The Expedition

by Chris Babu

  Doctor Park shook him awake. She rested on the edge of the bed, a big smile on her face. “You have a cold.”

  Drayden sat bolt upright. “A cold? I have a cold?” He was so happy he hugged Doctor Park, banging his face against her helmet.

  “Yup. Common cold virus. You should be better in a few days. You can go left out that door and follow the signs to Immigration. Good luck, Drayden.”

  He leapt out of bed and ran down the hallway, a zip in his step. Although his spunkiness was probably psychological, he even felt a little livelier. He’d still need to figure out why he received a different Aeru vaccine than the others, and whether it was fake, but he was too excited to worry about that now.

  The signs led him to a steel door with no handle. He stood outside, unsure of what to do, when the thick door rose with a wheeze.

  Drayden found himself in a tight chamber, like an elevator, with a similar door on the other side.

  The door behind lowered and clicked a few times. A burst of air whizzed through the chamber, sucked into vents in the ceiling. A minute later, the airflow stopped, and the door in front rose.

  The following room resembled an office, and several people slouched on folding chairs. Many numbered doors lined the walls of the beige room.

  Drayden approached a woman in a navy Guardian-like uniform, without protective gear, who sat at a desk. When he gave her his name, she directed him to room number four.

  He entered the room, an office with a desk, a few chairs, and a dark green couch along the wall. Sidney, Catrice, and Charlie sat there, regarding him like they expected the worst.

  Drayden pretended he was about to cry. “Guess who doesn’t have Aeru?”

  Sidney screeched and hugged him. Catrice sniffled, wiping her eyes with both palms. Charlie wrapped his thick arms around Drayden and hoisted him in the air. “Attaboy! Think a measly superbug could stop you?”

  Drayden noted that Catrice hadn’t spoken to him yet. “So, what is this?” he asked. “Have you guys talked to anyone yet?”

  “No.” Sidney pulled Drayden to the couch and nestled close to him. “We all had clear blood tests and they sent us here.” Charlie and Catrice joined them on the couch.

  A few moments later a stocky African-American man with glasses entered and sat at the desk. He shuffled some papers around on his desk and held a pen in his hand. “How can I help you?”

  The others looked at Drayden.

  He delivered the three-minute summary of New America’s current state, the expedition, and the Guardians, concluding with, “Please, sir, it’s urgent that we speak to your leader. The Premier of New America himself sent us.”

  The man scratched his chin, set his pen down, and leaned back in his chair. “Are you messing with me?”

  “No, sir.”

  The man hunched back over his desk, mumbling. “Always…the last one of the day…never get a fisherman…”

  “Sir, we don’t intend on staying here,” Drayden said. “We’re not hoping to move to Boston. We just need to speak with the leadership. And, well, we could use some assistance getting home.”

  The man threw his hands in the air. “Hell, it’s a crazy story. It’ll certainly be the most entertaining thing they hear down at the mayor’s office all week.” He seemed amused. “You kids sit tight; let me see what I can do.”

  “Sir?” Drayden asked. “We haven’t drunk anything in over twenty-four hours and have barely eaten in four days. Do you have anything you could spare?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll have some snacks delivered. If you want to freshen up there’s a bathroom down the hall, the way you came in.” He headed for the door and stopped, pinching his nose. “I’d highly recommend freshening up.” He hurried out of the room.

  Charlie smelled his own armpit and looked like he might faint. He peered over his shoulder at his butt.

  “Don’t say it,” Drayden said.

  “My butt speaks for itself.”

  “Jesus, Charlie,” Sidney said.

  A few minutes later another man carried in a pitcher of water, four glasses, and four chicken sandwiches.

  The privates scarfed everything down.

  Drayden would never complain about food being boring or gross ever again after the expedition.

  CHAPTER 34

  The following morning, the privates waited inside an office at the Boston Capitol building. Formerly the Massachusetts State House, it resided in the Beacon Hill neighborhood of Boston. The Immigration department allowed, or rather encouraged, them to shower at their offices. They’d also provided cots on which to sleep, and fresh clothes. The privates wore blue jeans, white T-shirts, and green flip flops. Drayden wore his green Yankees hat, and they each carried their Bureau pins in their pockets. Everyone had acknowledged the generosity of the Boston government, which had taken first-rate care of them.

  Drayden got the giggles when Charlie stood to adjust his jeans in the crotch area. The clothes were used—donated—and didn’t fit well. His and Charlie’s jeans were the same size, leaving them baggy on him and exceptionally tight on Charlie.

  Charlie grunted. “Between all the frigid water on the expedition and now these jeans, I’d like to reiterate that I’m never having kids.”

  Sidney smirked. “I’ll reiterate that those aren’t the only reasons.”

  They sat in four chairs at an expansive oval conference table that could seat twenty-five.

  While they awaited someone from the government, Drayden took note of the office. It was nothing like the ornate ones in the Bureau headquarters. This one was minimalist, austere even. Thinking about Kim Craig, as well as Harris von Brooks’s words before they departed, he made a mental list of all the bases he needed to cover with the Boston authorities.

  A smartly dressed, middle-aged woman entered, closed the door behind her, and approached the privates.

  “Hello, my name is Taylor Vasquez. I’m the Head of Foreign Relations.” Smiling, she shook each of their hands and walked all the way around the table so she could sit across from them. “I’m sorry. We’re swamped today. Why don’t you briefly tell me who you are and why you’re here.”

  Drayden sat up straighter and cleared his throat. “My name is Drayden Coulson. This is Charlie Arnold, Catrice Zevery, and Sidney Fowler. We’ve come here from New America, which you probably know as New York. We were sent here by the leadership of New America to seek help. Our city is in grave danger. I guess I’ll start by—”

  “Whoa, hold on a sec.” She held her hand up, her consternation apparent. “Did you say New America? I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound difficult, but do you have any proof?”

  Drayden pulled out his Bureau pin and tossed it across the table.

  Taylor Vasquez examined it and blanched. Regarding the privates in seeming amazement, she ran her fingers through her black curls before standing. “I’m…I’m sorry. Would you excuse me for a moment? I’ll…I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She hurried out the door.

  The privates were dumbfounded.

  “Looked like she saw a ghost,” Charlie remarked.

  After about forty-five minutes, Ms. Vasquez returned. Four others—three women and one man—followed her. They sat in the chairs across the table from the privates.

  “I’m sorry for the delay,” Ms. Vasquez said. “Other people, important people, need to hear this. Joining us on the end here is Mayor Michelle Sullivan, who’s the highest-ranking official in Boston. She’s been mayor for two years. Beside her is Jason McCarthy, who was our mayor ten years ago, and advises Mayor Sullivan now. Additionally, I’ve brought the mayor’s Chief of Staff, Christiana Silva, and her Secretary of Defense, Susan Murphy. The most powerful people in Boston are in the room right now. Please continue, Drayden.”

  He took in the furrowed brows and curious eyes of the Boston leadership, immediately noticing they were mos
tly women, unlike the male-dominated Bureau. The mayor, Michelle Sullivan, looked to be in her thirties.

  Drayden launched into their tale once more, delivering the more thorough fifteen-minute version. He started with the supposedly equal zone system in New America, concluding with the Guardians, and their claims about the unknown “real” purpose of their sojourn.

  As he described the nature of the expedition, an image popped into his mind. On the boat, beside the tanks of extra water, were several boxes, wrapped in chains, sealed with locks. What was in those boxes? Perhaps the expedition was all about delivering their contents. The privates were sent to help the Guardians transport them to Boston. That had to be it.

  Drayden scrutinized the faces of their hosts, expecting shock.

  Their expressions suggested something else. Confusion? Pity? They looked like he had just explained the world was flat, and they let him finish even though they knew it to be false.

  A nervous heat enveloped Drayden’s face. He shifted in his chair.

  The group of leaders appealed to the mayor.

  She folded her hands on the dark wood table, tilted her head, and wrinkled her forehead. “Drayden, we know all about New America.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She sounded like she was breaking bad news to someone. “New America has been known to us for ages, but it’s notorious as a hostile colony.”

  Drayden exchanged a befuddled glance with the other privates, who appeared equally stunned.

  “Mayor Sullivan, someone needs to go capture the Guardians right away. We need to find out what they know. They’re in a mud pit in the Neponset River Reservation about five miles south of here. It’s in a marsh across from Two Granite Avenue.”

  Susan Murphy, the secretary of defense, stood. “I’ll handle this. I’m sure the border police are familiar with that mud pit.” She hustled out of the room.

  Drayden set his elbows on the table. “I don’t understand what’s going on.”

  Mayor Sullivan turned to the former mayor. “Jason, you want to take this?”

  Jason McCarthy was an older man, with bushy white hair and even bushier white eyebrows. He got up and paced. “I’m certain you kids don’t know much about the world today. Your government, the Bureau, hasn’t told you the truth. We estimate the Confluence wiped out approximately ninety-six percent of the world’s population.”

  Drayden did the quick math in his head. That implied around three-hundred million people remained on Earth. Not much compared to the many billions Pre-Confluence, yet it wasn’t exactly like humanity was hanging on by a thread as they were told. Three-hundred million was a lot of people.

  “Many cities around the world enforced quarantines, as they did in New York. While lots are known to us, there are probably hundreds more. Over time, the world collectively rebuilt some technology, reestablished radio communications. It also developed vaccines against bacterial infections like Aeru. Many of these cities began trading goods, as everyone did Pre-Confluence. Boston produces a lot of fish and beer. Rio de Janeiro produces sugar, beef, and oil. London exports chemicals and medicine. We trade with other cities along the eastern seaboard in America, such as Jacksonville, Florida. They export much of our fruit. Today’s trading is done by ship.”

  Drayden couldn’t believe his ears. How was this possible? All this commerce and communication, and nobody in New America knew? “Hostile” was ringing in his ears. How and why was New America considered hostile?

  “We used to trade with New America,” Jason McCarthy said. “Years ago. Your city lacked the technical knowledge to develop its own vaccines, not to mention boats. So, we would send our ships to a port downtown.”

  Drayden remembered the dock at Pier Fifteen, where they’d launched the expedition. The gate had carved deep grooves in the wood, as if it was often used. Now he understood why.

  McCarthy stopped pacing and looked over the privates’ faces. “New America was famous for exporting one thing: drugs. And I’m not talking about medicine. I’m talking illicit drugs. Marijuana, opium, cocaine. New America is the drug-producing capital of the new world.”

  Drayden’s jaw dropped. He recalled the narcotic painkillers from the Initiation.

  “What the hell?” Charlie asked.

  “I believe New America stopped producing and began importing most of its food years ago,” McCarthy went on. “Most of your food production facilities produce drugs now. You also produce most of the world’s tobacco and alcohol, which allows your government to trade with a veil of legitimacy to mask their principal export—drugs.”

  Kim Craig had told Drayden about the surveillance cameras and said none existed in the Meadow. He wasn’t sure why then, but now that made sense.

  “Unfortunately, New America began having trade disputes with other colonies, like ours. They cut us, and others, off. It became more and more isolationist, confrontational, attacking boats that approached. We really have no idea what’s gone on there the past few years. The fact that you still have food means New America does maintain trade relationships with other colonies, but we’re not one of them. Based on the looks on your faces, they’ve also done an exceptional job hiding the truth.”

  McCarthy sat back down and spoke directly to Drayden. “It is possible this power-storage problem is real, that deep-cycle batteries have worn out. Because of the structure of New America with its zones, there’s no incentive to invent, to innovate. Everyone is paid the same wage and nobody can advance. So why bother? As such, your colony has dramatically lagged the rest of the world in technology. Plus, since it cut others off, it hasn’t experienced the shared progress the rest of us have achieved. We’ve made advances against Aeru, and can travel. But I would caution that the power story may be false propaganda. The Bureau may be expelling people so they don’t have to feed them, and can hoard more spoils for themselves. Or they cannot import enough food anymore because of New America’s isolation.”

  “Holy shkat,” Sidney said.

  “The Bureau needs to be stopped.” Catrice grimaced. “Can Boston…invade New America?”

  Mayor Sullivan picked up Drayden’s Bureau pin from the table and played with it. “Jason forgot to mention the other thing your city is known for. Its military. Let me ask you, how many people live in New America? And how many are Guardians?”

  “Around one hundred thousand people live there,” Drayden answered. “Roughly fifteen thousand Guardians. At least that’s what we’re told.”

  “Exactly,” the mayor said. “Fifteen percent of the population are military. That’s much, much larger than anyone else. Nobody would dare try. There’s also no incentive to invade anyone else these days. Land is plentiful and travel is difficult.”

  Drayden’s head was spinning. “We were taught that our abundant Guardian population was due to the huge National Guard presence during the Inequality Riots. The quarantine trapped them.”

  “That may be true,” McCarthy responded, “but once the Bureau found itself with this gargantuan police force, it decided what type of state it wanted to be. Drugs and other illicit products are some of the most expensive and hard-to-obtain items today. Very profitable.”

  Catrice leaned forward, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Do you think the whole Bureau is in on this?”

  “I doubt it,” Mayor Sullivan said. “Probably the senior leadership, including some of your senior Guardians.”

  All the pieces were falling into place now. The growing sense that they were escorting the Guardians. The heavily secured boxes on the boat, followed by the revelation that New America’s main business was drugs. Drayden felt confident now that the boxes contained drugs, but what else had they held? And why deliver them to Boston?

  “Mayor Sullivan, can you tell us a little about Boston?” he asked.

  “We still consider ourselves a city of America,” Mayor Sullivan said. “We’re l
ed by a mayor and retained the name Boston. We’re much like we were Pre-Confluence, only a little fairer. We hold elections every four years, and no mayor can serve more than one term. We don’t believe there’s one right system of governing. Capitalist, socialist, democracy, communism—you need a balance. We believe in the competition and creativity that capitalism breeds, with the strong social safety net that socialism espouses. The problem with all forms of government is corruption. We root it out. Corruption is up there with murder in Boston.” She observed the faces of her deputies.

  Drayden wondered whether a more corrupt government than New America had ever existed.

  “We have no zones; we are one city. People here work and own businesses. In the early days, we offered massive pay for people to go outside the walls to do our work, where Aeru might infect them. Now we have vaccines and protective suits, although there’s still risk. Jobs outside the walls continue to pay well. We mine, fish, and farm outside the city. People who are entrepreneurial and successful can grow wealthy and enjoy the fruits of their achievements. But we set a limit on how much money wealthy families can leave to their children, which benefits everyone, even the children. It’s a high limit—people need that incentive to create wealth. Their heirs are allowed enough to ensure they are always comfortable, though not so much that they fail to become productive members of society. Money is then put back in the pot to support those who are not as successful.”

  Drayden held his head in his hands. Beyond technological development, he couldn’t fathom how much it would transform life overall if people in New America were rewarded for their achievements. If they could move up.