Inside, it looks much like public transportation does back home, except that it, like the street, is cleaner. Less abused by apathetic people, perhaps, or maybe just newer than what I am accustomed to seeing. No one pays when they board, but before I ask about it, I remember I’m trying not to be seen as an outsider.
The slide is crowded. We are forced to stand, clutching the overhead rails.
“There’s a process to follow,” Ritter says carefully, glancing behind us at Strega.
“Well, when?” I turn so I’m facing them both. Now they both have that caught look. “When can I go home?”
Ritter looks at Strega again. I can’t help noticing how pleading his expression is.
Strega, up until this point a mostly silent presence, gives Ritter a dirty look, meeting my eyes when Ritter won’t. “The thing is, Davinney,” he says slowly, “it could be—” The slide jostles us a little, interrupting him. He waits for me to refresh my grip on the bar before continuing. “Maybe never,” he finishes matter-of-factly. His eyes, however, belie the carelessness of his tone.
He waits for me to react, for his words to sink in. Maybe he’s waiting for me to faint again, I don’t know. But I guess I’m out of the trauma-induced fainting stage, because I just stare back at him in all his awkward helplessness.
Ritter grabs my left hand, the one not clutching the rail, and says vehemently, “We’ll figure something out.”
Strega’s voice goes dark. “Ritter,” he warns.
“We will,” Ritter says firmly. But he’s looking at Strega, not at me. I know what it means. With a look and a word, Strega told Ritter in no uncertain terms that he shouldn’t lie to me, and Ritter answered his warning with another lie.
Strega, nothing if not a gentleman, nudges past Ritter. He faces me squarely, tucking my hair behind my ears which he’s seen me do about a thousand times in holding. Maybe he thinks it will draw heat away from my brain, allowing me to nonchalantly accept that I might be permanently stranded on Concordia. Maybe he’s right. I’m definitely way too calm.
The slide lurches a bit and Strega reaches up with his left hand to grab the bar. His shirt sleeve slides down his arm. He’s got the same—or a similar—silvery, mirrored tattoo. Everyone on Concordia has one, and Ritter doesn’t want anyone to know that I don’t. And now he’s telling me I can’t go home. I wonder if these two things are connected in some way.
Somehow, this is the thought that is too much for me. Tattoos. Out of all the things I could be freaking out over, I am intensely bothered by the tattoos. My mind reels with a million new questions I’m too overwhelmed to ask. There will always be more of them because this is like traveling without the benefit of all the history I’ve learned in school, from books, and from television and movies. Someone threw out the books and the maps, and the history probably doesn’t match my own.
Strega notices as I tug at my collar. It’s hot in here. I want to run and hide, but there’s nowhere to go. There are people everywhere, and I feel like they’re watching me. Like they know I am an intruder. Strega releases the rail again and folds me into himself, into his solid warmth. He has done that a few times since I woke in the glass room, and I wonder if it is considered acceptable medical practice here…the simple comfort of human touch. Usually, it helps. Even when I can’t find the rhythm for combat breathing, I can find Strega’s heartbeat and mine aligns itself to his.
I wonder if all caretakers possess this odd talent or whether it is unique to him. With or without the little silver fingertip disks, he has a sedating effect on me. Swaying with him on the slide, my breathing and my heartbeat begin to slow.
“This is a lot for you,” he says, his voice rumbling against my forehead where it rests against his neck. “For anyone,” he adds, easing me back. He keeps me steady as the slide stops. “Take it as slowly as you need to, Davinney.”
“No,” I shake my head, pulling away when he tries to take my elbow again. Outside, on another sidewalk on another street that looks almost identical to the one we left, I purse my lips and fold my arms across my chest like a three-year-old about to embark on a horrific tantrum. “Tell me!” I demand. “Tell me why I can’t go home.”
A few passersby glance at us curiously. Ritter looks almost panicked as his fingers circle the cuff of my sleeve. He doesn’t have to remind me. I’m well aware he doesn’t want anyone to know.
Unlike Strega, whose eyes are the only reflection of his heart, Ritter’s entire being showcases his every emotion. He is seldom still, and his face is no exception. And right now, from his defeated posture to his dull eyes to the downward turning corners of his mouth, Ritter is etched in misery.
“Because I violated the standard,” he says hollowly. “It’s my fault.”
I press him. “What does that mean?”
“There are only four standards here. Laws,” he corrects when he sees my face. He counts them off on his fingers. “One: Never kill a human. Two: Never kill an animal not specifically sourced for food, except during special times of sanction. Three: Never physically, sexually, or mentally abuse a human or an animal. Four: Never commit any form of theft.”
I am just about to point out that he neither killed me nor abused me when he chokes,
“When I brought you here without your knowledge or permission, I violated the theft standard. I stole you.” He looks pale.
“How does anyone here even know that?”
“I left Concordia alone to sliv on Attero,” Ritter says flatly. “I declared no companions. When I returned with you, the launch automatically reported your presence. You weren’t conscious, so you don’t know that a guardian was dispatched to the launch plate, and as a matter of standard, he collected a sample of your blood for DNA matching. You probably don’t know this, but Attero records the DNA of all live births and has since before any public acknowledgement was ever made of the Human Genome Project. Attero’s database provided a hit, so the Tribunal knows you’re here and where you’re from. And since Attero is a closed world, in the eyes of the Tribunal, that means one of two things. Either you forced me to bring you here, or I stole you.”
“You broke the law and that means I can’t go home?” I ask in disbelief.
Ritter nodded. “It’s the Agreement. It was formed when we first achieved parallel travel. One or more persons from every known, inhabited Earth is chosen to sit on the Tribunal of All. On Attero, the leaders of most of your countries make up your local Tribunal, and they join all of the other local Tribunals as the Tribunal of All.”
“Why—”
He anticipates my question. “Attero is a closed world. Your leaders have elected not to allow slivving—traveling the parallels. They choose not to publicly acknowledge the multiverse, which is why you’ve never heard of the Tribunal.” He pauses to make sure I still follow, so I nod. “Closed worlds don’t allow their citizens to travel to other parallels, but they allow slivvers to visit and learn as long as protocol is followed. If you go back with knowledge of the parallels, Concordia will be in violation of the closed-world Agreement. Attero would most likely respond with an act of war.”
“How would anyone even know?” I ask. “Do they know where I am?”
Ritter shook his head. “Exits aren’t tracked by Attero. Only entrances.”
“Then how would they know it was me?” I ask. “If they don’t know I left, how can they know if I return?”
“Concordia will broadcast our exit. We’d be on the most wanted list before our feet left the launch plate.”
“Couldn’t I just go home and just disappear?”
Ritter is exasperated now. “No, Davinney. Concordia knows. We have your DNA. We report it to Attero at exit from Concordia. When I showed up in Attero, they knew who I was, how long I planned to stay, and exactly how to find me if I overstayed my welcome.” Ritter sighs. “If you sliv back onto Attero, they’ll know you, that you belong to them, where you’ve been, and what you know. We won’t be safe, the people of Concordia. Attero w
ill retaliate.”
If he’s trying to make me feel guilty, it’s working.
“And you wouldn’t be safe again a day in your life, either, however long it lasted,” he added. “Because they’d find you and make sure you could never tell anyone about the parallels. Ever.”
5
WE ARRIVE AT Ritter’s keeping in silence. The word seems colder, not like something that means home. The building echoes that. More glass, punctuated with brick. Except this glass is a bluish tint instead of green. Everything is so similar here, on Concordia. How does everyone stand it? I think of the sea of stucco and tile homes in all of the cities of greater Phoenix and realize my hypocrisy.
We stop in a little alcove, a dipping inward of brick and glass, the architectural monotony unbroken except for a small metal circle resembling a doorbell on the far left. Strega looks at Ritter and then at me.
“If you need anything, Davinney, take slide ten to station eighteen. Ritter can give you the rest of the directions.”
Ritter nods.
Strega stands with us for another moment before he reaches up and touches my forehead with his palm as if feeling for a temperature. But after a brief second, he slides the tips of his index and middle fingers from the center of my forehead to my right temple before lowering his hand. At first I think it’s just caretaker concern, one last check before he leaves his ward on her own. But then he does the same thing to Ritter, and Ritter echoes the gesture before turning back toward the alcove. He passes his tattooed arm over the doorbell-like circle. Just like in holding, the glass rearranges itself into an entryway. Strega backs slowly down the front walk.
My mind is reeling. I still have so many questions, but it’s like they all logjam in my mind to the point where I can’t remember a single thing I want to ask.
“Are you hungry?” Ritter asks.
Hungry? I realize suddenly that I’m famished. I haven’t eaten anything at all since I’ve been here. Patients—wards—are given only nutritionally complete liquids in holding. My mouth aches to chew something.
“Yes,” I say quickly, already salivating a little.
Ritter takes a little bow and days, “Follow me into the servette.”
Servette turns out to be Concordian for kitchen. There is a structure in it that looks like one of those high end refrigerators with the LCD screens that can make shopping lists and menus and can inventory your food. Or at least it does until he punches something in on the screen, pushes a panel, and removes a slender glass tube.
“This is the ScanX, which is our food delivery system,” he tells me, inserting the tube into a receptacle that pops out. “Type your first name in there,” he points to the screen.
I do as he says, and the machine creates a profile for me. Ritter points at our feet. I’m standing on a black grate, but instead of the one in the bathroom that produced a current of air, this one is apparently a scale.
Ritter directs me to blow into the fresh tube he just inserted into the mechanism.
“This ScanX model can store up to ten profiles, each with its own tube. When you finish blowing into it, the tube retracts into the ScanX, where it’s sterilized before the next use.”
Again with the breath analysis, I think, though I comply.
After a few seconds a message appears on the screen which reads: You are 15.8 pounds over your ideal weight. You are gluten and nightshade sensitive. You have low iron. Stand by for your list of today’s acceptable in-stock foods…
The screen fills with a list that I can scroll through. There are ten total screens. When I choose an apple and a serving of cheddar cheese, the rest of the choices disappear and a compartment slides open, spitting out two sealed containers. Ritter grabs them, pops them open, places my apple and cheese on a plate, and sets the empty boxes back in the compartment. The panel slides closed and I hear the sound of a vacuum. I think of those round containers at the bank drive-thru which shuttle money back and forth to people in cars.
“Is this thing serious?” I point to the machine accusingly. A refrigerator, I think, with an overinflated sense of importance.
“It allows you to choose just what your body needs,” Ritter replies, pausing to breathe into his own tube. He spends another couple of minutes choosing his food while explaining the magic of the ScanX, finishing with, “Picture the biggest cafeteria you’ve ever seen, with food constantly being prepared and rotating out. You order, the folks in cookery gather it up, they put it in the production slides, and…” The compartment slides open again, and out pops a box containing a hot meal that looks every bit like steak, broccoli in butter sauce, and mashed potatoes.
Incredible.
The people of Concordia also take their meals sitting down, and I sit across from him eating my apple and cheese and glaring at his steaming, fragrant plate. He is oblivious to my irritation until I begin slicing my apple in short, sharp movements, slamming the knife down when I finish.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, shoveling in another forkful of his mouthwatering dinner.
“Does that thing dictate everything you put in your mouth?”
“Yes. Why?”
“What if you want something that isn’t listed?”
“Why would you want to eat something that isn’t compatible with your body chemistry?” he asks, perplexed.
“Because I can decide for myself what I want. Just because I chose this,” I gesture at my scant apple and cheese, “doesn’t mean it’s what I really wanted.”
“You should have chosen something else, then,” Ritter answers, clearly not understanding my irritation.
“This was the best option it gave me!” I cried, biting down hard on a wedge of apple. “Why can’t I have what you’re having?”
He blinks. “Because potatoes are a nightshade, and it said you’re sensitive. You could have had the broccoli. The steak was probably pulled from your options because of the high calorie replacement liquids you had in holding today.”
I continue to gripe until Ritter is almost finished.
“Why do you want to go against the ScanX? I mean, there are a lot of things in life that aren’t fair and don’t make sense, but you’re choosing to fight against proper nutrition?”
“I’m old enough to decide for myself what to eat!”
“But you’re not,” he shakes his head. “I’ve been to Attero, remember? People are fat. So fat they sometimes can’t walk. They ride around in little motor carts so they don’t have to walk. Some of them have to lug around canisters of extra air just so they can breathe. Some are missing legs or arms. Some can’t see. Some even have to poop in bags outside their own bodies because their intestines don’t work anymore.”
“Ritter, we’re eating,” I put a hand up in what I hope is an inter-dimensional sign for stop. “That’s gross,” I snap.
I look down at what is left of my apple and cheese and feel sick at the truth in his words. Not everyone is like that. He’s describing some people in America, sure enough. And maybe some other parts of the world. But not everyone is sick, and surely it isn’t all from food.
Ritter shakes his head again. “There are things that are wrong here, just like anywhere. But the ScanX is right. We’re all different shapes and sizes, but very few here are overweight and even fewer are unhealthy. Some people are sick, of course, but not from food. If they’re missing parts of their bodies it’s usually from an accident or from a genetic disorder we haven’t found a cure for yet.”
“But on Earth, my Earth,” I shoot back around the last wedge of apple, “We’re free. We make our own decisions. We may live or die by them, but at least we get to decide.”
“You die so early, though,” Ritter says, wiping his mouth. “You don’t have to. Here, since the ScanX, people who have been raised entirely by breath chemistry are living well into their hundreds. You retire on Attero somewhere between sixty and seventy. Here, people work happily into their late nineties and beyond!”
I roll my eyes and eat my last c
ube of cheese. Ritter’s plate is empty, but he’s waiting for me to finish before leaving the table. I think about what he said. I don’t want to admit he’s right, but it’s hard to argue with those statistics. At home, they’re starting to talk about imposing taxes or other penalties on junk food. But where do you draw the line between acting in the public’s best interest and as a police state? And this is only food we’re talking about. What else does Concordia use technology to control?
I don’t continue the argument, keeping those thoughts to myself. Despite having sat around asking Strega questions for most of the day, I am tired enough that my eyes feel gritty and my head, foggy.
Ritter stacks my plate on his and picks up the knife I’d used on my apple and cheese. I stand awkwardly in the entrance to the servette while he washes them, not knowing what else to do with myself.
He shows me the rest of his keeping. It’s not unlike any other house. It has a living room with a sofa and two chairs. He shows me the viewer, which is like television except that, like the BAU results, it projects right onto the glass wall. He’s got an office with a computer where, again, the monitor is a projection on glass. There’s a keyboard, though, and a mouse, so it is otherwise familiar. He shows me the bedrooms, which he refers to as units. There are two.
“I thought a room was a hold,” I say.
“Only in holding,” he grins. He yawns and promises to show me everything in detail tomorrow. “But, for now, I’d better show you the cleanse.”
“You already did,” I reply. Or he’d pointed toward it as we moved into the dining room with our food, anyway.
“Not the MedQuick,” he says.
I see another plastic encased tube come out and roll my eyes. “More breath chemistry?”
Assimilation (Concordia Series Book 1) Page 5
