by K. Makansi
“Your visitor is waiting at the front.”
I follow him, at a distance, trying to tiptoe so he won’t hear me. It’s not as easy to walk quietly as it was when I was a child, when I didn’t have almost eighty kilos on my bones. But James either doesn’t notice or ignores me. I peer around the corner through the hallway to the front door. When he pulls it open, a man I don’t recognize in military uniform greets him.
“Dr. Rhinehouse,” he says. “Corine Orleán has requested your presence at OAC headquarters.”
“Why so formal, Falke?”
“I’m on official business, James.”
“Never used to make a difference.” I can hear the tension and surprise in James’ voice. “How did you find me here?”
“Checked the entry logs against the Chancellor’s house. Your palm scan registered.”
Who is this man? I strain to remember if I’ve seen him before. He’s wearing the uniform of a colonel, the dark green fabric dim in the twilight. His hair is close-cropped and fading starkly into white-grey. He’s got a beak nose and heavy eyebrows and eyelids, thin lips, and a slightly cleft chin. But I don’t recognize him.
“Never thought Corine Orleán would actually want to see me.”
“I took her tone very seriously when she asked me to find you.” The man’s voice is harsher than James’. More formal. There’s a stiffness there, a sense of cold metal, unwilling to bend.
James hesitates.
“Why did you come? Why not one of the Security Directorate?”
The OAC’s security team, called the Directorate, operates independently of the Sector Defense Forces. They’re very secretive about their operations, though primarily all they do is ensure the security of the OAC research centers and scientists. Word on the street is that they occasionally conduct clandestine operations on the orders of top-ranking OAC officials—like Corine Orleán.
“She asked me personally to locate and bring you, if possible. I chose to obey.”
“You make me sound like piece of property.”
“I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that you are. We all are, tonight.”
“This isn’t one of our chess games, Falke. It’s a bit soon to be declaring your loyalties to the Orleáns.”
“I know which way the wind is blowing.”
There’s a long pause, and I can almost feel the tension between the two men, like static electricity, charging and waiting for release.
“I’ll come,” James says, finally. “Give me a minute.”
“Don’t take too long.”
I back up, into the living room, debating whether or not to pretend I wasn’t listening But when James comes back into the room, he walks straight over to me and grabs me by the elbow. He shakes my arm, glaring up into my eyes.
“Listen,” he says, his voice a fierce whisper. “Don’t breathe a word. Everything we talked about tonight stays between us. Not even your parents. They know already, but they don’t need to know you know.”
“What’s going on?” I ask, my voice as low as his.
“Everything is about to change. It already has. I’ll come by when I can.”
He releases me, and turns away, clunking down the hallway on his bad leg. I listen as the door clicks into place, locking automatically behind him. I sink down into the recliner in front of the vidscreen, reeling.
What just happened?
“And the College Guardian is about to announce the nominations. If any member of the Assembly has received over sixty nominations, he or she will immediately be sworn in as interim Chancellor.”
I watch dumbly as the commentators go back and forth for another few moments, until finally the Guardian holds up her hand and reads off the votes.
“Sixty-seven votes for Philip Orleán, College of the People, as Chancellor of the Okarian Sector,” she reads. “Twenty for Saria Kyser, College of the People. Nine for Akebah Alhasad, College of the Deans. And four for Cara Skaarsgard, College of the Deans.”
I recognize those last four as protest votes, voices proclaiming their support for my mother despite her fall from grace. I smile. It’s always good to know we still have allies.
It shocks me when I see that one of the votes for Cara Skaarsgard was from Philip Orleán.
III.
Spring 85, Sector Annum 102, 15h20
Gregorian Calendar: June 13
Small household drones buzz around me as I walk through the house for the last time, making sure nothing of mine will be left behind. Not that we have much to take. No one does. Material possessions, aside from what’s necessary, are frowned upon. Decorations and furniture are sparse in most living spaces. Why waste manpower or factory floor space creating goods for individual consumption when we can build things that help advance society at large?
The past week has been a haze. At the Academy I kept my head down and threw myself into my schoolwork and piano to try to forget everything going on around me. At home, I watched as my mother sunk into a kind of apathetic detachment. Though my father seems as relieved as I am that everything is over, my mother hasn’t yet recovered. I can see the disappointment festering inside her. She did everything she could and it still wasn’t good enough. And now that Philip Orleán is Chancellor, she’s powerless to stop the gears that have been set in motion.
At least the networks have finally stopped hounding us for interviews.
There’s a beep at my side, and I glance down to my plasma, lying on a nearby table. Incoming Message, it reads. Great. Another friend sending condolences. I ignore the beeping as long as I can stand it. Finally, when it’s obvious it’s not going to stop without my intervention, I pick the thing up and make a motion to ignore the message. But then I notice it’s from Jeremiah.
Coming home. – J.S.
A wave of excitement sweeps over me, replaced as quickly with the worry that’s been eating at me all week. I haven’t seen or heard from him since his sudden disappearance right before the vote. I check over both my shoulders as if someone could be watching. A drone hums by me with a box of clothes, but there’s no one else nearby.
I read those two words over and over again. I wonder what kept him away for so long, and can’t help but wonder if there’s some message encoded in those words that will answer my questions.
I type in a response:
Come over. Last day at the chancellor’s mansion. – S.S.
A minute later, I get another courriel.
Half-hour away. See you soon. – J.S.
I stare at his response for a few moments, and then throw the plasma down onto the nearest table. I can’t think. Too much has happened these last few months. From the visit to the Farms and learning that the workers there were being drugged, to James’ strange conversation with the man named Falke, to Corine Orleán rushing into clinical trials of powerful substances, to Jeremiah’s week-long disappearance—it’s all congealing into a strange mess in my mind. I can’t make heads or tails of it. Something’s wrong. Somewhere, in the machinery that is Okaria, there’s a gear off, a piece out of alignment, and it’s rattling the whole system.
But I don’t know what it is.
I sit down and stare around at the house as the drones drain away any last evidence that the Skaarsgard family ever lived here. My parents are already over at our old flat in the fifth quadrant, cleaning it up, preparing it for life again, while tomorrow the Orleáns will be installed here. At least I can go back to my dorm room at the Academy and focus on my classes, on graduating, on doing research in James’ lab. Philip has already taken over my mother’s old office at the capitol building, and it seem bizarre to think that when Vale’s not in his dorm, he’ll likely be sleeping in the same room I’ve stayed in for the last four years.
When the door finally buzzes, I leap out of my chair. I run over to open it, not waiting for the butlers to announce the visitor. But instead of Jeremiah, it’s Hana. She’s drenched in rain, her charcoal-colored hair dripping from her shoulders. I’ve been so absorbed i
n my own thoughts I didn’t realized the skies had opened up in a summer storm. She blinks up at me, raindrops clinging to her eyelashes, and I think I’ve never seen anything more beautiful. I haven’t seen her outside of school since the piano competition. I beckon her in, too surprised to say anything.
“Hey, Soren,” she says, shivering.
“Hey,” I say, casting around for something to give to her. “Hang on.” I run into the nearby room and grab a blanket. I throw it around her shoulders. She pulls it tight around her.
“Sorry,” she says. She looks abashed, now.
“What for?” I ask. “It’s not your fault a storm broke while you were outside. What are you doing here, anyway?”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. She looks up at me.
“Sorry,” I say immediately. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“It’s okay. I’m not quite sure what I’m doing here.” She laughs, a small, nervous sound. I try to find my confidence.
“Come on in,” I say. “I can have one of the butlers make you some tea to warm up.” I lead her through the hallways to the kitchen.
“Wow,” she says. “You have butlers? I should have come over sooner.”
I grin.
“Especially since today’s our last day.”
“Yeah,” she says. “I guess that’s why I came. To say I’m sorry about everything that’s happened.”
I shrug. I don’t have a response.
As we walk into the kitchen, I catch Evan out of the corner of my eye, in the pantry. “Hey, Evan,” I call. “A friend of mine is here. She’s soaking from the rainstorm. Can we get her some tea?”
“Thank you,” she says. “I can’t stay long. I just wanted to come … I don’t know. How are you doing?”
I start to say fine, but the word dies on my tongue. I can’t. Instead what comes out of my mouth is a torrent of emotion I’ve been bottling up for six months. The humiliation of listening to people talk about me and my family at school, behind their hands and my back. The stress my parents are going through, how we haven’t had a real conversation in months. All the unanswered questions that come from Jeremiah and Dr. Rhinehouse disappearing so abruptly.
“And Jeremiah should be back any minute, actually, he said he was going to come over here, but I have no idea why he left or what’s going on,” I finish, breathlessly. There’s a long silence between us before Evan drops a steaming mug of tea in front of Hana.
“It sounds like you really needed to say all that,” she says, concern written all over her face.
“I did.” I feel about a fifty kilos lighter. And I haven’t even told her about everything going on at the Farms, with the famine…. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. But I’m ready to move on.”
She looks up at me, sadly, her hands cupped around the mug.
“I’m really sorry about everything. But maybe it’s—”
The door buzzes.
I glance at Hana, and she nods. I leave her in the kitchen and go to open the door. Jeremiah is standing in front of me. If it weren’t for his dark hair and beard, I wouldn’t recognize him. His confidence has been stripped away. He stands with his shoulders slumped, his eyes rimmed with red and his cheeks flushed. His hair’s a mess, as it usually is after he’s had a rough day, when he runs his hands through it constantly.
“Gods, Jeremiah, what’s wrong?”
“Can I come in?” he asks. He looks miserable. He’s not as wet as Hana was, but it’s still pouring. I step aside and beckon him in.
“Please. What the hell happened?”
“My mum’s gone. Ceremony was yesterday.” I stare at him, disbelieving. He won’t look at me.
“Fuck,” I whisper. “How? When?”
He shrugs.
“Doctors said she was hit by a virus. An Old World thing. Very contagious. I could only see her through the glass. We talked, a little, through a microphone.” He stares up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. “They incinerated her. Not even a proper ceremony.”
Normally bodies are buried in the urban farms around where the deceased is from. They’re buried in high-vegetation areas so that their bodies will return naturally to the earth, giving the nutrients taken during life back to the soil. Incineration only happens when there’s a threat of contagion. But to the best of my knowledge, no serious threats have come up in over thirty years. It’s a strange coincidence if a public health disaster like this happened at the same time as the famine.
I push this question out of my mind.
“What do you need right now, Jeremiah?” He finally looks at me. The cracks of a smile find their way onto his face.
“A beer. I need a beer.”
“That, I can provide.”
I lead him into the kitchen, where Hana has been waiting patiently. I’d almost forgotten about her. Jeremiah startles when he sees her, and shoots me a glance, one eyebrow cocked. What is she doing here?
“Hana, you know Jeremiah, right?”
“We’ve met,” she says, as she comes over and kisses him on the cheek. “Nice to see you again.”
“Did you … hear … ?” he asks, his voice rough.
“I did. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to listen in. I’m sorry about your mom, too.”
“Please don’t tell anyone,” he says hoarsely.
“I won’t.” She nods, her dark lashes fluttering.
There’s a sanctity in this moment, a yearning echo like cathedral bells, of three people sharing a sadness. The somber first section of the Moonlight Sonata rings in my ears. It fills the gaps between us. It gives me comfort, and somehow, confidence. Hana reaches out and takes Jeremiah’s hand, a move so unpracticed and genuine it steals my breath.
I pull a bottle of ale out of the chiller and open it.
“Here.”
Jeremiah takes a swig that seems to last a year. When he finally sets the bottle down, half the beer is gone.
“I was going to share that with you, but I guess I’ll get my own, now.” I try a smile. He ignores me and instead picks the bottle up again and polishes off the second half.
“If you’re getting one, I’ll take another,” he says. I can’t resist a laugh, and Hana cracks a grin. Even Jeremiah lifts his chin for a moment and gives us a halfhearted smile in return.
When I’ve gotten him a second and popped my own, I offer Hana one as well. As she takes it from my hands, I am reminded of a parallel moment in time, when she stood with Vale outside on a sunny spring day as they shared a glass of champagne. I remember her hand creeping down to find his. But now she’s here, in my house. I bite back the memory.
“Jeremiah and I are having a rough week. Give us some good news.”
“I’m going to be taking a class at the SRI next semester!” she says quickly. It sounds as if she’s been waiting all day to tell someone this.
“What?” Jeremiah says, momentarily startled out of his melancholy. “You’re not even seventeen.”
“I know, but I petitioned the Academy to let me take a class in biochemistry with Aran Hawthorne. I’ve already taken all the chemistry classes the Academy has to offer.” She frowns, and Jeremiah and I exchange glances.
“A musical prodigy and a scientific genius,” Jeremiah comments hoarsely. “You put the rest of us to shame, Hana.”
“Thank you,” she says, smiling. “It’s what I want to research, so I decided to petition for them to let me in. And Hawthorne agreed!”
“That’s fantastic,” I say, still in disbelief. “I never even thought of petitioning the Academy to let me do work at the Research Institute.”
“Hawthorne was really nice about it. I’m excited to work with him.”
Jeremiah is silent. Hana and I glance at him, but his eyes are far away. I let him be.
“So maybe I’ll see you around the SRI, then.”
“Yes!” she says. Then, shyly, “I mean, I’d like that.” My heart flutters in my chest. What I wouldn’t give.
But
the silence that grows then is no longer comforting, but stifling. With a quick glance at Jeremiah, who now looks sadder than I’ve ever seen him, Hana sets her mug down and lets the blanket fall from her shoulders. She folds it and places it on the countertop.
“I’d better go,” she says. “Thanks for having me. If you ever want to talk … well, you know where I am.” I nod, though the music in my ears has turned dismal again. I wish she’d stay. But I don’t want to impose on Jeremiah any longer.
“Thank you for coming. I know neither of us are great company right now—” I bob my head in Jeremiah’s direction “—but I appreciate your visit.”
“Of course,” she says. I start to walk her to the door. But as we pass through the foyer, she spots the piano that sits in the living room.
“Oh!” she exclaims, stopping in her tracks. “That’s gorgeous. Is that—is that from the Old World?”
I nod.
“It was salvaged from the Kingsland building, but they moved it over here about twenty years ago. Do you want to try it out?”
She nods, her mouth slightly ajar.
“Do you mind?”
“Not at all.”
I follow her to the piano as she sits down at the bench.
“It was a Steinway,” I say, “but the only original wood on it is the piece that says ‘Steinway.’” She laughs. “All the wood was damaged and warped. It had to be entirely replaced. The piano was basically rebuilt from the ground up. But the keys are all original.”
“Wow,” she says, her voice hushed, as she hits a chord. It reverberates through my chest, as rich a sound as I’ve ever heard. Somehow it seems brighter and fuller at her fingertips than at mine. My heart pounds, almost in time with the music, as her fingers leap through the first few measures of Saint-Saëns’ 3rd concerto. “I’m playing on a piece of history. It’s just like at the competition. It sounds incredible.”
“Aren’t we always playing a piece of history?”
She flashes a smile at me.
“Don’t be a smartass.”
She plays the opening line of the concerto and then switches to a Rachmaninov prelude.