“Don’t be stupid,” he snaps, sounding remarkably like Dr. Ronan for a moment. “If you’d done that, she still would never have laid eyes on that baby, and she’d have been forced into continued surrogacy, into a cycle of bearing babies she’d never get to hold. Leaving her was never a real choice. Don’t confuse sentimental, false choices with reality. It’s stupid and dangerous.”
His brusqueness makes me feel a tiny bit better. “Thank you, I think.”
His face relaxes into its usual gentle lines. “You did what you could, Everly. That’s all any of us can do. You saved her life and she’ll be grateful for that one day, even if she can’t see past being separated from that baby for now.” He grips my shoulder. “Stay away from her for a couple of days. She’ll come around.”
I thank him again. As a doctor, he knows more than most about DNA and the DNA registry, I suspect. Walking toward the main room beside him, I ask, “Hypothetically, can you think of any way that someone’s parents’ DNA would not be registered in the DNA database?”
He gives me a curious look. “Why?”
“Just asking.” I shrug, knowing he’s not fooled for a moment.
He gives it some thought. “Off the top of my head, I’d say it was probably more likely that someone removed the records than that they were never there.”
That possibility hadn’t occurred to me. “Is that possible?”
He shrugs. “Difficult, but for someone with the right access, not impossible. Do you want to tell me why you’re asking?”
I shake my head, trying to process what he’s told me. “Not yet. Maybe someday.”
He lets it go and I feel a surge of affection for him. “Thanks,” I say.
Dinner that night is subdued. Halla stays in her room with a tray. Fiere delivers it. When she returns, holding a peach-colored mug, she says, “You look like you could use some tea. I made a pot for Halla. Do you want some?”
“Thanks, Fiere.” I accept the warm mug gratefully, and sip the precious brew slowly. It’s got a wonderful golden-green color and gentle aroma. I know better than to ask how she got hold of rare tea leaves. We didn’t even grow tea trees at the Kube dome because other crops were more necessary. She watches me until I finish the tea, and then takes the mug away.
“You’re growing very domestic, Fiere,” Idris says, observing us. She gives him the finger as she returns to the kitchen.
I wake with cramping that night, and when I get my period four days later, I know what Fiere did. I confront her in the ballroom when we’re training. She’s recovered remarkably quickly from her spleen removal. Alexander warned her not to resume hard training yet, but she replied that sparring with me wasn’t any more debilitating than the daily walks he wanted her to take.
“The tea,” I say, as we circle in a half-crouch, each of us looking for an advantage. She’s got a single-stick and I’ve got a broom handle. I’m supposed to be learning to fight with whatever objects come to hand. “You put a pill in the tea, didn’t you?”
One brow quirks up, like she’s surprised I figured it out. “You’re not meant to be a surrogate, Everly.”
“That was my decision to make, not yours.”
She strikes a sharp blow with the single-stick. Bracing the length of wood between my hands, I raise it to ward off the hit. “You’re getting faster,” she mutters.
“You slipped me that pill without my permission. You messed with my body. That’s what the government does at the RESCOs—uses our bodies for their purposes, decides what’s best for the country, and to hell with the individual’s wants or needs. You set yourself up as wanting to help women, wanting to give them choices, but you’re no better than the government. You took my choice away.”
She goes white with fury and jabs and swings the single-stick in a series of quick moves. I meet each one with my broom handle and push her back on the last blow with a powerful upward shove of the broomstick.
“It was for your own well-being,” she says, panting a bit. She hasn’t regained her stamina since the surgery.
“You don’t get to decide that.” My own anger rises. “I am the only one who gets to decide what’s best for me, what happens with my body. Not the government”—push with the broomstick—“not you”—swing at her head—“not anyone. Me.” I lower the broomstick slightly, hoping she’ll go for the opening. She takes the bait. I sidestep and drop low, ducking her thrust, and, holding one end of the broomstick with both hands, stab it between her legs, sweeping up. I catch her slightly off-balance, and her leg flies up. She lands on her back, hard. The single-stick skitters across the floor and thuds against the wall.
She doesn’t try to get up or retaliate, just lies there, staring up at me, which I take for a Fiere-ish sort of apology. Throwing the broomstick down, I walk out.
Chapter Twenty Six
A week passes and Halla doesn’t relent. When she’s out of bed and feeling better, she avoids me, avoids all of us, really. The only one who can talk to her is Fiere, who is unexpectedly patient and gentle with her. I suspect she tolerates Fiere because Fiere has been there, sort of. She doesn’t mention trying to see Loudon, although I know she hasn’t forgotten him because she mutters his name in her sleep. Saben’s away on a mission and I miss him, although it’s easier to act normal with Wyck with Saben gone. I feel bad that my thoughts so often stray to Saben when I’m with Wyck and I try to be extra-affectionate with him to compensate. I continue my training, sometimes with Fiere (who never refers to our conversation and fight), sometimes with Saben, and occasionally with other Bulrush agents. Wyck trains with us most of the time now and he’s far better than I am. It’s ironic that he ran away from the Kube to avoid military service when it’s becoming clearer and clearer that he has unusual aptitude for weapons and fighting. When I suggest it’s time for us to pick an outpost and plan for our departure so we’re ready when Halla’s able to travel, he mutters that Cas is dealing with something and can’t leave yet.
“We don’t need Cas.” I’m not even sure I want Cas along.
Wyck stiffens. “He’s my friend, just like you and Halla are my friends. I’m not leaving without him.”
We’re slumped against the ballroom wall after a tough training session and I’m still, watching his profile. “You grew up with me and Halla—we’ve known each other for a decade. You’ve known Cas for less than a month.” I try to keep my tone non-accusatory, but I’m hurt by his attitude.
“Friendship isn’t about how long you’ve known someone,” he says. “Sometimes it grows over time, and sometimes it’s just there, like a gift. I’m certainly not friends with everyone at the Kube, just because I’ve known them for years. I don’t care if I never see half of them again.” He tacks a laugh onto the end of that statement, but I ignore it, zeroing in on an earlier phrase.
“You think of your friendship with Cas as a gift.” He makes a show of stretching his muscles, leaning forward over his legs so I can’t see his face, but I’ve known Wyck for a long time. “I see.” I think I see. His affection for Cas explains his lack of passion for me. The kiss in the swamp was—what? The by-product of fear or relief, the uncertainty of surviving the day. It wasn’t, as I thought at the time, a declaration of deeper feelings for each other. I suspect I know why he’s ducked my kisses, why he hasn’t pressed for greater intimacy. The memory of Saben’s kisses makes me wonder if I’m not a bit relieved.
He turns his head, hands still gripping his ankles, and says sadly, “You see more than I do, Ev. Nothing is clear to me right now. I don’t know—I’m confused. I care about you. I want to go to an outpost with you. I just want Cas to come, too. Halla can’t leave yet, anyway. Why can’t we wait a few more days before making plans?”
“Sure,” I say. “Sure. We can wait.”
Two women come through and I help ferry one of them, young and pregnant, to a station master with Fiere. The hand-off goes smoothly and the girl clings to me, thanking me over and over again, before continuing on her long jour
ney to an outpost. I have to admit it’s a rush, and, after seeing a RESCO up close and Halla’s torment, I get satisfaction from helping this girl avoid that fate. I don’t know how these girls and women find Bulrush, and no one’s sharing that secret with me yet. I’m still very much on the periphery of the organization, I can tell, even though they seem to trust me more since the RESCO.
After the mission, near midnight, Alexander takes me to his office, the one with the computer. My eyes linger on it as he gestures me to a comfortable padded chair upholstered in worn green velvet, and seats himself in a rocking chair. He rocks gently as we talk, the chair emitting a sighing squuh with every backward rock. He’s got a glass of the milky liquid and offers me a drink from one of the bottles arranged on an antique buffet behind him.
“Aunt Lorraine kept a well-stocked cellar,” he says when I get up to examine the bottles.
“I’m surprised they weren’t looted during the Between.”
Alexander swirls the liquid in his glass so it coats the sides. “Since she ran an illegal business, Auntie had secret panels installed where her girls could hide if the place got raided. Closets behind closets, if you will. The same man who put in the panels walled off a section of the original basement for secret storage.”
“I hope she didn’t entomb him down there to keep the secret.”
“Like the pharaohs with the pyramids, you mean?” He smiles.
I nod.
“No, I’m pretty sure she paid him a handsome fee and relied on his trustworthiness. Auntie was a good judge of character. So am I.”
I pour a half-inch of amber liquid because I like the heavy glass bottle. Burying my nose in the glass, I inhale the aroma of caramelized peaches and alcohol, looking at Alexander over the rim.
“I want you to stay with Bulrush, Everly,” he says as I take a small sip.
I cough, either from the searing jolt of the alcohol against my palate, or from his statement.
He suppresses a smile. “You’re passionate, smart and resourceful. Your time at the RESCO has given you—I hope—some compassion for the women we try to serve. Saben and Fiere speak well of your fighting and your situational awareness on missions. They both said they’d trust you to watch their backs under fire.” Correctly interpreting my look, he says, “Yes, Fiere, too.
“We don’t recruit a lot of people. For obvious reasons, we keep our cadre as small as possible, but we’ve suffered losses recently. If you want to join us, you’d stay here for some months, learning the operation. Then, maybe we’d move you to a station, or keep you here, depending.”
I wonder if the traitorous station master is the only loss, or if there are more I’m not aware of. Probably that. Did they lose anyone rescuing me and Halla? I’m ashamed that I haven’t thought to ask that before. I ask now.
“No. One man nearly lost his leg when he crashed his scooter evading the IPF, but a comrade took him aboard and he’s going to be okay. He may limp.”
“What about Wyck and Halla?”
Alexander sets his glass down. “We still plan to help Halla move on. If her Loudon wants to go with her, we can help him, too. I don’t think she’s cut out for what we do, however, if that’s what you’re suggesting. As for Wyck—we’re still evaluating him. He’s certainly got useful skills, but . . .”
I don’t try to make him finish the sentence. I don’t want to hear anything negative about Wyck.
“This is a decision you need to make on your own, without regard to Halla and Wyck. I understand they’re your friends and you are loyal to them. You fulfilled your promise to Halla by getting her to Atlanta, and you went above and beyond by getting her out of the RESCO, even if she doesn’t yet see it that way. As for Wyck—” He repeats the phrase and hesitates, as if choosing his words carefully. “You’re sixteen. You’ve known each other a long time and you’ve been through a lot together recently. There’s room for a lot of growing yet.”
I’m not sure what’s he’s trying to say, and I don’t ask. All I know is I care about Wyck. He’s important to me. The thought of remaining in Atlanta without him is painful.
I swallow the rest of my drink, enjoying the warm burn down my esophagus. “Can I ask how you got involved in Bulrush, how it got started?”
I can see him weighing his options. Finally, he says in a low voice, “The first thing you’ve got to understand is that the Between was a horrible time. Horror beyond anything you can possibly imagine. I was a brand-new MD when the new strain of flu appeared. My diploma wasn’t even framed yet. I was doctoring in Minnesota, what’s now part of the Ontario Canton. The cases started to pile up, the mortality rate was on a par with the most virulent strains of Ebola—in the high 70s. Unheard of. The CDC and the military got involved. There was talk that the strain had originated in North Korea, speculation that it was a bio-weapon. You’d think the country that came up with it must also have formulated a vaccine. If so, the flu had the last laugh on its creator, because there wasn’t a single country on the planet unaffected. My patients fell dead around me. Mothers were so sure their babies would die that they didn't name them. I felt so utterly damn useless. I was of no more help to my patients than an accountant would have been, or a pastry chef. Useless.”
He faces away, studying the wallpaper with its blowsy roses still surprisingly pink, twined around faded brown trellises. He regains control and turned back to me. His forefinger taps his glass relentlessly.
“I can remember, back when there were TV broadcasts and everyone got their news on the internet, seeing photos of the bodies piled up outside towns by the thousands, tens of thousands. Bulldozers and excavators working round the clock, digging mass graves and shoveling the bodies in. No ritual, no prayer, just—disposal.” He gets up, pours himself a healthy dose from a squat bottle, and returns to his rocking chair. He takes a long swallow and then puts a fist to his chest. “By the time the second wave hit, the most devastating one, there was no one left alive to bury the dead. The bodies rotted where they lay. Then came the rats. Oh, my God, the rats. You can learn about it in a history class, but you can’t understand it, can’t feel it, unless you were there.”
I keep silent, feeling small.
“Several states declared they were seceding, thinking that if they sealed their borders, they could stop the flu. They planted mines, destroyed bridges and highways. It didn’t work, of course; it was too late. Even before the locusts and the famine, all kinds of crime and looting were rampant. There was no government, no law enforcement. It was every man for himself. Outlaw gangs formed; stores, homes and corpses were looted. Survivors protected themselves as best they could with guns and homemade weapons, by hiding. Factories and farms stopped producing because there weren’t enough workers to man them. The country had no manufacturing, no central government, virtually no infrastructure. Then came the locusts. I had thought things were as bad as they could get, but by God I was wrong.”
Alexander falls silent. I am hugging my knees to my chest with my feet on the chair, and I try to resume a more normal posture. He stares into his glass as if hoping to see the future in the amber liquid.
“Enough about that. Fast forward ten years. Huh, you don’t even know what that means. There used to be movie viewing devices—never mind. Suffice it to say that when the Pragmatists began to consolidate power ten years later, raised a military capable of subduing the scavengers and looters and securing our borders, it was a huge relief to everyone. We brought order, developed the domes so people could eat, began to rebuild the infrastructure and regain some manufacturing capabilities.”
“You were a Pragmatist?”
“Oh, yes. In on the ground floor. A founder of the movement. My wife and I, Oliver Fonner, Fabienne Dubonnet, twenty or so others. I was proud of the work we did in the early days.”
I’m startled by his reference to Proctor Fonner and the Premier. “And then?”
“Then, once there was stability, we began to talk about ways of rebuilding the population. You
’ve seen the result. Suffice it to say, I didn’t agree with the establishment of the RESCOs, with government licensing of reproduction. I argued against it. I lost. I left the movement, went into hiding a few steps ahead of assassination, I’m pretty sure.”
My eyes round. “Really? They would have killed you?”
“Oh, yes.” He says it without drama, accepting the obvious. “I fell into a bottle for a couple of years”—he hoists his glass with an ironic twist of his lips—“and took myself off the grid in the northern wilderness for another five. When I came back, Bulrush just happened. There was a pregnant girl . . . you don’t need the details. Turns out I wasn’t the only one against the reproduction laws and the RESCOs. There were others. Despite the government’s best efforts to squash us, Bulrush is still here, still effective. And now there’s you.” He shoots me an enquiring look.
I feel clubbed by his story, dazed. “Can I think about it?”
“You must. There’s no hurry, my dear. Take your time.” He checks his watch and levers himself out of the chair. Steadying himself, he moves toward the computer. “You’ll have to excuse me now.” He powers up the device and I assume he’s making pre-arranged contact with someone.
I’m dying to know what he uses the computer for, who he’s in contact with, but I obediently leave, shutting the door quietly behind me. I’ve got a lot to think about, what with Alexander’s story and his offer. What happened to his wife? Did she die? It all keeps me awake until the small hours, when the station master visits me in my dreams again, rasping accusations through the hole in his throat.
I don’t tell anyone, not even Wyck, about the DNA report or Alexander’s offer. I don’t know what to make of the report, don’t know what my next step should be. I’m at a dead end when it comes to finding my parents. As for my sibling . . . I don’t know if I want to find him or her. Part of me is naturally curious, but part of me thinks it would be presumptuous of me to invade my sibling’s life, especially when I find out I’m a wanted woman two days after Alexander’s offer. Saben brings that news after a meeting with an IPF contact. Apparently, there’s an arrest warrant out for me. I’m wanted for murdering an IPF officer during the RESCO escape and theft of a government zygote, a capital offense. I go cold when he tells me. We’re in the tunnel with Wyck who is working on one of the ACVs that has a steering problem.
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