by Simone Pond
Swarmed
By Simone Pond
Ktown Waters Publishing
Copyright © 2016 Simone Pond
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Ktown Waters Publishing, Los Angeles, CA.
Cover Design: Sef Chang
Photography: Monica Chamorro
Formatting: Polgarus Studio
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Table of Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
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31
32
33
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35
36
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38
Author’s Note
1
When I glance down at my statistics exam, all the answers appear in my mind like a photograph coming to life. I smile because there’s a high probability I’ll ace the test. I don’t spare a second scribbling down my answers. Behind me, my wiry friend Knack taps his pencil on his desk, and the repetitive sound grates on my nerves. I do my best to block him out and focus on my paper. This close to graduation means I can’t afford any slip-ups.
One of the students named Parker Bishop, who happens to be incredibly gifted at being a pompous jerk, whispers to Knack, “Give it up, moron.”
Concentrating on my test is no longer a possibility because I feel bad for poor Knack. As much as I’ve tutored him, he simply cannot grasp the concept of elementary statistics. Relationships between variables aren’t his thing. I happen to enjoy calculating the possibilities of certain outcomes. Statistics give me a false sense of hope.
Knack’s tucked in the corner, looking as though someone just placed a plate of raw broccoli on his desk. It’s the same pained look he has whenever I go over his homework answers. Fake coughing to get his attention, I scoot my paper to the edge of my desk so he can see my answers. And just like that, I help him cheat. It’s not that I lack integrity, it’s that if Knack fails another test, he’ll be in deep trouble. No doubt affecting his DOD assignment on graduation day. He quickly writes down his answers based off of mine.
Mr. Timms peers up from his desk, and at first I think he’s caught us in the act, but he’s checking the clock. Each tick clicks away loudly behind me, competing with the rhythm of my heart. My stomach tightens, sensing something is about to go down.
As if on cue, Parker shouts, “She’s cheating!”
He scowls at me as though actually saying my name might sear his tongue. Next to Parker is his buddy Noah Brenson who glares at me in disgust, shaking his head of devilish dark curls. These two Long-Timers have had it in for me since freshman year, making my high school experience excruciatingly painful. Most society guys can’t stand girls who don’t cower in their presence, or go out of their way to gain their affections. I’m not about to sport a corset or hoop dresses and ribbons in my hair to win over the fellows. My riding pants, tank tops and black boots are just fine, thank you.
Mr. Timms pulls himself up with a grunt. The portly man ambles his way toward the back of the room. Parker and Noah snicker, but I don’t give them the satisfaction of turning around.
“Stupid Fly,” one of them whispers.
I roll my eyes at the crass nickname. It’s not as bad as spitting in my face or anything like that. But it’s not exactly nice. The name is reserved for the non-contributors who are removed from the system prematurely. The ones with early Date of Deaths, or DODs as we call them. Not only because they drop like flies, but because the nanobots that do the horrific deed of killing these less resourceful folks look like a swarm of flies when they swoop in.
Mr. Timms stands only a few inches from my desk. His exceptionally tight vest is missing a button, the result of an overfed belly, and his cravat looks like it’s cutting off the circulation to his head. This fashion looked way better the first time around. These days most people in our town grid of Richmond look like posers coming off the set of an antebellum production. Hoop skirts, top hats and pocket watches abound. After the Border War they thought going back to more genteel times would make things more pleasant. Or in other words, more oppressed. The whole town feels like it’s being strangled to suffocating degrees.
“Is this true, Miss Kalliste?” Mr. Timms asks.
Everyone in class is now looking in my direction. The hoity-toity gals who excel in the art of tight-lacing giggle and whisper. My classmates might not know me from a hole in the wall, but it’s common knowledge that I despise my first name. I’ve spent most of my life reminding people.
“It’s Kalli, sir.”
“That’s irrelevant. Were you or were you not cheating?”
Like a nervous tick, I automatically reach for my locket and clench it. It was my mother’s, and inside is her photograph. Though she’s been dead for three years, I carry a piece of her with me wherever I go. Knowing she’s close to my heart brings me a sense of comfort.
I don’t answer the question, so that dastardly Noah Brenson takes the liberty of answering for me. “She’s letting that other Low-Bottom Fly cheat off her paper. I saw it with my own eyes!”
This time I can’t help myself. I turn around and give Noah a sugary grin doused in sweetness and say, “Is that so? All this time I thought you were supposed to keep your eyes on your own paper.”
He’s fiddling with his fancy-schmancy gold pocket watch and is about to say something, but thankfully Mr. Timms stands between us like a doughy wall, stifling Noah’s next words.
Stewing in rage, I watch Mr. Timms shred my exam. Don’t you dare cry in front of them, Kalli. Don’t you dare! The one good thing about graduating in a few weeks will be getting away from these uppity Long-Timers. They think they’re untouchable because of their high standing in society. While Short-Timers like my hapless father have to work double shifts to contribute more to the System of Balance (also known as the SOB in some circles).
“Kalliste, this is the second time you’ve cheated. I let you off the first time, but shame on me if I don’t take action now. I’m sorry to say this is your last warning. You and Knack can get your things and go straight to Principal Dedrick’s office.”
I stand in protest. “But, Mr. Timms. You don’t have any proof.”
“I have the word of these fine, young gentlemen.”
And that’s exactly how the SOB works.
The better your family name, the more powerful your word. Screw honor. It’s all about appearances. I churn like a storm brewing on the sea, but rather than responding, I cram my things into my bag and leave the classroom with Knack trailing behind like a frightened puppy.
“I’m sorry, Kalli,” he mutters as I’m marching down the hallway.
I’d like to shove him against the row of lockers and shake him silly, but he’s so pathetic I can’t help but feel sorry for him. The poor chump doesn’t stand a chance. No matter what I do to help Knack, when he receives his DOD at graduation it won’t be pretty. He’ll have to work extra hard. In our society, the better we do and the more we contribute, the longer we live. The opposite is also true. Those
who don’t contribute don’t live very long. He might be able to get a mining job, or work on the railroads. But he’ll spend his days toiling away in an effort to stretch out his DOD. Eventually his health will fail and he won’t be considered a stable resource. Just like my dad, who’s been laying steel for decades.
I adjust Knack’s tattered cravat. “It’s okay. I know this stuff is hard.”
“What do you think Dedrick’s gonna say?”
“Probably something incredibly original, like detention or, let’s see, detention.”
“You don’t seem nervous. Aren’t you worried this might affect your DOD?”
I stand by the door to the main office, steadying myself. “I’ve got other things on my mind.”
“That reminds me.” He digs into his waistcoat and pulls out a piece of paper with a bunch of numbers and letters jotted down in his chicken scratch. “I got another speakeasy code for you. This one’s close by.”
I briefly glance over the speakeasy access code just as the busty office assistant, Ms. Archer, pushes open the door and scoots us inside. She snatches the piece of paper and throws it into the trash bin, rolling her eyes at Knack. She’s well acquainted with him.
“Have a seat,” Ms. Archer snaps.
Knack looks toward the trash bin where she just tossed the speakeasy code. “Sorry. I didn’t see her coming,” he whispers.
Lightly patting his bony shoulder, I let him know it’s okay. I’m not worried because I already have the code committed to memory. My ability to memorize things comes in handy. Almost like there’s a camera in my mind taking photographs. Eidetic memory is what my mother called it. But it’s a real pain in the pantaloons when I can’t erase an image. For instance, the way Noah Brenson glared at me in class earlier today.
I get called in first. I’ve never been inside Principal Dedrick’s office, but it’s really nice. It looks more like a library with all of the classic hardbacks lining the floor to ceiling bookshelves. I could definitely spend a lot of time in this office, cracking open book after book and disappearing into other worlds. Had I known about this beautiful bounty, I would’ve gotten into more trouble over the years.
“Lovely office.” I plunk down into one of the leather armchairs next to his behemoth mahogany desk.
He’s in the midst of reading The Odyssey—I’d recognize the illustrations anywhere. I can recite most of the stories by heart, since my mother read it to me before bed almost every night when I was growing up. She had a slight obsession for Greek mythology. Homer’s adventure gave me nightmares about sea creatures, and I developed a strong aversion to all things watery.
Dedrick shoves the book into his top drawer and picks up the piece of paper from his desk. It’s a note from Mr. Timms explaining why I’m there. He meanders over to a filing cabinet and digs through a bunch of folders until he finds mine. Then he meanders back over to his desk as though his boots are made of lead. I want to help him along to get this meeting over with already. People with extended DODs seem to take their damn time. Probably because they have so much to spare.
“Miss Kalliste Reines.” He flips through my personal files.
“Just Kalli, please.”
“You seem to have a steady track record. Excellent grades. Not a trouble maker.” Flipping through some other pages, he extends a pause. “I see you’re related to Achilles Reines.”
“He’s my older brother.”
“Yes, yes. I see. He did quite well. Was a major contributor to the debate team as well as the baseball and swim teams. Very sharp student, he was.”
I nod. Achilles was popular and loved by all. He probably never got called into the principal’s office, except to receive an award.
Dedrick carefully peers up from the folder. “Are the rumors true?”
I know what he’s getting at. Only a deadbeat would be unfamiliar with my family’s sordid history. Everybody in our town knows Achilles has been off-grid for three years, but nobody discusses it because it’s not the genteel thing to do. Not here in the southern grids.
I smile politely and tilt my head, letting my wavy raven hair cascade off to the side—a signature southern lady move. “Which one are you referring to, sir? There are so many. You know how small towns are.”
“That he disappeared right after, well, hmm, how can I put this gently?”
Another thing people with the luxury of time tend to do is beat around the bush.
“Right after the Technocrats killed our mother?” I blurt out.
Dedrick squints and purses his lips. I’ve just broken a cardinal rule—you don’t talk shit about the Technocrats. After all, they’re the ones who saved mankind after the Border War. If it weren’t for them, we would’ve starved to death. No, those “generous” Technocrats rallied to rebuild America, creating town grids and a System to Balance to manage all resources—material and human alike. Most folks keep their heads willfully ducked in the dirt and conveniently disregard that the Technocrats are also the ones who assign our DODs. Basically killing off anyone who doesn’t contribute to their precious system. We’ve become inured to the way things work. If anyone dares to address this gruesome reality, people usually start spewing platitudes like, it’s to keep things running smoothly, or it’s for our own good, or someone needs to manage the resources.
It’s a bunch of balderdash.
Dedrick clears his throat. “So is it accurate? About your brother disappearing?”
“Yes, he’s been off-grid for a while now. Nobody knows where he is.”
I don’t go on to tell him my theory about Achilles running off to join the resistance because the Technocrats killed our mother before her DOD. Nor do I mention I’ve been searching for him ever since. Because without Achilles, I’m utterly lost.
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Kalliste. He seemed like a fine fellow. Such a waste of a promising resource. I’ve decided that since this is your first time in here, I’ll go easy on you. Detention Monday after school.”
Though I’m still reeling from the phrase promising resource, I stand up and give him a mannerly smile. “Much obliged, sir.”
“Now get on home so you can ponder your wrongdoings in solitude. And try to stay out of trouble this weekend. Good day, Miss Kalliste.”
Pardon—but did he just give me the afternoon off? I can’t help but beam brightly in his direction.
On my way out, I practically prance by Knack, who’s confounded by my over-zealous reaction to getting detention and possibly screwing up my DOD assignment. But I have a free pass for the afternoon and a speakeasy within walking distance.
2
I stroll down Main Street among the well-dressed men and women. Most of them are Long-Timers who have the luxury of taking leisurely promenades. The shops owners stand in front of their charming boutiques, greeting them with smiles. The gentlemen politely tip their hats to the ladies, and the beautifully dressed women smile from underneath their parasols. God forbid a drop of sun touch their delicate porcelain skin. I definitely stand out like a prickly pear among these soft petals, but I don’t mind. Fitting in has never been a priority. My father harps on me about making more of an effort. He complains that I’m too much like my mother, but I’d do anything to have just a pinch of her salt.
At the end of the street, I cross the intersection and head toward the Royal Tea House. According to Knack’s code this is the spot. He’s the only person who knows I’m searching for information on my brother’s whereabouts. Everyone else thinks I go to the speakeasies for drugs. I don’t bother explaining myself. In the midst of crossing, I spot a black kitten skitter from the alley into the middle of the street. The thing must have a death wish or something, because it doesn’t seem to mind the trolley car barreling right toward it.
“Skedaddle! Go on, get!” I yell, but the kitten just stares at me all defiant like, as if testing my wits.
I gauge the speed of the trolley, the distance between me and the kitten, and the distance to the curb. I might
reach it in time, but the probability of getting out of this situation unscathed is low.
“Damnation!” I dart into the street and scoop up the kitten, then dive out of the way and land in the gutter just as the trolley whizzes by.
Sitting on the curb, my chest pounds like a rabbit in heat. I catch my breath while checking for injuries. Just a small scratch on my elbow. The kitten nestles against my neck, meowing. “What were you thinking, you loon? You fixing for an early DOD?”
The little rascal stares at me with its pretty violet eyes, then gives me a sandpapery lick on my chin. I get up and dust myself off. “Okay, you’re fine.”
After crossing the street, I stop next to the alley and gingerly set down the kitten, nudging it back from where it came. “Now, go on, you. I’ve got business to attend to.”
Sunlight dapples over its shiny black hair, highlighting some reddish hues. Sure is a pretty creature. I’d take it home with me, but I have enough to contend with. One last meow before it dashes off into the alley and clangs into some trashcans.
Inside the teahouse, aristocratic patrons sip from fine China cups and eat minuscule sandwiches with the crusts cut off. Definitely not a place Low-Bottoms or resistance would frequent, but I walk to the counter anyway. A lanky man wearing a white apron stands behind the counter, glancing up as I approach. After surveying my scrubby appearance from head to toe, he gives me a nod of acknowledgement. I quietly recite the access code from memory.
“Why, yes, miss, we have that special brand of tea leaves. It’s in the back. Come with me.”
I follow him down a hallway, inhaling the fragrant scents of bergamot and lavender. My mouth waters as the aroma of sugary cakes and flakey scones baking in the oven waft all around me. He leads me into an office and locks the door. Usually, during this phase of the transaction I experience a momentary flash of fear. The underground circuit is a nefarious business. Not only is it social suicide, it’s dangerous. This lanky, apron-clad gentleman could be a Technocrat, framing me for disorderly conduct, resulting in jail time and a shitty DOD assignment. Or worse, he could be a bad egg, aiming to confiscate whatever he deems valuable. Like my currency or virginity.
