19
I wanted to know my father died an honourable death. That would have been enough.
—From the victim statement of Blake Raintree
On Thursday morning when we tell the others what we’ve found, Griffin can hardly contain his excitement. “This could be what we’ve been waiting for,” he says. “A real breakthrough.” He pages through our notes on his scribe. “Look at this. Virtually everyone who was important in the environmental movement was in that tent. Maybe we should start on this projection right away.”
Kayko frowns. “We need to work methodically, Griffin. We’ll be ready to start next week.”
He struggles to control his disappointment. “You’re right. Next week it is.”
“Griffin, what do you think was happening?” I ask. I’m as curious as he is.
“My guess is that Internal Protection offered the leaders of the protest movement some kind of deal. But it doesn’t seem likely they accepted.”
“Why?”
“Because every single person in that tent who we know anything about was dead within a year,” Griffin says. “Except Falcon Edwards, of course. Look at the names. Swan Gil, Eric Wong, everyone. Most of them were arrested in the spring of 2354, all within a few weeks.”
We fall silent while the horror of this settles.
“We’d better get back to work,” Kayko says gently. “The faster we go, the sooner we’ll find out what happened.”
“Are you going to be all right with RTLM today?” I ask Astral as we walk to the archives.
“I’ll have to be. We’re onto something now. We’ve got to see this through.” He sounds determined. I’m glad he’s found a way to face this.
But when we arrive in the archives, Terry is waiting. “Blake,” he says, “Erica Townsend wants to see you right away.”
Astral pulls a face. “Lucky you,” he says as I leave.
I can’t imagine what’s so urgent that it can’t wait until lunch, but when I find Hanif waiting with Erica, I know why I’m here. I also know, from the way they look, there isn’t going to be a happy ending. It’s just like the day I found out about my mother. Well, I wasn’t expecting him to be alive. Goodbye, daddy, I say silently.
“Sit down, Blake,” Erica says. She looks stricken. I wish she wouldn’t. I’ll be fine.
“You found out about my father,” I say, trying to make it easier for them.
Hanif plunges right in. “You were right about the name Monax. It’s uncommon, so it didn’t take me long to trace your mother. After I found her ID code, it was easy to locate your parents’ marriage record. And that was how I found your father’s name.”
“And he’s not alive,” I say. “You don’t have to be upset for me. I didn’t think he would be. How did he die?”
Hanif shifts uncomfortably in his chair. Erica speaks.
“He’s not dead, Blake.”
“My father’s alive?” I laugh with sheer joy. “I can’t believe it. Alive.” Then why do they look so miserable? “What’s wrong?”
“Your father’s name is Evan Morrow, Blake,” Erica says. “He’s a person of interest. I talked to you about him once.”
“I don’t remember. A person of interest? So he was he an environmental leader?” I allow myself to hope.
“No, he wasn’t. He was a scientist, working on satellite surveillance. He had nothing to do with the environmental movement.”
“Well, that explains the implant in my arm. But why is he a person of interest?”
“Blake, this is going to be hard on you. But he only wanted to find you and your mother. Internal Protection offered him the opportunity to track you, in exchange—” she falters.
“In exchange for what?” I ask.
“In exchange for helping to track down others. People they wanted to capture.” Hanif says this. Erica can’t.
Everything fades around me. “That can’t be true. How do you know? Did you talk to him without me?”
“Blake, I spoke to him before I knew he was your father,” Erica says.
“How?” I feel overwhelmingly stupid. They are trying to explain, but I don’t seem to be able to understand.
“In prison.” Erica almost whispers the words. I look at her without comprehension.
“Your father is in the East End Detention Centre,” Hanif adds.
I struggle with the idea. And then I understand. My father was a collaborator. My world implodes. “No!” I yell, as if noise could drive the idea from my mind. I stand up and back away. “You’ve made some kind of mistake. It’s not true. It can’t be true.” I turn and run from the office. As I leave, I hear Erica say, “Let her go.”
In the hall, part of me disconnects. I feel as if I’m watching myself from a great distance. That distant part takes control. Keep walking, it says. I’m relieved to see I walk past the archives. I can’t possibly face Astral.
I don’t realize I’m going to leave the building until I go through the main doors. Just keep walking, I tell myself. Outside, I notice something odd has happened to my senses. Passing a flower bed, I see every leaf and every petal on the asters. In the lawn, each blade of grass is separate. I just let myself run on autopilot, walking past the government buildings in front of Queen’s Park, heading south. I only know I need to go somewhere I’ve never been. I don’t care where. I stop at the stoplights and walk with the other pedestrians. I’m surprised I would bother to protect myself from the traffic, but, as quickly as I register that emotion, I push it away. There is no room for feeling inside me now. I am swollen and hollow and empty.
“Hey,” a voice calls. “Hey, stop!”
I don’t know if this is directed at me and I don’t care. I keep walking. Someone grabs me by the shoulder and spins me around. It’s Spyker. “Don’t try to pretend you don’t hear me,” she says. “I know you. You took Sparrow. What did you do with her?”
“Go away,” I say, but she won’t. I try to leave her behind, but she follows, yelling, “Where is she? What have you done to her? I know you took her.”
She’s giving me a headache. I’ve got to find the magic words that will make her go away. I stop walking. “Sparrow went to a better place,” I say.
Under all that makeup, Spyker pales. “You killed her, didn’t you?” She doesn’t shout the words, she whispers them. Somehow, the terror in her eyes makes me feel something—pity for her. I shake my head. “I didn’t kill her. She’s safe.” I hope this will be enough to send Spyker away.
I walk for what seems like a long time, blocks and blocks.
Sometimes I think I’m alone again, but then I see Spyker, still trailing me. We’re far from the territory of her Tribe now. I wish she’d go back.
Suddenly, the street ends. I’m facing a huge stone building, grey, fronted by a bank of stone steps that runs the length of the facade. The steps are covered with homeless people. No children, I notice that right away. Only adults. I register all this while crossing the street. But now, if I want to keep walking, I’ve got to figure out how to get around this building. My brain is barely functioning. The problem stops me.
Spyker has caught up with me. “We shouldn’t be here,” she says. “Those debtors are squatting in Union Station. It isn’t safe.”
“Leave if you’re worried.” My voice is dead. I’ll stay here if that’s what it takes to get Spyker away from me.
She bites her lip. “Look,” she says, “couldn’t you take me where you took Sparrow? I hate my life. I really need to get away.”
So that’s why she’s been following me. Life with a Tribe is awful for a girl Spyker’s age. I remember. But I don’t see what I can do. “I can’t,” I tell her. I don’t elaborate.
Tears spring to Spyker’s eyes. “Come on,” she says. “You did it for Sparrow.” She’s begging.
“It’s not that easy,” I start to say, when I suddenly feel a tap on my shoulder.
“Hey, girlies,” a voice says behind me, “what are you doing down here all by yourselv
es?”
I turn to find a man in filthy rags. Worse is his skin, which is also in rags. Long strips have peeled off his face and hands to reveal a pink, cracked, tender surface beneath that cannot rightly be called skin. I’ve seen this before. It’s a reaction to toxins. Spyker and I are both speechless. “Well, come on,” he says, finally. “You must be here for something.”
A crowd collects around us. The sharp odour of unwashed bodies stabs my nostrils.
“The young one’s from a Tribe,” I hear a woman say.
“What’s she doing off her turf?”
“Yeah, what are you doing here, darling?” The first man speaks again. “And who’s your friend? You girls buying or selling?” More people have gathered. I feel trapped. The man puts his hand on my shoulder, and this time he leaves it there.
“Get your hand off her!” Spyker is so forceful, the man’s hand flies off my shoulder, and people back away. From nowhere, a makeshift knife appears in Spyker’s hand. “Don’t you dare touch her,” she whispers. Her voice is filled with fury. I have a feeling that this isn’t about me.
The man holds his hands up as he backs off. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything,” he says, but as he speaks, a man behind Spyker lunges. Her small knife clatters to the stone.
“Everyone stand away from the girl in blue.” A magnified voice, calm and authoritative, comes from the street. When the crowd parts, I find a group of armed security men pointing weapons in our direction. Then I spot Hanif.
“Come here,” he orders. He doesn’t sound angry.
I grab Spyker’s hand. “She was trying to protect me.” Hanif wavers for only a nanosecond.
“Bring her, too.” We are whisked into an armoured vehicle. I can’t believe it. “How did you find me?” I ask.
Hanif looks surprised. “Your micro-chip, of course. We can always find you. You knew that,” he reminds me. “Remember how we tracked you to High Park?”
“I forgot.”
He nods. “You’ve had a shock. We were just going to track you, but when I realized where you were headed, I thought we’d better intervene. Union Station is a dangerous place.”
“I tried to tell her,” Spyker says. “She wouldn’t listen. I had to use my shiv to try to protect her. I lost it.” She sounds devastated.
Hanif looks at Spyker with interest. “And who are you?” he asks. Spyker is only too happy to tell him. While they chat, I slump into my seat. In those brief moments of danger, I’d forgotten about my father. Now, I sink into despondency again.
Our vehicle goes into some kind of tunnel under the Queen’s Park complex that I hadn’t even suspected was there. The doors open and everyone gets out. “I’ll take you back to your office in a moment,” Hanif says to me, then he turns to Spyker. “If you ever want to get off the streets, we need people like you,” he says.
Spyker’s eyes widen. “Really?”
“Really. It’s not an easy life, but I have a feeling you’d take to it.” He hands her something. “Come to the address on this card. My name’s on it. Tell them I asked to see you.”
“Can I do that today? Now?” she asks.
Hanif laughs. “If you want.” He turns to one of his men. “Take her up with you,” he says. “I’ll be there shortly.”
“That’s good,” I say when we leave the others. “She needs to get off the streets. You can’t imagine what it’s like.”
“Actually, I can,” he replies. “You aren’t the only one who’s escaped that life, you know.”
“You?”
Hanif nods, but he doesn’t elaborate.
Erica is waiting in our office with Kayko. “I don’t think I can work any more today,” I say.
“Nobody expects you to,” Erica says gently. “Kayko has a suggestion for you.”
“I’d like to take you to our house in the Muskokas, north of here,” Kayko says. “We could come back on Monday.”
“But what about work?”
“We’ll only miss a day and a half. We can leave right now, Blake. I have a car waiting. We have everything you’ll need there.
My vision blurs with tears. “Did she tell you?” I whisper.
Kayko nods. I let her take my hand and lead me away.
20
The morning mist weaves
a shawl of consolation
through autumn-bright trees
—Kayko Miyazaki
When I wake in the morning, I don’t know where I am or how I got here. I see long planes of dark, polished wood that gradually resolve themselves into walls. The ceiling, high above, is criss-crossed with thick, lovely wooden beams. I’m lying on a mattress on the floor in a room that seems otherwise empty. Lying on the floor would normally remind me of rats and my time with the Tribe, but the mattress is soft, the bedding clean and warm. I snuggle into it. I never want to leave. But I feel heavy, as if an unbearable weight of grief has settled on me. Did someone die? I wonder. Then I remember. No. Someone who should have died didn’t. My father.
The full force of yesterday washes over me like a wave of dizziness. I close my eyes. Everything I knew and valued about myself is gone. I want out of my life. I wish I were the sort of person who could just shuck off reality and disappear into my own mind, but I know that isn’t going to happen. What was it Astral said? “You can endure anything.” He said that the day before yesterday, a million years ago, or neither, or both. And now, I have to find out if that’s true.
Behind me, the house sighs, as if it’s whispering a secret, but I don’t move. Kayko appears in my field of vision, carrying a tray. She’s wearing a kimono, as she did the night I met her. She kneels beside my bed and pours green tea from a cast-iron teapot into a delicate porcelain cup. The scent of it tickles my nose. She offers me the steaming cup. “Sit up,” she says. Her voice is gentle, but it’s an order. I obey before I have a chance to reconsider.
Kayko pours a cup of tea for herself.
“Where’s all the furniture?” I ask. I didn’t know I was going to say this until the words leave my mouth.
Kayko laughs. “This is a traditional Japanese house. The rooms are almost empty, so they can be used for anything. When the bed’s not being used, it goes away in there.” She points to a wall of cupboards I haven’t even noticed. “It’s a nice day,” she adds.
“Do I have to get up?”
“I think you’d better.”
“Is anyone else here?”
“Not in this house. There’s another house out of sight up the hill. The help lives there. They’ll look after us, but they won’t intrude. My grandparents wanted to create the illusion of a traditional Japanese house. But it’s just that. The floors and walls are heated. I even have an office in the basement. I used to do a lot of my holo-zine work here.”
“Work,” I say. “They’ll start on that hologram without us—”
Kayko interrupts. “No they won’t. I spoke with Griffin this morning. He and Luisa will help Astral with the radio broadcasts. They won’t touch the holograms until that’s done. Anyway, today’s Friday. Don’t worry about it. Why don’t you get dressed?”
“I don’t think I can handle a kimono.”
Kayko laughs. “Neither can I, not for outside. This is just a dressing gown. You’ll find regular clothes in the cupboards. My clothes should fit you.”
Kayko leaves, closing what looks like a sliding paper wall behind her. When I stand, I see that the front of the room gives out onto a glassed-in porch. The view beyond is mostly water. I cross a floor covered in mats of tightly woven straw, warm to the touch. The land in front of the house slopes down to the water. The lake looks large, but it folds into smaller bays dotted with little rock islands. The one directly in front of me has a pavilion with an elaborate peaked roof in a graceful little garden.
I want to wear something that mirrors my turmoil, I remember Erica once told me about people in the Middle Ages smearing their faces with soot and wearing coarse, uncomfortable clothes to express sorrow and regret. “Sack
cloth and ashes,” it was called. I would do that now, but Kayko’s cupboards hold nothing even remotely like sackcloth and ashes. I settle for black pants in some kind of velvety microfibre, and a charcoal-grey sweater of incredibly soft wool. If I want to punish myself, I’ve come to the wrong place.
I slide the paper wall open and walk through large empty rooms to find Kayko sitting on the floor at a low table by a wall of windows. She is also wearing pants and a sweater. She smiles. “Fruit and croissants for breakfast. Are you all right with no chairs?”
“I think so.” I fold my legs awkwardly and sit facing her. As I do, the view beyond her comes into focus. “It looks like something out of a book,” I say.
Kayko glances over her shoulder. “My mother’s garden? It is, mostly. Books and paintings. That’s what she used to create the design. I’ll show it to you after.”
As we eat, I begin to realize Kayko is willing to let me spend the next few days talking about nothing. If she said anything, I would probably retreat into myself. Knowing she won’t makes it possible for me to face what’s happened, somehow. When I finish eating, I say, “Will the others hate me?” I intended to speak in a normal voice, but my words come out in a whisper.
“You’re the same person you were yesterday, Blake,” Kayko says. “We know that.”
“But I’m not who I thought I was.”
“You are so. Nothing about your past has changed. You had to struggle through that impossible childhood alone, and you came out a fine person. I am so proud to be your friend.”
Kayko’s kindness makes it impossible for me to reply.
She seems to understand. “Come on,” she says, rising, “I’ll show you the garden.”
Kayko leads me to a small, closet-like entrance hall where we find our shoes. We go outside. The fall air is damp and cool. It smells of pine.
The house is built into the side of a hill of grey rock and lichen. A stream flows from one pool to another with little waterfalls and bridges between. The low, rambling house is roofed with wooden shingles and dead pine needles and moss. “The house looks as if it grew here,” I say.
The Raintree Rebellion Page 15