by Mya Robarts
“We’ll recover … we … we—” Dad forces a smile. “We’ll replace whatever money can buy, eventually—”
He wants to cheer us up, but I know he’s grieving his losses: Mom’s clothes and pictures, his scientific records, his illegal solar e-reader, and everything else that made his life less difficult. His books were his source of hope. He always says that knowledge can make a difference in the world. Dad takes three deep breaths and blinks repeatedly. His eyes turn red and wet, but he keeps smiling. It breaks my heart to see him struggling to stay strong for us.
Olmo is bawling. His most valued possessions—notepads full of his stories, broken toys, a mouth organ—are gone. I hold him close, but I can’t allow myself to grieve. At least not now, when Olmo needs solace. Not when Azalea and Dad are trying not to break down. I’ll have to wait, as usual, to grieve by myself when nobody else sees me.
As we walk to the plaza meeting, I hear Dad thank God that we didn’t lose our lives. I shiver when I see the path we almost took last night. We wouldn’t have made it to the museum alive.
By some strange miracle, the bombs reached only three buildings—our apartment complex and two deserted buildings that saw their best days before the ban on technology: the library and the university research facility. Another bomb fell on the outskirts of the city and ruined the railroad. Not the modern one Patriots use, but the one that takes me to my job every day.
Monstrous soldiers wearing multi-terrain patterned capes arrive at the plaza. The Commissioner and the Accord Unit trail behind them. Some cops climb the trees surrounding the square for a better view; some stand near the stage. Aleksey is so burly that he towers above the crowd. The entire force of the local order is here. That’s enough to keep the crowd silent.
The Accord Unit wears j-devices that appear to be rings. With them, the Accord Unit films what life is like in the places they visit. In theory, these films should inform the rest of the world when troops abuse unarmed civilians. In reality, they deceive. They give the false impression that everything in North America is civilized.
One of the Accord cops, a middle-aged, six-foot-tall guy, records the scene with his ring-shaped jewelry device. His gray eyes scan the crowd suspiciously. His black mane flows from a receding hairline, and although he looks athletic, he isn’t as fit as the other cops are. Still, he’s eliciting admiration.
“Look! It’s Gary Sleecket,” says the woman standing beside me.
“He’s so … dreamy!” agrees her companion.
I recognize him. He comes to Starville every year for the recruitment ceremony. Commissioner Lee-Rivers addresses him in a respectful tone. “Sergeant Sleecket, could you please get a good shot of Sergeant Rocco?”
Rocco, whose old, slate-gray face is covered in tattoos, addresses the crowd with a megaphone. His tone is deceivingly polite when he informs us that the families who have lost their homes will get new housing soon. He delivers a long speech, asking us to be strong and courageous. The camera focuses on Patriot guards holding hands with a group of local women and children. They must have rehearsed this message. Patriots and Accord Units share a passion for media manipulation.
Rocco asks Gary Sleecket to turn off his camera. When he addresses the crowd again, Rocco’s voice loses the quality of a charismatic politician and becomes menacing. He states that they’ve discovered the rebel group in Midian. Therefore, Maximillian Kei, the Minister of War, condemned an entire city to destruction. Patriots will exploit survivors through forced labor, including visitant services. The rest will be killed or moved to camps.
“See? All that’s left of the traitors is smoke.”
It’s as though he’s speaking directly to TCR members. The Patriots are wasting their bombs when they need them to fight the Nats in the north. It’s clear they’re trying to make a statement.
They shouldn’t have bothered. Most Starvillers are too afraid to participate in our resistance efforts. They tell the legend of an immortal soldier. Fifty Nats shot him repeatedly, but the multiple bullets failed to penetrate his strong muscles. The soldier killed his attackers single-handedly and built a palace in the mountains. His descendants are now part of the Patriot army.
It’s a scientific fact: troops use genetic engineering and tonics to build their bodies. But mixing legend with reality leads to superstition. Starvillers say that even if we had firearms, we couldn’t kill a single one of them.
Rey says the tonics are precisely the troops’ weakness. Without drugs, they’d destroy themselves. When the Comanches sabotage a railroad, we cause a temporary shortage of tonics and the genetically modified snakes used to inject them. We’re always careful to make it look like the fickle weather is responsible for the damage on the railroads. Otherwise, the Patriots’ retaliation would obliterate all of Starville like it obliterated Midian.
Rocco addresses again the issue of the people who have lost their homes. “We’ll assign new housing for these families in a month. You have two hours to decide who will accommodate them until then.”
And with no further words, the soldiers leave the square.
Our former neighbors get shelter instantly. We, the Velezes, don’t receive any offers. Most Starvillers loathe us, partly because Dad has performed abortions for soldiers’ victims. The war and recruitment haven’t diminished Starvillers’ passionate support for prolife causes. The other reason is that Starvillers value purity of race because they say the soldiers are multiracial. They don’t tolerate half-bloods, and we’re evidently mixed.
Someone taps my shoulder. Mrs. Gibson, a blonde, pudgy, middle-aged Starviller, smiles at me. She could host all the families, feed them for a week, and still have plenty for herself.
“I can accommodate the two girls,” Mrs. Gibson says.
She means the light-eyed Velezes. Despite our soft tans, Azzy and I resemble our fair-skinned Circassian mother. Olmo’s and Dad’s brown skin reveals the ethnic diversity that Starvillers hate so much. Mrs. Gibson’s offer may seem nice, but it’s insulting on a level of its own. Separating my family … how can she do this? Can’t she see that Olmo needs shelter now more than ever? Dad has done nothing but heal the few Starvillers who seek him out, including her, and most of the time receives nothing in exchange.
“They gave you an order! You have to shelter us.” I say, doing nothing to conceal my fury.
“All of us! Not only pieces of my family,” Azzy shouts.
I point at the barracks. “Someone has to volunteer, or I’ll tell the soldiers that you need motivation to carry out their orders!”
Angry voices confer. “You should do it, Gibson. You have no kids.”
“Why me? Peter Rivers has more rooms in his house.”
Similar discussions break out among the crowd. My mind repeats a litany as they fail to reach a consensus. Everybody hates me. My family loves me because they have to, but everyone else hates me.
I don’t care. I hate them even more. “Never mind! I’d rather be homeless than stay with a bunch of bigots who—” I can’t continue because my voice is breaking.
We start walking toward the museum. All eyes are on us when Olmo trips and falls headfirst into the dirt. This makes the crowd erupt with laughter. Sara Jenkins, a shy ex-Comanche, helps me lift and comfort a weeping Olmo. That’s when I see Rey forcing his way through the crowd, his family with him.
“We’ll take them,” Rey shouts.
Nobody hears Rey’s offer because they’re still laughing at Olmo.
I look at Rey, conveying my gratitude with my eyes. I mouth the words thank you to him. True to form, Rey offers the little he has to help a person in need.
Suddenly everybody falls silent. Why are people staring at me in surprise, even fear?
I turn to find Aleksey standing right behind me. He’s so scary that I stumble away. In a menacing tone, he demands to know what’s going on.
Nobody answers. Many Starvillers stare at Aleksey with morbid curiosity, as if he were a freak. Elena Rivers whispers some
thing to Ava Peters and they burst into a fit of giggles. At first, I assume they’re mocking his unnatural height. Then I realize with surprise that all the girls are ogling him. Aleksey’s too brutish to be considered handsome, but he isn’t unattractive. In fact, his bestial traits and roughness make him the most attractive man in the crowd. At least that’s what the girls behind me are whispering.
“No problem here,” says Rey. “We’re just discussing something.”
Aleksey glares at the crowd. “You were playing hot potato with the future of a family.”
Olmo laughs, but this is a serious matter. A Patriot order is unquestionable. If Starvillers ignore it, the consequences will affect the whole town.
“You’re wrong, General. I’ve just offered shelter to this family,” says Mrs. Gibson.
Aleksey’s eyes narrow. “So you offered your house to the four members of this family?”
“I offered shelter, too,” says Rey, looking at me.
Aleksey glances at the toddler in Rey’s arms. His eyes move to Duque and Baron, who scowl at him. “Is your apartment big enough, Starviller? Or would it be better for them to find different accommodations?” Before Rey can interrupt, Aleksey adds, “This family would be better off at the Accord clinic. I heard that this man is a doctor. We’ll need his talent when the clinic starts operations.”
Someone scoffs, and both Rey and Aleksey glare at the perpetrator. Kit Lee-Rivers deflates beneath their withering stares.
“Of course, we … wouldn’t deprive the Accord units of Dr. Velez’s … talents, General,” says the Commissioner, his ears turning red.
Rey throws a protective glance over my family. “It isn’t necessary. Dr. Velez’s family and mine have a strong relationship. They’d be more comfortable in my apartment.” Rey’s eyes meet mine, making me blush.
Aleksey’s tone is contemptuous. “You’re deluded.”
“Am I? Well, it’s none of the Accord Unit’s business; we haven’t broken any treaties. Not that your people care much about treaties, anyway.”
I look to my right. The clinic is two miles away, perched on top of a tree-cloaked hill. “We’ll go to the clinic,” I say in a firm voice, and the crowd whispers its approval.
Aleksey’s blue eyes meet mine for a second. It’s a strange look that I regard as hateful. Maybe he’s still mad at the way I treated his penis.
“Lily, how could—?” Rey protests.
Aleksey interrupts him. “The lady said clinic. Everyone heard it. Now clear the space.” His deep, authoritative voice discourages protests. Aleksey takes my dad in his arms and walks toward the west side. The crowd clears a path to let them pass.
I avoid looking at Rey and hurry after Aleksey. As much as I despise cops, Aleksey saved our lives yesterday. I hate to feel like I owe him, but my family is more important than my pride.
After half an hour of walking, we reach the base of the hill. Industrial buildings surround the bottom. A single trail of steps rises to the gray buildings at the top. Without a helicopter, the stone steps are the only way to access the clinic. I look up, already tired from looking at the endless number of cement stairs we have to climb. Aleksey lets Dad climb by himself and instead carries Olmo. The staircase is too much for my brother’s diseased lungs to handle.
At the top of the hill are two L-shaped buildings separated by a large courtyard that doubles as a helipad. The clinic is well-equipped, almost like a Patriot mini-hospital. There’s running water and electricity. The second building will be our temporary shelter.
Tristan Froh, a baby-faced cop with short, dirty blond hair, gives us our room assignments. Mine is at the end of a long, white-tiled corridor. From the window, I can see the helipad and the clinic’s second story, which is still under construction.
“I’m sorry, Miss and Mr. Velez. These rooms don’t have thermostats, but I will get you a fan and a heater,” says Tristan. His accented voice sounds sincere, and he’s blushing. The way he calls me “Miss Velez” is so formal, but endearing at the same time. That makes me wary. People who have hurt me have always been nice at first. We assure him we need no thermostat. We’ve adjusted to not having one.
Azalea regards Aleksey shrewdly as Dad makes an attempt at conversation. Aleksey answers in grumpy monosyllables. He uses full sentences only to inform Dad that several Patriot casualties and wounded civilians will arrive soon.
As if on cue, we hear the first of several helicopters approaching.
We stay in Dad and Olmo’s room, listening to the ear-shattering screams and the hurried orders. Apparently, female soldiers are bringing in charred bodies on gurneys. The medics ignore my father, but accept Aleksey’s help. Some of the victims died on the way to the hospital. The survivors, most of them soldiers, will be transferred to a real hospital once they are stabilized.
We fall asleep on the floor. It’s dark outside when Dad enters the room to bring us food: leftovers from the soldiers. We finish eating quickly, still hungry, but I don’t complain because I’m certain that Dad has given us his portion.
“That cop … Aleksey … is a medical expert,” says Dad in a thoughtful tone. “He’ll stay here instead of the Accord headquarters. I don’t know why he’s helped us, but it’s better if you all keep your distance.”
Well, he’s a former soldier. He saw me naked and got a boner. Of course, I’ll keep my distance.
* * *
In the darkness of an unknown room, I wake to a throbbing sensation between my legs. The dream was so vivid that I still feel the warmth of someone’s mouth on my skin, and I continue to hear the somber tune from the dream ringing in my ears. It takes me some minutes to remember that I’m here as a consequence of Midian’s destruction.
Dad said earlier that all the patients had been transferred to hospitals, and the medical staff, too. So, if the clinic is deserted, where is the music coming from? I can still hear it, even after the last images from my dream loosen their hold on me.
In an attempt to forget the dream, I look out the window. A peculiar sight catches my eye. In the middle of the dimly lit helipad, a group of tall, attractive women chat with Patriot soldiers. They wear orange unitards under their long, open coats. I recognize that uniform. These women are visitants.
Plastic and well-groomed, these women don’t look like recruitment victims. They have to be Patriot citizens, serving the troops. Someone has to placate the constant hunger for sex that the drugs induce in the soldiers. Visitants volunteer for that in exchange of other privileges. They must be waiting for a helicopter after having provided their services.
One of the soldiers points to a room above his head, not far from where I’m spying. The most beautiful of the visitants, a curvy, long-haired brunette, climbs a scaffold and knocks on the door. Nobody answers for what seems like an eternity, but she’s insistent.
The music stops. I crane my neck to get a better view. When the door finally opens, Aleksey appears at the threshold, scowling. He holds a double bass bow in his hand. The visitant smiles, evidently pleased with her client’s good looks, and tries to enter the room.
When his door slams on the visitant’s face, I decide I’ve seen enough. I return to my cot and cover my head with a blanket, fighting off waves of anguish. After recruitment, I may end up giving unpaid visitant services. As a vassal.
The music, replaced by moans and muffled screams from the soldiers being served, doesn’t resume for the rest of the night. Partially because of the noises, and partially because I keep waking up after a stream of nightmares, my first night at the clinic is marked by anxiety.
When I arise in the morning, I’m forced to face the grim reality of my life.
I need an escape.
7
A V Girl
The glade where the biracial couple makes a show of their love is a perfect circle of old trees, surrounded by grass and vibrantly colored flowers. Divine and Joey glue their mouths with slow, passionate kisses. He pulls her closer, holding her tight in his arms. His ha
nds cup the flesh of her naked butt, and the sounds of their mouths mix with the sounds of the forest.
Joey isn’t tall or handsome. He has rough features and, at thirty-six, he’s losing his ash-brown curls. But he’s got strong arms, hungry lips, and the remarkable skill of never leaving a single inch of her skin untouched. I enjoy watching him. His complete devotion to Divine, the way his face contracts in response to pure passion and love. I’m sure he’d give his life for her.
I sit with my knees tucked under my chin, behind a bush of orange flowers. I’m not hiding from them, but I don’t want anybody else to see me here.
There’s a French word for people who do what I do.
I’m a voyeur girl. Sort of.
No, I don’t spy on people against their will.
No, I don’t get a kick out of looking through peepholes.
No, I won’t ever observe someone in the privacy of their own home.
What happens when they have sex in the wild, knowing that anyone can watch? On those occasions, I enjoy the show and feel no guilt. Why should I say no to their invitation?
Yes, I’m a girl with a kink. When I think of myself as a V-girl, the V is for voyeur instead of virgin, and I don’t hate my nickname at all. I’ve come to terms with this part of my personality. I’m not hurting anyone, and I need a distraction from the horrors around me. I’ve been so busy at the clinic that I haven’t had time for these shows.
Divine moans as her breasts bounce with each thrust. Finally, Joey grunts and quivers. His mouth forms a perfect O as he explodes. When they nestle in their post-coital bliss, I feel envy corroding my veins. I wish someone loved me like Joey loves her.
A noise startles me, but when I turn around with my knife drawn, I see nothing. I turn my attention back to the lovers. That’s when Divine’s eyes meet mine. She always seems to expect a standing ovation. Joey’s so lost in his adoration for her, he never looks my way.