What Tomorrow May Bring

by Tony Bertauski

  “The previous occupants had the murals commissioned. If you prefer to paint your own, we’ll have them painted over immediately,” our escort advises.

  “No, no. Don’t do that.” I run my fingers across to feel the uneven surface. “I love them.”

  “Me too, and I’m definitely no artist,” Blake adds.

  I’m surprised to find we have two bedrooms and bathrooms, since the Cleaved training implied the only way to get one of these was to be a Cleaved couple with children. The man senses my surprise.

  “Uncleaved, dissimilar sex recruit partners are given two bedroom homes. Obviously, if the situation ever changes for either of you housing would be reevaluated.” Well, I guess the powers that be do have some semblance of morality. Not much, but at least enough to not want Recruits to get word back home that they’re sharing a bedroom with a member of the opposite sex. That’d be a quick way to destroy the SCI’s unfathomably stellar reputation.

  “Thank you. I appreciate that. And my parents will appreciate it, too.” I smile, though unfortunately the man looks as if I’ve just threatened him. Changing the subject, I ask, “So, when do our classes begin?”

  “Tomorrow, I believe. You’ll meet with an administrator here shortly to schedule your courses, and then you will meet the other Garden City High students during free time a little later. After exercise time and dinner, you’ll each meet with your assigned Handler to discuss your night.” Mr. Rosenberg told me I would have to do nightly reports, but I forgot until the mention.

  “Sounds good.” I hope to sound as amenable as possible. He continues by explaining most of our schooling will be done online from our home, and that the administrator would provide more details.

  I’m no expert on square footage, but I’d guess the house is about a third the size of my family home, so somewhere around 2,000 square feet. But because of the layout, central garden, and outdoor sunroom—and the lack of all the junk my parents have accumulated—it feels plenty big for a family of four, and complete overkill for just Blake and me. At the time we visited the model homes, I had no idea we’d be living in one. Somehow I assumed students would be housed in dorms of some sort.

  The living area opens to the dining room and kitchen which I like, but the sunroom is my favorite. With the lights off inside, I can sprawl out on the lounge chairs and look up at the night sky, seeing the stars for the first time. The edges of the sky are blurred from the lights of the canyon but not enough to completely obscure the feeling of being in a planetarium.

  Blake gets the bedroom with two twins and I’m appointed the one with the queen. He scores two closets, but when we are forced to wear a uniform at all times—even Industrial City issue pajamas—I guess closet space means nothing. Our new clothes are similar fabrics to our training uniforms but are green and gold shimmer, the school colors, rather than white and silver. Thank goodness they picked colors I can pull off. The maroon and gold I had to wear for Carmel Valley High cheer was bad enough, but I didn’t have to wear it 24/7. Several alternative outfits fill my dresser drawers, but I’m clueless as to their purpose. Swimming? Prostitution? There’s some seriously skimpy stuff in there.

  The man finally leaves us to change and prepare for our administrative guest. I quickly throw on the new uniform, check the contents of the bathroom to make sure everything needed is present, and freshen up. Then I head back out to the sunroom to do more stargazing. It’s too hot to stay for long but enjoyable nonetheless. I’m starting to get used to the dry heat. I search the skies for the familiar constellations my father taught me such as Orion’s Belt and the Big Dipper but don’t see them. Oddly enough the moon looks roughly the same. Although, it has a definite blue-green tinge to it, rather than the white or slightly yellow or orange tints I’m used to.

  “You going to be okay with this?” Blake takes up the lounge chair next to mine. “You and me for a year?”

  “Sure,” I lie. “You?”

  He avoids my gaze. “I’m good. Cool place. I can’t believe they give students their own houses. It’s all seriously crazy, but hey, I can’t complain. Well, except for the fact there are no TV, games, or music that I can find.”

  “It is creepy quiet here. I miss my music, especially while working out.”

  “Seriously.” He looks ready to add some sort of insult but is interrupted by the chime of the doorbell which he jumps up to answer. The school administrator, a frumpy lady with frizzy gray hair who’d be lucky to top five feet in height, urges our prompt attention to her business.

  The next hour and a half is spent going over transcripts, discussing class options, and configuring our new tablets for our class schedules. Our desk area in the living room has headphones, two large monitors to view our lessons on, and our tablets, which will be used for note and test taking. We’ll be taking the same core classes we were taking at CVH but will have electives “more suited to Garden City Living,” like psychology to help us work with Second Chancers, gardening, and art. Turns out you can cover a lot more curriculum when it’s just you and the computer, so we have eight classes instead of six; four each night for an hour and a half each; 1-3-5-7 on M-W-F and 2-4-6-8 on T-Th-Sat. School on Saturnight? I groan at the thought.

  Free time doesn’t start until 0200 hours, and it takes us only ten minutes to eat lunch, so I wonder what we’re going to do with two hours of free time. I’m thinking nap? I would read a book, but the options on my tablet look less than interesting. Alas, the same voice that wakes us up each evening appears out of nowhere and urges us to watch the prepared video on our monitors, which will recap our instructions for working with Second Chancers. Boring. I guess I’ll get my nap in, though at a desk instead of my nice new queen bed.

  At two o’clock sharp, we receive a knock on our door, which serves as an instant wake up call. I jump up to answer and am surprised to see it’s my buddy Spud Rosenberg.

  “Ms. Donovan, I hope Mr. Sundry shared with you the news that I’ll be staying on Thera. In addition to some new responsibilities at Headquarters, I’ve been assigned to be your Handler, which I’m very excited about.” I look at Blake. When did he talk with Spud? He certainly never mentioned it and I wonder what else he has kept hidden.

  “Oh, man, I’m really sorry, Kira. I totally spaced. Mr. Rosenberg ran into me in the locker room yesternight and he told me to say, ‘hi,’ but by the time I was out of there—poof—totally gone.” Blake never forgets anything. He has said so himself, but I don’t dare push anything more than a glare in front of our new “Handler.”

  “Anyhoo,” Spud says. “It’s an exciting night. You finally get to meet some of our Second Chancers—your fellow classmates. I assume you brushed up on etiquette by watching the video.”

  “Uh yeah.” I don’t want to admit I was out cold, drooling on the desk for most of it.

  “Really educational.” Blake rolls his eyes. “So, let’s go do this.”

  “We can walk or zip,” Spud says. “It’s actually faster to walk, though, as it takes four zips to get there.”

  “Walking’s fine,” I respond. The zip lines would be more fun, but I’m eager to get there and see what the big deal is with the Second Chancers. See if Ethan’s one of them.

  “And safer,” Blake adds, needling me in my side. I’ve figured out how to brake properly on the zip lines, but Blake still hasn’t let me forget that I ambushed him the one time.

  Spud leads us out the door, down the ramp, and then down a walking path in the canyon that leads around a bend to the right. Since the path is new to me, I’m extra careful with my foot placement, as the lights seem more sporadic here than back in the training canyon.

  I can see the large flat area ahead we saw by air in our “flyover” and in the scaled city, with dozens of skate paths and trails leading to it. There are tables and chairs, an outdoor basketball court, and a large opening into the side of the canyon. Students are everywhere, gathered under large flood lights, but we’re still too far to get a good look, so I imag
ine them being animated Ken and Barbie dolls in green and gold casual wear.

  “There is an indoor soccer/football field, as well as specialty classrooms for science labs, art clinics, and such inside,” Spud tells us. “The medical clinic is also there.”

  “How many students are there?” I ask, trying to get a sense of how the environment will compare to what I’m used to.

  “Fifteen hundred, give or take,” Spud responds. Not as big as Carmel Valley High but still a big high school.

  The Second Chancers see us coming their way and herd toward the path entrance to greet us. About twenty-five feet out, I start to identify some faces. Most I don’t know, but a few too many are impossibly familiar. I try to scream, but it gets stuck in my throat, and the last thing I hear is Blake saying, “Holy crap” before I stumble headfirst into a thorny bush to the side of the path.

  “Gads, the new girl tanked into a Theranberry bush,” I hear a familiar voice say. “She better not have damaged it.”

  “Shut up, and give her a break,” Blake responds. “She tripped.”

  “Oh, hey, look. She’s waking up.” I open my eyes to confirm what I’d seen wasn’t something out of a horrible nightmare. I scramble off the table they’d put me on and run to a nearby garbage can to vomit up my lunch—a tuna fish sandwich—something I’ll never eat again after re-tasting it upon exit.

  Blake rushes to my side and caresses my back, whispering in my ear. “Kira, I know you are seriously tripping. I am too. But, we have to be really careful. We screw this up and we’re Exiled and likely dead within twenty-four hours.” He hands me a towel to wipe my mouth. What I really need is a toothbrush to dislodge the fishy morsels from my teeth. And some tweezers to dislodge Theranberry thorns from my arms.

  “I can’t do this,” I respond. I sit down on a bench, hyperventilating, and start to dig the thorns out of my flesh with my fingernails. “I can’t pretend like I don’t know some of these people. I don’t know what kind of sick, twisted trick they’re playing on us or how the heck they pulled it off, but they crossed the line big time.”

  “Yeah they did.” He keeps his eyes peeled for eavesdroppers, but the hordes seem to be staying away to allow me time to fully recover, and, also, to stay clear of my vomit repellant.

  “I mean—how many times did I hear the term Second Chancers, and not once, not one freaking time did I ever entertain the thought—because it is so not possible.” It does shed some light on many things that Spud said.

  “Hey, you can’t keep the new chick all to yourself, buddy.” The boy and a band of do-gooders have joined us, despite the smell, and I take him in, head to toe, looking for something, anything to prove I’m insane. But he looks exactly the same as the last time I saw him, save a change of attire.

  “My name’s not buddy. It’s Blake. And this is Kira,” Blake offers, as if it should be news. The two shake hands briefly, but the boy quickly shrugs off Blake and moves forward to address me.

  “Hey Kira, good to meet you, gorgeous. I’m Tristan, and we Garden City High kids aren’t all that bad, certainly nothing to puke over. Come meet my girl, Briella, and the others.” He puts his hand out to shake mine. His big brown teddy bear eyes are as entrancing as ever, even if I last saw him kissing “his girl, Briella” a.k.a. my (supposedly dead) best friend.

  “Yeah, just a minute. I need a word with Mr. Rosenberg first.” I point towards Spud and ignore Blake’s head shaking. “Excuse me.” I turn and walk across to the tabled area where Spud is taking in the scene.

  “Please explain,” I insist. “What are my dead boyfriend, best friend, and classmates doing here? I witnessed the explosion and saw the heaps of incinerated bodies after the fact. So, again, please explain. Now.” Blake has joined me and is listening intently.

  “Everything has been explained to you already, dear,” he says. “Your friends are being given a second chance here on Thera. Remember that you were told that ‘what can exist on Earth can’t exist on Thera’ and vice versa? Well, for certain people—those, as I told you before, that were victims of circumstances not of their own making, such as the accident your friends perished in—they are allowed to live out the remainder of what their natural life would have been on Earth here on Thera. I even do recall telling you that my own daughters were happily living out their lives in the next world. The next world has a name. It’s Thera.” He’d told me the story of his daughters’ drowning when he came to my house to offer me a spot with the SCI and have my parents sign the paperwork.

  “Yeah, sure, you said all those things, but you left out just enough information for me to be able to put it together. You deceived me.”

  He shakes his blubbery chin and asks, “Do you not want your friends to have the opportunity to live out their lives?”

  “That’s not it. They don’t even recognize me. How is that? And why did Tristan call Briella his ‘girl’?”

  He puts a patronizing hand on my shoulder and uses a hushed tone. “You have to realize that your and Blake’s and my being here is the anomaly—we’ve been given a gift to travel between Earth and Thera. All others who come here must die first, but I can assure you that Second Chancers arrive here in a state of comfort and happiness. They have zero memory of their life on Earth, but their personalities and talents remain intact. They often do become attached to the person they were last with on Earth.” His intimation is clear. How does he know, though, that Tristan and Bri were together?

  After allowing a bit of a smile to peek through in recognition that he tweaked me, Spud continues. “The Second Chancers’ welfare is our primary concern, which is why we like to bring in people who know them and can report on their progress from an insider’s perspective. Think of it as an advanced psychology experiment.” My body burns with fury at his arrogance, at the arrogance of the Second Chance Institute. They’re using my friends as lab rats and I’m the mad scientist who gets to push the buttons.

  “Mr. Rosenberg, you are a first class psychopath.” Blake grabs my arms to keep me from physically attacking him.

  “We can discuss your concerns at our debriefing later. But now, I insist you join your friends and get reacquainted—without discussing the past, of course. The areas beyond Garden City are not very habitable from what I hear.” His tone is threatening. Perhaps he’ll do something worthy of Exile and happen upon the Eco Barrier—which, if there is any justice on Thera, will turn Spud into potato soup.

  “Fine,” I respond, gritting my teeth. Despite the Second Chance Institute’s philanthropic claims, I’m convinced that their primary concern is not for my friends or any of the other Second Chancers but for much more selfish reasons. And even though I’m no afterlife believer, if there is a God and a heavenly place we go after death, I’m pretty sure this isn’t it.

  I drag my feet as Blake and I head back towards the crowd, jabbing Blake in the side as we do. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  He stumbles over his words. “Uh, well, uh, because I’m a little tongue tied and somewhere between being thrilled to see my sister alive, and freaked that the love of your life is standing fifteen feet away from us after you kissed me.” I want to deck him. What’s his obsession with that sucky, accidental kiss anyway? Forget that. Tristan is alive? Tristan and Bri are boyfriend and girlfriend? I have them back, but I don’t since they’re just shells of their former selves. The pain I feel is unbearable, but I’m going to have to wait a couple hours to have the breakdown that must happen. Until then, I’m going to plaster on my cheer smile and make friends with my friends.

  As we rejoin Tristan, I say, “Sorry about that. I just needed to talk to Mr. Rosenberg about the medications the doctor shot into me this evening. Clearly they had some major side effects that no one told me about.” They all nod as if they can relate, although I doubt they get the pleasure of nightly clinic visits. Or maybe they do if they’re really lab rats. “Anyway, let’s start over. I’m Kira Donovan. This is Blake Sundry, and we’re obviously new to the school.�
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  “Where’d they house you?” Tristan asks.

  “Around the bend. Nice place. How about you guys? Where are you at?” I point in the general direction of our house but realize all I can see is swirling lights.

  “Bri and I are sharing a place that way, too. That’ll be sweet. We can skate over together after classes.” Several others point in the general direction of our house, as well.

  “Blake’s an awesome skater, but I can’t quite get the hang of it.” That’s a lie given I’ve never tried, but it is a certainty that I’d suck.

  “You guys have a thing going?” Tristan asks as he gestures between Blake and me. I don’t know quite how to answer that. The powers that be assume we have a relationship going. Given the situation now, am I prepared to keep that up? Blake is looking to me to respond, as I can tell there’s no way he’s going there.

  “Uh yeah, some sort of thing.” I use enough finality to make it clear I don’t intend to share more. “And you are with—was it Bri or Briella?”

  “Yeah, Bri and I are pretty tight. We haven’t Cleaved, but we’re seriously thinking about it. We just had this instant connection, you know?” He motions Bri over. She’s as stunning as ever, her athletic figure adapting well to Theran attire. She seems to be checking out Tristan’s reaction to me before determining whether I’m friend or foe-worthy.

  Bailey Goodington joins us but ignores me completely. She seems to be in shock at the sight of Blake, looking him and up and down like he’s a melting popsicle that she wants to lick. Blake, on the other hand, is looking at Bailey like she’s a popsicle that he’d like to take a blow-torch to. I can see Bailey going after fresh meat, but what is Blake’s deal with Bailey? I have to snicker at seeing Bailey, the former queen of fashion, in a standard issue Garden City High uniform, even if she does manage to rock it. Back on Earth Bailey’s wardrobe seemed to self-propagate, and I always imagined her closet to be complete with a personal tailor (actually, I know she had a standing Tuesday afternoon appointment with her tailor so that her weekend wardrobe could be finished by Friday. He, however, worked offsite at his Goodington-funded studio).