The Matriarch Manifesto

by Devin Hanson

  With a sigh, Leila turned to leave, resigning herself to a barely palatable meal eaten alone. As she reached for the door, it slid open and Jackson stepped through. Leila yelped and stumbled backward, then covered her mouth and flushed in embarrassment.

  “Jackson! There you are. I was just going to go eat.”

  Jackson slid the door shut behind him and sagged against it wearily. Leila reached out and flicked the light on and got a good look at Jackson for the first time. She gasped half-reached out toward him. He was spattered with blood and vomit, his hair matted on one side, his work coveralls crusted brown at the knees.

  “It’s not mine,” Jackson assured her.

  “What happened?! How… Jesus, Jackson!”

  Jackson waved his hands at her in a calming gesture. “I… It’s fine, really.” His face twisted as he tried to figure out what words to use, before giving up and shrugging. “It’s a long story.”

  Leila touched him gingerly on the shoulder. “You’re not in danger?”

  “Not right now, no.” He smiled, as much trying to convince himself as her.

  “Well, okay. Let’s get you cleaned up?” She led him to the little sink and helped him wash the worst of the blood out of his hair and off his hands. As she worked, she struggled to think of a way to coax the story out of Jackson, her hunger forgotten for the moment.

  “Were you attacked?”

  “Not me. I mean, they weren’t looking for me. They were looking for the ainlif.”

  “Ainlif!” With an effort, Leila forced her voice to a calmer tone. “There are ainlif on Angela?”

  “Not in permanent residence, if that’s what you’re asking. These ainlif were here to recover their matriarchs.”

  “I… what? Their matriarchs?”

  Jackson ducked his head under the flow of water and scrubbed at his hair. The sink flowed red for a moment, then started to clear. “I forgot, you’ve probably not heard about it at all.”

  “I would say not! I’ve been working.”

  “Oh, you found a job! That’s great!”

  Leila rolled her eyes. “Yeah, in H&H. Don’t change the subject. What haven’t I heard about?”

  “Hey, have you ever been to Horizon?”

  “Briefly.” Leila folded her arms and glared at the back of Jackson’s head as he turned the water off and toweled his hair dry. “What does Horizon have to do with missing matriarchs?”

  “Missing? Who said anything about missing?” Jackson asked. His voice was muffled with the towel, but she could hear the avoidance in his voice.

  “You don’t recover things that aren’t lost,” Leila pointed out.

  Jackson sighed and tossed his towel onto the counter. His hair was mussed and spiked up randomly, even after he combed his fingers through it. “Let me get changed, we’ll get some food, and I’ll tell you about it while we eat.”

  Leila turned her back on him and glared at the door. Behind her, she could hear him fumbling around as he changed. Missing matriarchs! How could that have happened? She could only imagine the panic the ainlif were in. The only surprising thing about Jackson’s state was that he was here and uninjured.

  “Okay! That’s much better.”

  She turned around and looked at Jackson. He was wearing a work coverall that was a little tight around the shoulders and short at the ankles. The elbows and knees were worn shiny and it sported a collection of vague stains.

  “You really need to get more changes of clothing,” she said.

  “Yeah, well, maybe when things—”

  A knock on the door interrupted him and Leila saw his face blanch.

  “Who is it?” he called.

  There was a clunk and an electric protest as the door resisted someone trying to open it. “Come on out, Jackson! You missed your work assignment.”

  Leila looked at Jackson, her eyes wide. Jackson shook his head sharply and held a finger against his lips. “You with Wharton?”

  “Same as you, Harding. Open up. No hard feelings, but you’re in it with the rest of us.”

  “Shit,” Jackson whispered. Louder, he said, “Okay, just a second.” He pointed back at the partitioned room and Leila scurried over and crouched behind the half-wall, out of sight of the door.

  She heard the door lock disengage and Jackson barked an outraged, “Hey!”

  “What’s the big deal, Harding? You got cold feet?” A deep voice asked.

  “No, that’s not it at all,” Jackson said hurriedly. “I had an outstanding work assignment from my crew chief.”

  “See, that’s hurtful,” the man said. “I know fer a fact you didn’t have any assignments. We canceled everyone’s listings and issued new ones. Ain’t no shame in being afraid. We’re just here to help you overcome yer natural reticence.”

  “Yeah,” another voice added, “you ain’t the only one, Harding. We been collecting extras all day. You know what’s at stake. We all do.”

  “Wait!” Jackson cried out. “Okay. That’s fine. I’ll come with you.”

  “Huh.” The second voice sounded suspicious, and Leila heard the soft pad of shoes approach.

  Leila looked up at as a man peered around the corner of the half-wall at her. He had a heavy-lidded gaze and a cheerful sneer on his face. “Oy, Marcell, Harding has a broad back here. Come on out, lassie. We just havin’ words. Nobody gonna get hurt.”

  She stood, her head bowed, and edged out into the front room. Jackson was standing against the wall where a tall man with thinning brown hair had him cornered. Marcell eyed her without malice then raised an eyebrow at Jackson.

  “What’s the big deal, Harding? You been telling our secrets?”

  “No! Why would I? She’s just my roommate. She doesn’t know anything.”

  “Hm. Think we’ll let Wharton decide on that,” Marcell shook his head. “Come on, you two. Down to the Basement. We got a bunk room set up where you can sleep once you’ve met with Wharton.”

  Leila measured the distance to the door with her eyes. It was closed, and there was no way she could cover the distance, yank it open and make her escape before Marcell or the other extra caught her. “Who are you two?” She tried for the tone of voice her mother had used once when a mistake had caused an aquaculture tank to crash. Demanding yet aloof.

  “Save your questions for Wharton,” Marcell grunted. “Peyton, get a grip on that one. She looks flighty.”

  Leila jerked her arm away when Peyton reached for her and the extra put his hands on his hips. “Don’ make me wrassle you, girl. I will, and you won’t like that none, and that’s a promise.”

  She wasn’t really afraid, not yet. Mostly, Leila just felt exhausted and confused. Who were these men, and why were they insisting that Jackson and she come with them? Then the man’s hand closed around her upper arm and fear stirred in her breast. His hand was heavy and calloused, his grip painfully tight.

  “Ow!” she gasped as she was jerked toward the door.

  “Now, don’t you try’n run, lassie.”

  “Jackson, you gonna walk, or do I have to beat some sense into you?” Marcell asked.

  “I’ll walk,” Jackson said. His eyes were downcast and he sounded tired and defeated.

  “Good lad. Come now,” Marcell said cheerfully, “once you get working things will start looking better. We need all hands on deck right now, though, and that means you.”

  With Peyton’s fist closed around her arm, Leila had no choice but to follow along with the extras. Peyton likely weighed twice what she did, and his grip was like a hydraulic clamp. Resisting him was futile. Rather than be dragged down the hallway struggling like a child, Leila kept pace with him. Any hope that he would relax his guard seeing she was cooperating was a waste.

  The hallways were empty. It was half an hour into the first shift and anyone who wasn’t sleeping was working. It wasn’t until they had entered the lift that Peyton finally let her go. She and Jackson were crowded into the back of the lift and Marcell tapped a code into the lift’s
interface.

  “Where are we going?” Leila asked. It was the first time she had opened her mouth since leaving her room.

  “The Basement,” Marcell said shortly.

  Whatever code Marcell had punched into the lift kept it from stopping to take on new passengers, and they dropped to the bottom of Stack C without interruption. When the doors finally opened, Marcell and Peyton stepped out without coercing Leila or Jackson.

  Leila looked out the doors onto an industrious bustle. There were hundreds of people working in the wide-open area that used to be the club. The blue lights of arc welders spat sparks from a dozen places as people constructed platforms and barricades from scrap and furniture.

  The noise was incredible. Besides the background noise of people shouting to each other and the hissing crackle of the welders, irregular booming came from the far side of the dance floor where a dozen people were firing blunt weapons at targets. The rhythmic thud of a power hammer tripped behind it all.

  “Wharton is in the back,” Marcell shouted. “Jackson, you know where the restaurant is, right? Through the kitchen doors and on the left. Take your roommate and check in.” He waved and set off down into the club, leaving them behind.

  Leila grabbed Jackson’s arm as he started to walk. “Jackson. Jackson! What the hell is going on here?”

  “They’re preparing—”

  “Bullshit, they’re preparing! This is a fortification! These people are preparing for a war, Jackson!”

  “You think I don’t know that?” Jackson grabbed her hand and pulled her close. “The extras… these people… they’ve abducted matriarchs! They’re trying to force Horizon to concede more housing for them. They’re desperate, Leila!”

  She pulled her hand free, glared at Jackson, horror fighting with outrage. “And you had something to do with this? Why did those men come to get you from our room?”

  “They tricked me into coming here,” Jackson said, his voice as low as it could go and still be audible over the din around them. “I had no idea what they were doing, but I heard their plans, so now they are assuming I’m in agreement with them.”

  “Are you?” Leila demanded furiously.

  “No! Of course not! They’re insane! But they think we do agree, and we’re here because they want us to help them. If they find out we don’t, they’ll probably just kill us. Wharton… he’s got everyone convinced if they don’t do this, then everyone on Nueva Angela will die.”

  Leila shook her head in disbelief, but she couldn’t help but think of the dire conditions of H&H. The food production had been overloaded for so long, and so many corners had been cut in an attempt to keep up with demand, that the whole system was about to collapse. Feeding the majority of the population yeast paste in order to maintain health was a desperation move. If the rest of the habitat’s systems were in the same state, Wharton’s estimation of the imminent catastrophe wasn’t far off.

  “I can’t believe this,” she muttered.

  “Come on. We have to check in with Wharton or they’ll get suspicious. No matter what happens, please keep your comments to yourself. For both of our sakes.”

  Leila nodded, and felt a part of her die. She had been raised with the Matriarch Manifesto as a moral guideline, and she knew the whole thing by heart. Agreeing to silence was an abandonment of the Manifesto. There was no ambiguity about the zero-tolerance approach mandated in tenet thirteen. If she were a matriarch, she should be heading straight for Wharton’s office with a gun.

  But then, she wasn’t worthy. Shame filled her as she followed Jackson. The Challenge had revealed her true nature. Every step she took was another confirmation that she was not fit.

  The restaurant had been converted into a mess hall, with tables lined up in long rows in a bid to provide eating space for the hundreds of extras working around. Leila’s stomach cramped painfully when she smelled the food being served cafeteria-style. Even the knowledge that it was probably all processed yeast did little to soften the pangs of hunger.

  Jackson turned back when her footsteps slowed. “We can get food after we’ve met with Wharton.”

  Reluctantly, Leila picked up her pace again. “Tell me about Wharton,” she asked.

  After a wary look around to make sure there wasn’t anyone near enough to overhear their conversation, Jackson shrugged. “I don’t know him well. I’ve only met him once or twice. He’s the section chief for the extras, and I only became an extra myself… a week ago? Has it really only been a week?” he shook his head.

  “Well, he can’t be that smart, if he’s picking a fight with Horizon,” Leila said dubiously.

  They passed through the swinging doors into the restaurant’s food preparation area, bustling with people preparing bulk dishes, and made a left down a hallway. Here, the cacophony from the main club area was muted to a distant thudding. There were a few dozen rooms in the back area, offices, storage, a staff break room.

  It wasn’t hard to guess which office Wharton had set himself up in. Jackson stopped in front of the pair of burly extras with shotguns slung across their chests and introduced himself. “Hi, I’m Jackson, uh, Harding. Marcell sent me to check in with Wharton.”

  One of the guards checked his tablet and grunted. “He’s busy. You were missing from duty during the last shift.”

  “Yeah, sorry, my crew chief wanted me to finish a project,” Jackson said with a chagrined smile.

  “What’s it like working for Nicks?” the other guard asked with a leer.

  Jackson’s eyes fell and he stared at his feet. “She’s nice enough,” he allowed.

  “Leave off,” the first guard chastised his companion, but he shared the man’s grin. “Well, you’re here now, that’s what’s important. And who’s this? A recruit?”

  Leila saw Jackson glance up at her and nod fractionally. “Uh, yeah.” Leila stumbled over her words a little, then covered it with an embarrassed grin. “Jackson told me what you were doing. I asked if I could help.”

  “See, I told you,” the second guard nudged the first. “Once Nueva Angela finds out what we’re doing here, the whole population will rise up. We’ve got our revolution for sure. They won’t be able to shut us down no matter how hard they try.”

  “Maybe you’re right.” The first guard nodded and tapped at his tablet. “Okay, Harding. I’ve activated your work orders. Just follow the direction like you would any other job. And what’s your name, girl?”

  “Uh, Leila.”

  “Leila what?” he asked as he typed.

  “Ev—Ripley.”

  “Ah, here you are.” The guard didn’t seem to have noticed Leila’s stumble. “I’ve got you as being from H&H?”

  “That’s me,” she confirmed.

  “Well, not much work to do along your skillset, but you could work in the kitchen?”

  Leila nodded weakly. At least she would be able to get something to eat. “Okay.”

  The guard tapped at his tablet, and Leila felt hers buzz in her pocket as she received the work order. “You’re all set.”

  Jackson nodded and turned to leave, then the door behind the guards opened and Wharton stepped through.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  “There are two schools of measurement. Imperial, for those who have sent men to the moon and back, and metric, for those who haven’t.”

  It was a good argument up until the end of the twenty-first century, when the Chinese and the Russians both sent manned missions to the moon and used the metric system to do it. America, predictably, clung to the Imperial system throughout its exploration of space, and the first research outposts on Mars were formed using inches, pounds and gallons. Subsequent missions sent by other nations to the red planet were forced into matching the system or risk having their efforts wasted through duplication.

  When the European nations sent men to Venus for the first time, they made a point of doing it with the metric system. Perhaps out of spite, the United States scrapped its plans for exploring
Venus on their own and opted to piggyback on the efforts of its European allies. Consequently, the only system of measurement on Venus was metric.

  It didn’t take long for Cynthia Everard to exhaust the possibilities of her new room. It had an actual bed in it instead of a cot, the walls were painted a soft pastel instead of left bare, and the furnishings hadn’t been dragged out, but it was still a cage. The air vent was too small to fit through, the door made of heavy plastic and reinforced with steel. There were no materials in the room that she could cobble together to make an effective weapon.

  She might be a favored prisoner, but she was still very much a prisoner. It was frustrating. She had started a dialog with Wharton, but she needed to keep it open if she was going to generate options for herself. Being locked in a comfortable cage would lead to her being just as dead as if she had stayed in that storage room with Alana.

  She needed something she could offer Wharton. Something that he would need her continued insight for. It wouldn’t be enough to warn him about how the Horizon marines might attack. Wharton wouldn’t need her to implement a strategy to defend against it. She needed to put Wharton off balance, she needed some way to make her presence an ongoing necessity.

  The only idea she could come up with was one that sunk cold spikes of fear into her gut. For nearly six hours she debated with herself, lying on her back on her bed and staring at the ceiling. No alternative plans came to her, and eventually she resigned herself to her first idea.

  Without risk, she couldn’t hope to gain anything.

  With decision came action, and she rolled to her feet and pounded on the door. After a minute, a voice called through. “What do you want?”

  “I have information for Wharton,” she called back.

  “What is it?”

  Cynthia rolled her eyes. “That’s not how this works. Get your boss.”

  The silence on the other side of the door made Cynthia wonder if she had overplayed it, but before she had time to get worried, she heard Wharton call from the other side.