapor which blooms between the polyglass panels and cuts the glare. I turn back to Keegan, forcing a smile. There’s a burble of low conversation from the other tables and I recognize Minister Alden on the far side of the room. I can’t see her dinner partner who has his back to me, but she’s talking to him with absorbed animation. The celery-green upholstered chairs are high-backed and padded, and I feel like I’m sinking into mine when I sit.
The shadows cast on Keegan’s face bring his brow and craggy nose into strong relief and he looks older than his age.
“It’s lovely,” I repeat, unsure how to start a conversation. “Thank you for inviting me, Dr. Usher.”
“Keegan.” He leans toward me, forearms on the table, and says, “I think it’s important to get to know you better.”
Something in his gaze—intimacy tinged with a sharpness that makes me feel like a locust nymph on a dissecting slide—makes me uncomfortable. I’m afraid to ask him “Why?” so I smile uneasily.
He laughs—I’m not sure at what—and beckons for another dark-jumpsuited man to attend us. As the meal progresses, I study Keegan, trying to figure out what makes him tick. His gestures are small and he keeps his arms close to his body, elbows tucked as he cuts his food and forks it to his mouth. His shoulders aren’t precisely hunched in, but he gives the impression of being completely self-contained, of staking out a compact space for himself. Throughout the meal, the most delicious food I’ve ever eaten, he quizzes me about the Kube, my interests, my friends, and how I came to know Minister Alden. I keep my answers as vague as possible.
“Minister Fonner spoke to Minister Alden about me,” I say ducking the last question.
“Really?” He fingers the stem of his glass. “I got the impression when she first mentioned you that she had met you somewhere. She spoke about your ‘spunk.’”
I give him a puzzled shrug.
When I don’t offer an explanation, he says, “It must be as you say, and Minister Fonner told her some stories from your time at the Kube. I suspect you were a thorn in his side, weren’t you?” His tone invites me to smile with him.
“I don’t know why you’d say that.”
“Your record. All those demerits, those unauthorized trips to the beach.”
Damn it. I didn’t realize he had access to my entire record. Hopefully, he won’t think to discuss it with anyone from InKubator 9 because too many people would recognize the disciplinary record as Everly Jax’s. I smile weakly. “I’ve matured. I’m not so . . . careless anymore.”
“No, no, no.” He pushes back from the table and takes a swallow from his glass. “Don’t spoil it. I like your rebellion. It’s what makes a good researcher.”
“Speaking of researchers”—I’m eager to distract him—“where has Notelmo gone? You said he was a virologist. I’d like to compare notes with him.”
“That’s not possible.” Keegan snaps his glass onto the table.
“Oh?”
Keegan puts on a sad expression. That’s how I think of it, as Keegan “putting on” the expression, like I would don a jumpsuit, because it seems a conscious choice, not an organic reaction to his thoughts.
“He was the victim of an outlaw attack. His wife found him dead outside their home, not a mile from here. His ration cards were missing.”
“Oh.” I put a hand to my mouth. I’ve heard of outlaw groups attacking the domes, but I hadn’t realized they preyed on individuals. “Oh, that’s awful.”
“Yes, it is. Let’s not spoil our dinner with it, okay?”
I return to eating and look up several bites later to find him staring at me. “You remind me of someone,” he murmurs, “but I can’t think who. Something about your profile . . .”
I swallow to dislodge the food in my mouth which has suddenly turned to ash. “I probably just have one of those faces,” I say. “Don’t they say that everyone has a doppelganger somewhere? Maybe you met mine.” My laugh is forced. I was only eight or nine when he last saw me at an Assembly, before his family left Jacksonville, and it’s been over twelve years since I lived with them. He can’t possibly recognize me.
“How are your mom and dad?” I blurt. Realizing too late I’m not supposed to know his family situation, I add, “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
He’s silent, studying me over the rim of his glass. His gold eyes have greenish filaments that remind me of kudzu. “No siblings,” he says finally. “My mother lives north of here; I see her fairly often. My father died two years ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. He—” I stop myself with a horrified inhalation. I was about to say “He was a nice man.” I need to shut up before I completely betray myself. “He must have been young. You must miss him.”
Keegan shrugs one shoulder. “We had our differences.”
Keegan turns the conversation to work and I’m relieved, but I’m so concerned about making another mis-step that I barely open my mouth. He’ll think I’m an idiot, I worry as dinner stutters to an awkward end. Better he thinks I’m an idiot than he guesses the truth. I excuse myself to visit the hyfac, needing a break from his scrutiny. I linger, washing my hands three times, before exiting. I almost bump into a man as I return to the dining room.
“So sorry, my dear, you must excuse me,” he says in a familiar voice.
My gaze flies to his face. Vestor! He beams and the mole winks. “My fault,” I murmur, edging past him. “Sorry.”
“May I compliment you on your lovely hair?” Vestor says. “The style is perfect, absolutely perfect. And the color”—he kisses his fingertips—“sublime. Anything lighter would make you look washed out. Enjoy your evening, my dear.” He enters the men’s hyfac and I scurry back to the table, unsettled by th
e encounter. Vestor didn’t recognize me, did he?
I miss something Keegan says and have to ask him to repeat it.
“I said we should say hello to Minister Alden before we go. She’s over there.”
Putting a hand to my elbow he steers me toward the minister’s table. She’s alone and I’m suddenly certain that Vestor is her dinner partner. She remains seated, smiling when Keegan greets her, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Nice to see you again, Ealy,” she says. “Did you enjoy your dinner?”
“It was incredibly delicious,” I say. “I’d love to visit one of the Atlanta domes—I can’t believe they grow cacao beans and tea trees. We didn’t have space for those at the Kube dome. We had to focus on bulk crops that would feed the largest number of people.”
“There are advantages to living in the capital,” she says. “Certainly we can arrange for you to spend some time in a dome. I’m sure Dr. Usher can spare you from the lab for a morning?”
It’s an order and Keegan’s jaw muscles tighten. “Of course, Minister,” he says.
Vestor returns then, smoothing a hand over his widow’s peak. “We meet again,” he twinkles at me.
“You know each other?” Keegan’s look is suspicious.
“We collided outside the hyfac,” I say, warmed by Vestor’s presence, whether or not he knows who I am.
Minister Alden performs introductions. “Loránd, this is one of my newest scientists, Derrika Ealy, and the mainstay of our anti-locust efforts, Dr. Keegan Usher. Loránd Vestor.”
“You defended the murderess, Everly Jax,” Keegan says.
Vestor responds with a faint lift of one brow.
“The jury was too easy on her, probably bribed. She should have been executed, not allowed to retire to a cushy life in a RESCO. And then she escaped. Utter incompetence on the IPF’s part, or more bribes.”
His vitriol startles all of us, I can tell. I wrap my arms around myself, chilled by how badly he still wants me dead. Minister Alden folds her napkin very deliberately before tucking it under her plate, and rises. “You forget yourself, Usher,” she says in a voice that would freeze liquid helium. “I was on that jury.”
Utter silence. Slowly, the clinks of cutlery against china, a throaty laugh, the gurgle of Wexl begin poured into a glass, penetrate the silence of our foursome.
“Stuck your foot in it there, didn’t you, young man?” Vestor booms with great good humor. He wags a finger at the minister. “Jury members aren’t supposed to identify themselves, Emilia, for their own safety. Still, I thank you for your mercy on my innocent client’s behalf.”
His innocent client goggles at all of them. Minister Alden was one of the hooded jurors. It’s hard to take in.
Keegan’s nostrils flare. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. I spoke out of turn. I didn’t mean—”
He slants me a look; he’ll never forgive me for witnessing his humiliation.
“No matter,” Alden cuts him off. “I’m sure many citizens feel as you do.”
“It was a lovely evening, thank you so much, nice to meet you, but I’ve got to be going,” I babble, offering my hand to each of them in turn.
“I’ll walk you home, Derrika,” Keegan says.
“No, no, my lad, stick around,” Vestor says, planting his palm on Keegan’s chest. “We just ordered a bottle of Wexl and I’d love to hear what you’ve got planned for the locusts.”
Keegan backs away from Vestor’s hand like it’s a branding iron, but looks flattered. I make my escape, grateful for Vestor’s intervention and wondering why he did it. Perhaps he senses what I do in Keegan: barely controlled violence simmering not far enough beneath his contained exterior. I’m going to be careful never to be alone with my supervisor again.
Chapter Twenty
I’m at the food distributor the next day, trying to decide if I want to spend the credits required to purchase an orange, when the Defiance makes contact. The small room is crowded, a line of people waiting to give the man standing behind the counter their orders so he can send one of his minions zipping into the warehouse space to retrieve the items received from a Dome that morning. As I watch, he hands over a box to a geneborn woman and the word “oranges” goes dark on the electronic board above his head. They’re out. Disappointed, I’m disinclined to make conversation when the short man beside me says, “Damn, my wife’s going to be mad. She told me to come here earlier because she wanted oranges, but I put it off and now I’ll have to go home without them.”
I make um-hm noises, thinking, I could get one lemon and four tea bags, when his next words jab me.
“Troubles frequently come in threes, don’t they?”
I jerk and look at him. He’s got thinning, dirty blond hair, deep hollows under his cheekbones, and wears the gray jumpsuit of a Ministry of Transportation employee. “What?”
“Well, along with missing out on the oranges, I was late to the ministry this morning and my supervisor docked me twelve credits for it, and then my ACV scooter wouldn’t ignite. Troubles come in threes.”
“We’re lucky they don’t come in fours,” I respond stiltedly, the words feeling foreign on my tongue.
The man gives a barely perceptible nod before moving forward to place his order. When he turns away from the counter holding a small box of produce, he trips and lurches against me, saying in a barely audible voice, “Get your order and sit on the bench around the corner to the right. Don’t look at me.” Raising his voice, he says, “Sorry. My wife’s always saying what a klutz I am.”
“That’s okay,” I murmur, stepping up to the counter where the distributor waits impatiently, arms crossed, while I give him my order and my ration card.
Five minutes later, I’m walking out, clutching a bag whose contents I’m not even sure of since I was so knocked off balance by trading code phrases with the Defiance contact that I don’t know what I asked for. Even though it’s almost six, the day is still warm, and the adrenaline pumping through me makes me even hotter. I glance around, spot the bench, and walk toward it. It’s empty. I hesitate a moment, and then sit. The warm steel mesh imprints on my backside. The bench rocks slightly as someone sits on the other end. Obedient to my instructions, I don’t look, but I can see gray-jumpsuited legs in my peripheral vision.
“Report.” His voice is clipped and low, and he doesn’t face me when he talks.
Taking my cue from him, I look down into my produce bag and tell him about the communications satellite launch, trying not to move my lips. I’d managed to winkle a few more details out of Marizat, including the launch date. I feel silly and tense at the same time, and have to stop myself from looking over my shoulder to see if anyone is loitering within hearing range.
There’s a long silence when I finish my thirty-second recitation, and when I venture to look up, the man is gone. I sit for a moment as the bench brands itself onto the backs of my thighs, and then rise to leave, not realizing how tense I am until the bag I’m holding tears and a lemon rolls into the street.
Five days later, I’m on my way to 2241 Lithonia Court. The note has preyed on my mind since I found it, never far from my thoughts, and I’ve finally given in to my curiosity. Mindful of what happened last time I looked up a location on the computer—the IPF captured Halla and imprisoned her in a RESCO—I ask Marizat if she’s aware of any historical maps of the city, citing a completely bogus interest in Atlanta’s history.
“You could try the library,” she says. “Looters raided libraries during the Between, but a lot of the books survived because looters couldn’t sell them or eat them. Some were burned for heat, though. I’m sure there’s plenty left. The Ministry for Cultural Preservation has been doing cross-canton work for years, collecting and cataloguing materials from most of the significant regional and educational libraries at the Ministerial Biblioteque. Your MSFP ID will get you in.”
I visit the Biblioteque on my lunch break and have no trouble locating several Atlanta area maps, including a book that divides the city i
nto segments. Using an index, I find two Lithonia Courts, but only one is in an area marked “DeKalb County.” It’s southeast of the city center. A glance at train routes when I’m back at my computer shows me I can get within a mile of it by train.
We serve six days a week, but Sundays are free, which is why I’m at the train station on Sunday, using my electricity ration card to free an ACV scooter from the rack of rentals in front of the station. There are few people about; in fact, I’m the only one who got off at this station. The remaining passengers all looked like soldiers and were headed to the end of the line, to the IPF base, I suspect. I’d had to concentrate on breathing evenly and looking innocent the whole ride, worried that one of them would recognize me, even though the young men joked and argued with each other, paying me no attention.
I’ve memorized the route to Lithonia Court and I ignite the scooter and glide forward. This area is much more run down than the city center, the houses smaller and older, pre-Between, the mix of construction materials showing they were patched together after the fighting ended. They’ve got plain glass in the windows, and most have driveways, leftover from when there were cars. Every sixth or eighth house has been reduced to rubble and people have cannibalized the ruins to repair their homes; there are dark red bricks from one crumbled house mortared in rash-like patches on three of the tan and yellow brick homes in the next block. The trees and shrubs are brown and long-dead, although no one has bothered to pull them up. Their brittle branches clack together when the wind stirs them.
Many of the street signs are missing—not unusual since the roads themselves are nothing but chunks of ruptured asphalt interspersed with holes large enough to make the ACV sputter out so I must dodge them—but I spot a couple of old metal ones, their lettering faint to the point of invisibility, and a couple of hand carved wooden ones that neighbors must have erected. By gliding along what used to be the biggest road from the train station and counting the turnoffs, I approach what I’m almost certain is Lithonia Court.
Incineration (The Incubation Trilogy Book 2) Page 14
