The Remaking

by J. T. O'Connell

  Still, she couldn’t be furious at Desmond for that. If there were more time to prepare for the party, then it would have been best for Desmond to have given her a heads-up as to what was going on. There simply wasn’t much time.

  Even so, her anger at Desmond was not gone. It just wasn’t, and even with all the rational explanations she could recite, she couldn’t remove how she felt.

  Which could be a problem for the job, she thought.

  By now, the tile sidewalks were crowded. So many feet carried people along that the ongoing clap of footfalls resounded unending off the granite, a bass undertone to the chatter from dozens of people. Sela had to walk close to Desmond, to keep from being separated.

  Some of the evening outfits made everything she had worn earlier seem timid and tame. Mostly it was the women who were devastating any notion of boundaries, although some men had taken to more radical fashion as well, and there were other people that Sela truly could not identify into either group.

  Over the voices of other pedestrians, Sela spoke to Desmond, “Where are we going?”

  “Something I figured you would want to see,” Desmond answered. “Not far.”

  “Okay,” she replied. They weaved around a line of people waiting to be admitted into what looked and sounded like an outlandish dance-rave.

  They passed through a seedier section of Megora’s elite districts. A few pockets of more blatant sin were wedged into the boroughs of the rich.

  The poor had their more disgraceful tastes satisfied on the black market, but the rich could do as they liked out in the open. What did the Council care, or the Guides? Half of them took part in the unwholesome activity and it didn’t hurt the Remaking since all of these people were going along with the program, besides a few indulgences when they could get away with it.

  No rickety vendor carts hid in alleyways. There were no alleyways. Instead, slick businesses had carved out their storefronts proudly. But no details were offered about the services provided.

  Desmond led Sela into a glass elevator large enough to accommodate half a dozen people. It was attached to the outside of a building that stretched up into the bright sky. No one else boarded before the curved glass door slid closed with hardly a sound.

  Even though Desmond had not pressed any of the buttons on the touchpad, the elevator began to lift upward smoothly. Magnetic couplers did away with the clunky moving parts of older elevators; counterweights, gears, and cabling. Only the vaporous whisper of air sliding down the outside of the car filled the interior.

  The first ten floors of the building were dedicated to one of those businesses shrouding its offerings behind a veneer of slick style. Each floor above that was similar on a smaller scale.

  Climbing above the shorter structures, the vista from the elevator showed a bustling district in Megora. Hundreds of people moved along the street, played in parks, ate at tables on balconies, watched sports games and street performers.

  The elevator stopped near the top floor when the touchpad read 114, above most of the buildings in this district. Sela could only pick out twenty or so that were higher than this one.

  Leaving the elevator, they were met by a host, a young man in a suit and tie. “Mr. Tine?”

  Desmond nodded, “Plus one.”

  “Right this way,” the man turned, his movement as stiff as the starched fabric of his coat.

  He led them up a broad staircase of speckled black marble with polished brass handrails. It emptied into an atrium lush with a carefully-tailored décor.

  Wow! The word dominated her mind.

  Pillars of the black marble spiked up in an octagon around the outside, each of them springing flowered ivy that clung to the sides. One side of the room had a grassy slope nearly fifteen feet tall, grass falling away upon a grey stone carved to look like a rugged mountain peak.

  Trickles of water sprung from the peak and ran down the mountainside, collecting into a gurgling stream that weaved through the grass, past bushes, bonsai trees, and tiny Japanese Maples. The small stone path of the creek ended in a glassy pond complete with lily pads, water flowers, and tiny frogs.

  Soft naturalights simulated sunlight, glinting off the ripples of water. Around the outside of the landscape, a handful of tables were set into private booths, each with a decent view of the picturesque environment, though retaining privacy.

  Sela realized she had stopped walking to look at the natural splendor, so unexpected, even though a year earlier she had spent time walking in the massive nature preserve within the Tower of Hope. Desmond and the host had paused, waiting for her, although Desmond was taking in the view as well.

  She moved toward Desmond who resumed following the host. All of the tables in the atrium were occupied, and as they passed, the soft clink of utensils and light conversation joined the splash of the miniature brook.

  Their host guided them through a pair of glass doors that slid open automatically, opening onto a private balcony. One of several spaced around the outside of the building, each separated by fins of the skyscraper as it tapered to an antennae array lifted above.

  Facing the direction opposite that of the elevator, Megora stretched away beneath, with the occasional spire spiking above the city. Beyond that, the lake stretched to a distant slash of land, and even further the larger Lake Erie was just visible through the glistening afternoon haze.

  Sela sat in the chair drawn out by the host. Before she had even pulled in to the table, a team of wait staff filed up to the table. A basket with different types of rolls was set down beside a pitcher of water.

  There were no menus, but for that which was recommended by the waiter. Some of the dishes were vaguely familiar to Sela, though some were a complete mystery. She avoided asking for clarification, and settled on a salad and a cut of smoked salmon on rye toast.

  “I will have a cheeseburger with extra bacon, and French fries,” Desmond leaned back confidently and grinned, almost laughing.

  The waiter acknowledged their order and moved away, to be replaced by the drink waiter, who offered to fetch a bottle of Chianti that he highly recommended.

  Desmond declined politely. He ordered his usual coffee and Sela asked for iced tea.

  And then they were left alone, with the warm, and silent breeze, the cooling shadow of the falling sun, and the majestic ambiance.

  Sela licked her lips, looking at Desmond, “A bacon cheeseburger?”

  He laughed now, a generous laugh, completely unconcerned. “Yeah, I don’t eat that unhealthy very often, but I love to poke at these places this way.”

  She slanted her face with doubt, so he added, “It’s just a little bit of fun.”

  “Well…” she paused and then took a deep breath. “I mean, the staff probably come from the poorer areas. They aren’t as pretentious as the…” she drifted off, though they both knew she meant the elites, the Council, the Remakers.

  “Yeah, that’s true,” Desmond acknowledged. “That’s why it’s okay to have fun this way.”

  “Because they’re regular people?”

  He leaned forward, “Under all those suits, yes. Yes, they are.”

  The doors slid open again and the drink waiter brought out a mug and a glass. They thanked him and he left.

  “Anyway, there’s nothing like a regular old American burger, grilled by a professional chef.”

  “I guess,” she said, feeling a scent of her anger returning after the awe of the exclusive restaurant waned a hair. She sipped the tea and opted to mix in a spoonful of cane sugar.

  Perfect. It tasted perfect. Sela made a decision to enjoy the dinner, even if she wanted to be angry still. Even her objections to the Remaking seemed a distant concern compared to how much she was enjoying the experience.

  “How…?”

  “What’s that?” Desmond set his coffee back down.

  “How did you get a reservation to this place so fast?”

  “Called in a few favors. One of the managers I used to work with is a he
ad waiter here now.”

  “You’ve had a lot of experience with regular jobs, then?”

  He shrugged, “Some. I was on my own here four years ago. Had to make a living somehow.”

  “Four years?” Sela let her mouth drop open.

  Desmond gave her a somber nod, staring into her eyes, “I was sixteen when I came to Megora.”

  So he’s twenty, she thought. Sela was nineteen. After a few seconds, Sela prompted him to continue, “How did that happen, Desmond?”

  He took a deep breath and his eyes glazed out to that distant place she had seen in them once before. Desmond sighed slowly, “That’s…. a story for another time. Some other time.”

  Leaning forward against the table, Desmond grabbed a crescent roll, and asked, “I didn’t want them to bring wine, Sela,” he paused for a breath, “because I don’t know whether you drink.”

  “Not really,” she replied. “I had a few sips of wine on a job a few months ago. That’s all, though.”

  Desmond swallowed a bite of the roll, “Okay, that could be an issue at this party. There’re ways to avoid it, though.”

  “Well, like what?”

  He smiled, “Like getting a Coke in a tumbler. People will think you’re drinking a rum and Coke. Or,” a gust of wind flapped the table cloth and then subsided, “you have a tea that looks like a Long Island. There are numerous ways.”

  “What’s wrong with just not drinking?”

  “No one will believe it.”

  Ugh. What sort of people were they?

  Desmond saw the disgust on her face and clarified, “You won’t be the only one faking it, Sela. A lot of people pretend to drink a lot more than they do.”

  What is the point of that? she thought with disgust. “Do you pretend?”

  “Mostly. I can have a glass or two, but I’m very careful.” A smudge of grimace marred his cheeks, “I actually don’t care for alcohol, really.”

  Sela’s parents both enjoyed fine wines on occasion, usually for holidays. It had seemed like an enjoyable experience that was for grown-ups. She had not been tempted to try any alcohol since she had been on her own, and the legal drinking age in Megora was twenty, at any rate.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  Desmond chewed on a bite and on his thoughts before beginning. The wind tickled Sela’s hair across her neck as she waited. “I guess nothing, really. I don’t like feeling out of control.”

  “Like ever?”

  “While I’m working,” he clarified.

  “Yeah,” Sela agreed.

  He set down the last chunk of the roll, “It’s necessary sometimes, but my tolerance is really low, and I can feel it pretty quick. Just have to be careful. One more thing to keep track of. It’s exhausting.”

  “Fake it, then.”

  He nodded, “As often as possible,” then smirked, “All Vine and no wine, I say.”

  “Oh that reminds me,” Sela almost snapped her fingers, and then she realized that no one was nearby to look down on such behavior. “I wanted to ask: what does “Vines” mean?”

  “It’s what we do. Didn’t we tell you that?”

  “No, I just saw it on the memory chip.”

  “It’s just sort of a codename we go by. We’re Vines, each of us. We work our way into the cracks of the Remaking and push them apart.” Desmond held up a hand, counting off the points on his fingers. “Each branch is independent, but brings in new members. Every crack has a Vine assigned to it, sometimes more. Material support and tactical arrangement are unified into a grand scheme that will succeed even if only a portion of the Vines have success individually.”

  “So Vines is just…”

  “A moniker to describe our group, something besides Hannan Enterprises. Which— Technically, Hannan is a legit company that does legit business anyhow. Michelle just oversees the Vines.”

  “What’s your crack, then?” Sela asked, “What’s this mission really about?”

  “We are going to put a virus into Basil Davenport’s network. When she gives a presentation early next week to a Council sub-committee, the files she sends out and the presentation videos will all be replaced with Unmaker stuff.”

  Again, the breeze held sway as Sela leaned back. Then she quipped, “That’s not going to work. You aren’t going to make any converts that way.”

  “We aren’t seeking to. Soften them up a little, maybe, but our real goal is to have the Council sweep Davenport off the table. She’s a particularly brutal regulator.”

  “Is she part of the Council?” Sela asked. She couldn’t remember, but she didn’t think anyone at the party would be an actual Council member.

  “No,” Desmond responded. “But she’s very close, very high up in the rankings. Anything she wants to set in place against the people of Megora, that becomes law pretty quick.”

  “Then this still won’t work,” Sela objected. “No one will believe someone like that would join the Unmakers.”

  Desmond stared at her blankly and said, “You may not quite appreciate just how paranoid the Council is, Sela.” At this, he took on a compassionate expression, “They’ll get rid of anyone as soon as any accusation is made.”

  Sela felt belittled by Desmond’s insider knowledge, but that rapidly disappeared with thoughts of her father having to struggle to stay alive, struggle to get treatment for her mother.

  “That’s part of why so many of the people in this district try to get connected into the Remaking. It’s not always to have influence, but to keep alive. Sink or swim”

  Sela knew that people were frequently “transferred” out of the Tower of Hope and the other government buildings. She knew that transfers more often put important people into the ground than into other cities. Those who couldn’t keep up in the Remaking would sink into the dirt, literally.

  Was it bad enough, though, that the Council would knife out a top bureaucrat with a stellar record, just because someone clearly hacked a presentation?

  That was terrifying, and not just for Megora as a whole. Sela felt her pulse hit heavy as she worried about her father.

  Maybe this Basil Davenport was making it impossible for the Vines to tear apart the bricks of the Remaking. Certainly, those problems existed, and often in the form of powerful, self-assured intellectuals. And if you could get the Council to remove those people for you, maneuver more pliant people into place...

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the meal and an offer of refills from the drink waiter, though neither of them had made significant progress into their cups.

  The smoked salmon was exquisite, pink meat cut thin onto barely-toasted bread, a bit of cream cheese and fresh-cut spices sprinkled across. Sela had not tasted anything of the sort in a year.

  A moan of joy escaped her lips as she took her first bite. The salmon was juicy and chilled, perfectly mixing with the cream cheese.

  For a few minutes, they ate in silence, listening to the wind. Sela could hear the crunch of her toast, and wondered whether Desmond could hear it over the crunch of his bacon and lettuce.

  The drink waiter brought out pitchers for refilling and then left again. Somewhere out in Megora, a distant roar surged up in the wind, applause from an outdoor sports event. Sela remembered there was a stadium just a few blocks away. Dying off, the roar yielded to the quiet wind once more.

  Sela finished the salmon and toast. Desmond was taking his time working on the hamburger. It was rather large and she could tell he wasn't used to eating nearly so much. She picked up her fork and speared a few dark leaves from the salad.

  "This is a nice place, Desmond," Sela spoke quietly, between bites of spinach and lettuce and radishes and carrots.

  He nodded as he chewed, swallowed, and leaned back with a sigh of relief. "Yeah. Yeah, it is. I've only been here once before, when Michelle asked me to join the Vines." Taking a drink from his ice water, he sighed again, "I figured it would be best to give you a nice dinner, let you relax, and everything, after meeting E
mory."

  She smiled and almost laughed. "He seems nice."

  "Oh, he is nice," Desmond grinned, "just intense. He knows what works and what doesn't."

  "Yeah, I got that impression," Sela turned leaves over with her fork.

  "He really is a genius in fashion and style. Just about everything I know comes from him."

  Sela tilted her head as she chewed on the leaves, savoring the vinaigrette. "Well, you're style isn't excessive."

  Desmond shrugged, "It's easier for men, more optional. See," he picked up a knife, "men are more resistant to changes in fashion." He angled the knife against the hamburger to cut it in half, "Even when some men start wearing different styles, other men continue to wear whatever they already had. It doesn't change fashion so much as stretch how many styles there are."

  "Because men don't want to change?" Sela asked.

  "Pretty much, yeah." He had eaten about a third of the hamburger and cut the remainder into two sections. "Do you want some of this?"

  Sela had not eaten a hamburger since a neighborhood grill out back in Nashville. That was… elementary school? She hadn't even met her cousin Leon at that time. Life was good back then.

  But her parents were always very careful eaters. If you are what you eat, Sela could hear her mother say, why would you eat garbage?

  The Council also sought to control people's diet, and that she didn't like. What was one hamburger?

  "I could try a bite, I suppose. Just one."

  Desmond cut one of the halves again. As bites go, it was large. He stood and picked up his plate, using the fork to push the cut onto her own plate.

  "Anyway, I disagree," Sela said.

  "About what?" Desmond asked.

  "Men and fashion."

  "Oh? How so?"

  Sela set her fork aside and nursed a slow sip of iced tea. Even that was wonderful. "I don't think men drive men's fashion. Men drive women's fashion."

  Desmond blinked and asked, "You mean like making women wear revealing clothing?"

  Sela shook her head, "In some ways yes, but that's not all I'm talking about. Men notice so much about the appearance of women, how appealing they are, how sexy, how gorgeous, and so forth. Women have to constantly make fashion changes to stay in front of the game. But only because of men."