The Remaking

by J. T. O'Connell

  The

  Remaking

  J.T. O'Connell

  Copyright © 2015 J.T. O'Connell

  All rights reserved.

  Cover/Title font: Goudy Trajan Regular

  Cover design by A.J. Powers (ajpowers.com)

  For those who speak out and those who remain silent.

  For those who have fought for years, and those only now taking up the banner. For those incredible minds and majestic pens. For those sturdy backs and fearless hearts.

  For those joyful, weariless, and indignant souls who bear torches into the night. For those grasping toward virtue and acknowledging imperfection.

  The Gates of Hell shall not prevail against you.

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am in great debt to my good friend A.J. Powers for his enthusiasm about this book, and the others that are to follow. Talia Philips provided excellent editing work as well. My brother Jef heard many different versions of this story in conversation and still managed to enjoy reading the final work. Shana responded with invaluable excitement and encouraged me to promote this book, while Rian illuminated the path.

  Though I need to credit countless authors and commentators, both alive and dead (even antiquated), I shall refrain out of respect. Numerous, however, are unmistakable in their impact upon the narrative, and little effort is needed to divine the identities of several. In that respect, I hope they approve of attachment to this story.

  Chapter 1

  Sela stared and felt her heart quicken.

  She couldn't take her eyes off the water tumbling over rocks, rippling into a shallow pool. Moss covered stones littered the brook, water glittering where it was divided. Towers of white clouds drifted in the warm sky. They would eventually become rainclouds, but not here.

  Here the children could play in the grass, free of concern, hiding behind the dozen trees that spotted the field, trees planted with intentional carelessness to mimic the spirits that dashed around them.

  To one side, a man threw a stick for his retriever to earn its name. On the other, a pair of lovers strolled, not holding hands, but holding each other, her head fully leaning against his shoulder in bliss.

  It was a good reproduction. Very good.

  Good enough that the painting would have fooled Sela, even though she had prepared for this role she was to play. Émeric Morin had been a new name to Sela just a week earlier. She had crammed as much study of his work, and his time, as possible.

  She knew nothing about art. Although the scene in this particular painting, she felt she knew very well. It almost reminded her of home, the place where she had been truly happy for the first time.

  And the last.

  The clothes of the characters in the painting were a little odd. Still, Sela could remember going to parks with her family, taking along her puppy, Toffee. That was before they had moved, and before the world went strange, before Megora, before she had to learn to be independent.

  With a deep breath, she tried to shrug away the nostalgia. She had never let the past go. She never would, and it would never return.

  Right now, Sela had other things to worry about.

  The painting wasn't hung yet. It rested on a cloth-covered table, and leaned against the wall. A single stack of books sat before the frame to keep it from sliding forward. Beside the table, the walls stretched onward, blank and white, uniformly luminous with their own glowing light.

  Other paintings were carefully secured, frames likely bolted together, sensitive to any tampering. Alarms would sound if Sela so much as touched any of those; she had no doubt.

  They were the real deal, for all she knew. Her eyes caught several that she recognized, and others she did not. In each corner of the room, unique sculptures posed, standing watch over the gallery.

  The man who owned this suite had a dozen other rooms like it in the building. Irwin Harrington was a collector and a well-connected man. He had been a supporter of the Provisional Council even before the Remaking, lending both his wealth and his support. In return, Harrington was lavished with any desire he wished in Megora.

  When the populations were being shunted into each new supercity, Harrington and many others had been able to swoop in and buy up whatever they liked, using the new Remaking currency. Currency of eternally dubious value.

  Not many people complained, and fewer still protested. Everyone was vaguely aware they had no real choice, just as they were restricted from living outside a supercity. The Remaking was not a suggestion. They abandoned their lives, turned their homes over to the Provisional Council, and moved into their assigned accommodations, hoping for the best.

  Harrington had collected dozens of works of art. And he still collected, even though no outsiders came to live in Megora now. Several years was hardly enough time to pick the world clean of all that was abandoned in the wake of mass migration.

  Even with the disasters that had wiped away numerous swaths of land and people, plenty ghost towns still remained out there, left to the wildlife. Sela wondered just how many scavenging parties were sent out from Megora to the surrounding countryside. Irwin Harrington could schedule trips of his own, and even get the Council to pay for a security detail.

  That meant the trips had to be infrequent though. The Council could barely find enough loyal servants to keep its authority in place. Many voiced support for the Remaking; yet only a fraction were willing to be the Council’s strong-arm.

  The real power was hidden behind layers and layers of bureaucracy, politics, procedure, and the Guides; who acted as the enforcing officers for Council authority. Where could the government find extra muscle worthy of trust? And trust to send hundreds of miles, to bring back treasures from the old world!

  The Council saw no reason to subject itself to the limitations it placed on everyone else. And it also had to relinquish autonomy back to some people, in proportion to the support those people showed.

  Harrington’s support was unwavering, and so he had this suite full of his collections. Not to mention all the ghost time that power and prestige could buy.

  Sela's teeth were clenched. She blinked twice. This wasn't helping, rehashing the past. Her performance was always better when she focused completely on the moment, when she stayed in her role.

  A glance through the doorway to her left and she could gauge the time. Late-afternoon sun streamed through the wall of glass in the next room. Harrington's suite consumed three floors in the upper third of this building. Yet, numerous other skyscrapers stretched higher than this one.

  Irwin Harrington came through the door just as Sela looked back to the painting. From the corner of her eye, she saw him wave aside someone in that room, never stopping to glance at the person. His eyes were trained on her and his newest purchase leaning against the wall.

  They were greedy eyes.

  He approached and used her ghosted name, "What do you think, Miss Williams?"

  She looked at him, saw that the greed in his eyes was concentrated on her, not on the painting. Why wouldn't he focus on her? He already had the painting.

  Harrington disgusted her, but this was the role she was meant to play. This was why she had spent careful hours perfecting her look. Not just pretty, but a sp
ecial kind of pretty designed to entice him. Designed to draw him into meeting with her personally. She also had to be entirely forgettable when she rejected the invitations he would extend. On top of all that, she had to look five or six years older than she was.

  Sela could see in his eyes that he would not accept a simple decline of his requests. Sela would have to play Alice Williams carefully, so that Harrington would not try to pursue her after she left. Declining an ‘offer’ from a connected man was always dangerous.

  He was perhaps sixty years old, lightly tanned, his brown hair brown hinting at silver. His face was thin and soft, while his body was athletic and toned. Either he maintained a rigorous schedule of exercise, or he paid exorbitant fees to a vanity specialist.

  "Where did you get it?" She knew, but wanted to get an idea as to what he thought of it first. Sela looked solely at the painting as though the man next to her were anyone, maybe even the janitor.

  "Oh, I keep an eye on things here and there," he answered slyly. A surrogate had bought it on the black market for him.

  With the huge influx of new residents to Megora during the Remaking, many valuables had been smuggled past registration. Some ended up on sale to help the newcomers afford the necessaries of life, or maybe a different type of luxury, like ghost time.

  A painting of this size would have been quite a feat to sneak into Megora. And of course, that was part of the ploy.

  Harrington finally turned to the image. "Incredible, isn't it?"

  "It is," she responded.

  "Painted during the reign of Louis the fourteenth, stolen during the French Revolution." He knew about the art he collected.

  Sela worried he might reiterate all of the knowledge she had on Morin. Another reason for all the effort; her own image could distract from the fact that her knowledge was merely a summary.

  She took over, "It was recovered by the Germans when they invaded during the Second World War, and after the war, it sat in a warehouse until the proper owner could be determined, since it had been missing for so long. Then, before it could be delivered, it was stolen again."

  Alice Williams, her ghosted identity, was supposed to have been an art history major specializing in Morin's work for her PhD thesis when the Remaking got under way.

  Harrington had his own art expert, yet he wanted her opinion, because it was so unexpected to find such a work in Megora.

  "And now it found its way into my hands," Harrington beamed with pride, one hand raised toward the painting, almost reaching for it to emphasize his grasp on it. "An interesting journey, don't you think?" His glance moved toward her again.

  "A little too interesting, I'm afraid." Sela leaned forward as she spoke.

  She had expected him to become annoyed when she said that, but he calmly inquired, "You say it is not the original, then?"

  Sela had planned this line carefully. She needed him to keep talking for at least a few more minutes. "It is a wonderful… reproduction of the original." She peered over the details from only a few inches away. "Quite the best Morin reproduction I've ever seen, in fact."

  "But not the real painting," Harrington said matter-of-factly, as though he had known all along.

  "No, I'm afraid not," she said. "There are a few details that are incorrect, for instance," she brushed a few fingers above the canvas, "this boy's arm is a few degrees off the original pose. And this," she moved her hand up the canvas, "this bird here was clearly forgotten and painted in after the fact."

  The bird was meant to be hidden behind a misty spray from the short waterfall, and yet was painted around the droplets, which should have been done last. Sela wouldn't have noticed it, but it was unmistakable when you really peered at the bird.

  "Yes, that's what I've been told," Harrington said, a slight indication of disappointment finally creeping into his voice.

  Sela leaned back and folded her arms, "The colors are a little off for Morin too."

  The only surviving images of the original were all black and white photographs taken after World War II had ended. There were other works attributed to Morin though. Sela could pretend she had special knowledge.

  "Too tepid," she concluded.

  She licked her lips, knowing he was watching her. "Morin was warmer than this."

  "Ah, I see," Harrington said, still paying her more attention than the image.

  "This is almost what you would expect from a Dutch Morin." She nodded. "Very good though."

  "Well, I suppose I'll keep it." Harrington looked around the room. "Not in here though. I'll put it somewhere." He focused on her again.

  "I hope you didn't spend a lot on it, Mr. Harrington," Sela said.

  "Pah!" he waved an arm at the painting and smiled. "A few drops out of a lake. Nothing I should notice, except that I want my gallery to be perfect."

  The painting was soon to be dismissed from conversation, so Sela had to make herself the focus of attention, to keep him speaking for a bit longer. "Well, I'm sorry to give you the bad news, Mr. Harrington."

  "Please, please! Call me Irwin, my dear. I am only too glad to have someone of your… expertise available." He almost winked at her.

  Sela's stomach turned at the thought. This man was more than twice Alice Williams' age. He could be Sela's grandfather with room to spare.

  She smiled back and evaded the comment, "Well, it's not often that expertise in Émeric Morin is useful. And it has been several years since I have seen one in person."

  "Alas, then I should apologize to you, shouldn't I?" Harrington fairly wailed. "And to think you got your hopes up for an obvious forgery, all on my account!"

  He was flirting with her. Sela only needed maybe thirty seconds more, which meant she could stay cold to his advances. Politely disengaging would fill the rest.

  "No need, Mr. Harrington," she intentionally used his last name, and used it dismissively. "It is a very nice painting, after all."

  He glanced at the painting for a split second, "That it is, that it is, Miss Williams." He was visibly flustered, more so now than when she had informed him the painting was a fake. He shook his head, "Would you like a drink?"

  "Oh, no! No, thank you. I don't drink." Sela grinned at him the way she would grin at an old uncle, when time had passed the aged relative by, leaving him confused and crotchety.

  A genuine blush rose in Harrington’s face, so unused to rejection was he. No doubt, rejection was a foreign concept to someone who was so connected, powerful, and wealthy. In the old days, before the Remaking, there weren't so many people with nothing to lose and so much to gain by subjecting themselves to someone like this.

  Things were different now. It was one thing to have the option to do business with someone you don't like. And something else entirely to fear that the Guides will come after you refuse.

  "In fact, Mr. Harrington," she started, interrupting him before he could make another personal request. "I have a meeting soon. I'm sorry, but I have to be leaving."

  His consternation was evident. "Ah, I was going to show you the rest of my collection!” He sighed, “It can wait a few days, I suppose."

  He made no move to lead her back to the main elevator. "I have some time available next week. My secretary will schedule up an appointment. Mine is one of the best art collections in Megora, after all."

  "My schedule will be uncertain for a while. It was lucky that I had this time available," she smiled to make the evasion seem genuine.

  "I see. Where is it you work, Miss Williams?"

  She answered, "I'm a graphic designer for the Agency of Vision." That was the Council's propaganda wing, steadily pumping out a web of lies and half-truths designed to prop up the ruling elite. "We've been quite busy lately."

  Harrington smiled finally, "I don't doubt it, with the Conference approaching, and the… incidents."

  Numerous attempts had come from various groups, each seeking to overwhelm the Council, or supplant it, or eradicate the Remaking. With the Agency of Vision telling the stories
, it was impossible to know for sure what was actually happening. Probably few of the attacks had been authentic.

  Sela was not involved in those movements. She did not see any way to replace the Provisional Council, and had some interest in keeping things as they were. Not that she condoned the system, not at all. There just… wasn't an easy way to solve her particular problem.

  She didn’t want to talk about that, though. Put the focus back on yourself, and how you have to leave, she thought.

  "Such a shame though, I must say," Sela glanced around the room, planting a disappointed look in her every movement. "I see several masterpieces that I could study for hours," she smiled thinly, “if I had hours.”

  Harrington's eyes narrowed, barely, just enough for Sela to catch. He had the peer of a hawk that was set on seizing his prey. Her stomach knotted as she suddenly worried she had overplayed her hand.

  If he tried to find her at the Agency, he wouldn't have to dig very deep before he discovered she was a fraud. The ghost time bought for this scheme was cheap, surface only. Identification cards, temporary ghosting and substitution. Low-level database work, all of it sure to draw red flags under any intensive scrutiny. Most of the backers’ money had gone into creating a convincing painting.

  Her instant reaction was to flee, and she blurted out, "Anyhow, I have to be going or I'll be late." Instead of waiting for Harrington to take the lead, Sela started for the elevators several rooms over.

  Harrington moved to catch up, while Sela kicked herself and chided her rash panic. Acting without thinking! That was the only thing she couldn't afford to do. Part of why she had to look so alluring was to distract men while she considered the best course of action available.

  It was always harder with women, because that almost never worked on them.

  Irwin Harrington spoke quickly, "If you're really in that much of a rush, Miss Williams, I could have my Fen take you wherever you need to go, providing there's a pad nearby."

  It was a helicopter, one of the most advanced designs before the Remaking swept all innovation and technology under governmental control. It was fast and sleek and utterly quiet inside. She had ridden in a Fen once, among other flights taken before—