by K. Makansi
“The water of life,” I whisper aloud. Every image needs a title, my art teacher told me once, in a class on marketing art and design. Without a title, how will your viewers begin to approach or understand the image? Later, at home, my father very politely called bullshit on this idea.
“Art doesn’t need a translation for the viewer’s convenience. Would you expect me to create a drawing or painting to accompany every poem I’ve ever written?” he asked through thinly veiled disdain. When I shook my head, he continued, “Why would someone expect a painter to put his images into words?”
But the exhortation stuck, and I’ve titled almost all of my drawings ever since.
“Remy,” a deep voice says, echoing through the dark room. I turn to the sound, away from the pattering rain outside. “Meera’s here, downstairs.”
“Thanks,” I say and unfold my legs to stand. “I’m finished with the flier.” I hand the plasma to General Bunqu and he zooms in and out. His eyes widen and a smile forms on his broad, handsome face.
“Impressive. I believe this will do nicely for your purposes. Should I transfer it to a UMIT?”
“I don’t know. Meera’s in charge of all that.” I smile. “I’m art. She’s logistics.”
“I suppose I’m universal magnetic information transfer,” he laughs.
“That and security. And transportation. Oh, and food.”
“Speaking of which …”
“I’m right behind you.”
In the kitchen, Meera has already raided the refrigerator and set out a platter of fruits, nuts, and vegetables that the Outsiders have smuggled in for Bunqu. I don’t wait to be asked, and dig in as soon as I sit down.
“We gonna do this thing tonight?” Meera asks.
“I’m ready if you are,” I say, stuffing a fig in my mouth. “How many places are we going to go? We’ll need to have seedcoin in hand or enough money programed into the UMIT for each place.”
Meera turns to General Bunqu. “What do you think? We’ll only pay to display in the most disreputable places.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Where all the best people hang out.”
“Don’t worry about money,” Bunqu says, handing the plasma to Meera. “Take a look at the finished product. Remy’s ‘flier’ is a work of art.”
“Wow. That’s beautiful,” Meera says. “But what about the other drawing? The creepy one you described to me.”
“I thought we’d use both,” I say. “I programed the flier so one dissolves into the other with the information about time and place appearing between each loop. Go to the previous screen. I finished the other one this morning.”
Meera slides to the previous screen and looks up at me, shaking her head. “Lovely.” She hands the plasma back to Bunqu, and his lip curls in distaste.
“Very literal.”
I think it’s one of my better drawings. One could even call it pastoral. Inspired by the carnage at Round Barn, it’s a landscape, a field lush with corn and bean stalks, vegetables, sunflowers, and fruit trees, all growing out of the gaping jaws, nose holes, and eye sockets of skulls like half-buried potted plants.
“It’s about how the Sector builds its way of life on the dead,” I explain, not that I need to explain to Meera or General Bunqu. “Not just the eternal cycle of sowing and harvesting, but on killing our own people.” I remember one of my instructors looking at a series of my drawings and actually making a tsk-tsk sound. She said my work was “extremely expressive.”
“If this doesn’t get people’s attention, I don’t know what will,” Meera says.
The sweet, earthy smell of the den is soothing, and I feel the tension lifting off my shoulders. Wisps of smoke cast strange, flowing shadows across the lights. The low drumbeat echoing from the stage resonates in my rib cage. Glasses clink, matches strike, and carefree laughter rings in my ears. I wave my UMIT over the plasma display and pay five seedcoins for two days’ worth of signage on a small corner of the announcement board. It’s the last of the money on my UMIT. My drawing immediately flashes into view, replacing one of the older displays, which read: MDMA Party - OAC Sponsored - Green Dragon Hall - Summer 1 22h00 - ONLY TWO HUNDRED SEEDS ENTRY AND DRINK TICKET!
Meera and I split up to cover more ground, and for the last few hours, I’ve been posting the flier for the vigil we’ve been planning in every seedy smoke den, cocktail shop, and bar I can find. I’m sure there are always informers, drones, and Watchers keeping an eye out even in the places I frequent, but there’s much less chance anyone will care about what I’m posting. They’ll be looking for suspected Outsiders, Resistance sympathizers, or plain old criminals, not people planning a mourning vigil out in plain sight.
We decided to keep the language vague, hoping that if anyone with friends or family affected by the SRI classroom massacre sees the notice, they’ll get the code, understand, and help spread the word. As for anyone else that sees it and doesn’t get it, well, we don’t want them at the vigil, anyway.
Sisters, brothers, friends
Remember the promise of youth cut down too soon
Illuminate the lives taken, too sudden, too violent
Class shattered
Lives unmoored
A promise destroyed
Stolen
Sorrow.
“How’s it going, Sparrow?” I turn to see Snake, and notice that his purple hair has been shaved into a mohawk.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Got a message from Onion via Meera. She was posting the notice at The Elysium when a messenger found her. I was just getting off work, so she sent me to find you. They want you back at the house.”
“What’s happened?” I ask, my pulse spiking.
“That’s all the information I’ve got.” He smiles and puts his hand out for my UMIT. “I’ll take over, if you want.”
“Thanks, but I think I just spent the last of my money anyway.”
“Better get going, then. Sounded important.”
I nod, and give him a quick hug. He slips through the crowd. I pocket the UMIT and head out into the night. I emerge onto a side street where The Vine, a semi-legal establishment that sells marijuana in the light and moonshine—not approved by the Dieticians for distribution—in the shadows, takes up most of the real estate. I pull my hood tight, tie it under my chin, and set out at a jog. Rain pelts my jacket. Mist and surreal shadows line the alleys, and it’s hard for anyone to see clearly through the gathering fog.
To avoid going on foot the three-odd kilometers back to Bunqu’s estate, I hop one of the last PODS by sneaking in after a late-night commuter. I pretend to press my palm against the reader to register my identity, and then jump the POD right before the door closes after the woman in front of me. She stares out the window, her face blank as a new canvas, ignoring my presence altogether as the POD glides into motion. So much the better.
At the stop nearest Bunqu’s estate, an illuminated field of glowing succulents leads me through a pebbled path and down the long road to Bunqu’s private gate. Why has he summoned me?
As the gate comes into view, my pulse jumps. I key in the code the general gave me before Meera and I headed out, and the gate slides open, soft as a whisper. Inside, a sleek, low-slung structure composed of concrete, glass, and bamboo blends into the landscaping. I look up at the second-floor window next to which I spent most of my day. The light’s out in my room, but a soft golden glow emanates from the wide front window, even though it is mostly hidden by a bamboo shade. Something about the wide lawn dotted only with neatly trimmed ornamental trees makes me nervous. Bunqu says he refused the offer of perimeter guards, telling Aulion that he could damn well take care of any threat himself—not that anyone would ever dream of taking on Bunqu. I trained with him one morning this week. The man’s a solid wall, as fast as quicksilver and stronger than anyone I’ve met. I didn’t dare even hold his punching bag. He claims to be an expert in every kind of martial arts he’s been able to study, and I believe him. Apparently, so do
es Aulion. Still, the pit of my stomach feels hollowed out, and I walk faster, wondering what, by all that grows, is waiting for me inside.
Nervous about going through the front door, I head around the side, toward the entryway hidden by a high concrete wall. Fumbling with the keypad to enter the password, I type: Listen to the forest floor. I can’t help but smile at the line. When I asked what the verse was from, Bunqu waved my question away and said he’d tried his hand at writing poetry a few years back and none of it was any good. He’d liked that line, though, so it became his security code for the house.
I pass through a garage where a sleek hovercar is parked. By the time I hurry down the hallway and pass through the kitchen, I can hear voices. I head for the front room, but then stop. The doors to the back veranda, where Bunqu has a covered sitting area adorned with flowering vines, fruit trees, mosaiced floors, and an inviting firepit, are wide open. I step out and stop dead. Bunqu looks up from serving tea and says, “Ah, Remy. We’ve got guests.”
Soren and Osprey, both sporting smudged faces and dark circles under their eyes and wearing clothes that have not seen soap in days if not weeks, sit wearily, leaning on the table.
“What? When? How did you get here? You don’t have bad news, do you?”
“Not even a ‘hi’ after you abandoned us in Okaria two months ago?” Soren says, with classic Skaarsgard sarcasm. I start to reach around the table to hug him, but he waves me off. “My bones hurt.”
Osprey punches him in the shoulder.
“What a baby. Can’t handle a few days in the woods on foot.”
“Forty kilometers a day is a grueling pace,” Soren retorts.
“At least you didn’t get typhoid fever,” Osprey says brightly.
“What’s typhoid fever?” I ask. Osprey shakes her head. “You don’t want to know. ”
“No bad news today.” Soren holds up his cup. “Just tea. This is ten times better than anything Rhinehouse ever served us.”
“Forget tea. I keep telling General Onion here that I need something stronger,” Osprey scowls up at Bunqu. “I need a proper capital city cocktail after the trip we’ve had.”
“Tea first,” Bunqu says. “To calm the nerves. Then I’ll fetch a couple of bottles of sparkling wine worthy of a true welcome.”
“I recommend a Chateau Ile d’Orleáns. My grandfather’s vineyard has always produced a fine wine.”
I turn. There, standing in the doorway with a washcloth in his hand and a freshly-scrubbed face, is Vale. His black hair is a riot, and he looks exhausted, but he’s clearly tried to make himself presentable. He looks at me with those bright sea-green eyes that make me think of sun-lit water, and I wonder how it is that he makes me feel so known. My breath catches. I can’t move.
“I … what … how is this possible?” I stutter, unable to think, to react.
But then I don’t have to. Vale’s arms are around me, pulling my body into his, his breath warm against my forehead, and I don’t have to say anything at all.
“Remy Alexander,” he whispers, “may I—”
I don’t wait. I stand on tiptoes, skim my hand up to the back of his neck and bring him to me. There’s a moment where everything else disappears. It feels like lying on Granddad’s dock, feet dangling in the water, clouds drifting by overhead, like biting into spring’s first ripe strawberry, so perfect the juice drips down your chin. It’s probably only a couple of seconds but it carves out an expanding space in my chest that tells me this is what happiness is.
And then it’s over.
He pulls away, and conscious thought rushes back in like a tide. He reaches down to take my hand.
“Done yet?” Soren asks.
“Don’t be an ass,” Osprey says, pressing her fingertips playfully to his cheek, turning his face away from her in a mock-slap. “It’s not like you haven’t kissed me in public more than once. Matter of fact, that was pretty tame compared to what you—”
“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Soren interrupts with a laugh.
“Time to celebrate yet, General Onion? How ’bout that wine?” Osprey asks. Her characteristic bluntness is refreshing, and Bunqu is obviously taken with her.
“It is indeed time to celebrate,” he says, disappearing back inside.
I peel off my wet jacket and turn to Vale. “Tell me everything.”
“Long story.” He pulls out chairs for both of us.
“Might as well tell the whole sordid tale,” Bunqu calls from the kitchen.
“Sordid is right,” Vale begins, picking up my hand and staring at it. He rubs a thumb across my skin and I watch the simple movement as if transfixed by a magic trick. “It started at Windy Pines. I was supposed to go on a speaking tour of the factory towns with my father.” We listen without interruption as Vale tells the story. As he speaks, telling us how he fought Aulion and commandeered the airship, I am amazed by how much Vale has changed. From a willing servant of the Sector to a man who would risk his life and defy everyone on behalf of total strangers.
Bunqu returns with a tray of glasses and a bottle of sparkling wine from the old Orleán family vineyard. Bunqu pops the cork and pours with a practiced flourish. Clearly he is a man who has enjoyed the finer things in life.
Vale picks up the bottle and looks at the label.
“Sector Annum 79. This was a good vintage. My grandfather, Augustus, bought the land and planted the first vines there a few years before he died. A friend took care of it after that, until my father was old enough to take over. He never had much interest in farming, though, and I haven’t been to the vineyard since I was young.”
“Tell us about the vigil.” Soren takes a long drink. He looks at Osprey. “We want to be there.”
“What vigil?” Vale asks.
“Meera and I are planning a mourning vigil for the victims of the SRI massacre. Two days from now at dawn in the Grass Creek Arboretum.” Vale lifts my hand to his lips and kisses my palm.
“What can we do to help?” Osprey asks.
“Spread the word,” I respond. “We need someone to draft a courriel advertising the vigil to go out to the Olympia list-serv. I met a broadcast engineer at Olympia who helped Meera and me coordinate the Round Barn footage. He gave me the list of all the Olympia courriel subscribers.”
“Speaking of that,” Vale says, “how did you pull that one off?”
I tell them about Shia, and our adventure at the games.
“None of it would have been possible without him—or Meera’s fingerprint counterfeiting. I’ve been here two months and it still amazes me how thoroughly the Outsiders have infiltrated the city.”
“Even I don’t know how they do it.” Osprey drains her glass. “It’s a lot easier to be stealthy when there’s not another soul for fifty kilometers in any direction.”
“How is it possible that the Outsiders can move in and out so easily,” Soren asks, “and yet haven’t made a move against the Sector?”
“It’s not our place,” Osprey says. “It’s for citizens to demand that their leaders uphold their founding principles. We just want to be left alone to live in harmony—as much as possible, that is—with the environment. We claim the right to choose our own paths. No one should take that right away.”
Bunqu picks up the thread, twirling the stem of his glass between his fingers, and looking off into the distance.
“I was born a citizen of the Okarian Sector. I went to the Academy, and then to the military institute. For a long time I was the willing soldier. I took orders. Did what I was told. Always determined to be the best, the strongest, the fastest. I was undefeated in the sparring ring. Until one day, a young man stepped onto the mat and kicked my ass.” He sets his glass on the table. “A skinny, young thing. All sinew and muscle. All quiet intensity. Afterward, we shared a pot of tea and got to talking. I never looked back.”
We all look at each other and then Vale sucks in a breath. “Chan-Yu?”
Without even acknowledging Vale, Bunqu continues. “We fed
off of each other’s successes and strengths, both intellectually and with regard to our climb through the ranks. We met early in our careers; I was a junior officer and Chan-Yu was a foot soldier with physical and mental strength that showed great promise. It was Chan-Yu who introduced me to the ways and ideas of the Outsiders. But it was years before he truly revealed himself to me.”
“He devoted fifteen years of his life to infiltrating the Sector’s highest levels of security.” Osprey sits back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest. She glares at Soren, and then me and Vale, but I can tell her anger is more playacting than anything. “Bet he never knew he’d give it all up to save two scrawny brats from the Sector from another scrawny brat from the Sector.”
I squeeze Vale’s hand, remembering my terror and surprise on that winter evening as Chan-Yu showed up in our holding cell with two sets of clothes and little in the way of answers.
“As to the rest of your question, Remy,” Bunqu turns to me, “the Outsiders have neither the numbers to take down the current leadership, nor the desire. At least not until recently. Our focus has been on intelligence, misdirection, and evasion, rather than on coups or civil war. Only within the last few years has the Okarian leadership become deranged to the point that they warrant removal from power.”
“The turning point was when the SD210 blight spiraled out of control, and famine hit the Farms and towns hard,” Soren says. “When my mother was still chancellor, I overheard her and my father arguing with James about the Orleáns’ solution. Rhinehouse warned them not to go along with their plan, with the MealPak modifications Corine proposed. But when people started dying, the situation grew desperate, and my mother was ousted.”
“What happened to your parents?” Vale asks. “I never knew. They just disappeared.”
Soren stares at the table for a long time before responding. Osprey, too, is uncharacteristically quiet.