“Strega Bocek,” he says. Not for the first time, I’m irritated rather than placated by the utter calm of his voice. This time it’s because it reminds me of Janat, and I tamp down the urge to turn and shake him. Instead, I remind myself that Strega is terrified for Ritter’s outcome. I remember hearing it briefly in his voice the night he came to Ritter’s keeping to yell at him about the fact that he took Linney’s scrier to meet their parents.
“And on what basis do you stand for Ritter Boone?”
“In all manners,” Strega answers thickly. “Most obvious to outsiders would be the fact that he was adopted into my family at the age of ten, after his parents died in a slide accident. He is my brother by heart and by standard, if not by blood. But most pertinently, I stand for him on the basis that I’m the first person he contacted when he realized what he’d done.”
“Continue,” Danig Magnas speaks for the first time after long moments pass with nothing further from Janat or Strega.
“I have my logger,” Strega says, and I hear rustling as, I assume, he pulls it from his pocket. “If you will allow it, I’ll play the log of his call to me.”
Janat, Millick, and Danig look at one another. By some unspoken sign, they’ve agreed, for Janat says, “We’ll allow it.”
Strega calls up the playback feature, and Ritter’s voice bursts into the room in frantic gasps.
“Strega, some — something’s happened. I need you to come to the launch.”
“Which plate?”
“Seven three three four.”
“What’s happened?” Just the plate number causes a change in Strega’s voice. Apparently, the others in the back of the room also recognize it, for there’s some shifting and murmuring.
“There’s a girl with me, and she’s hurt. Her head. She — I think she might be ending.” A strangled sound pierces the line.
“I’m coming.”
“I didn’t mean to do it,” Ritter’s voice is anguished. Anyone with ears can hear that. “I don’t know what went wrong…”
The only sound in the room is the tone that signals the end of the saved log.
“And what did you encounter when you arrived at the launch?” Janat asks.
“I found Ritter beside Davinney. She was lying unconscious on the launch plate with her head resting on the plate’s lip. There was blood on the lip and the plate, coming from a gash across her left temple. A BAU exam was inconclusive, as her breathing was irregular, but her color was poor and her pulse thready. Given the amount of blood visible on the launch plate, I determined the matter was urgent and used the launch to transport us to the urgency plate in holding.”
“And what did you verify her condition to be?”
“In simple rather than caretaker terms, she fractured the bone at her left temple and was bleeding into her brain. I performed immediate surgery to stop the bleeding and administered powerful anti-inflammatory mixtures to prevent excessive pressure inside her skull. A combination of the injury itself and the protocol of treatment left her comatose for seven days. Upon awakening, she discovered her predicament and, given her compromised health, went into shock. She remained in emotional distress for five days, at which point she stabilized and was released from holding two days later. As per the standard, I released her into Ritter’s custody to await Tribunal.”
“In your functional opinion, what is the prognosis in regard to Davinney Keith’s injuries?”
“Her breath chemistry and other measures indicate no lasting damage. Her injuries were addressed appropriately and in a timely manner because of Ritter’s prompt logging. His urgency was, in my functional opinion, largely responsible for her medical outcome.”
Strega waits for further questions, but none arise. A BAU descends for him, too. Ever trusting of breath chemistry, he breathes and cranes his neck to view his own results.
“Let the record show that Strega Bocek has spoken the truth,” Danig intones blandly.
“If that is all, you may return to your seat,” Janat gestures. To the room, she says, “If there’s anyone else with firsthand information, please step forward. Otherwise, please be seated.”
There’s a shuffling at the back of the room. Janat’s cold eyes rove from left to right slowly. “Very well,” she says. “Davinney Keith, have you anything further to say to the Tribunal of All?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Ritter Boone, have you anything further to say to the Tribunal of All?”
Ritter’s voice is rusty like an old gate. “No.”
We are each, in turn, asked to submit to a final BAU exam. We are again deemed truthful.
After the back of the room grows quiet, the woman from the glass desk in the lobby appears at my side. “Come,” she says, already walking, taking it for granted that I will do as she says.
I do. There’s nowhere to run. I study her from behind. Her posture is impossibly perfect. She is short and slender but something about her suggests that if I were to reach out and grab her shiny dark hair, she’d shatter the bones in my forearm without apology.
She leads me past the spectators, back out the double doors and to the right, down the hall that was visible from the lobby’s curved glass station. A meld I hadn’t noticed opens to a very white, very sedate room. There are no floor tiles to count, no defects of any kind on the walls or ceilings. Just endless white, seamless and without stimuli. Panic claws at me as I step hesitantly over the threshold. “Wait here while the Tribunal decides your outcome,” she says flatly, turning on her heel to leave.
“How long will it take?” I ask, staring at her back.
She turns to face me. It feels like her eyes touch my stomach. Acid rises to my throat. “However long it takes,” she replies. I ask her for some water. I left mine on the platform, right on the floor since there was no table. She doesn’t turn back or give any indication she’s heard me.
I have no concept of how long I’ve been in the room, but it’s long enough that I grow tired of standing and sit down on the floor with my back to the wall opposite the meld, knees to my chest and my head down on my crossed arms. I do my combat breathing and try not to think about the fact that this room is, with the exception of the meld, the death room from my childhood. No windows. No way out unless they come for me.
The woman doesn’t bring me water. I tell myself it is a good sign. They wouldn’t keep me here long enough for me to die of thirst, I’m sure. Otherwise, why bother with a Tribunal at all?
If the wait feels interminable to me, Ritter must be half out of his mind. I, at least, will be allowed the opportunity to assimilate as an alternative to Disposal. All he has is the decision of the majority of 11,435 people. I try to imagine how he must be feeling, wondering if he will end the day launched to a lawless planet where an estimated eighty percent of the population would kill him without blinking just because they want to and they can.
He’s pacing, I’m sure of it. No longer suppressing himself for the benefit of the Tribunal, he’ll be too anxious to sit still. There are no sounds in my room and nothing to look at, and if it is the same for him, he’ll be in dire need of moodleveler by the time the meld opens.
Losing concern for myself either immediately summons the woman back to my room or merely distracts me until she returns. Either way, she’s standing in the meldway, beckoning to me.
“The Tribunal has decided,” she says unnecessarily.
Ritter is already on the platform. I wonder how long they made him stand there waiting for me, for word of his outcome. The Tribunal seemed cold to me before, but now they seem ruthless as well, putting us in those sterile, white, endless rooms with nothing but our own thoughts and fears.
I feel like a traitor and a coward, but I can’t look at him. I don’t need to look to feel him beside me. Energy spills off him in waves — all the energy he contains as well as the energy he expends standing perfectly still. His fate is already sealed, and I can’t bear to look at him as it is delivered.
J
anat only confirms my impression of the Tribunal by starting with me instead of Ritter, further prolonging his agony.
“Davinney Keith.” Her eyes betray nothing. “The Tribunal of All recognizes that you have been violated. You have been irreparably harmed, removed from your home environment and everything and everyone familiar to you. After much deliberation with the members of Attero’s local Tribunal, the Tribunal of All has further determined that in accordance with the Agreement, you may not return to Attero, a closed world. You are formally tasked with assimilating fully into Concordian society within the standard sixty day period. You will appear before the Tribunal of All approximately sixty days from the start date established by your Assimilation facilitator, who will present your factors. If by a show of factors you fail to assimilate, you will face immediate Disposal.”
I had already been warned by Strega and Ritter about Assimilation, but neither mentioned Disposal as a consequence. I wonder whether Strega knew, too, or whether he’d forgotten. Another stab of pain to add to all the pain I’m already feeling.
I think again of my conversation with Mina, how she’d discovered her own Assimilation was different from that of a girl who’d assimilated one year prior. Did she know I’d face Disposal?
Because I’d been warned, there is no reason I should feel shocked or surprised, but my chest and my throat do not agree. I feel like two people have placed a metal band around me and are pulling in opposite directions, tightening the band.
“Davinney Keith, do you understand this outcome?”
“No,” I force the word through my narrowed throat. “I will never understand being kept from my home when it isn’t physically impossible for me to go there.” Cries ring out from the back of the room even as my voice rises. “But,” I continue firmly, “I accept it.”
Silence falls. I am afraid I’ve said something wrong, that Ritter’s fate was not actually decided yet, that maybe I’d been tricked into believing it was so they could gauge my final response and use it to sentence him.
Millick and Danig are stoic beside Janat. They say nothing, which bothers me. Janat continues to mostly run the show. I am tired of her and her placid face and her small, emotionless eyes.
“Very well,” Janat replies after a few more drawn out moments. “Davinney Keith, the Tribunal of All understands that you have been wronged by Ritter Boone’s actions. It also fully understands that you may feel further wronged by the outcome we have discussed. Specifically, in addition to being unwilling to break the closed world Agreement, the Tribunal of All insists that you assimilate, not only embracing Concordia but prospering here and contributing to the benefit of all. Would you find these assessments accurate?”
I don’t know why they bother to ask since it changes nothing. “I would and I do,” I reply.
Again, soft cries ring out from behind me. My knees go weak. Ritter’s stillness beside me is excruciating. I can’t even hear him breathing.
“There are standards in Concordia society which pertain only to the assimilated,” Janat says. “Assimilated persons may not travel the parallels. To allow them to do so would be a flight risk, as it has been prior established that they might attempt to bypass the Agreement by slivving to an open world and then launching from that world to their closed world. Under the local Tribunal eligibility standard, assimilated persons are prohibited from seeking appointment to the Tribunal. Do you understand these additional standards?”
“I do,” I say, trying to match her void expression with one of my own.
This time there is no response behind me.
“Davinney Keith, Assimilation may feel like a punishment, but it is intended to assist you in coming to terms with your outcome. Toward that end, in recognition of the violation you have sustained, the Tribunal of All lastly determines that if you successfully assimilate, for the remainder of your lifetime and for the lifetimes of your first two generations of offspring, regardless of function level or ability to function, you will receive a minimum of level seven housing and level six luxury allotment.”
I don’t know what that means, exactly, but Ritter had told me I would live comfortably here, regardless of my function.
Janat clearly doesn’t expect an answer from me, for she finally, finally turns toward Ritter.
“Ritter Boone,” she says, folding her hands in front of her, “it is the finding of the Tribunal of All that you have violated the theft standard with—” The back of the room erupts into sounds of dismay. I am not sure I haven’t joined them or whether my utterances are only in my head, but I see Janat’s hands lift, and I freeze. “You have violated the theft standard without intent. Although the standards as written recognize no difference in consequence in regard to intent, the Tribunal of All serves to objectively review all violations and to determine outcomes based upon a general consensus. Do you understand what this means, Ritter Boone?”
His words are rusty, his voice unused for hours or perhaps overused in the white room to scream and wail and plead with unseen forces. “I do.”
“Very well,” Janat replies. “The Tribunal of All recognizes that the theft of Davinney Keith from the closed world Attero was unintentional and deeply regrettable. At this time, it does not feel that Disposal would be an appropriate consequence. If you should violate any standard over the course of the twelve new-month period, you will face immediate Disposal without the benefit of Tribunal. Do you understand this outcome, Ritter Boone?”
“Yes,” he says, and his relief seems to course through me, too, doubling my own.
“In addition, if Davinney Keith should fail to assimilate, you and she will face the same possibility of immediate Disposal. Do you understand this outcome as well?”
“Yes,” he repeats.
My relief gives way to renewed fear. It is not over after all. Not only does my life hang in the balance if I fail to assimilate, but Ritter’s does, too.
11
IT DOESN’T MATTER that I knew the probable outcome since my arrival on Concordia. I am feeling numb, but I suspect the world will come crashing down on me later. Strega waits while Ritter and I are led away to different rooms to process out. As I trail behind my guide, I see him sit down in the lobby in a row of chairs I hadn’t noticed when we arrived.
I am taken back to what I am now calling the white death room, but I barely have time to sit down against the wall before the door opens and a serious looking woman with a dirty blonde, angled bob enters the room. She’s not quite beautiful, but she’s close. Something desolate in her eyes keeps her from beauty, at least by Attero’s standards.
“My name is Lyder Vale,” she says, stretching a hand out. I’m not sure whether she intends to shake my hand or whether she’s offering me help in rising. “I’ll be your Assimilation facilitator.”
I stand without her assistance, but her hand is still out so I shake it, which satisfies her.
She passes me a black zippered folder. Her words are clipped and flat and remind me so much of Janat’s that I want to punch her. “You are to review everything contained in this folder prior to our next meeting, the date and time of which is listed inside on my function plate. You will meet the current class of candidates and will receive your Idix at that time. Do you understand these instructions?”
“Yes.”
“You are now placed in Ritter Boone’s custody until such time as you have completed Assimilation and have received your Tribunal awarded keeping. Follow me to the exit.”
I don’t need her to show me, but I follow. Something tells me I don’t want to disregard anything she has to say.
I don’t study the contents of the portfolio except to check the date and time of my next meeting with Lyder. It is two weeks away. Lyder catches me looking and says stiffly,
“Grieving time.”
“What?”
“You’re wondering why Assimilation doesn’t start for two weeks,” she says emotionlessly. “The answer is grieving time. I will see you in two weeks.”
Strega rises when he sees me. There’s turmoil in his eyes, but his voice is steady as always. “Ritter will be another few minutes.” He studies my face. I stare at the place between his collarbones. “How are you feeling, Davinney?”
“I’m fine,” I say mechanically.
Ritter’s face, when he sees me, is a paradoxical mixture of giddiness and sympathy. He thinks the better of saying anything to me.
Strega and Ritter talk on the slide. Meaningless chatter, mostly, from the bits and pieces I catch. I stare straight ahead and try not to feel anything. Because it’s really over now, and the answer is no. I can’t go home. Being warned beforehand, no matter how strongly, hadn’t killed the little seed of hope I carried with me. And now it’s black and shriveled inside me.
Knowing that I must go on, must perform like a trained poodle for the Tribunal and assimilate like a good girl or risk not just my own Disposal, but Ritter’s, too, is a weight I wasn’t prepared to carry. It crushes me as I follow them from slide to slide until we’re…home.
I have to start seeing Ritter’s keeping as home. I have to. Too much depends on it. Yet I can’t fight back this silent grey weight of apathy.
We humans are pleasure seekers. We will strain and strive for the proverbial carrot, if the carrot is something we really want. But maybe I don’t want the carrot. Maybe I really, really want a bucket of French fries, instead. Nightshades. Nightshades that the stupid ScanX won’t let me have, no different from the home and family the Tribunal won’t let me have.
I can breathe and breathe and strive and strain, but that nightshade carrot will never appear.
When we arrive back at Ritter’s keeping, it is early evening, but late enough that neither Strega nor Ritter find reason to object when I tell them I’m going to sleep, that even with the sleepbringer I had trouble resting last night. Ritter tentatively squeezes my shoulder. Strega tips my chin with his fingers until I manage to meet his eyes for a few moments. Though he frowns, he says nothing. He swipes my forehead. I don’t stick around to see whether he reacts to the fact that I don’t swipe back.
Assimilation (Concordia Series Book 1) Page 14
