by Nirina Stone
On the way to the massive opening that will lead us on to the water, Eric introduces me to four others dressed in similar attire.
“O’Donnell, Sharma, Radar, Volant,” he says, nodding to each of them.
I am still not used to the Soren custom of addressing one another by their last name. They all return Eric’s nods, then look at me expectantly.
“This is Mason,” Eric says, pointing my way. It’s so quick, I nearly miss it, but they definitely react to my name. Sharma and Volant’s eyes are big as saucers when they nod at me, and I catch a quick look exchanged between O’Donnell and Radar, before Eric pushes me forward towards the opening.
“That’s Romy Mason,” I hear a whisper behind me, as we head to the massive metal doors.
Anything else they say is drowned out by the loud sputtering sounds of motors right outside the metal doors. I wonder why my name makes them react?
Maybe they heard about my useless attempt to attack Eric on my second day here? The Sorens do respect a fighting spirit after all. Before I can think about it any more, my focus is on the still blue water right outside the entryway.
I realize the Iliad is no longer moving, though I wouldn’t notice it anyway, all the way up on the tenth floor. Other than the occasional queasiness, I barely remember we’re on a moving beast of a boat. I watch the water warily as it licks the sides of the massive ship and leaves small frothy waves in its wake. I can swim, as all other people of Apex can. It is one of the first things they teach children, along with their alphabets and ‘pleases’ and ‘thank yous.’ But I can’t remember the last time I swam, so I swallow nervously.
“It’s okay,” Eric says. “Your wet suit is designed to help you stay afloat in case of any problems.” That’s definitely a relief.
We make our way out the doors, and sit on waiting jetbots floating gently in the water. I’ve definitely never been on one of these, but O’Donnell gives me what she refers to as a “quick crash course,” and I’m well on my way. I wish she didn’t use that specific term, but the machine is actually easy to use and responds like a dream to my movements.
We take off to the various sides of the boat, and Eric and I are on the starboard side, within arms’ reach of the ship, before we stop.
He turns to the back of his jetbot and flips open the top of a large plastic container. I have an exact replica on the back of my machine. I sit and watch him as he takes out a bot the size of his head, presses two buttons, then places it gently on the surface of the boat, before pressing another button.
He already explained our purpose today on our way down in the veda, but watching the bot come alive to scrape and clean the side of the boat is another experience altogether.
When I asked Eric upstairs why we don’t simply place the bots on the ship from the top, rather than down here, he explained that we still need to be nearby in case one of them falls off and sinks into the water.
Watching the bot attach itself to the boat, I’m not convinced. Then Eric places another bot down closer to the surface of the water. It disappears under the surface to clean the bottom of the boat.
“See?” he says, pointing to where the little bot sank. “If that one doesn’t surface after about an hour, I will need to go hunt it down. They are resilient little things, but sometimes, the right amount of pressure from currents or stubborn dirt will dislodge one.”
Understanding, I reach over to the bots in my container, and place each one on the surface of the ship as instructed.
We watch the bots start by working round in concentric circles, much like the cleaningbots in my room. They work noisily in specific patterns until the boat’s hull is shining and glossy in the sun.
I’m so amazed with their progress, I haven’t noticed until Eric coughs that he has brought a small lunch of sandwiches along with us. That’s great. I realize I’m famished, and reach for the sandwich and thank him as I take a big bite.
Small bubbles form on the surface of the water right next to my jetbot, and I wonder if it’s whale season. When I was a child, maybe six or seven, my parents and I drove all the way to the South East Coast of Apex, to watch whales near the shore. It was about a two week journey, and we stayed in a tent by the side of the road the entire way.
We were hot, dirty and hungry by the morning we arrived, and the car broke down in the heat a few times before we finally glimpsed the white sands of the beach, but my parents never lost their patience. They didn’t argue or fret, not once.
When we sat and watched the distant whales blow water fountains into the air, sometimes doing dances and cartwheels to land with a massive splash back into the water, it was surreal.
My parents quietly sat in the sand, hand in hand, and watched them play. We stayed on the beach all night, serenaded by the whales’ siren across the sea.
I suddenly miss my father. Needing to distract myself from thoughts of him, I turn to Eric to ask if it is indeed whale season.
Then I hear a massive splash at the same time a big blue-gray rubbery body throws itself across and on top of Eric’s jet ski, pulling him down, under the frothy water.
Much later, we enter my room soaked and exhausted and still laughing about the young dolphin that wrestled Eric into the ocean.
“Serves me right,” he says, between chuckles. “I should know better than to eat anywhere near wildlife, but I’m rarely off the ship. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
Was that his first time administering a shipbot clean? I watch him quietly. His wet blonde hair looks like a mass of dripping wet hay. “I couldn’t help myself though.” He watches me with an odd look on his face. This isn’t the face of the serious Interviewer Eric or the happy boyish carefree Eric. This is something new, something in the middle. There is a serious glint, with a hint of mischief or happiness or something. I can’t quite pinpoint it.
“I just love—” he continues, his eyes still on me. The pause is too long, so I frown up at him. “I love watching you experience new things for the first time,” he finally finishes.
What does he mean? Maybe it amuses him because I’m so naive to the ways of the Sorens? I’m not entirely sure, but I laugh. He chuckles and rubs his hair with a towel.
I’ll try to decipher it later, but my mind is still preoccupied with the way the other four on the shipbot crew reacted to my family name, so I ask Eric the significance of the name Mason.
“It’s because of your Great Grandmother,” he explains. My Grandmother Rosemary Mason? The one for whom I was named Romy? “Your mother is the best person to give you all the details,” he says, “but yes, Rosemary Mason left behind quite the legacy before her death. And after! She’s probably one of the most famous Sorens in our history, second only to Mornie Blair.”
I can feel the surprise on my face. His words echo in my head while I’m brought back to the black closet.
“When I was in the hole,” I say, watching the awe on his face disappear, to be masked by the serious Interviewer face. I continue, “if my answer was the name of a Prospo, what would have happened to me? Would you have killed me?”
He takes a step back and places the damp towel on the back of the chair. “No,” he replies. “Our purpose isn’t to kill the Prospo, only disrupt their life.” I notice he hasn’t answered the first part of my question, but I don’t repeat it.
“Disrupt their life?” I say out loud, after Eric leaves. What does that mean, really? Do they mean to destroy all the Prospo’s factories, thereby removing all sources of income for them? What are the Sorens up to, other than bombing the occasional ‘Clothing Factory?’ What is their plan when it comes to the Citizen population?
I’m not sure, but I realize I need to start asking more questions, if I’m to continue living with these people. I certainly can’t ask Eric. He’s about as forthcoming as Father is. Was. I’m visiting Knox in the morning. I’ll make sure to ask her. She seems more inclined to share details.
For now, I decide to go to sleep early. I’m decidedly not hung
ry tonight.
Knox’s home is a suite on the fifteenth floor. It is cozy, just enough space for her family of five. It’s probably about triple the size of my tiny compartment, but she has it smartly laid out so there is plenty of space for all of them to stretch out.
We sit on her terrace overlooking part of the City Square. We sip on refreshing lemonade as I tell her about the dolphin that nearly took Eric’s head off. She doesn’t stop laughing for several minutes, and I realize I’ve never seen her this happy or carefree in Azure.
“Do you miss Mama?” I ask.
“Every day,” she replies. “I regret that she didn’t get to come to this place. She would have really enjoyed being a Soren. She would have helped me care for twins!”
I can imagine it, too. Mama would fit in well with the gorgeous ladies of the Bridge Club who meet every day to exchange recipes and spend their “platinum years” amongst like-minded friends.
When I finally ask Knox what’s been on my mind since last night about the Sorens’ plans in Apex, she answers as honestly as I expect.
“We-ell—” She looks at me as if to decide how much I need to hear. “Remember what Eric told you about Prospo propaganda and what Citizens have learnt is all false?”
I do. I know my heart is in perfect working condition and every time I have visited the Soren doctors for a checkup, they have confirmed it. I remember it’s one of the few lies the Prospo like to feed Citizens, to maintain control over us. I nod my head, yes.
“The Sorens intend to prove to Citizens that they do not need the Prospo. For anything. Ever.”
I understand that part—educating the Citizens about the great authors, for example, is definitely necessary. Informing them we’re not infertile, and we are not all sick or dying because of various conditions; all of that must happen.
“Because the Prospo,” Knox continues, “need us. They need all the Citizens to run their factories and carry their progeny and do all the research required on the moon and Mars. They don’t want to risk too many of their lives off-planet, but they will risk ours.”
She leans back and takes a long sip of her lemonade. It is a particularly warm, humid day on the water, so the glass’s condensation entices me to take a drink as well.
She places her glass on the table. “They need Citizens to be grateful to them for all that. They need Sorens to take on the role of the ‘scary terrorists.’ In that way, Citizens will continue to look to the Prospo for protection and guidance and jobs.”
I hold my tongue because—as much as I comprehend what Knox says—the Sorens have actually been terrorizing the Prospo and Citizens for decades, no matter their motivation. No one has denied that the Sorens have actively hurt other members of Apex through various means such as factory bombings and kidnappings.
“The Prospo need to be needed by Citizens. They must have Citizens believe that the Prospo and their families want to bid on them at auction. That they want to provide them with employment and opportunities. Because without those jobs, Citizens have nothing. Without them, Citizens have no purpose.” She watches me carefully, an amused look on her face, as if to tell me I already know all this—that I merely haven’t thought it through completely. “The truth is,” she says, “Citizens don’t need them at all. No one does.”
I take another sip from my glass before it finally clicks. Mother travelled to Mars as a Soren spy, to destroy everything on the planet by any means necessary. It occurs to me it would be much easier to send Soren spies into Prospo City than it would be to send them to Mars. I’m already confirming the thought, the same moment Knox says, “We need to bring down Prospo City and the Prospo lifestyle.”
So their intent is to destroy Prospo City completely. But how?
Before I get to my next question, I catch a glint of something far in the sky that’s getting bigger and bigger by the second.
“What is that?” I ask, peering into the sky with my right hand over my forehead.
“Oh, haven’t you seen a copta before?” she asks.
I have, from afar, and none of them have looked anything like the sleek flying machine I’m eyeing now. The ones I know of are black, ugly and, although muffled by modern technology, they are still quite noisy.
The copta I’m watching is a platinum-coloured machine in a finish that reflects the blue sky in such a way, it’s rendered nearly invisible. The closer it gets, I notice its form is that of a wingless dragonfly with a shorter tail.
On its approach, I expect to hear the soft telltale sounds of a copta, the gentle whop-whop-whop of its propellers, but this one is dead silent. I don’t hear an echo, nothing at all, only the normal sound of a summer breeze. It hovers over the City Square, then makes a small dip and lands easily on the tiny coptapad on the roof of the Town Hall.
Knox giggles at the look on my face, while I’m still turning my head this way and that, trying to catch a sound, any sound at all from the copta.
“It is quite spectacular, isn’t it?” she mutters, finishing up her lemonade. “It’s a Boeing Stealth Bird,” she exclaims, like I should recognize the name, but I look up at her questioningly. “It used to belong to one of the Prospo until our own Commander Blair claimed it.”
Blair. That’s right, the commander is a direct descendant of the great Mornie Blair. I’ve already read her book several times, I can quote entire paragraphs from it verbatim.
“He once killed eight people in combat you know,” Knox says. It doesn’t sound all that impressive. I expect the copta is equipped with machine guns. “With his bare hands,” she continues. “He’s Sanaa’s best student.” Then she asks if I’d like some more lemonade and heads into her suite.
I look over at the copta as three identically clad men step out of it and head towards the door that will lead them into the Town Hall Building.
They look stocky and confident in their walk, all three holding their military hats with one hand while they move rapidly away from the copta.
It is not only their uniform that’s identical, I realize. They might as well be cut from the same cloth—their stance, their hairstyles, their hands, everything is the same.
“He’s handsome, isn’t he?” Knox asks, coming back out with a full tumbler of lemonade.
“Which one?” I ask honestly, and she bursts out laughing.
We sit together for another half hour when Eric comes to Knox’s suite, looking for me. “Our commander wants to meet you,” he says, his interviewer face back on.
Why? What in the world would Commander Blair want with some Azure ex-inmate with one measly Certificate in robotics?
When we’re in the veda, Eric says, “I should warn you. Blair’s a tough sonofadog. He’s hard to please.”
Great, I think, my posture taller, the moment we are at his suite. The door opens and we are ushered in by one of the uniformed men I saw from the copta. I reach out my hand automatically, counting on my new understanding of the Soren touchy-feely culture to help me gain some confidence. “Commander,” I say.
Eric laughs. “That’s not him.”
I can feel my face darken, but keep my hand out. “My apologies. Lovely to meet you anyway. I’m Romy Fif—Romy Mason.” I’m still not accustomed to introducing myself by the new name, and I’m flustered.
The man does not take my hand but nods and steps out of the way to let us walk through the door. I drop my hand and walk in behind Eric. Did I make a mistake? Do military Sorens not shake hands then? I will have to ask Eric, later.
Because right now, he’s embracing another military man, both of them laughing and slamming each other on the back, with greetings of, “Hi Brother,” and, “How the hell have you been?”
I start to think this Commander Blair can’t be half bad after all if he can be so loose and friendly with Eric.
Then he turns to look at me as Eric steps onto the balcony. Blair gives me a quick glance, from my head to my toes, before frowning and turning away. What was that about? I don’t remember being more scrut
inized since the day of my auction.
The look on his face makes it seem like I didn’t meet some expectation of what he imagined. I don’t bother putting my hand out to him, feeling rejected though he hasn’t said a single word to me.
I watch his back as he pours himself a tall glass of dark golden liquid. It smells an awful lot like gasoline mixed with honey.
“How long have you been on the Iliad?” he asks, still not turning around.
I speak to his back. “Just over a year.” I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I hold them awkwardly by my sides.
No one has offered me a seat so I stand in the middle of the room, wishing Eric was in here instead of on the balcony. But he is chatting with the third Military man I saw come out of the copta.
Commander Blair huffs, then turns to sit in a plush leather armchair, the likes of which I’ve only ever seen in the Diamonds’ house in Prospo City. Exactly how much has this Blair “claimed” from Prospo City?
In front of him sits a large marble coffee table. It looks heavy and ornate, but more impressive is the selection of snacks on its surface—drumsticks and ribs, oysters, shrimp, crackers, various selections of cheese, fruit—
The commander looks me up and down, a little slower this time, though the disappointment on his face does not change. I watch him carefully too. His dark hair is cut so short, he’s nearly bald on the sides. The little bit on top stands at attention, like they would be afraid to do anything else such as lie straight down. He has a smattering of grey and white hairs throughout, aging his otherwise young face.
Although he’s sitting, I can tell he’s short, probably half a foot shorter than me. But he’s stocky. He’s built strong, and he knows it. He has that air that only the super confident people in the world have. People like Father.
I look away, not wanting my thoughts on Father while I am in the presence of this unfriendly man.
Eric re-enters the room and casually leans on a buffet table behind Commander Blair, whose eyes haven’t left my face this entire time.