by Bev Prescott
“How is winter a place? It marks time. Not a spot on a map.”
“Because time is what’s important. We get so little of it.” He let go of his sleeve and smiled. “Which is why we make time for music, and art, and laughter. They’re among the great pleasures of our fleeting lifetimes.”
“Does NONA know you’re down here?”
“We don’t think so. But we’re pretty sure NONA suspects something might be going on beneath its nose. It just doesn’t know how far beneath.” Federico finished his drink. “Much like the abolitionists in the early 1800s had their Underground Railroad to save people from slavery, we have the underground sewer system of greater Chicago. Funny how history likes to repeat itself.”
“Who are you trying to save?” Sharon looked from Federico to the diversity of faces around them. From black to white and all shades in between, there didn’t seem to be a common denominator to their ethnicities or class standing.
“Anyone who wants to be saved.” Federico folded his hands on the table. “And is willing to live by our code.”
“Since everyone wants to be saved, I’m guessing your code is the deal breaker. What is it?” She drank the last of her tea.
Federico laughed. “You have good instincts.” He twisted in the direction of the crooner belting out a schmaltzy song. “You see that woman? That’s Ruth. Her great-grandfather, Troy LeRoy, was one of the best jazz singers in all of Chicago. And right above our heads used to sit one of the most famous jazz bars, the Goldfinch.”
Sharon set down the empty cup. “That must’ve been before the Church of Revelations took over the government during the War of the Second Crusade and banned music?”
“Sí, amiga.” He turned back to Sharon. “Instead of disbanding, the Goldfinch bar went underground. Troy was more than a jazzman. He was a gifted leader who understood that while music feeds the soul, it doesn’t feed the belly or keep you safe. Troy encouraged a wide variety of people with lots of different skills to join them. Everybody got to do what they did best as long as they also took on the mundane stuff no one wanted to do. From Troy on down, everybody cleaned toilets and took out the trash. For decades, we’ve thrived by carrying Troy’s way of doing things forward.”
“You said Woody is your leader. What happened to Troy?”
“He died of old age years ago, in 2084. Just went to sleep and never woke up. Woody was the chief scientist at the time, working on a ship that would be our new home. We’ve been living underground for far too long. The Qaunik elected Woody to succeed Troy as our prime minister.” Federico looked past her and grinned. “Ah, here comes JJ.”
JJ sidled up next to the table. “How you doing?” He placed a work-worn hand on Sharon’s shoulder. “Can we get you something to eat? There’s plenty of fried beetles in the kitchen.”
“I’d love some later, after I meet with Woody.” Even though her brain begged for sustenance, her stomach still roiled with stress. “If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” JJ folded his muscled arms over his chest. “You just let me know.”
“Where did you leave Aaron, the Strelitzia’s soldier?” Federico asked.
“Let’s just say it’ll take him a very long time to walk from anywhere to anywhere.” JJ winked. “It’s a good thing he had a sunhat stuffed inside his jacket.”
“The Nebraska Desert?” Federico asked.
“The one and only.”
“You leave him with water?”
“Enough.”
“Good work.” Federico swiped the table clock. “It’s time to meet Woody. A couple of things first.” He got up. “I’ll need my spectraletto back and any other weapons you might have.”
“Why?” Sharon asked. “I need Woody to help me. You think I’m going to bite the hand that feeds me?”
“It’s more for your protection than Woody’s.” JJ held out a hand. “I once saw Woody take out five armed NONA soldiers before they even knew what hit them. Questions were asked later. Your weapons, please.”
“The spectraletto you’re carrying is mine anyway.” Federico smiled. “We’ll take it, the hammer, and whatever else you’ve got.” He pointed at her shoulder. “And the satchel.”
“What is this?” Sharon handed the spectraletto butt-end to JJ. “I hope you’re not setting me up.”
“You have no choice but to trust us.” Federico held out a hand. “Your hammer, please.”
Sharon took it from the baldric and laid it in his hand. “That’s all I’ve got.” Then she slipped the satchel strap over her head.
“Good.” Federico tucked the hammer into his waistband and took the satchel. “One last thing. You’re going to exit this room through the red door behind you. It leads to Woody’s quarters. Take off your boots before going through that door. You can leave them on the rack.”
“You know.” JJ made a sour face. “Boot funk. We don’t wear shoes or boots in our quarters.”
“Me neither.” Sharon straightened her jacket. “Anything else I should know before meeting Woody?”
JJ put a finger to his lips. “You should probably know our way of greeting.”
“Yes, you should.” Federico motioned for JJ. “Let’s show her.”
JJ ducked around Sharon to Federico.
Standing face to face with JJ, Federico said, “As you know, shaking hands went out with the Great Plague of 2067. But we still value a proper greeting.” He grabbed JJ’s upper arm with his right hand.
JJ did the same to Federico. “That’s our formal greeting. For friends we have an informal greeting which adds a gentle head butt.” He bumped his forehead to Federico’s.
“If Woody decides to greet you, it will be formal,” Federico added.
JJ beamed. “You’re lucky to meet our one-of-a-kind Woody.”
“Woody defies definition.” Federico clamped a hand to JJ’s shoulder. “Engineer, boat builder, sailor, adventurer, ukulele player, teacher, leader. You name it.” He held a hand out toward the door. “Let’s not keep the boss waiting.”
Sharon and Federico removed their boots before exiting through the red door. He led her down a long hallway before stopping at a door with a complicated schematic drawing framed in glass hanging over it. He rapped four times. “Our guest is here.”
“Enter.” A woman’s soft but firm voice came through the door.
Federico turned the old-fashioned knob and pushed the door open for Sharon. “We’ll see you in a little while. When we do, we’ll get you something to eat and drink.” He turned and walked away.
Cautiously, Sharon went in. The room was filled with dusky light. A fragrant smoke wafted up from some smoldering sticks propped in a metal container. On a colorful rug, a woman with long chestnut-colored hair and olive skin knelt, her hands pressed together.
“Come.” The compact, middle-aged woman rose up onto her knees and motioned for Sharon. “Would you like to pray with me?”
“I don’t believe in a God.” Sharon made her way to the woman kneeling on the ornate red rug. At its center was a rectangular box with two lines coming together that pointed toward a stick figure, building what looked to symbolize a house of worship.
“Neither do I.” The woman got to her feet and lifted the back end of the rug.
“If that’s the case, why are you praying over a Muslim prayer rug?” Sharon asked.
“For many reasons.” The woman rolled the rug into a tight, neat tube and tucked it onto a shelf. “To meditate. To connect with the people and history that I came from. To connect with the people I’m with now. To connect with myself. To connect with our dying planet.” She turned to face Sharon. “To seek its forgiveness. Tell me, how does someone as young as you know what a Muslim is, let alone recognize a prayer rug?”
“My mother was an Abenaki Indian and rug weaver.” Sharon could feel the woman’s presence. It filled up every nook and cranny of the room with its life and power. “She taught me about the spirituality of rugs of many religions.” Sharon glanced around
for any sign of Woody.
“And yet, you don’t believe in a God?” The woman pulled a second rolled rug from the shelf.
“I said that I don’t believe in a God.” Sharon hesitated to consider her words. If this woman was another gatekeeper to Woody, she didn’t want to risk being offensive. “But I do believe in things I can’t see, like the spirits of my family.”
The woman snapped the rug open and spread it on the floor. She smiled. “Ah, then. Sit with me, please. This rug is for communing rather than praying.”
“I’m sorry. But may I see Woody now?”
“Not what you expected?” The woman laughed. “I’m Wilhel-mina Woodhouse.” She patted a spot on the rug next to her. “My friends call me Woody.”
“They told me you defy definition,” Sharon managed to say. While Woody’s demeanor made her feel safe, the sheer power oozing from the smaller woman intimidated and humbled Sharon. “And I could tell that your friends love and respect you very much.”
“The feeling is mutual. Please. Sit.” She scooted to the edge of the rug and faced its middle.
Sharon sat across from her and folded her legs. “Thank you for meeting with me.” She fully expected that the subject of the apple would surface, but she wouldn’t be the one to bring it up. “I hope I didn’t offend you.”
“Of course not. Who would expect a Muslim woman called Woody?”
“If you don’t mind my asking, where are you from that a Muslim woman is named Wilhelmina Woodhouse?”
“Not at all do I mind.” Woody leaned back on her palms. “My grandmother was a Syrian refugee during the War of the Second Crusade. Their overcrowded boat capsized. Everyone drowned but her. She was only ten years old. A Norwegian family adopted her and brought her to Great Britain. I’m named after the former Norwegian Queen Wilhelmina. My father was of British descent.” She closed her eyes for a moment, revealing long lashes. “There you have it. Now tell me about you.”
“I’m a farmer.” Sharon waved her hands as if trying to erase the words. “I mean, I was a farmer. My family owned a farm in Maine for more than a century. My wife, Eve, and I eke out a living there. Well, we did, until she was taken from me. Which is why I hope you will consider helping me get to California.”
“How would that be helpful?”
Sharon felt her hands figuratively being tied behind her back. She and Eve had sworn to each other they’d always keep their secret. No matter what. But keeping the promise might mean losing Eve. “There’s a person there whose help I need. Please, all I’m asking is that you get me to northern California. I don’t have . . .”
“Stop,” Woody interrupted. “We can get you there.”
“What’s the price? There’s always a price.”
“Well, I agree, most of the time there is. But not always.” Woody locked eyes with Sharon. “This time, however, there is most definitely a price.”
“I don’t have any resources. I’m just really good at getting by with what I can find.”
“Let’s make a deal.” Woody held up an open hand. “Don’t ever insult my intelligence with a lie. Of course you have something of value. Otherwise, the Strelitzia would not have taken your wife. And you would not be so desperate to get to California to bring him whatever it is he thinks you have that he wants.”
“I’m sorry.” The slap of Woody’s retort stung. Sharon had no leverage. This powerful woman had all of it. “What will it cost?”
“The Strelitzia stole the one person in the world you live for. Am I right?”
“Yes.” Sharon laced her fingers together and rested her hands in her lap.
“You and I are in the same boat.” Woody straightened and exhaled. “He stole from me the one thing in this world that I need to keep myself and all of the people who rely on me alive. You want your wife back. And I want my ship back.”
“How can I help you do that?”
“You’re going to lead me to him. Whatever you have has brought him out of the shadows. I need for you to keep him in the light of day until I can get to him.”
“So you’re going to use me and Eve as bait somehow?”
“I asked you not to lie. And neither will I to you.” Woody spread her hands. “That’s exactly my plan.”
“I don’t have a choice. Do I?” Sharon asked.
“Not if you want to get to California any time soon. There’s desert that’s standing in your way. Not to mention the mountains.”
“Okay,” Sharon conceded. “If you’re willing to help me, I have to be willing to help you. When do we go?”
“In the morning, after you steal a shipment of water from NONA.”
“I hope you have a good plan for that too.” Sharon’s heart rate ticked up. “Seems pretty risky, bordering on a death wish.”
“Tomorrow morning NONA will be loading water-transporters for delivery to one of their bases in Atlanta. You and Federico will pose as water-walkers in order to divert one of the transporters. From there, you’ll be with a crew assigned to deliver the water to California for trade. There’s a black market there that has supplies we need. We give them the water. They give us the supplies.”
“How are we going to pull off the identities of water-walkers?”
“The same way that we’re going to hide you from the Strelitzia. I have no doubt he’ll be tracking you. In the morning, your own chip will be surgically removed. It’ll be replaced with the chip of a dead water-walker. We’ll also implant a countermeasures device inside your jaw that can jam facial recognition software. And for good measure, we’ll cut your hair and set you up with a pair of contact lenses that’ll change the color of your eyes from green to brown. And last but not least, the lenses will project a holograph onto your retina. You’ll be unrecognizable.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I don’t kid. After you get to California, we’ll help you find whomever or whatever it is you’re looking for.”
“I don’t want your help for anything other than getting to California. I’ll get where I need to go after that.”
“You asked what the catch is.” Woody held Sharon’s gaze. “There you have it. I told you that you will lead me to the Strelitzia. We get you what you want. Then we go together to the Bay of Fundy to catch up with the Strelitzia. That’s what I’m offering. And it’s not negotiable.”
“Then we part ways, and I keep everything that’s mine, including what the Strelitzia is after.”
“You have my word.”
“I don’t know you well enough yet, but something about you makes me believe you.” Sharon considered the incongruous feeling. “Maybe it’s your commitment to not telling each other lies.”
“That’s certainly a good way for us to begin.” Woody got up and motioned for Sharon to do the same. Then she reached out with her right hand and squeezed Sharon’s upper arm.
Sharon returned the greeting, grateful for Federico and JJ’s earlier demonstration. “Thank you.”
“I’ll call Federico to retrieve you. Get some food, water, and a good sleep. We have much to do. First thing in the morning, Dale, our physician, will replace your identity chip with a new one.” Woody walked Sharon to the doorway. “Wait outside. Federico will be along.”
Chapter 10
“You ready?” Dale pressed the stainless-steel chip-injector to the hinge of Sharon’s right jaw. “The chip has an anesthetic coating, but the needle is a bitch. Sorry about that.” The imposing woman was painted in swirls of black ink that bloomed up her arms to her neck where a thick scar traced her jawline. She had bright blue eyes, high cheek bones, and wore her salt-and-pepper hair in a buzz-cut. Dale looked more warrior than healer in a vest, white synthetic shirt, canvas dungarees, and heavy boots.
Sharon readied herself. “Do it.” She gripped the chair’s armrests and stared at the opposite wall of the well-lit medical supply room.
“I like you.” Dale supported Sharon’s head with her other hand. “You’ve got grit.” She pulled the
instrument’s trigger. It clicked, then whooshed as the hydraulic mechanism recoiled.
“Holy hell.” Sharon winced, rubbing her jaw. “I’d hate to see what you do to someone you don’t like.”
“Well, you didn’t flinch.”
“Long years of self-discipline.” A merciful tingling chased after the piercing ache. “At least the anesthetic works fast.”
“You might get a bit of a headache once it wears off.” Dale held the injector over an open glass carboy and pressed a button at its side. The needle clinked into the carboy. “Let me know if it persists, though. I’ve got stuff I can give you for it.”
Sharon ran a hand over the soft stubble on her head. “You weren’t kidding when you said you’d cut my hair. Not that I’m complaining. It feels—freeing.”
“Yeah, well . . .” Dale returned the injector to a case with a foam insert molded to its shape. She pointed at her own head. “I can stitch up the nastiest of gashes, but I’ve only got one hairstyle in my repertoire. Now, let’s take a look at the incision on your wrist.” She sat on a stool and turned Sharon’s hand over.
“How does all this stuff work, anyway?” Sharon massaged her tingling jaw.
“The chip distorts photographs taken of you so that facial recognition software can’t determine your identity.” Holding Sharon’s forearm, she lifted the bandage and examined the incision, snugged closed with four tight stitches. “We gave you brown eyes with the new contact lenses. More important, they’ve erased your retinal scan identity. As for the chip in your wrist, you’re no longer Sharon Clausen.”
“Who am I? And I hope you’ve kept the real me someplace safe. All I want to be when this is over is Sharon Clausen, wife of Eve. They live happily ever after on a patch of green in Maine.”
“Not to worry. Your chip is in secure storage. We’ll replace it when the mission’s finished.” Dale closed the bandage over the wound. “This looks good. Keep it covered and clean. You let me know right away if it gets infected.” She wheeled the stool to a desk in the corner with a digital screen. She slid her finger across the screen and pressed the icon for a dark-haired woman who looked to be in her thirties. “You’re Midge Riendeau, water-walker.”