Smoketown

by Tenea D. Johnson

  The broadcast images showed that those few days had cost the city dearly—but The Spires still stood, also a limited number of buildings in the Center, and The Shallows had been largely untouched. Most fortunately, there were almost no casualties as most of the city had been on its way out when the worst hit. HQ centers had been set up in the Center and out in Smoketown. There would be enough to do, though Eugenio still wasn’t sure in what capacity he would do it. Emergency Management had promoted Lena to the Director’s job and offered him hers. Eugenio doubted he wanted to spend much time behind a desk, but ornithophobia wouldn’t go away because the perimeter had. Perhaps he could have a hand in creating a municipal treatment program.

  A massive billboard lumbered past, blocking the view with an image of breakfast cereal.

  An alert chime sounded from his handheld. He removed it from his pocket and tapped the flashing alarm icon.

  “It’s time?” Lucine said, closing the last few meters between them.

  “Yes, the broadcast should be hitting Leiodare now as well.”

  The image on the billboard blacked out. The logo for a newscast replaced it. Breaking News flashed across the board. An immense head appeared on the board. Eugenio marveled at the size of the man’s face. The image’s pores were as big as Eugenio’s hands.

  “An ion blast from the iCDC HQ: Sources have confirmed that the agency has received compelling evidence that the Crumble superbug was the result of corporate negligence. McClaren Industries, maker of the once-omnipresent virtu and Last Word systems, is alleged to be behind the epidemic. Viewers may recall that thirty years ago McClaren Industries revolutionized the entertainment industry with the introduction of virtu systems. While a steady stream of competitors went on to take over the market, McClaren Industries remains a substantial player in virtu systems. And at the time of the Crumble McClaren Industries had ninety-eight percent market share within the city. How’s that for irony?”

  Eugenio’s stomach turned at the broadcaster’s flippancy.

  “Charges have been filed for corporate espionage, criminal negligence, fraud, and—” His tone became incredulous. “A count of premeditated murder! The company and several former staff stand accused of the murder-for-hire of a nanotech named Bly Ori, who apparently stumbled on their secret first. One of her colleagues is with us today.” The broadcaster shifted his gaze. “Dr. Khan, thank you for your time. What can you tell us about Bly Ori?” he asked. The billboard showed an older woman with dark curls and a kind face.

  “She was a dedicated and extremely talented researcher and designer, the Lee Dalton of her time. Her work was remarkable. Truly remarkable. Until her retirement she led the field,” Dr. Khan said.

  “Yes, you bring up an interesting point. McClaren Industries is accused of having her murdered—after she had retired. Can you give us any insight on that?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t. But I can tell you that she left the lab on maternity leave, and while gone decided to retire. It’s not uncommon, though rare for a tech of her skill level and at that point in her research.”

  “Exactly what kind of research was she engaged in?” he asked.

  “I can’t divulge those details, as the work is the exclusive property of Note Labs. But I can tell you if Bly had had the opportunity to fully develop her work it would’ve been of great benefit to the world,” she said.

  “Hmm, a loss for us all then—courtesy of McClaren Industries,” the broadcaster said, turning directly to the audience. “This has been a Vivant Industries bulletin. Have a vibrant day.”

  The cereal bowl flashed back on-screen.

  “It’s the message that matters, Eu,” Lucine said.

  “Yes, it is,” Eugenio said, stepping away from the railing. “Did you send word about the freed souls?” he asked.

  “To every Mendejano receiver in the south and east. They’ll move it along its way. I also let them know that the perimeter won’t be rebuilt,” she said proudly. She reached up and squeezed his shoulder. “This is a good start to your histories, Eu.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But just a start.”

  He laughed. “Let’s go home.”

  24

  “Bly” was all Anna heard. She sat on Seife’s couch, ankles crossed, watching the news broadcast on her handheld when her mother’s name stopped time. Anna paused the broadcast, and disbelieving, rewound the report three times before understanding sunk down and settled inside her. “They” had a name, and they had not killed Bly for her gifts. They probably didn’t even know about them. And someone who may have, by what she insinuated in the interview, had never betrayed her mother, even all these years later.

  Despite the shock of seeing her mother’s story, Anna didn’t black out or lose time. The room shimmered and warped—but after that moment passed, she still found herself on the couch, aching from the blisters on her hands, alone. Anna got up and went to find Seife. Anna knew Seife was either out helping to destroy the dome or near the drying plains assisting with the bird burial.

  Gingerly, Anna got up from the couch and went out into the day. Outside, cool air prickled the flesh of her arms as she descended the stairs and crossed the short clearing into the undergrowth. Not yet sure how to start the story she had to tell, her gaze flitted over the trees, the sunlight in the leaves, the pods fluttering down into her path. Distracted by their flight she didn’t notice the woman walking her way. When Anna did, she flicked her gaze over to the woman, and lost the rhythm of her steps.

  Peru.

  She saw Peru, alive, walking toward her through the jungle. Anna started to open her mouth—to say what, she wasn’t sure—when the other woman’s face rippled and changed. As the woman emerged from the shadows between trees, Anna saw full lips and high cheekbones—even her skin appeared darker, caramel where there had been cream. Anna’s memory flashed an image of the girl in the real, standing in the Idahoan desert. She almost expected the woman coming toward her to smile and wave. Peru was showing off now as she’d done then.

  As she slowly closed the distance between them, Anna finally saw Peru for what and who she was—the product of Bly’s blood and nanocells, capable of changing herself at will, but a woman so incapable of change that she had faked her own death to be left alone.

  Anna was not responsible for what Peru did in the world and could certainly not control her. If she owed Peru anything, it was gratitude for this last harsh lesson.

  When they neared each other, Anna held out one hand, stopping Peru. She turned and looked at the other woman full in the face. Anna had grown since they last met, or perhaps Peru had shrunk. However it had happened, she could now look Peru in the eye.

  “This is what you’ll do to be left alone,” Anna said.

  “It is,” Peru’s gaze stayed fixed on the trees in front of her. “You surprised me though—with the birds. I didn’t think you were listening back then.”

  “I always listened, I just didn’t always understand.”

  An aracari’s song filled the silence. Peru looked over at Anna.

  “You can’t be you know—alone,” Anna said, turning to her. She thought of her mother and the path that had brought her here. “And even if you think you are, you’re always alone with something—your fear, guilt. If you’re lucky—.” Anna scanned Peru’s new face. “Yourself.”

  Slowly, Anna let her hand drop to her side, and looked out towards the jungle.

  “I always wanted to ask you, why ‘Peru’? The name I mean.”

  “It was the first word I recognized,” Peru answered.

  Anna grunted softly. “That’s so much simpler than the scenarios I’d come up with.”

  “You tend to complicate things, Anna.”

  Anna couldn’t help but smile. She turned back to Peru. “I did. But it’s time to let some things die and new ones live.”

  With that, Anna continued on her way, leaves crunching loudly underfoot.

  About the Author

  Tenea D. Joh
nson was born in Louisville, Kentucky. Fifty years before that, her paternal grandparents met there, in a neighborhood called Smoketown. She received her BA from New College of Florida and her MA from NYU’s Gallatin School. She has written a poetry and prose collection, Starting Friction. Her shorter work has appeared in various anthologies and magazines; her musical work, compositions of storytelling to music, are available on disc and online. She currently lives near the Gulf of Mexico under the canopy of a centuries-old oak (in a house). This is her first novel.