The Remaking

by J. T. O'Connell

  That'd be quite a mine they'd dig to find me out, she thought bitterly.

  If they knew her cousin was Leon Wallis, then they could very well know everything about her, down to her blood type and favorite color. I don't even know my own blood type, she thought with a calloused chuckle. It was probably something she should find out.

  Grunts now accompanied her breath. She had been hoofing along at pace for almost an hour now, and she could tell her rate had declined inversely to her fatigue.

  And she was now thinking a little more clearly. She was still angry, but it was tempered by a gloss of control and logic that had not been there before.

  Sela planned a route back.

  When she returned to her apartment, she was happy to find the air conditioning lockout had ended at last. Cool air cranked into each room; not chilly, just cool and dry. It felt nice.

  She set down her purse and drank a tall glass of water. A glance at the clock showed that it was almost midnight. Sela didn't have anywhere else to be tomorrow, and she was not really tired, having slept so long during the day. She rinsed the glass and set it in the dish rack to dry.

  Her bedroom was dark. Sela could just make out the silhouette of her bed in the few rays of moonlight that glowed around the vertical-slat blinds covering her windows. She kicked off her shoes, not caring where they went, slammed down on the bed, and tugged her socks off, tossing them either in the hamper or somewhere near to it.

  The tablet was still on and there was some battery left. She brought up the SovereignCast page and refreshed it. The feed returned.

  A sly smile cut into her cheeks. Given a battle between Sovereign City's techs and Megora's, the favor clearly went in one direction. The buffering lasted a split second before it began.

  Sela stretched out on top of her covers, head on a pillow, and held the tablet just above her chest. All the videos were the same she had seen before, but she watched anyhow, glad for the distraction.

  The interview came back around. Sela knew what to look for this time. Gideon Blaize had held an inordinate amount of her attention when she had first seen his interview with Major Eric Foster. She watched Major Foster's face intently, trying not to be distracted by the drawing appeal of Gideon Blaize.

  He was a normal man, Eric Foster. Normal in many ways, and yet so uncommon somehow. He had the look of someone she might pass on the street and take no notice of.

  His features were not stunning, his voice was not particularly deep. Were it not for the uniform, she might be looking at a man who kept his head buzzed only to hide a receding hairline.

  What he did have was a well-defined set of beliefs, and he was willing to lay everything else on the line to defend those beliefs. Such resolution in the face of so mighty an enemy as the Provisional Council was… humbling, to say the least.

  In some ways, it reminded her of Desmond. Somehow, she had rediscovered confidence that he had been honest about his beliefs, at least. She wasn't sure why she doubted that, other than blind rage.

  Now, Sela began to feel shallow in her own beliefs. Desmond read books to research his ideas, to test them and understand them better.

  She had only a visceral sense of things, in that regard. Her disgust with the Remaking was a mere reaction to what she saw, not empirical facts.

  For all she knew, life really could be better for more people than it would be without the Provisional Council. The Agency of Vision wasted no effort in proclaiming that dogma. How could Sela know different? Her experience was much smaller than the whole city

  Which led to the question, just how much could the few be made to suffer for the happiness of the many? Where do you draw the boundaries? How do you decide which tradeoffs are good and which are deplorable?

  She didn't know, and for the first time in her life, that was unsettling.

  Major Foster knew what he was fighting for and he knew the odds of success, or the even better odds of dying in the fight, never living to see which side was routed in the battles. And yet, he held his ideals as worthy enough to make that ultimate sacrifice, if that's what it took to maintain them.

  It was awe-inspiring.

  Sela let the feed play on, her eyes glazed in thought, the light from each video just a brilliant blur in her dark bedroom.

  What sort of principles did Desmond have if he was so underhanded about what he knew? No doubt, if she asked him, he would claim that Michelle had ordered him to get her on the hook, keep her in the dark about their ultimate intentions.

  That didn't make it right. You scam the Council and the Guides and the agencies, because they are the problem. You don't lie to a regular person, and certainly not about… this.

  Sela sighed and set the tablet down. Purple spots flickered in her vision, obscuring every shadow. She couldn't even see the faint light of the tablet screen illuminating the walls.

  Still not tired, she decided to get another glass of water. Reaching over to the nightstand, Sela flicked on the lamp and slid her legs off the bed.

  The manila envelope still rested in the middle of her floor. She could see a crease in it, the outline of another memory card. There had to be more than just a memory card in the envelope though, because she remembered feeling the thickness of it.

  Sela scooped up the envelope and took it to the kitchen, tossing it onto the kitchen table so she could pour another glass of water. Half of that downed already, she sat and picked up the envelope, turning it over.

  Clear tape kept the back shut. There were no markings at all.

  Sela jabbed a thumbnail under the flap, cutting through the tape, and ran it along the edge. The second pass sliced through the tougher parts.

  She poured out the memory card which bounced across the table, coming to a rest near the middle. Then she reached in and drew out the two sheets of paper. It was nice, thick paper, requiring some force to fold. Each creased edge didn't come to a point. Instead, it curved back; so thick was the paper.

  It was handwritten, and the syntax was odd.

  She recognized the script right away.

  Sela,

  Words cannot express how much I have missed you. I can only hope that you have not had to endure the like throughout this year. You deserve better than the life I have forsaken upon you.

  The difficulty on our family compels an agony of depression within my soul. I should never have supported the Remaking, and I was the worst of fools for how sluggish my mind was in awakening to the truth.

  What have we done to the world? Where did we go wrong? How have we come to this place? Why are the smartest of people fools? What happened to the great ideals of the old wisdom? Was there ever such goodness as your mother and I saw in our youth?

  What snake charm convinced us to throw away everything for a mere vision? A hope vanishing like the horizon pursued forever at sea!

  Throughout this past year, I have spent every moment in chess with the Council. I feel I am only a pawn, which no doubt is how they see me, and I am faced with a legion of queens. Yet, as queens, they are distracted and lethargic, and as a pawn, I have my craftiness upon which I have been drawing.

  Your mother's condition persists, and she sends her love, though I will not be able to tell her of the news until after you've read this note.

  I have been assured that you are well, and that you have remained in hiding. I still do not understand why you did not leave Megora when the opportunity was available, but perhaps you are old enough to make your own decisions. It is very difficult to think of you as an adult. You will always be my little girl, no matter how distant those times have already become.

  Sela, my daughter, I have been in contact with the Vines for several weeks now. What will be asked of you was requested of me, but I am simply unable to oblige. I am not in the right position.

  When I was asked to write this letter to you, I refused. I did not want you in the danger that is an inseparable part of this mission. However, with some persuasion, I have agreed.

  Much as I hate
to recommend you undertake this effort, I must urge that you do so. It is not going to be easy, and given the task, you will have serious reservations. However, it is the best choice you can make for the present.

  My agreement with the Vines is as follows: you accept their task; as a reward they will smuggle you out of Megora and provide you supplies for travel to Sovereign City.

  The agreement still stands even if your efforts end in failure. Furthermore, it is not a choice. You will leave for Sovereign City. You cannot stay in Megora forever.

  Having wondered whether you have been building a new life, I was relieved to hear that you are not. The only way for you to live is to live free. You must leave Megora, for the Council will always pursue you, so long as I remain alive.

  Think not of your parents, my daughter. We have no greater ambition than to see you in Sovereign City where you may enjoy what so many of my generation have all but destroyed. So long as you are free, then there is some redemption for us.

  I cannot force you to accept this mission. It will be difficult in more ways than one. Yet, I have always taught you to do what is right, regardless of how much difficulty it presents.

  We love you, Sela. And we hope to see you again one day in Sovereign City. Be careful! Do always that which will grant your conscience rest. Discern what is true and know what is right.

  Our prayers go with you.

  Your father,

  Alan D. Wallis

  Sela held the letter with trembling hands. The words on the page were fuzzy with the tears in her eyes. Her heart ached with every day that she had missed her parents, missed and worried about them, her mother especially.

  When Sela had left the Tower of Hope, her mother was confined to a hospice room, hooked up to IVs to flood medicines and fluids into her system. She had been emaciated from the ordeal, usually unable to stay awake. If nothing had changed in over a year, Sela couldn't imagine how pathetic her mother must appear now.

  Ever since she could remember, Sela's mother had been athletic. She played tennis in a local league, helped build homes for needy families, and went running on a regular basis. Somewhere inside, Sela had subconsciously hoped that her mother was running in one of the massive gyms or parks inside the Tower of Hope.

  Now, it was all she could do not to cry, hearing that her mother was still bed-ridden, trapped by whatever 'mysterious' problem the doctors couldn't identify.

  Her father's words were scrawled together, as though he'd initially tried to cram everything he wanted to say on a single page. His longing was evident, impossible to ignore.

  All of the doubt Sela had ever had about staying in Megora came rushing back. She should have left for Sovereign City. The more she had learned about it, the more she liked that outpost of freedom, that beacon of true hope, standing against Megora's spire so arrogantly named.

  Sela took a shaky breath and sighed through clenched teeth.

  She read through the pages again, pushing back her tears, although a few managed to slip through and tumble down her cheeks. For a few minutes she cried softly, letting her emotions drain out. The pages crumpled under her clutch, and yet she couldn't set them down.

  After a while, when the outpouring thinned, Sela stood, leaving the letter on the kitchen table. She went to the bathroom and splashed water onto her face, cooling away the warmth of tears.

  Sadness for the lines her father wrote bit into her, and anguish for what Sela could see between the lines. Nothing good had happened during the year Sela had spent hiding in Megora.

  What good had it done to stay here? The only result Sela could point to was the dismay that bled from the letter. Her parents wanted her safe, and she had turned down offer, despite the enormous expense.

  And now, contrary to her father's clear wishes, he was asking his only child to take on a mission that would put her in danger. If she succeeded, she would be sent to Sovereign City, and if she failed, so long as she was not captured by the Guides, she would go to Sovereign City.

  Sela looked at her image in the mirror, watched the water drip out of the edges of her hair where it was dampened, saw a drop fall from the tip of her nose. She didn't feel pretty at the moment. She felt haggard, drawn out, tortured.

  She was at the end of her rope.

  What else is there? she thought.

  Sovereign City.

  There was a place to go, to live free.

  And there were battles to be waged in Megora. Sela knew there were Unmaker groups in every supercity, and that some of them had more success than others. Some of the areas overseas were torn apart by open warfare.

  But here in Megora, there were opportunities to strike at the powers that be. The Vines were offering Sela a chance to undermine the Provisional Council.

  And, it occurred to her, they would not go through all this trouble if it was a small part to play, if there would be little result. If they could get to Sela's father, just what in the world did they want her to do?

  What was it that her father couldn't do, but that she could?

  Sela took a few deep breaths and then blotted the hand towel against her face.

  Whatever it was, whatever was on that memory card, she would have to peruse it, and soon. Within twelve hours of her fleeing the Michelle's office, the Vines had acquired a letter handwritten by her father persuading her to do… whatever the task was.

  That suggested two things: first, whatever they wanted was crucial, worth going to great lengths for; and second, it was not something that would endanger her parents.

  Or was it?

  Important, yes, but did it really follow that her father and mother would be safe? Was it not possible that the stress in the letter came from another sacrifice? Were they giving up their lives this time, instead of their financial hopes? Just so Sela could have another chance to get to Sovereign City?

  No! No, she could never do that to them. No matter what her father wanted, Sela could not be party to that. Nothing could be important enough to make her betray her parents to death. Nothing!

  Just what did it mean that the job would try her moral fiber? Was that not what the letter had said? Sela's breath began to shorten as she made her way back through the apartment.

  On the table, the two pages lay creased and crinkled, a spot of tears darkening the page. In the center of the table was the memory card.

  Sela had never thought any object so tiny could be menacing. Yet the drive almost hissed at her, like the tiniest viper in the world. She reached out hesitantly, picking up the drive between a thumbnail and fingernail.

  It was tiny. When she had been a child, flash drives were bulky, and they barely stored a thousandth of these little chips, about the size of her pinky nail.

  She looked at the drive and took a deep breath. No matter her emotional state, she had to look at the data. Her father left no choice about that. She at least had to see what it was all about.

  Sela retrieved her tablet and then sat down at the table once more.

  Taking a deep breath, she plugged in the memory chip.

  Chapter 16

  Her hand moved delicately across the canvas, skinning the faintest shade of charcoal off the stick. She retraced and added another careful swath. Even though the table was inclined, Sela hunched over it, trying to twist her posture enough to untwist her drawing.

  She had been practicing for a few weeks, and she wasn’t sure whether there was any improvement. She could smudge out decent skylines. Who couldn’t?

  But she was having a devil of a time trying to draw organically. Every time she drew an animal or a person, it came out awkward and misshapen. And not the sort of misshapen the way a cartoon is supposed to be. All of her human renderings had a demented look, as though a first grader had drawn them.

  Sela was fifteen, just a few months away from turning sixteen. And she had discovered art. Just like ballet a few years earlier, she wasn’t very good, at least not yet.

  The art teacher at school, Mr. Garvey, encouraged her to
keep working at it. He said that drawing was a skill that took time to develop. He also praised the things she drew, but then, he praised every other kid’s drawing in the art class too. That’s sort of what an art teacher is supposed to do, Sela figured.

  Still, it was a nice sensation, the smooth canvas slipping softly against the edge of the charcoal. Even if the face already looked stretched and alien, Sela enjoyed it. She liked the idea that she could create something. Something that didn’t exist until she got her hands dirty.

  Maybe if she could develop her ability to draw, she really could put the creativity in her mind out onto the canvas, let the image speak for itself. Her father had bought these nice pencils and canvas, had put together the desk himself.

  She wanted to be able to justify buying more canvas, however much it might cost. The concept of money was still new to her, since her parents usually got whatever she wa—

  “Hello, Sela.”

  She whirled around to face the voice. “Leon!”

  He looked through his glasses and down his nose at her, a smug look of contempt on his young face. “Who were you expecting? One of your shallow friends?”

  Sela glared at him, but she knew not to protest the insults. Her friends liked to have fun, and so did she! It didn’t make them shallow to hang out on the weekends, to help each other put together cute outfits, and to talk about boys.

  “What’re you doing here?” she asked.

  Leon’s family had moved up north a year earlier, three years after they had initially moved to the suburbs of Nashville. Sela had been more than happy to see him go.

  “I came back to town with my dad.” He smiled at her, the way a hammer might smile at a nail. “We’re just here for a few days.”

  A few days? she thought. Great… just great.

  He looked different. Sela realized that he was fifteen now too, and he had grown. He would grow more, but he was as tall as she was now. Tall and lanky, all of his earlier chubbiness stretched out over several extra inches of height.