by Linsey, Tam
He allowed his eyes to drift closed.
Rustling foliage startled him awake. How long had it been? Holding his breath, he didn’t twitch in the still, muggy air. If cannibals found him, he’d be roasting by dark.
The noise continued, and his heart raced. What were they doing? It sounded like they were harvesting the amarantox seeds. Cannibals might be desperate, but they weren’t stupid. Not even pigs or goats could eat the toxic weed in any quantity.
Whatever was moving through the weeds came closer. He shrank into as small a space as he could. This might be the end. God would punish him for thinking to circumvent His will, just like the Brethren said.
The sound moved past into a thicket of tamarisk by the water. Branches snapped and twigs rattled.
Unable to resist his curiosity, he pulled the blanket tight about his head and raised his eyes above the level of the foliage. A golden tan and white goat-like creature tugged at the gray-green fronds of tamarisk.
In a flash of motion, almost too quick to see, the creature flicked long ears, launched straight into the air on stiff legs, and bounded into the weeds, followed by a second animal Levi hadn’t seen.
His mouth widened in a silent exclamation. It hadn’t been a goat. He was familiar enough with the blocky form of the village milkers. No, this had been more graceful. Delicate, even. And he’d seen that coat once before, many years ago when the old salt trader came through with a rare hide. “A deer?”
He pulled out his pencil and sketched madly before the image faded from his mind.
The Garden
Haldanian Protectorate
Sunlight flooded through the transparent nuvoplast walls and ceiling of the Garden, allowing children to photosynthesize without exposure to deadly ultraviolet rays. Air conditioning units kept a comfortable breeze flowing through the building. Tula urged Jo Boy toward a group of nearly naked nine-year olds sitting on the floor. Twenty bald, green heads turned his way, and he backed into Tula, his breathing rapid. His attention darted nervously between the sitting group and another class of prancing youngsters through the glass next door.
The concept of clear walls and ceilings must be mind boggling, Tula reminded herself. Outside, single story houses reflected harsh sunlight onto the streets from mirrored walls. She didn’t remember much of her own early Integration, but new converts were always flighty. Jo Boy would require a gentle hand until he grew used to his surroundings.
Taking Jo Boy’s hand, she managed to pull him forward and together they settled on a cushion at the outer edge of the group. Most of these children had been converted years ago. Many didn’t remember the Outside. And of course many were native Haldanians. One of Tula’s previous converts smiled at her and scootched a fraction closer before Tula shook her head and nodded toward Jo Boy. The girl stuck out her lip but stopped her approach. On future visits, Tula would socialize, but today Jo Boy needed all her attention.
Albert, the day-teacher, caught Tula’s eye and winked before returning his attention to the kids. “Class, eyes, up here,” he said, drawing attention away from the newcomers. He held a sealed glass cloche with a single-stemmed plant inside. “What do we do if we see a plant?”
Several hands shot into the air, and one little boy wearing a yellow friendship bracelet spoke out of turn. “Is it poison?”
“To you, yes. What happens if you touch it?”
“Touch it, Clay.” A little girl pushed the boy with the bracelet and he turned to slap her back.
“Enough, children.”
Jo Boy was older than the rest of the class, but Tula found integrating older converts into younger classes worked well, both socially and academically. His chloroplasts had greened up quite nicely, and now he needed to learn the language.
“My dad works the Burn. He says he likes the smell. It makes him high,” another boy chirped.
The silver beads in Albert’s short dark hair rattled as he turned to lance the little boy with a glare. “Plants won’t make you high. If you were out on the Burn, the smoke would probably kill you. At the very least, it would make you wish you were dead. Plants make our bodies think they are under attack, so our chloroplasts create poisons to fight back.”
“What about the yuvee trees? Aren’t they plants?” This was from a girl who wore gold earrings like an adult, obviously native Haldanian. Someone with family who loved her.
“That’s a very good question, Amaryllis. Yuvee trees are indeed plants. But they are one of the few plants we allow inside the city because they warn us of an upcoming ultraviolet flare when the leaves become pale. But even yuvee trees are only allowed to grow in designated areas. And never inside the Garden or the play yard.”
“I can see a yuvee tree from the cafeteria when my mom takes me to lunch.”
Jo Boy watched the interactions with wide eyes, his focus sometimes swinging to the class next door. Tula wondered how much he understood. He would be watched closely over the next few months. He needed to learn that sunlight outside of the protective glass of the Garden would harm him. Once he finished puberty, his system could endure the chemicals UV radiation caused his body to produce. Even workers on the Burn, who were acclimated to long periods of direct sunlight and exposure to foreign plants, sometimes came back with an overdose and needed therapy.
The children had digressed into personal stories, no longer focused on the teacher. “The sun will kill you if you look right at it when the yuvee tree turns white.”
“No, it won’t. Only if you’re outside.”
“It’ll burn your eyes out.”
“Okay, kids, settle down. We’re talking about plants now, not ultraviolet waves. As long as you’re in the Garden, the sun can’t hurt you. But sometimes when we go outside at night, you might find a seedling in the yard. If we see a plant, do we touch it?” the teacher asked.
“Nooooo,” the children chimed together.
Jo Boy jumped at the chorus and looked at Tula. She smiled in reassurance. He’d probably never seen this many children together before.
“What do you do?” Albert crossed his arms over his chest, his silver wristbands catching the light.
“Call a grown up,” again the children chimed as one.
Jo Boy remained still, scanning the group in front of him.
“Call a grown up to dispose of it properly. That’s right. Touching a plant will make our bodies very sick.”
“What if I accidently touch one?”
Albert shook his head in sadness. “Then you have to go to gene therapy.”
A collective shudder rolled through the group. Even Jo Boy twitched, and Tula nodded in satisfaction. He understood some of the lesson.
“Now, I want you all to go read the history pages I have up on your gamma pads. There will be a test tomorrow morning.” Albert dismissed the children and Tula approached with Jo Boy in tow. The man smiled broadly, his focus on Tula even as he winked at Jo Boy. “Hello, Tula.”
“Hi, Albert. I’d like you to meet Jo Boy.”
“Jobie. Welcome to the class.” Albert always created pet names for the new converts that inevitably became their new identity within the Protectorate. “Can you tell me one thing you learned about plants today?”
Jo Boy glowered from beneath his naked brow line at Albert. This was going to be a tough sell.
“Go on, Jo Boy. Use your words,” Tula encouraged.
“Baad.”
She wasn’t sure if the single syllable was in regard to plants or to Jo Boy’s opinion of Albert. The smiling teacher seemed to have no doubts. “Wonderful! You might be top of the class if you keep up the good work. Why don’t you go sit by Amaryllis?” He called out to the girl. “Amaryllis, please read the lesson out loud to Jobie, here.”
As Tula watched Jo Boy slouch toward the girl, Albert sidled close enough to rub shoulders and cocked his chin her way. “You still seeing that good-for-nothing Burn Operative? What’s his name? Moo?”
“Mo.” She laughed. “And, yes, I am.” She
and Albert had gone out for some time before she met Mo, a quiet, intelligent convert whose talent was wasted as a Burn Operative.
“I don’t know how you can stand the soot. And why hasn’t he given you any jewelry? If he expects to keep you, he’d better start putting his money where his mouth is. Mmmm. Has his mouth been here?” He tickled a finger across her bare collarbone and wiggled his brows.
Tula giggled and pulled away. “Not in front of the kids, Albert.” Even though she’d been converted nearly twenty years ago, she still fought the urge to cover her bare breasts. Photosynthesis only worked if the chloroplasts were exposed to light, so everyday Haldanian garb consisted of merely a loincloth or fringe skirt. Some extremists didn’t even bother with that much modesty.
“You never wear the bracelets I gave you.” Albert put on a sulky face. “And they’re not looking at us. Even Jobie has found something to occupy him.” He nodded to where the boy had his entire body spread against the transparent wall as if he could push through to the skimmer on the other side.
“Oh, Jo Boy. No. Come here. Let’s read the lesson.” She hurried to gather the child away from the glass, glad for the distraction.
The fact was Mo had bought her jewelry. She had a whole case of necklaces, earrings, bracelets, rings, and anklets at home, from Mo and previous lovers. No self-respecting Haldanian ever bought jewelry for themselves, and the more bangles and baubles a person wore, the more loved he was perceived to be. But she couldn’t seem to embrace the ostentatious display.
Mo understood. He was a convert, just like her. They both respected their photosynthesis too much to cover it, even with jewelry. To do so would be an insult to the conversion technology that had saved them. Albert was native Haldanian; for him, photosynthesis was like breathing. The only time she covered her skin was in the lab, when she donned a long coat to ward off the underground chill, and the coat’s material was so thin it was virtually transparent.
As she coaxed Jo Boy away from the glass, a call came over the com system. “Dr. Macoby, report to Confinement for briefing.”
With a glance at Albert, she grinned and patted Jo Boy goodbye. The call meant only one thing — potential converts were on the way.
Amarantox Plains
Across the river, an old road sliced a line through the dusty brown plains for as far as Levi could see. He stood at the threshold of an ancient trestle bridge spanning the wide channel between two cut banks of red-brown limestone. Water swamped the tamarisk along the shore, allowing only the gray-green tips of the fronds to sway above the current.
Behind him, the crumbling remains of an old city lay buried in weeds. He’d had to resist the temptation to pause and explore the fallen structures — the engraved cornerstone on a brick wall, the tangle of plastic pipes hanging from a rusted metal girder, a paved stairway descending into an opening in the earth. What had life been like back then, to live without the constant awareness of the thin electric wire separating civilization from cannibalism? To travel freely from one shore to another — and farther — in a matter of hours?
That kind of hubris had led to the rest of mankind’s demise, according to the Brethren. In the Third Fall of Man, people didn’t respect the Earth that God put into man’s care. But the Old Order remained faithful to the Ordnung, the earthly laws of God, and the Holdout was spared.
Levi turned his back on the ruins and moved on. He didn’t have time to dally with the past. The lessons of the Days of the Prophet had been drilled into him well enough as a child.
Until now, he’d followed the river close to the banks. When he’d come to tributaries, he’d forded them or sometimes dared an old bridge. But now he had to cross the river and break toward the stone buttes rising into the distant sky.
Like the open asphalt roadways, this bridge would be a natural pathway for others, including cannibals. Levi hunkered near a rusty girder to survey the path ahead. Crossing the wide expanse of water without a bridge would be unwise, at best. The roiling water bobbed with debris and detritus that proved its unforgiving strength. He had no option but to cross the crumbling concrete and exposed metal.
Muscles trembling, he hurried to the next support beam, as if sprinting from tree to tree in the apple orchard in a game of hide and seek. The pavement gaped with holes; the edges of the bridge were nothing but sagging, rusty mesh and iron rods. A few empty husks of what had once been cars littered the roadway. He wondered about the people who’d abandoned the vehicles. Had they been overtaken by cannibals? Had they become cannibals? Where had they been fleeing when they’d finally deserted the car?
Stop thinking and move. You have a destination.
At the center of the span, he glanced over the edge as a jumble of tamarisk branches spun past at dizzying speed. He’d never been so high in the air, and a wave of vertigo overtook him. Clutching a beam, he caught his breath and focused on the other shore. Rusty metal cut into his fingertips, but he didn’t mind. The pain helped ground him. With carefully placed steps, he slid to the next brace and the next, until he completed the crossing.
With a final glance at the bridge, he started down the road into what appeared to be desert. No longer lush with green waves of amarantox, the hard-packed red earth had crusted like cracked pottery, fissures spreading from riverbank to horizon. Spindly stems of knapweed and a strange, rounded shrub with variegated leaves intermingled with dwarf amarantox stands.
The sun beat upon his shoulders with an intensity that made him wonder if another sunstorm was coming, or if the penetrating heat was due to the change in landscape. The brim of his hat shadowed his eyes and the back of his neck, but the sun penetrated his clothing and parched his skin. Perhaps he should hide under the blanket until nightfall.
Focused on the sun, he didn’t notice the whiff of smoke until he stumbled into the empty camp. Startled, he froze, eyes on the rosy coals of a small campfire. No sign of cannibals. He scanned the scraggly plants, horizon to horizon. Nothing.
Well, if they weren’t going to bother him, he wouldn’t bother them. He turned to the buttes on the horizon, but a tiny sob and intake of breath from the brush halted him. Someone was there. Something shivered against the earth, and he realized a person knelt next to a rounded bush, auburn-haired head to the ground, dirty rags of clothing blending in better than his blanket could.
Now was not the time or place to be a Good Samaritan. But what if God was testing him? What if someone needed help? What if it was a trap?
A whimper came again, and he stepped toward the figure. “Do you need help?”
With a grunting cry, the form rocked back to a squat, and he saw it was a woman, belly grotesquely swollen in pregnancy. Her pained face told him all he needed to know. Her people had abandoned her to give birth alone.
He’d only taken three steps toward her when a change in air pressure made him pause. A swirl of dust swept the hat from his head. He looked up to find himself face to face with a hovering metal craft, silent until a roar of flame spouted from the barrel of a gun on one side.
The woman screamed.
The Burn
Haldanian Protectorate
Tula jogged up the stairs from Confinement two at a time, headed to the duster pad outside. Heat from the tarmac slammed into her like a fist as she exited the climate controlled building, and she had to lift a hand to shield her eyes from the sudden sunlight. Two Med techs wheeled a screaming woman down the ramp on a gurney. Tula stepped aside so they could pass, assessing the prisoner’s swollen belly and shaking her head sadly. They’d keep the baby. But the woman was another matter.
At the door to the duster, Mo gestured to one of the other techs, hand on his weapon. He saw Tula and smiled broadly. She grinned back and loped across the asphalt.
“Hey, baby,” he said, pulling her close to his side with a one-armed embrace.
Inside the duster, two techs urged a male prisoner to his feet. The big man sat on his knees, palms pressed together as he mumbled. A flash of dizziness passed o
ver Tula, and she swayed.
“Whoa,” Mo looked down at her. “You haven’t even kissed me, yet. Another Burn Op beat me to it?”
He liked to joke that she only stayed with him for the high of his kisses. She smiled weakly at him, glad to look away from the prisoner. “I can make my own drugs if I need to, thank you very much.”
He laughed and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Not if you never come out for air. You need me, baby.”
“What is this?” She indicated the man in the duster. The techs had him on his feet, but he kept his hands together and his lips moving.
“Hey, if they’re not struggling, I bring them in. I’d just as soon flash them all.”
She shuddered, well aware of his position on cannibals. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to prove consent?”
Mo shrugged and handed her a notebook. “That’s your job, not mine. He had this with him.”
She frowned at the book. Paper books were primitive, but cannibals were not known for their literacy. He must have found it in some ruins. She tucked the book under her arm and stepped within reach of the prisoner. Mo gripped his gun tighter. Although he was huge for a cannibal, the captive remained incredibly docile. She spoke the Cannibal dialect, similar to, but simpler than Haldanian. “You hurt?”
The man continued his singsong drone, looking at the ground and ignoring her.
“He was with the mother?”
“Standing right over her. Didn’t put up one gram of resistance. Maybe you can convert a whole family,” Mo teased.
Tula pursed her lips in thought. A whole family? What a novel idea. She put a hand on the man’s shoulder. His singsong grew louder, the cadence familiar in a way that made her tremble. She dropped her hand and backed away. Swallowing to regain her composure, she turned to the tech. “When the mother comes out of labor, put her and the baby in the cell with him.”