The Far Shore

by Glenn Damato

  Harmony corrects the Stream, and they do it fast. I flick back ten minutes. Student formations chanting their chorus to Marco. I swing the view and zoom in. There I am, as a simulated Cristina, clenched-fist raised high, singing with pure and starry-eyed devotion.

  There’s Marco, delivering his speech. “How was this even possible?”

  That was the moment of my intrusion. In the new version I say nothing. Marco continues to speak. “It was possible due to the collective will of Global Harmony. We must all feel in our hearts a tremendous sense of joy and delight.”

  The students cheer and wave, including the imitation Cristina. What just happened, never happened. Is my brain playing tricks? Did I imagine it all? Sometimes I don’t know which is true, my memory or the Stream.

  Harmony adjusts truth for correct thinking.

  THREE

  Suspended, one week. I’ve heard it all before.

  Except that’s not what they did.

  Alvarez told me I never cared about my future. Cared, past tense, as if I’m already dead. I told him I have a greater future than he does. By far.

  I’m through at the Academy. No goodbyes, not even from Faye.

  No mandate, though. And my Score, still 208. I guess it really can’t go any lower.

  Therapeutic counseling. I’m pulled to the Comisaría de Policía in Santa Monica. They sent a car in less than a minute. What the hell is therapeutic counseling, exactly?

  As soon as the car moves they push a rather lengthy promo for El Regalo de Salud, the so-called Gift of Health. Today there’s a special incentive. Accept my Regalo right now and there will be no therapeutic counseling. Accept, and the car will take me to the hospital instead of the police station. The promo shows me joyfully waking up tomorrow morning to sunshine and flowers.

  I’ll take the therapeutic counseling.

  The car drops me off near two poles flying the flags of Alta California and Harmony, the halyard ropes making ping ping ping noise from the wind. A green prompt directs me toward the entrance.

  I stop. There’s music floating down from the sky, the roar of jet engines actually, my favorite kind of song. I turn and shield my eyes from the sun. I’m not going to miss this, not even once.

  The roar of a Boeing Skylon on climb-out is like nothing on Earth. The morning departure to Singapore flies overhead and curves upward, a pointed silver hawk. The landing gear tucks into the wings and the doors glide shut like feathers. Fluid motion, a living creature.

  The Great Bird will take its flight on the back of the great bird, bringing glory to the nest where it was born.

  Who first said those words? Years ago, Paco told me it was a quote from Leonardo. This Leonardo sounds like a poet or a hypersonic engineer, but the Stream shows he acted in an old vid about a titanic ship that hit an iceberg and sank.

  The Skylon goes vertical, the twin rocket boosters ignite, and the bird illusion vanishes. A thunderous BOOM punches the ground. That’s the best part: the sensation of asphalt trembling under forces from thousands of meters above.

  That’s where I should be.

  But no. The prompt blinks at me, so I trudge through the Comisaría entrance. A spotter scans my body and sings cheerfully, “Follow the prompts, Cristina. Please remove your hat.”

  My beret! I snatch it from my head and tuck it in next to my rosies.

  The blinking arrows lead to Bench 312, Magistrado Geraldo Diaz. There aren’t enough chairs in the waiting rooms, so I have to step over and around all the glum-faced nadas and their sleepy kids spread out on the floor. This is a place of fear, so everyone is particularly polite.

  Even so, I doubt many of them are troublemaker on my level. La Comisaría is for minor violations like improper speech, disrespect to an Autoridad official, or failure to do something that is required—offenses that knock a Score down a hundred points and take a few months of proper behavior to restore, plus any penalty meted out by a Magistrado.

  There’s a pink arrow now, pointing to a familiar face.

  Consejero Maribel leans against the far wall waiting for me to see her. The frown, the tilted head—her usual look when burdened with another problem. Consejeros are block captains, official neighborhood meddlers. The Stream puts a green and red icon next to Maribel’s head, identifying her as Autoridad.

  Habit takes over. I drop my eyes, bow slightly at the waist, and mumble, “Buenos días, mi Consejero,” as I was taught when I was little. Maribel is at least fifty years old and stinks of mouthwash and nasty deodorant. I hold my breath as we embrace. Her red hair bun brushes across my nose.

  I open my mouth to tell her I don’t need her here, but she drapes a flabby arm across my shoulders and whispers into my ear, “This will be a big day for you, muchacha. I can feel it.”

  “You’re not mad?”

  “Why should I be mad?” She smiles but her eyes evade. I don’t much look into Maribel’s eyes anyhow—they’re shark eyes, totally dead.

  A side door opens and three people emerge wiping tears. New arrivals trade places on the floor with those whose turn has come.

  “Why do they want this . . . therapeutic counseling? Is this like critical self-examination?”

  The Consejero hesitates. “Be your usual happy self. This is not about what you think. This is a chance to do better.”

  “I don’t need their counseling.”

  Her tone hardens. “Say what the Magistrado wants you to say. That’s all you need to do, and your troubles go away.” She holds up her index finger and presses it to my lips. “What’s my rule for you?”

  “The one thing in life you can’t take back are the words coming out of your mouth.”

  “You, always trying to change everything. What for? Me, telling you again: Listen and obey. It’s simple!” She digs into her pocket and presents a yellow capsule. “Fast acting!”

  I shake my head.

  “Obey your Consejero. Will relax you. Make you not care. And you won’t be alone. I’ll be at your side.”

  “Gracias, Consejero, but I don’t need your help.”

  The doorway to Bench 312 opens. Two stout Policía take position on either side of me. Their expressions speak plainly: keep-your-mouth-shut.

  Maribel whispers, “You sure, chica?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Whatever happens, better off without Maribel’s tricks and scams. On top of that, the Magistrado won’t need any help from Maribel. They have autosystems to detect lies.

  One of the Policía brings his mouth close to my right ear. “Address the Magistrado as Magistrado. Speak only to answer a direct question, otherwise remain silent.”

  I nod and stare ahead.

  The Policía on my left snarls, “Eyes to the floor.”

  Bench 312 is enormous for the small number of people inside. I risk raising my eyes just a bit. Five assorted Harmony officials in the standard blue-gray uniforms, all slumped along a wooden table. The Policía direct me to a yellow plastic chair at the center of the room. The door closes behind me.

  Magistrado Geraldo Diaz is a skinny man with an ordinary face tanned the color of lentil beans. He’s behind a massive desk decorated with the Harmony seal and pics of Marco plus the nine members of the Central Committee. Just pics, but all ten faces move a little bit like vids so it feels like they’re scrutinizing me with their eyes.

  Same old mind games. How dumb do I look? I snatch a few glimpses of them going through my Stream. The Magistrado starts at the beginning. They want to see my whole life.

  There’s mi mamá.

  Her soft embrace, her flowery scent. Dim memories. My mother, we lost her when I was about three. What happened to mamá? I glance up but they’ve flicked past her. There’s Paco taking me to school. Alex is with us. He’s very small, maybe two.

  Age six, Paco teaching me to sing.

  I’m eight, and Alex is gone.

  Before I can stop myself, I slide my left hand into my uniform pocket and clutch my rosies. Stupid. Don’t draw attenti
on to the rosies.

  Alex is gone, and Paco did nothing.

  Shut it out.

  The Harmony officials talk among themselves in Mandarin and Hindi. What’s so interesting? Me, age nine, creating plans for spacecraft. My Apollo book is my inspiration. They scrutinize the NASA logo painstakingly copied from the book. National Aeronautics and Space Administration, the America states group that built the Apollo spacecraft. They watch me try to draw the logo on a white shirt.

  The history in my Apollo book isn’t taught at the Academy, so I’m not supposed to know it. It’s too much harmful information in my head.

  Paco is taken from me, too. I’m assigned to a housing unit. One of the officials shakes his head. They know about the rosies. They know they’re in my pocket.

  One of them mutters the word icon.

  My heart pounds.

  Magistrado Diaz flutters his hand dismissively. “I’ll allow it.”

  He’ll allow it.

  He’ll allow Paco’s rosies. A burst of heat surges across my face. What gives him the ability to allow or disallow my rosies?

  The Magistrado flicks through my Stream full speed. Taking it all in, the trouble with my instructors, my interest in engineering, aerospace design, even my fútbol team when I was eleven. I was a one-girl team.

  My breath escapes in short huffs. He raises his eyes and I stare back. His shirt is a blue so dark it’s almost black, and it has cherry-red trim and buttons.

  He squints his eyes for a moment, then relaxes and flashes a smile. “Cristina Flores, you have a magnificent brain in you. So much reading and study! Science. Literature. Art. Psychology. Proficiency in so many subjects! There is nothing you don’t know, eh?”

  “There’s a lot I don’t know.”

  The Magistrado jiggles his finger. “I like that answer.” He gives my Stream more flicks. “I like your drawings, too. You’re a brilliant artist. Your GAO exam scores in physics, chemistry, engineering dynamics. The highest grades I have ever seen.”

  Not the highest, but damn excellent. Enough to be tracked for university when I was thirteen. I was dumb enough to expect my grades and my projects to overcome my big mouth and my low Trust Scores. But nothing can get around a crappy Score, and I’m old enough to understand that now.

  He leans forward. “You seek university admission, eh?”

  I stop breathing.

  “Peking University, Beijing. That is where you seek to attend?”

  “Si.”

  “Engineering, eh?”

  “Si, Magistrado.”

  They’re back to my Stream, all of them. When are they going to mention what I said to Marco? Isn’t that why I’m here? It’s been cut from my Stream, sure, but they know everything, what actually happened, the true event stored in my head.

  “Novio?” the Magistrado asks, his mouth in a tiny smirk.

  “No.”

  No boyfriend. What a revelation. He shrugs as if this is a major mystery. They pass back and forth over the last couple years, my time with Dottie and the niños, with Chloe, Nick, and Charlie. They can see everything, whatever detail they want.

  “You don’t talk to many people, Cristina Flores.”

  I guess that was a question. “No, Magistrado.”

  He can figure that out for himself. Other than my niños, who I will never see again, and Dottie, who killed herself this morning, and Faye. That’s all.

  What does he expect me to say?

  Does he comprehend the fact that no one will ever give a rat’s ass about me and my 208 Score? Friendship with me would bring down their own Score. I’m supposed to mingle with people who see me as a dangerous snake? Harmony’s promos remind us: keeping Trust is glorious, breaking Trust is disgraceful. Chicos are supposed to like me . . . why? Because I know a lot of math and science? That makes up for my crap Score?

  Harmony destroys me with a crap Score, then they wonder why I have no friends.

  I almost say it out loud. You poisoned me.

  For once I control my big mouth. Instead, I state what should be obvious.

  “I don’t need them.”

  A simple fact.

  One of the Harmony officials, a little man with a long ponytail, snaps out five words in Hindi. The Magistrado nods and speaks while he studies my Stream.

  “You are disrespectful. Impolite. You contradicted your instructors numerous times, even though you know it’s not permitted.”

  More barks from the Harmony guy. His ponytail jiggles like a puppy’s tail.

  “Why do you do this, Cristina? What explanation can you give us?”

  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  He scowls. “You go to school to learn from the instructors. They know more than you. You said you don’t know everything, eh? So why can’t you behave correctly?”

  “I know what’s right. I tell the truth.”

  “Not your truth! Learn the correct truth you are taught!”

  “There’s only one truth.”

  Another weird twisted face. “Who told you that?”

  “My father.”

  He thumps the desk with his fist. I did it, said an improper word.

  “Not your instructors, eh? Your . . . padre. Si, tu amado padre!”

  The officials babble and they’re not happy. The Magistrado blows out his breath hard enough to rattle his lips. “Where is father now? Oh yes, he passed. Seven years now. Cancer. Only forty-six.”

  I fold my arms. Stupid to mention Paco!

  They stream this morning’s parade. The students marching and singing to Marco. The Magistrado swings to my image and zooms. The simulated me sings passionately. They must know this this faked.

  His smile returns. “You have a beautiful voice, Cristina Flores.”

  “I didn’t sing.”

  That only widens his grin. “Just move your lips. That’s what truly matters, eh?” He leans forward. “Peking University. That’s where you should be. Beijing! All you need is the nomination, and I grant it. You are pulled to Formación, as of today.”

  My right hand flies to my mouth and drops again. My skin tingles, so this has to be real.

  I splutter, “You can do that?”

  “Oh, yes!” he assures me. “Not a problem. You should have gone four years ago—”

  “I got a nine on my HSK Mandarin.”

  He’s back to my Stream. I sit, and think, and calm down.

  I want to believe him.

  But they always lie.

  No mention of my Score, my interrupting Marco. This is all a lie, because they have no reason to give me what I want.

  Now his fingers are laced together. “It’s my pleasure to help you. However, we need to deal with another matter first.”

  They will require a public apology?

  “Before you leave for university, Cristina, you will accept your Regalo de Salud. We’ll set your appointment for tomorrow morning.”

  The room floats.

  I jump to my feet and cry out, “Magistrado!”

  He grins and waves me toward the door.

  “Magistrado, please—”

  “Your Consejero will take care of everything.”

  ◆◆◆

  Maribel tugs me into the washroom. No more smile, all official.

  “He’s trying to help you.”

  “I don’t want Regalo!”

  “It’s for your own good.”

  I run water over my hands. Will Maribel help a chica from the units? Or serve Global Harmony?

  She switches to her soft voice. “I want to see you happy. Do what they tell you to do. You think like a child. Do I need to remind you again? They’ll get what they want.”

  “If they want me to accept Regalo so bad, why don’t they force me? All those soldiers. Why don’t they force everyone? Would simplify things. No need for promos.” I shake water from my hands. “But they can’t shoot us all, can they?”

  Maribel puts her hand over her mouth. Her eyes are wide; I’ve never seen her
afraid. What have I done?

  The Stream promos my life without Regalo. Fake Cristina plods through an open field under a blazing sun—sweaty, dirty, exhausted—part of a line of workers trudging behind a harvesting machine.

  Menial labor. Capacitación Básica.

  Maribel whispers, “They are giving you a chance to do better.”

  They only take your ovaries, not your uterus. They keep some of the eggs. They might genetically alter them. I’ll still be able to have children someday, possibly genetically edited, and only with authorization. Or maybe not, because I’ve also heard they take everything.

  The niños. They’re gone. Are my ovaries more important to me?

  Maribel cradles my head and brings my cheek against hers. “I promise it won’t hurt. Go to sleep, wake up, go home. Quick and easy.” She pulls my chin so our eyes meet. “You don’t want to bring a child into this world.”

  FOUR

  The low sun outside the Comisaría casts orange light across the buildings and treetops. Already they’re pushing my instructions for Regalo. A promo shows me rising early but eating no breakfast. I drink only water, then nothing at all after eight. By nine a car takes me to Manchester Medical Center. I’m happy and unafraid, and afterward I’m in a room with lots of flowers. No mention about losing some of my insides.

  A car stops next to me and the door pops open. They want me to go home, but I’m not ready to do that.

  My niños. I have to know.

  They were taken hours ago, probably by Beak Nose herself. But I don’t know that for certain. For my chiquillos, I need to know, and there’s only one way to do that. This may be a last chance to say goodbye.

  A 208 Score doesn’t let me get a car on my own, so I hike to their school. It’s empty by the time I get there. The niños are gone.

  Could Chloe have walked them home?

  But the windows in my housing unit are dark. How can that be? I open the door, and Charlie greets me with his head low and tail barely moving. Everything is the same, a total mess, just no peeps. Chloe, at least, should have messaged me. But there’s nothing.

  My mouth goes dry as something drains from my head into my belly.