The Remaking

by J. T. O'Connell

  “Yeah, I figured you should it hear from me; you guys are moving.”

  Sela rolled her eyes and dismissed the statement, “No we aren’t.” Her father had promised the family would stay in Nashville. That was the benefit of his job as a research professor.

  She turned back to her canvas, and then sighed when she saw the dark line that had streaked across the page. It must have happened when she had whipped around. Leon again!

  “Yes, you are,” Leon insisted. “You’re moving in a month, to Megora. Me and my dad’ve set up everything.”

  “We’re not moving,” Sela replied. When they had last moved, her father had promised that Nashville was where they would stay. Maybe the line on the page could be a horizon. She put the charcoal to the canvas. And what would that make the misshapen face? Some hideous ghost?

  “You’re moving. And there’s nothing you can do to stop it.” His voice was uncaring, as though the mere fact that he was saying something made it simple truth. “The Council wants to fund your dad’s research. They’re giving you guys a lot. If was up to me you’d have to get one of the condos outside the Tower, but dad got you one inside the Tower of Hope.”

  “Well, isn’t it great that none of this is up to either of you,” Sela fired a glance back at her cousin.

  The malice in his grin was razor-sharp. “It’s not up to you either. You’re moving, and so what if you don’t want to.” He almost laughed at the frustration he saw in her own flustered expression.

  “We are not moving!” Sela spun back to the desk and slammed the charcoal pencil back into the box with the still-wrapped pencils. It broke in half, and she didn’t care.

  She wanted to throw the whole box at Leon, stain that annoying expression with charcoal, shoo him out of her room, out of the house, out of her life forever.

  Why? Why! Why did he have to come back just to tell me this!

  Sela huffed a breath out and turned back around. Leon was still there, his grin now cranked wide with all the glee he got from bothering her. He seemed to have a special place in his heart for annoying her. He never laughed, and yet the same dark joy was there. What was the word she had learned in English class? Schadenfreude?

  Leon liked to control things and he treated people like they were things to be controlled. Only his father was beyond his disdain, and by extension, the people his father revered.

  Sela had even seen Leon talk down to his own mother, and he had not seemed at all distraught when she had passed away in a car accident two years earlier.

  He just stared at Sela, standing in her doorway, arms crossed as though to block her from leaving his bitter company. Some guests, like some fish, stink immediately.

  Leon’s face stared out of her tablet screen, not the face of that adolescent. He was nineteen now, and he looked like an athletic young man. He had an extra half on Sela’s weight, and he wasn’t smiling in this photo. His face was darkened, the annoyance still there and blazing with anger.

  He looked almost like an adult though, and dangerous, as though he could raze a forest with his glare. Leon’s chin was more cut, rigid and defined, with a smoothness that was clean-shaven, rather than baby-faced.

  Sela recognized the uniform he was wearing too. It wasn’t a Junior Guides program jumpsuit. It was the light gray sweatshirt and navy blue sweatpants of a Guides tracksuit. The triple-chevron patch was clear as day. He was part of the Guides now.

  According to the profile, Leon Wallis was now a full-fledged member of the Provisional Council Guides. Many of the age-requirements had been waved, some in deference to Steffen Wallis, Leon’s father, who was now on the Council. Other restrictions had been waved, as inspiration for other young men to join the Junior Guides and follow in Leon’s footsteps.

  He had been given the chance to prove himself worthy to the Remaking, to carve out his place in the Guides, and at only nineteen, he was moving up quickly through the ranks.

  How could he be a sergeant already? Sela wondered. Even under the Remaking, that was insanity!

  Of course, that didn’t give him much more power than the average street-beat Guide had. Still, Sela knew that power was an addicting substance to her loathsome cousin.

  True enough, the Guides had expanded at an unprecedented rate in the past few years. And yet, shelling out power to her manipulative and cruel cousin was an idea that struck terror into Sela’s heart.

  It was enough to make her bones rattle with fear.

  There was a fair amount of information about her cousin, more background history than she knew about him. She had no idea he had been expelled from a private elementary school for “viciously beating” another boy in the cafeteria. Nor was she aware just how high an IQ he had.

  Currently, he was part of a planning task force, part of a group that was designing security for the Conference of the Remaking, which would last two solid weeks. With that many powerful dignitaries, the Guides would be running themselves ragged just keeping up. Other Guides were to be brought in from other North American supercities: Sophion, Montrené, Noykos, and Atlantis.

  Planning down to the last detail was being done, to make sure that any scenario that could happen would have a contingency plan in place.

  What if fifty Council members wanted to go hiking in the outskirts of Megora, beyond the rings of farmland and solar acreage? The Megorans didn’t usually care for a muggy, summer stroll, but there would be plenty visitors from elsewhere in the Remaking world.

  What if the power went out during one of the large-scale events to be held in the Tower of Hope’s largest auditorium? What if Unmakers managed to get into the Tower and take a Councilman hostage?

  What if SoveriegnCast was piped into every screen in the Tower for the whole two weeks straight? Sela thought. She wanted to laugh at the thought, to scorn the Council. She couldn’t.

  The techies would be working triple-time to keep SovereignCast cut off for the duration of the Conference, most likely. Whether they could maintain a firewall that long was another matter.

  Leon would lead a sub-unit in a rapid-response team. They were a group of rough-and-ready Guides trained in Special Weapons and Tactics, and they would be on call for two weeks straight, prepared to swoop down into any drastic situation that arose.

  But Leon was just one of five men, each of them leading a sub-unit of the response team. He was replaceable, in theory. As far as Sela could tell from the data, the mission concerned only Leon and not the other Guides.

  Sela looked through all the data several times, but could not find any information as to what the mission was going to be. Was she going to distract Leon and his team while the Vines made a hostile takeover of the Tower of Hope?

  No, of course not, Sela thought. First off, she wouldn’t do that, since she would be captured immediately. And secondly, the four other response teams would wipe out any hostile threats in the Tower.

  The flash drive was just data about the Conference and Leon. It had nothing about any mission at all.

  Sela hesitated in what she knew she had to do. Hesitated until her eyes settled on the letter from her father, the pain-filled letters scratched by his hand.

  She disconnected the flash drive and swiped her screen over, tapping a finger on Kui before she could hesitate again. The application opened and displayed her contact list. Only a few names were on it, and only one of them was online.

  Now Sela’s hesitation caught up with her. When she logged in Kui automatically showed her as offline, so that people couldn’t tell when she was available to talk. Kui was not something she could use for social calls. Her contacts had no business knowing when she was around and when she wasn’t.

  But then, most people went about things the same way. Sometimes you could text someone who was ‘offline’ and get an immediate response.

  As her finger hesitated over Desmond’s printed name, Sela realized it said he was online at the moment. The dot beside his name glowed green.

  Gritting her teeth, Sela tapped the
name and then typed,

  “We need to talk.”

  “Ok, where?”

  The response came back immediately. Desmond was waiting for her to contact him.

  Good, Sela thought. We’re gonna do this on my terms. But even so, her fingers trembled as she typed.

  “Rail station near Gaines’.”

  “On my way.”

  The green dot blinked red and then lapsed to a faded grey that almost merged with the background color of the menu.

  Sela shut off the tablet and then stood. Her shaking was becoming a problem. She was in this situation now and it wouldn’t be easy to get out of it.

  Even if she ignored the mission and tried to escape, how far could she get? She couldn’t get out of Megora, not with the security networks that roved the outskirts. Not with the Guides on patrol, making sure no one left any of the collective farms.

  And if she stayed in Megora, then there was no doubt, someone would find her eventually. Desmond and the Vines, the Guides, even her father. He would want to know what happened to his daughter.

  After all, he was telling her to do this work for the Vines. He said it was the right thing to do. Sela wondered if it was the right thing to do because it was a means to get out of Megora. Or was it the right thing to do, period? Was there such a thing?

  Right and wrong always struck Sela as clear distinctions. You don’t mistreat people; you don’t steal from them, and you don’t abuse them.

  How did that translate into this circumstance, though?

  Right and wrong were a lot harder to figure out when it’s just yourself you’re thinking of. Right and wrong suddenly become want and don’t want.

  But Sela knew that wanting something didn’t make it truly right. And conversely, not wanting something didn’t make it intrinsically wrong. So how could you have right and wrong in the first place? Where was the foundation?

  Sela sighed and stashed the memory card and the letter under the kitchen tabletop. Then she put the tablet on the charger, and grabbed her purse.

  Something gnawed at her. She dug under the table and retrieved the two folded pages. Looking at them in her hands, she squeezed her lips between her teeth. It was unwise to carry around anything that linked her to Alan Wallis, and still, the script called at her, whispered to be taken. Without another thought, she folded the pages and tucked them into a thin pocket inside her purse.

  Now she had everything she needed.

  The display on her card read half past midnight. This would be a late meeting. Megora had enough graveyard shifts that the curfew was not stringently enforced. The Guides had enough to deal with to bother trying to police that, and the Council also considered curfew of low importance to the Remaking.

  So there’s one choice the people of Megora can make for themselves, Sela mused.

  Changing into a pair of jeans and a spacious grey shirt, Sela looked up and down in the mirror. She didn’t want to look appealing. It didn’t matter what Desmond thought, she grimaced; and she didn’t want any of the lowlifes out there to get any ideas.

  It would be a silly way to get caught by the Guides, to draw attention by shooting her handgun, while she was on her way to accept a mission that, for all she knew, might undermine the Remaking completely.

  Sela pulled all of her hair back and tied it in a pony-tail. It didn’t look nice, and it didn’t need to. Utility and dissuasion. That was all.

  And with that, she left her apartment.

  The platform was empty but for two other people in the distance. A Guide patrolled, his eyes stabbing into the shadows in the corners, looking for anything amiss. In this area, his immaculate uniform stood out against the grungy atmosphere.

  Since so many of the Guides tolerated the black market in this district, much of the other services mandated by the Council were foregone. Since no one ever came to sweep up the trash, it just got kicked out of the way, or stomped into flattened piles under the daily traffic.

  The Guide neared her as she waited.

  Sela hunched her shoulders and tried not to be noticed. She looked at the concrete flooring and focused on her toes. If the Guide so much as glanced at her, she didn't notice.

  He ambled off into the darkness, and then started up a staircase for the next level.

  Sela breathed a sigh of relief. You could never tell when one of the Guides was good or bad, whether they would crack your skull for the letter of the law, much less the spirit. Some of them loved the power trip. Some like Leon.

  Others truly believed in public service and just wanted to maintain safety in Megora, and help those that needed help.

  You just could never tell, though.

  Even as the man's feet disappeared past the ceiling, the distant whoosh of a magtrain echoed down the tunnel. Magtrains didn't use mechanical braking or guidance, and in fact didn't actually touch metal to metal, so there was none of the old squealing, except for a few squeaks between car joints.

  But the displacement of air was significant and that could be heard, signaling arrival and departure. Sela always wondered what it sounded like outside in the tunnel when the cars broke apart and stormed off their separate ways. She guessed it would always be a mystery to her.

  The train slid into view and began to slow as it approached the platform. There weren't many people riding, she could see through the windows. It was still moving too fast to see if any of them were Desmond. She had arrived on a train a few minutes earlier, and this was the first to show up since then.

  The doors parted and a few passengers left the cars, while the other two people on the platform boarded. Sela picked out Desmond now. His clothes were a bit too nice for this area at this time of night. He didn't stand out so much as stand alone in the empty station.

  He saw Sela and started towards her. She noted that pained expression on his face again, even as she kept her feet rooted to the concrete, waiting for him to reach her.

  As he did, she could see that he was not walking with his regular ease. Some sort of stutter was added to his movement, like his joints needed oil. It wasn't terribly noticeable, and she couldn't help but wonder if it was part of another elaborate act.

  "Hi," he said, his voice barely audible over the echoes of the train whooshing back into the darkness of the tunnels.

  Sela licked her lips, not smiling, not letting any expression rise. "Did you bring the Flee collar?"

  "Yeah," he held up a wrist and tugged back the long sleeve. What looked like a watch, and even had a digital screen, had a thicker panel, into which a good engineer could cram the parts necessary to make a Flee collar. They would not be monitored by any nano-swarms tonight.

  "Let's go talk somewhere else," Sela said. Her voice was sharp and she had prepared herself to play her own role here. She was trying to evacuate all emotion from her state of mind and keep her voice even and flat. It only worked so much.

  She turned and led the way toward a nearby stairwell. Desmond followed, although she didn't look back to acknowledge him, not even when he sidled up alongside her, matching her pace with his longer legs.

  At least he knew not to ask where they were going. She would not acknowledge that question if he did ask it.

  Up on the surface level, right across the street, there was a park that was reasonably well-maintained on one side. Some of the more expensive apartments in this district were built a few hundred yards away, and they made sure to keep things clean and organized.

  The park was safe, Sela knew. Or at least it was during the day. Whether that was true at one in the morning… She kept her right hand dangling into her purse, fingertips feathering the warm steel holstered there.

  As they crossed the empty street, Sela noticed another Guide. That was good. A Guide wouldn't bother a pair out at this time of night. He would assume they were headed home after a date, running late accidentally.

  But if there was someone in the park, lurking to prey on anyone out after curfew, he would think twice if a Guide was out and about. Sela did
n't want to ever have to draw the gun.

  Desmond strode along beside her, his face glowing in the moonlight that spilled down into the park, an open valley amidst so many imposing shadows of buildings.

  Windows glowed yellow all around in the city, only a few in each section of each building. An awkward feeling curdled Sela's stomach, as though anyone in the area could watch her meet with this… this Vine. The moonlight was too dim for that.

  Once in the park she spoke, carefully picking her words. "I want to know everything. I want to know more than just what you want me to do. I want to know why. I want to know what you can do to help my parents, and I want to know who went to see them, and I want to know what the final endgame is."

  Desmond listened until the only noise was the sound of their feet on the sidewalk. They strode down a path that cut through grass and hedges that could probably use trimming soon.

  Then he said, "The final endgame is we win and they lose." And then he added, "Freedom."

  She sighed, "Assuming we have the same notion of those words, freedom and winning."

  "I want the people to own their lives, and the government to serve them; not to make a perfect world, but to make a tolerable one." Desmond's voice tightened, and he lowered his volume to a near whisper. "Freedom is when the government stops force and punishes fraud. When people are otherwise left alone to go where they wish, interact however they please." He paused, having spoken to the end of his breath. "If it doesn't pick a pocket or break a leg, the government should keep out of it."

  Sela couldn't watch him as they walked, and didn't want to. That wasn't the endgame she meant. She just wanted to know what the endgame of this particular mission was.

  Instead of clarifying him, she just moved on. They would get to the ultimate endgame. They had to, or else she wouldn't go along with the program.

  One thing she knew for certain; Desmond was not faking what he was committed to. The goal was fine, so far as Sela could tell. The means were her concern.