The Far Shore

by Glenn Damato

  My Stream, empty.

  I lower myself into a kitchen chair.

  My spacecraft pics and drawings. All gone.

  This cannot be.

  My pics from Apollo, gone.

  My hand-drawn NASA logo, gone.

  Like they never were.

  My legs wobble, but I force them to carry me into my bedroom.

  Bottom drawer. Under the clothes.

  Apollo. Gone.

  The world drops down a hole. I can’t breathe. My knees buckle and I’m on the floor. I sweep my right hand across the bottom of the drawer.

  Maybe they just moved it. Maybe they checked it, to see if there’s anything hidden inside it—a recording device, a weapon. I spring from one side of the tiny room to the other. Not on the bed, not in the closet, or under the bed, or on the floor, or under my pillow.

  Who am I fucking kidding? But I have to look.

  I check the sofa, the chairs, the kitchen table, the trash. I wrap my rosies around my fingers and bring them to my lips as Paco used to do.

  Charlie sits, tail twitching, watching from a distance.

  “Please, no.”

  I can’t get it out of my head. To my daughter Cristina Flores on her ninth birthday.

  Tears swell behind my eyes. I will not cry. I will not. Paco would hate it.

  My body quivers all over. The Autoridad. They took what was mine.

  They came in here when? This morning? This afternoon, when I was at the Comisaría? They came in here, into my room, reached into my drawer, put their filthy hands on Apollo. Was it one of those bastardo Policía? Which one took it, Beak Nose or Sumo?

  Gilipollas!

  Who did this? Magistrado Geraldo Diaz? Marco Javier Crespo? Maribel? Does it matter?

  There will be no Regalo.

  I scream, “No Regalo! Hear that? I won’t do it! Chinga tu madre!”

  There’s no care left in me.

  Isabel and Nathan’s toys lay scattered across the floor. Plastic elephants and giraffes. “Goodbye, my little chiquillos.”

  Faye’s fingers. White-gloved, wrapped around the guidon pole. Why did they designate short little Faye a guidon bearer? I understand now. So that no one would forget those fingers. They want those fingers held up, in the open, for all to see. A warning.

  The Autoridad does that.

  I sprint out the door into the darkness. Above me are stars, pure and true. I’m strong again, and I run the two blocks to Faye’s unit on legs driven by fury. I push through the door. I know this unit, I lived here with Faye for a few months after she came back.

  Two men and a woman are at the table eating. I know only Tim, a pale, round-faced hombre. He stands, wide-eyed, but keeps chewing. The others spin around.

  There’s Faye, at the sink, with the water running and she doesn’t even know I’m here. I grasp her left hand and pull her around to face me. She yelps and spits bits of food. Faye’s thumb and middle finger clutch my hand so hard it hurts.

  Tim yells at me but he’s not going to stop me from doing what I need to do. In fact he doesn’t even try. Every nada on the block is taught to back off and run when they see a crazy person, anyone acting in an unauthorized manner, and that I am certainly doing. They dash out the door, the three of them, leaving Faye and me alone.

  Faye is close enough to smell salsa on her breath. I say each word with care, and loud enough so she can hear over the running water. “You’re going to tell me!”

  “Please, Cristina! What are you doing?”

  Her two fingers tremble against mine. She knows I won’t let go.

  “Are you listening? You’re going to tell me!”

  I hold her two fingers in front of her eyes. They’re small and wet and I’m sorry for her, but I really have no choice. This is my last chance.

  “I have to know.”

  She flinches and shakes her head.

  I shut the water off. Now we have quiet.

  “I want you to tell me what happened. Don’t be afraid.”

  Another head shake. She fights back tears.

  “I’m crying too, Faye, inside me.”

  Two lines of wet spill down her cheeks. I hold her close and stroke her arm. The stub of her pinkie is a hard lump against my skin.

  “Faye, look at me. They’re not going to give you new fingers. They’re lying. They want everybody to see these hands. Understand me? They want us to see.”

  She cries on my shoulder. I want to say more but I keep my crazy mouth shut. It’s quiet outside, but how much time do we have?

  “Tell me. Tell me now, because I won’t be here much longer.”

  I wait some more. She raises her head and there’s a look in her eye, not fear, but resolve. She’s thinking. Forming words. She swallows, and the words come.

  “You want to know, Cristina?” She sniffs and stares at the floor.

  “Look at me when you talk.”

  Faye raises her eyes. She presses her lips together before the words come. “Criminals! They were criminals, Margo and Peter, filthy criminals. Illegal books! Illegal pregnancy! Sickening, both of them, and they deserved what they got.”

  Her mother and father.

  Faye yanks her hand free and thrusts it in my face. Three wet, pink stumps.

  “Margo and Peter made them do this! Rotten, filthy criminals. We fixed them good. You’re the smartest person I know, but you’re too stubborn to understand how happy I am, how lucky I am, to be . . . an example . . . an example for everyone to see, like you said. An example for you, Cristina!”

  She wipes both hands on a dishtowel and tosses it across the faucet.

  “I serve a purpose. My fingers, a necessary sacrifice, a fair exchange for the names Margo and Peter hid in their heads. I did my part to get those names, and it’s a worthy purpose for me. Now I’m an example. I thought I could be an example for you, Cristina. Maybe someday you would know the greatest purpose for any of us, service to Harmony.”

  I back away from her.

  “I cry for you, Cristina, because you’re a criminal, too. Hopeless, pathetic. I wanted to help you. I wanted you to have a purpose. Do you understand the meaning of the word?”

  My fingers . . . a necessary sacrifice.

  Her eyes are savage and empty at the same time. Harmony put these things in her brain. Faye belongs to them in every possible way. And she doesn’t care—no, she’s proud of it.

  A metallic click-click-click from just outside the door. A spotter walking across concrete.

  “Purpose, Cristina!” Faye spits. “What is your purpose? Why do you even bother to live?”

  The spotter comes through the door, circles me, and stops. A broad-shouldered Policía stands at the door. His face is red and sweaty.

  “You,” he points to me. “Do not move. Understand?” He points to Faye. “You, step back into the other room. Do it now.”

  I make my voice steady. “Leave me alone.”

  Two more male Policía take position behind the first. One of them turns and calls out over his shoulder, “You may enter, Consejero.”

  Maribel pokes her head into the kitchen. She glances around but doesn’t acknowledge me. I’m invisible. There’s the deodorant stench when she passes behind me on her way to the living room.

  The spotter edges closer. The Policía order, “Raise your arms above your head.”

  What choice is there?

  “Turn around, face the table.”

  I snarl, “You have no reason to do this.”

  “Lower your arms slowly. Empty your pockets on the table. No sudden movements.”

  I pull out a packet of fresh tissues and my rosies and lay them between two plates of half-eaten quesadilla.

  “Take one step back. Do not move your arms. Do not turn your head.”

  From behind me, heavy footsteps clunking fast. Maribel brushes my rosies off the table like trash. They slide across the floor.

  She yells, “Icon! Mierda bagota!”

  “They’re allowed!” />
  I step forward and bend down to pick them up.

  Searing pain stabs both my legs, an overwhelming shock worse than hot water because it won’t stop. I hear a shriek of agony from far away, from someone else, but it’s me. The kitchen floor smacks my face and the anguish in my legs explodes. Every muscle in my body knots together into a tight ball of sparkling hurt.

  Time fades. There’s a heavy shoe pressing down on the back of my neck. My wrists are bound to a restraint band, a strap of orange plastic wrapped completely around my waist. When did that happen?

  “Don’t struggle. Just be still.”

  The Policía yank me to my feet. A trickle of saliva runs down my chin.

  “Can you swallow? Good.”

  They push me toward the door. There’s the spotter, one slender arm still dangling a bit of wire.

  My rosies.

  I try to turn around, but I can’t. A weak little whimper comes out of my mouth, a barely audible plea. The Policía steer me outside. They must have sent Maribel away. Faye, the others—all gone. Just a white van.

  “Something,” I manage to sputter. “Something of mine.”

  They ignore me and shove me into a seat. The motor purrs alive.

  “Kitchen floor, near the corner. Rosies. Beads. Please. I need them. They’re allowed.”

  The Policía take their seats. The spotter strolls up to the van and uses its silvery arms to position itself across from me. One of the arms extends.

  Another hit! I clench my teeth.

  But the spotter holds my tissues—and my rosies. It slides both into my uniform pocket. The miserable thing did as programmed and returned personal items not deemed weapons. I exhale and press my bound hands against the lump in my pocket, my rosies.

  I whisper to the spotter, “Gracias.”

  All three Policía explode laughing.

  FIVE

  The end of the line for me. I saw it coming five minutes before we got there.

  SERCENT is a concrete tube wider than two fútbol fields and almost a kilometer long, lit up from one end to the other with pink and yellow floodlights. The outer shell is covered with enormous murals portraying various Harmony leaders, their smiling faces fifty meters tall. Above the entrance is a huge graphic of two cupped hands offering a red rose.

  Servicios Centrales—Central Services—SERCENT.

  Here I am, ready for jail or wherever they keep you right after a mandate, and I get this?

  Why SERCENT? A status change, definitely—but that means what? I’ve never had reason to come here, but I have an idea what to expect. SERCENT is calculated humiliation. It’s staffed by people who enjoy dishing out fear and anxiety.

  Nadas go to SERCENT for sad reasons. I heard a lot of them are here to request an earlier date for a scheduled medical treatment, or appeal denied medical service or a denied prenatal authorization. There’s supposed to be a lot of young nadas trying for a better housing allotment, nadas with crap Scores angling to do better, begging Harmony for a few extra crumbs.

  I don’t want their crumbs. So I’m here why?

  SERCENT closed hours ago, but they’re going to leave me anyhow. The main floor is so big I can’t see the other side. People are sprawled everywhere, sleeping, clustered together talking, leaning against walls and plastic barriers, thousands of them. But those luxury accommodations are not for me.

  The Policía, their spotter following like a faithful dog, escort me to an area filled with hundreds of identical chain-link compartments laid out in a grid. Most hold a single sleeper—a man, a woman, or a child. Troublemakers, and this is how they’re kept isolated overnight.

  They pick a compartment for me, a cage really, two meters square at the most. One of the Policía activates the door lock. He whispers, “Have a wonderful night.”

  My feet refuse to move.

  “Want another hit?”

  I let him push me in.

  The spotter reaches inside and slices my restraint band and pulls it from my waist. I massage raw skin and blood flows back into my wrists. Something reeks; rows of little holes cover the clear plastic floor, each hole crusted with gunk resembling chocolate and caramel. I’ll take a wild guess it’s not chocolate or caramel.

  A grunt and a dribble sound from behind me. In a nearby cage, a nada with silver hair plaited into neat braids clumsily squats so she can urinate. She clutches the chain-link wall to keep from falling over.

  Can I hold it until morning? Absolutely.

  They let us out in the morning, right?

  I lower my butt to the least filthy spot on the floor. The Stream works, but there’s no info, not even my Score, and it doesn’t obey my hand. Harmony gets to choose my entertainment, and that means nothing but required promos. First comes a spectacularly stupid spin for Governor Marco. The second promo is no surprise, either. The imitation Cristina—as always, forged slightly prettier than the real me—joyfully accepts her Regalo and emerges from the operation with a moronic grin. The fake Cristina encounters a gorgeous, long-haired hombre and they kiss before a setting sun.

  In some crazy way, the idiotic promos help my brain untangle. How many mistakes did I cram into one day? Are they mistakes? I’d do it all over again exactly the same, even though it was a kind of suicide. I still breathe, but the me of my previous life is dead.

  Why didn’t I shout out and wake up Nick and Chloe? They could have done something, said something, and Dottie could be alive now.

  Nathan, Isabel! Would Harmony blame niños that young? Where are they now, what are they doing? They’re safe in bed. Who’s going to feed them tomorrow morning? Will anyone ever tell them what happened to me? They shouldn’t suffer because of my big mouth.

  It’s going to be a long night.

  A greenish glow from high overhead; the whole roof is a giant vid screen and an animated story begins. It’s a history lesson, the one everyone already knows. Our past was filled with war, hunger, and suffering. A small number of criminals stole wealth from everyone else. They controlled our common resources for their own selfish benefit. Bombings, shootings, conditions so chaotic millions couldn’t obtain food, medical care, or even a place to live.

  The outlaws destroyed themselves. There came a glorious Reawakening. People from all over the world smile at each other and embrace. Global Harmony feeds them healthy and delicious food. Everyone is delirious with joy. Harmony provides for our needs, the Autoridad ensures our safety and stability. Harmony leads us to a magnificent future by correcting our moral deficiencies.

  Global Harmony. A Better World.

  The cage is just wide enough to lie flat. There’s a lump on the side of my head from where I smacked into Faye’s kitchen floor. The whole left side of my face hurts. My stomach rumbles, grouchy about not getting dinner.

  Paco.

  His rosies form a comforting lump in my pocket. Think only of Paco and his rosies. Paco taught me history, too—his own history, plus a little about the people of Alta California who lived here before I was born, and about the America states.

  In other words, dangerous talk.

  Paco had a lot of dangerous ideas in his head, and he told me only a tiny portion. This was to protect me. I was little and little kids haven’t yet learned the many things they must never say.

  First we rode the Metro to the beach at Santa Monica or Venice. The cooler months were better because there were fewer people, and the sun set straight down into the horizon. We always sat near the water before our talks. Paco spoke softly, his voice barely louder than the crashing waves, maybe so the autosystems wouldn’t understand most of his words.

  Paco kept a bundle of pics, the kind on pieces of paper. These pics weren’t on the Stream and therefore harder for the Autoridad to find. Old pics were important to Paco and he wanted me to see them often, to store the images in my head, as he put it.

  There was one of Victor, Paco’s father, from Sonora, a grinning boy perched on a bicycle, white shirt with a strange cartoon of a big green musc
ular turtle-person. Victor was in the dreamer program, Paco told me, but he never said what the dreams were about. There was Victor as a soldier in a desert. Same grin, beige uniform, sunglasses, and on his right arm, the flag of the America states. A tiny Paco with Victor, and they’re eating funnel cake on the Santa Monica pier. Paco with his mother, Sarah, at Griffith Observatory. Paco with our Apollo book under his arm, shaking hands with Buzz Aldrin, both of them looking at the camera with jaunty smiles.

  After the sun set, the ocean became a vivid cobalt blue and the first stars would appear against the pink sky. Seagulls landed and flapped their wings at the edge of the surf, where sheets of foam chased them back into the air.

  When it became too dark to see pics, we would just talk, Paco and I.

  Kids start Academy at age six, and the first thing we learned is that Harmony is our mother, our guide to what’s right and wrong, always there to nurture us and provide for us. The Autoridad is our father, there to protect us and discipline us.

  We each received our first Trust Score, something that thrilled me beyond words. I was good with numbers and Scores were numbers that changed, and changed with meaning. They started us with a simple one-digit Score that could vary from two to eight, for training, because few niños that age could count much higher, anyhow. We all began with a five, and after that our Score was determined by our behavior.

  It didn’t take long to discover how to get our Score up: Believe what Harmony told us and behave as we were told to behave. The system was fair and just. Harmony will instruct us and we will be rewarded or punished based on our obedience.

  Harmony told us what to think. Thinking your own thoughts to figure out right from wrong was arrogant. And unnecessary. We were nadas, nothings, and thinking about those matters was useless. Far worse, it was poisonous to all of humanity. But if we believed and behaved as we were instructed, everyone would benefit through our excellent compliance and dependability.

  I didn’t at first understand all the ideas about our duty to serve humanity through Global Harmony, but I found out that kids with a Score of seven or eight received a yummy desert with lunch, something like caramel flan or tres leches cupcakes. Fives and sixes got an apple. Less than five, no dessert at all.