by K. Makansi
Maybe it’s just my memory, but he seemed calmer then, staring down a political prisoner and torturing me with electric shocks. Now, even with no one across from him but a camera drone, he bites his lip and his fingers tap the desk once, twice, three times before he starts talking.
“My fellow citizens,” he begins—and the feed goes dark.
I stare at the vidscreen blankly.
The feeds sometimes falter. They’ll flicker in and out, or your screen will freeze and lag behind the official display. That’s a part of digital broadcasting. But the daily broadcasts have never once gone out completely, in all the years I’ve watched them.
A dim green light flicks alive in the blackness. For a moment it almost looks like a flame from a lighter, but then it glows and expands. A biolight. Tousled blonde hair becomes visible, and a shadowed face. That’s definitely not Philip. Another biolight flicks on and now I recognize the face: it’s Linnea Heilmann. The backdrop is hazy, and there’s a low hum, almost as if some sort of machinery is running in the room. But Linnea’s shimmery hair and large, clear eyes are unmistakable.
I drop my teacup. The ceramic mug shatters as it hits the floor. I’m on my feet, ready to run, wondering why in all the seasons Linnea Heilmann is on my vidscreen during the official Sector broadcast. Did she betray us?
“Citizens of the Sector, I don’t have much time. I’m Linnea Heilmann, former public correspondent for the ONN. Two months ago I told you that I was resigning my position to take an internal communications job with the OAC. This is not what happened. I was sent into the Wilds with instructions to search for the traitor Remy Alexander. I was on a mission to kill her.”
I sink back into the chair in front of the vidscreen. Amazement washes through my body like a river through a floodplain. She’s simplifying parts of the story—she’s left out Eli and the virus she gave him. Maybe she’s worried about time, or wants to keep her narrative straightforward. But the essence is true: she was sent into the Wilds to find and kill me.
“Corine and Philip Orleán ordered this mission, but I don’t work for Corine anymore. I don’t work for the Sector anymore. I don’t work for anyone, and neither should you. I am a free agent, and I will no longer lie for anyone. And I’m about to tell you why.”
Linnea holds one of the biolights closer to her face. I’m frozen in place, mouth hanging open, stunned. I can hardly believe this is the same Linnea Heilmann whose voice I’d come to despise, who used to tout the Sector’s victories with a tone so celebratory it bordered on manic. What changed her? I wonder.
“When I was a little girl, I had a best friend. Her name was Tai Alexander. Fellow Okarians, I am here tonight to tell you Tai was not killed by an Outsi—”
The feed goes black again. A second later, static fizzles on the screen, along with a loud buzzing noise, almost painfully sharp. I press my fingers into my ears, but my eyes are glued to the screen. Jon Spironov’s face reappears, but this time he looks confused.
“Citizens! As you can see, our evening broadcast has been disrupted by the very rebels and terrorists who captured and tortured our own Valer—”
The studio backdrop dissipates, and after a half-second of static, Jon’s face is replaced once more by Linnea’s, hazy and otherworldly from the greenish tint given off by the biolights.
“The Sector doesn’t want you to know that the massacre at the SRI was ordered by Corine Orleán. They don’t want you to know that the reason the man murdered a classroom full of students was because his drugs were off, his MealPaks made him violent and uncontrollable, his food turned him into a killer. They don’t want you to know they’re changing your minds and bodies so you’ll be tame, docile, happy, and unquestioning. So you won’t ask what happened to Tai, or your friend who disappeared from your town, or why those in the capital live to be a hundred years old, and those on the Farms live half as long.”
The screen flickers and dies, and for a second I think whoever’s in charge of Sector programming must have finally figured out how to shut the whole system down. But then Linnea reappears, her face tense, her voice low and urgent.
“The Sector will turn off this broadcast soon. You won’t hear from me again. The OAC’s Security Directorate will hunt me down, just like they’re hunting Jeremiah Sayyid and Remy Alexander and Elijah Tawfiq. Listen to me now. Don’t eat your MealPaks. Listen to your true self. Look for—”
The feed cuts out and the screen goes black.
For a long moment, I’m unable to move. Unable to think. I lean back into my chair, looking out the window at the deepening sky. Then a broad smile, irrepressible, creeps onto my face. That was brilliant. It must have taken a herculean effort. I can’t imagine the Resistance—even with Eli, Zoe, and Firestone working together—was able to pull that off without inside help. Who did they recruit from the Sector to hack the broadcast? A well-placed Outsider? A Sector citizen leaning toward the Resistance? Or was it something simpler: a gun to the head of one of the broadcast engineers?
Not for the first time since I decided to stay in Okaria, I miss my friends, desperately. I miss my team. I wish I had a way to contact them, to congratulate them, to ask them how the hell they did that. And the strangest feeling wells up inside of me: a strong desire to hug Linnea.
Then there’s a knock at the door.
In the excitement of Linnea’s broadcast, I had forgotten entirely about my promised visitor. I run to the door and glance through the peephole. But the person—whoever he is—is too tall to identify, even through the convex lens. All I can see is that his hands, clasped calmly in front of him, are as black as Jahnu’s and as large and strong as Soren’s.
I can’t help but be afraid. An ally we call Onion. He won’t hurt you. I breathe the words into my bones, into my brain, trying to will the fear out of my system. How can you be so sure, Meera?
I’ve got a knife in my pocket and my boot, and a smoke grenade in my sleeve if I need to make a quick exit. Satisfied, at least for the moment, with my defenses, I crack the door. I peer out, and stare up at the person waiting patiently, his face half-hidden by a light summer jacket. He’s wearing military-issue boots. I recognize them—they’re the same style Vale was wearing when we met for the first time in three years on the raid at Seed Bank Carbon. I’ve seen this man’s face on the Sector feeds a thousand times. General Bunqu, commander of the Sector Defense Forces Guardians. The Guardians is the division that guards high government officials and protects government buildings in the capital as well as towns throughout the Sector.
I met General Bunqu one time, when my father was named the Poet Laureate of the Sector. The chancellor—then Cara Skaarsgard, Soren’s mother—threw a gala in his honor, and Bunqu attended. I liked him. He had a warm smile and an open face, and his voice, as deep as Lake Okaria, was comforting.
So, Kofir Bunqu is Meera’s Onion. He has an Outsider name. Is he one of us? I don’t know much about him, but I can’t trust him. Not yet. No matter what Meera says.
I open the door.
“Thank you.” He dips his head ever so slightly as I close it behind him, careful never to show him my back, my right hand resting on the handle of my knife. He notices this. “You are right to be suspicious,” he says. “But you have nothing to fear. ” He looks around. “Are we alone?”
I nod.
“Good. Shall we sit?”
“I want you to hand over any weapons you’re carrying.” The words tumble out of my mouth in a rush. I’m ready to throw if he hesitates for a second.
But he doesn’t. Silently he opens his trench coat. He pulls out two handheld Bolts and a knife, and passes them to me. I set them on the kitchen counter, out of reach. Standing between him and his weapons, I gesture to an empty chair. He sits. I pull over one of the kitchen stools for myself. If he wants his weapons back, he’ll have to get past me first.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“I can help you.”
“You’re a general of the Sector Defense Force
s. Throwing your lot in with a traitor doesn’t seem like a wise move.”
“I have considered myself a traitor to the Okarian Sector for many months. Since Chan-Yu helped you and Soren Skaarsgard escape, in fact.”
“What did you have to do with that?” I ask, taken aback. Was Bunqu involved in setting me and Soren free?
“Nothing.” He pauses, deliberating. “Chan-Yu became a—we shall call him a friend—while he was in training with the Security Directorate. I admired him, and he me. It was difficult for him to reveal himself to me, but over the years, we became more than friends. We became allies.” He lets out a slow breath, staring at me, unblinking. I watch his eyes for any sign of betrayal.
“When Philip Orleán obtained the chancellorship, my faith in the Sector wavered. I knew what Corine planned to do with the MealPaks. I knew what she had done on the Farms, how she had used humans as test subjects without their permission. I knew how Philip had used backdoors and powerful friends to oust Cara Skaarsgard as the chancellor. When Chan-Yu began introducing me to the ideas of the Outsiders, and finally to the Outsiders themselves, my path became clear.”
“Why didn’t you run, like so many others?”
“After your sister and the other students were murdered, I considered it. But ultimately, I realized that fleeing wouldn’t change anything. I could do more good from the inside, in the position of power I had already attained, than I could from afar. Like Chan-Yu, I do not believe in abdicating responsibility. And, like you and Valerian, I believe in a better future.”
An anxious hope tremors inside me, like a chord held at the end of a song.
“Have you seen him?”
“Yes.”
“Is he safe? Was he hurt?”
“He was not hurt, but he is not safe. None of us are safe.” He raises an eyebrow at me. “You know that as well as I do.”
“Did you have anything to do with Linnea’s broadcast just now?” His eyes narrow and his forehead creases. “Of course. You didn’t see it. You were on your way here.” He shakes his head mutely, waiting for me to explain.
“You probably already know that Linnea Heilmann was sent into the Wilds to find Eli. Elijah Tawfiq.” By the way he’s squinting at me, I’m guessing he doesn’t know the whole story, so I elaborate. “Corine gave her a virus—targeted nanotech—that would corrupt the way Eli saw me, would make him want to kill me. It worked. That’s why I came here, to the capital. Linnea came with us. But after Vale was captured, she must have returned to the Resistance. And just now, she somehow managed to hack the Sector’s broadcast feed and disrupt the daily push. Instead of Jon Spironov, it was Linnea, telling people not to eat their MealPaks, not to believe what Philip and Corine say. Telling them what really happened at the SRI. Why she really left.”
Bunqu leans back, stretching an arm across the back of the chair, a pose so relaxed it almost calms me, too. He breaks eye contact with me for the first time all night, staring off into the corner of the room.
“Linnea Heilmann,” he says, his white teeth showing in a glint of a smile. “I never would have thought.” He turns back to me a moment later. “Linnea was well-liked before she left. Maybe the people will listen.”
“Maybe they’ll think she’s crazy.”
“One person can be crazy. Two people can be crazy together. But a thousand people who think and believe the same crazy thing can begin to convince people that maybe they’re not crazy. Maybe they’re right.”
I watch him for a long time, and he holds my gaze. I wonder who would win in a staring contest between him and Chan-Yu. Until tonight, my money would have unquestionably been on Chan-Yu, but now, I might have to bet on Bunqu. Maybe that’s why they got along.
“When I asked why you came here,” I say, breaking the long silence, “you said you could help me.”
“Yes. I know what you want more than anything. Why you are here in Okaria. You are waiting for Vale. If you were not, you would have gone back to the Resistance already, back to safety. I can give you what you want. I can help Vale escape.”
A seed of hope blossoms.
“How?” I ask, my voice quavering.
“The Orleáns trust me, and apparently Vale has, in the past, spoken highly of me. They have asked me talk to him in the hope I might sway him back to the side of the Sector. I asked them if I could meet with him alone in order to ensure his confidence in me, and they agreed. Vale’s room is monitored—I myself placed the cameras—but I can give him the power to set himself free.” What is he talking about? He leans forward, his hands held out to me in a gesture of cooperation. “I can give him back his C-Link.”
Demeter! Of course. Stripping Vale of his C-Link would have been the first thing Philip and Corine did. With Demeter back—assuming they haven’t figured out how to shut down her AI entirely—Vale should be able to make plans for his escape.
“That changes everything!” I lean forward. “General Bunqu—” I start, but he cuts me off with a small laugh.
“Please,” he says, standing up to leave, “call me Kofir, or Onion. I do not enjoy being reminded of my position in the Sector when I am with friends.”
“Kofir,” I begin again, “thank you. When you first came here, I didn’t know if I could trust you. I still don’t know. But Meera does, and Vale, and if what you say is true, Chan-Yu as well. If you have their trust, you have mine.”
He nods. “That is enough for me.”
“For now,” I say. “We have a long way to go before our work is done.”
“Yes,” Bunqu agrees. “It is enough for now.” He gestures toward the weapons on the counter. I hand them over. “I am glad to hear it, Remy. We are on the same side and I will do everything in my power to help Vale.”
“When will we talk again?”
He slips the Bolts and his knife back inside his coat and pulls up his hood. “I will send you a leaf.” He bows slightly, his formal mannerisms a throwback to generations past. “Be careful.”
“You too,” I say, but he is already out the door.
6 - VALE
Spring 68, Sector Annum 106, 9h57
Gregorian Calendar: May 26
A tap at the door jolts me from my thoughts.
“Come in.”
The servant enters, carrying a teapot and two teacups on a platter, which she sets on the dresser. Why are there two?
“How did you like the books?” she asks in a dull voice. Only the slight upwards inflection indicates that she expects a response. It occurs to me that she looks familiar, somehow, but in the way that some people have the kind of face you see everywhere. Who is she? I can’t quell my curiosity though her expression remains unchanged.
“I enjoyed them very much,” I respond. I’m sure the tension is evident in my voice. “Thank you for bringing them.”
“I have another for you,” she says. “But you’re only allowed to have a few at a time. Would you like to give me one of your old ones?”
She looks up. Her eyes meet mine. She doesn’t blink. I open my mouth to speak, but I have a feeling she wants something more than a simple exchange of books. I nod. I’d hoped for this moment more than anything else in the last twenty-four hours. I hand her the copy of Les Misérables.
“I’ve finished this one,” I say. “The ending is particularly meaningful, I think.”
With a scrap of metal I’d managed to peel off the underside of my dresser when my lights were out the previous night, I’d used Morse code to scratch out a return message to Remy at the end of the book. You have renewed my hope. Stay safe. Love always. Another unforeseen benefit to the modifications my mother gave me: better memory, enhanced night vision. I used them both to my advantage, pressing marks into the pages by the light of the crescent moon slithering through my window.
The woman nods. At an angle her face looks even more familiar, but I still can’t place her, and I wonder if I’m making things up. She takes the book and turns away, pulling another much smaller book from the pocket of her
staff uniform. She leaves it on the dresser and steps back outside.
I stare at the open door for a half-second, surprised at this glaring oversight. But then General Kofir Bunqu crosses the threshold. I freeze, shocked into stillness. I stare at him while he shuts the door behind him and turns to the dresser. He lifts the teapot and begins to pour aromatic tea that reminds me of mild tobacco smoke. He picks up a cup and offers it to me. I take it, unable to muster even a simple thanks. With an air of satisfaction he sits and leans back in the chair and takes a loud sip. A small smile reveals itself in the crinkle and glow of his eyes.
“You may sit, Vale.”
I don’t move.
“The chancellor and the Director know I’m here, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“Are we being recorded?”
He sips. “Yes.”
“Why are you here?” I sit on the edge of the bed.
“The Sector needs strong leaders, Valerian. Leaders with vision. But as you know well, sometimes being a leader means doing things you wish you didn’t have to do.”
“You sound like my mother.”
“Your parents believe I can be a good influence on you, that I might help you to understand that the Sector needs you to do what is right.”
“How?”
He ignores the question and surveys the room. “Your parents hope we will meet frequently, that I can help you understand what is at stake, what role you need to play. They don’t want to keep you here like a prisoner. I agree with them. I don’t believe you can be of service to the Sector if you are locked away in your bedroom. It is time for you to accept the situation and do what you have to do.”
“Like what?”
“You will be asked to accompany your father on a tour of the factory towns. He needs you by his side, to reassure citizens, to speak out.” As he takes another sip of tea, his eyes light on the stack of books beside me. “I see they’ve allowed you some reading materials.”