by Simone Pond
“My brother was murdered in a speakeasy and dumped in the street around one of these lower southern grids. But nobody knows who did it.” Noah pauses and glares at Johnson. “Oh, I see what you’re doing. Deflecting the interrogation. You’re clever.”
“Nothing of the sort. Just getting to know each other. You can trust me, possum,” Johnson explains.
“Kinda hard to trust a Border ruffian. In other words, a criminal.” Noah stiffens and balls his fists at his sides like he’s preparing for a brawl.
I gently touch both of their arms. “Can you guys make a gallant attempt to be friendly? We still have another hour in this tight space.”
Johnson keeps his eyes on the road and grins casually. “I’m fine. Your friend over there needs to simmer down. Yeah, I guess by your Long-Timer standards, I’m a criminal. But I became a Border because I think the real criminals are the Technocrats and their crappy system of imbalance. We want to help the innocent victims of the SOB. People like your brother, who was murdered.”
Noah leans forward, glaring at Johnson. “People like my brother? What’s that supposed to mean?”
I place my hand on his shoulder to ease him back into his seat. “Calm down, Noah.”
“I’m talking about the drugs. The speakeasies,” Johnson says.
“You don’t know anything about my brother, so keep your ridiculous cause to yourself, Border.”
Johnson turns down a narrow road that’s flanked by oak trees. In the dark, it looks like we’re driving through a tunnel of claws. He glances at Noah, sympathy settling in his dark brown eyes. “I guess some folks aren’t ready to hear the truth.”
Noah reaches across me and grabs Johnson’s shirt, squishing me between them in the process. The truck swerves, causing dirt clouds to swirl around the truck.
“Noah, stop it!” I yell, shoving him back.
But he keeps grabbing at Johnson. “You no-account delinquent. You lazy ingrates don’t want to contribute, so you create some phony cause to buck the system. It’s people like you who are ruining everything!”
Noah accidentally yanks the wheel, and Johnson loses control of the truck. We veer headlong into a row of oaks, and I’m thrown out of the seat and slammed into the windshield. As everything goes black, I catch sight of a dilapidated plantation house surrounded by weeping willows at the end of the dirt road.
*
“She’s coming to,” a voice funnels into my grogginess.
I open my eyes and try to sit up, but a fetching Southern belle eases me back down and holds a cold rag against my pounding forehead. Her blond hair is thick with corkscrew curls, framing her striking face and cerulean eyes. We look to be around the same age, but she has an air of maturity and sophistication. I glance at her wrist as she holds the compress to my head; she doesn’t have a DOD, which means she’s another Border.
“Hi! I’m Harper,” she says with a cheery grin, showing off her sparkling white teeth. She doesn’t look like any of the Borders I’ve ever seen. She’s downright gorgeous.
“Thanks for taking care of me,” I say, smiling back.
“Wish we were meeting under better conditions, but either way, I’m glad you’re here.”
“We need to take her to a hospital.” Noah’s voice sounds pinched with concern.
I laugh, waving off his over-the-top reaction. “No hospitals. But I have to say that was by far your stupidest move, Long-Timer.”
Johnson bends down inches from my face and examines my eyes. “Don’t worry, he knows he screwed up.”
Noah looks pained to see Johnson so close to me and sits on the edge of the bed. “You’re right. Sorry I was so reckless. You sure you’re okay?”
I touch the slightly raised bump on my forehead and though my entire face is throbbing, I say, “It’s nothing.”
“You should get some rest,” Harper says. “But someone should keep an eye on you.”
“I can stay,” Johnson offers.
Noah stands up, arms folded across his chest. “I’m staying.”
Johnson glances down at me. “You okay with that, Kalli?”
Noah’s cheeks shift to a dark shade of red. He stands in front of me as if marking his territory. “Of course she is.”
Harper throws an extra quilt on the bed, winking at me. “I’m sure y’all will work it out. I’m hitting the hay. See you in the morning, Kalli. Night, boys.”
Noah doesn’t budge. “I’ve got this.”
Johnson takes a step back, arms stretched out in mocked surrender. “Holler if you need anything. We’re right down the hall.”
Noah grabs a quilt and situates himself in a nearby armchair by the windows. “We’re fine.” He slumps into the chair, fidgeting around trying to find a comfortable position, but his legs are too long. The bed is large enough for both of us to sleep comfortably, but I keep quiet. Payback for making me sleep on the outside of his sleeping bag that first night.
“You still awake?” he asks.
“It’s a little hard to sleep with you flailing about over there.”
“I’m sorry about your head.”
“Why’d you get so angry at Johnson?”
“That guy infuriates me.
“Because he’s easy-going and helpful even though he doesn’t have to be?”
“Because I don’t trust him. And I’m not sure why you do.”
We’re quiet, neither of us knowing how far to take the topic. I’d like to go to sleep, but I’m unduly aware of Noah’s fidgety presence a few feet away. A cautious silence clings to the room, making me so uncomfortable that I’m tempted to offer the other side of the bed just to break it.
“Do you know what he meant?” I ask, unable to handle the stillness.
“About what?” he asks.
“About some people not being ready for the truth?”
Noah stares out the window. The bright moonlight highlights his profile, showcasing his strong nose and chiseled jaw. He looks statuesque and poised like nothing in the world could ruffle his feathers—except for Johnson.
“Probably a bunch of Border propaganda. You know how they are. Always spreading lies,” he says with a sharpness to his tone.
“Lies?”
“Oh, about the System of Balance being unjust.”
I sit up and gape at him with astonishment. “Um … it is unjust.”
“The system gives everyone a chance. It’s the individual’s choice how much they want to contribute. In a sense, it empowers people to take control.”
The breadth of his ignorance is confounding, leaving me no other option but to speak up. “You honestly think the SOB empowers people? You have no idea what it’s like for Short-Timers. Destined to insufferable hours of grueling work with very little return. What does the system dole out? A few extra weeks here and there. It’s an endless game of catch up. A debt you can never pay off. Only instead of money, it’s time. And we never have enough of it. I bet you’ve never had to scrape your father off the floor after he’s worked multiple double shifts in a row. Or watch his DOD getting closer and closer. It’s exhausting and terrifying. But you wouldn’t know about the nitty-gritty details, coming from the other side, would you?”
Noah stares out the window. I’m not sure if my words have clicked, but at least I spoke my peace. It’s not my responsibility to change this Long-Timer’s mind, but I can inform him about what it looks like from my viewpoint. Finally, he turns toward me; the moon casts a soft light across his face. “I didn’t leave the grid to join forces with the Borders. I came to find out who killed Julian.”
“I don’t want to join the Borders either, but I’m not going to shy away if they’re offering help.”
“We don’t know if they’re offering help.”
“Either way, I don’t think Borders are criminals for questioning the system. It’s not like we need another speakeasy, or more people getting addicted to drugs. I’m sure that’s all Johnson meant about your brother.”
“Something’s not r
ight, Kalliste.”
I’m getting far too comfortable with how Noah Brenson says my name, and in a moment of weakness I scoot over to make some room next to me. “You look miserable. There’s room on the bed.”
“I’m fine over here on my side.”
The words shock me back into reality. Once again, the great divide becomes abundantly clear. Noah’s staying on his side, and I’m staying on mine. Instead of stewing over our differences, I get out of bed and blindly grab one of the faded hardbacks from the bookshelf. I laugh at my random selection, The Portrait of a Lady.
15
(still 8 days remaining)
The morning light sun dapples through the tall French windows, waking me up from the first solid night of sleep I’ve had in days. Noah’s chair is empty, except for the crumpled quilt. I get up and make the bed, then pull back my hair and put on my filthy clothes, tucking my trousers into my boots. My shirt is smeared with dirt and river muck, but as Noah has reminded me several times—I didn’t prepare for this trip. When I fold the quilt, Noah’s pocket watch drops to the floor. It must’ve slipped out during the night. I pick it up and put it in my pocket and set off to find him in this giant antebellum mansion.
All along the walls of the grand staircase portraits of statuesque people from centuries ago decorate the peeling wallpaper. Broken chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceilings. This home is a distant echo of its previous splendor. The rugs are frayed and faded. Strands of crystal beads dangle sparingly from the sconces. The paint is cracked and chipped, and ratty curtains hang from the tall windows. I’m not sure why they haven’t replaced the ancient, battered decor. Because this place could be dazzling with some work.
At the bottom of the stairs, I’m drawn to the library from the mere scent of old books. The bookshelves are filled from the floor to the ceiling with hardbacks faded from years of sun exposure. My heart hitches when I notice a stocky guy with ginger hair and a smattering of freckles peer up from an enormous mahogany desk. He’s wearing headphones that are plugged into some sort of communications device.
He frees up one ear. “I’m Leo. Communications.”
“I’m Kalli. Um, I don’t have a specialty.”
He gives me a thorough scan from head to toe. “We all have a specialty. You just don’t know yours yet.”
I half grin at the very serious teenager, not wanting to argue his point. “Do you know where everyone is?”
“Kitchen.” He points to a set of double doors barely attached to their rusty hinges.
“Thanks, Leo. Pleasure meeting you.”
He nods and slips the headphones back on.
Inside the kitchen, Johnson and Harper are sitting at a long table, chatting over breakfast. Johnson strokes Harper’s delicate cheek with his rugged fingers, and she smiles demurely. Then he leans over and kisses Harper’s swan-like neck. She sighs softly, wrapping her arms around his neck as she kisses him long and hard. I wouldn’t have guessed these polar opposites as paramours. Embarrassed for my intrusion, I hastily turn to leave, knocking right into a rack of dishes.
They pull out of their embrace, and Harper gets up from the table. Johnson waves me over. “Hey, Kalli. Glad to see you’re up and at ‘em.”
Harper fixes me a plate and sets it on the table. “You must be starving,” she says, smiling.
The scent of eggs and potatoes replaces my embarrassment. I sit down and start scooping eggs into my mouth like I’m in a race. “Have you seen Noah?” I mumble with my mouth full.
“He was talking to George earlier.”
“George?”
“He’s our gadgets guy. Specializes in technology.”
“I just met Leo. Your communications guy. So, everyone has a specialty?”
“Yes, everyone has a specific purpose,” Harper says.
“What are yours?” I ask, spreading a glob of butter onto my piece of toast and moaning with each bite.
“We’re what you’d call infiltrators,” Johnson answers.
Harper strokes Johnson’s scruffy chin and smiles. “My focus is high-society Technocrats. Johnson’s is Low-Bottoms. He recruits at speakeasies and other sordid places.”
“Recruits?”
“For our cause.”
Looking at the two of them, their roles make perfect sense. Harper’s worldly elegance is suitable for the upper echelons of society, while Johnson’s shabby appearance is unassuming. It worked on me. Otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting here shoveling food into my mouth.
“Leo gave us some good news about your brother,” Johnson says.
I can’t seem to swallow my mouthful of potatoes. Harper hands me a glass of milk and I chug it down. “Where is he? Can you take me to him?”
Johnson snatches a piece of dry toast and stands up from the table. “Harper can explain. She’s better at this stuff.”
“This stuff? What’s going on?” But Johnson leaves the kitchen through the rickety double doors.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” Harper asks with the calmness of a lake.
“I want to know where Achilles is!” I practically shout.
“Settle down, sweetie. I’ll get some tea and we can chat.”
Harper brings over two steaming mugs and hands one to me. “We heard from our informant, Roman, this morning. You happen to have perfect timing. There’s an event the Thomas House tonight. A big gala with Savannah’s most influential Technocrats. Achilles will be there. We told Roman about you, and he’s trying to arrange a meeting.”
Harper sounds muffled over the incredibly tumultuous thumping in my ears. I can’t swallow. I can’t breathe. The kitchen fades in and out of focus.
“Achilles,” I whisper as elation sparks through me like electricity.
“Johnson said it’s been a while since you’ve seen him. I’m sure this is all very overwhelming.” Harper rubs my arm tenderly.
“I don’t know where to begin. It’s like rain after many seasons of drought.”
“We’ve lots to do before tonight. I’ll start getting things ready.”
“Getting things ready?”
“We can’t have you showing up at one of Savannah’s most sought-after social events looking like this.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear and winks. “Quite a bit of work, indeed.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes to get into that party.”
“By the time I’m finished with you, Savannah society won’t know what hit them.” She stands up and heads toward the double doors.
“Wait, can you tell me where to find George?”
16
(still 8 days remaining)
The technology lab is situated in the back of the house, most likely where the servants once lived. The room is cluttered with various worktables, computer innards, and all sorts of intricate electronics on every possible surface. I find George, a lanky fellow with dark, shoulder-length hair and black-framed glasses, sitting at a desk in the back. He shoots up out of his chair when he sees me approaching.
“Hi. I’m Kalli,” I say.
He nervously pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, his eyes darting every which way. “George. Technology.”
“Looks like you’ve got quite a lot going on in here.” I smile, but George stares at me silently. “I mean. You must be really smart because I don’t know what half this stuff is.”
“Just your basic central processing units, motherboards, hard-drives, ram-sticks, displays … Sorry, I’m boring you.”
“Actually, I’m impressed. In Richmond, we’re not permitted to use computers without being monitored.”
“The Technocrats can’t have people deciphering their technology. There’d be a revolution.”
Looking around George’s lab, I’d say he’s well on his way to starting one. The mounds of equipment seem like enough to break the entire SOB across all of the southern grids, maybe even the northern ones.
“What are you working on there?” I point to the metal box in his hands that’s about the siz
e of a deck of cards.
His skittish gaze darts over my shoulder, across the lab and back to me. Paranoia also seems to be one of George’s specialties. “A geo-shield,” he whispers.
I nod, pretending to understand.
“Protection from the flies,” he explains as he presses a green button. A thin electromagnetic energy current emits from the box, creating a dome over his body, like a half bubble. He releases the button and the shield disappears.
“Comes in handy out there,” he says.
“But Borders don’t have DODs. Why would you need a protective shield?”
“For every birth, the DNA is automatically recorded into the System of Balance. So even without the DOD mechanism the flies can still track us through our DNA. It’s a lot tougher, but it’s possible.”
“Basically, you’re saying no matter what we do, we can still get swarmed?”
“The best way to prevent tracking is to remove the DNA records from the SOB. You get rid of those records, the flies don’t have specific targets.” A touch of relief settles over me, but only for a few seconds because George continues with a sigh, as if the burden of solving this problem lies upon his scrawny shoulders. “But the Technocrats can still program the flies to swarm people, even without tracking specified DNA.”
A sickening acrid bile coats my tongue over the injustice of it all. “Why don’t they just start dropping bombs and start another war?”
“Or … we could kill the SOB and end the DOD program,” George says, looking at my wrist. “We can take care of that for you. Not here, but down at headquarters. Mid-Way isn’t that far from here.”
“What’s the point? They can still come after me.”
“The point?” his voice rises. “The point is, you get to live. You get to live the way nature intended. Not condemned to some duration the algorithms assigned.”
“But I could never go back home.”
“I guess there’s always a compromise somewhere,” he says, sadly.
