“I think I know what this District’s problem is,” I tell Emanuel. “And it’s not something that can be solved overnight.”
“Then you had better get working on solving it if you want to go home,” he tells me.
--
“You’re not going?” Sam asks me.
“No,” I tell him.
“Good. I didn’t want you to go.”
I focus on the sweat dripping down his neck and into his collar.
“That’s not very nice.”
“I didn’t mean it like that, Andie. If we run into trouble I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“I don’t want you getting hurt either, Sam.”
I brush at the sweat dripping down my own neck from the Florida heat. Sam squeezes my shoulder, a brotherly gesture. I turn and watch Ramirez and a crew of ten Volker load the train with a few bottles of water, and some food and weapons.
“What do you think about the ethical impact of what we are about to do?” Sam asks.
I step back. “Are we in Sociology or something, Sam? You do realize that all ethics flew out the door when a clandestine group of scientists and world leaders decided they were going to restart the human race? I can’t worry about ethics. I can only worry about my family and how I can keep them safe. I worried about ethics once and all it got me was trouble. These are new times, we have to adapt, survival of the fittest has been reenacted. And by the fittest the Entities mean the least ethical, so God help me because I let my ethical concerns fly out the window a long time ago.”
“That was quite a speech.” He raises his eyebrow and shoves his hands in his pockets.
“Take your hands out of your pockets, Sam.”
“What?” he asks.
“You are the Volker Sovereign. You don’t raise your hand in Committee meetings, you don’t look at the floor, and you definitely don’t put your hands in your pockets. If you don’t know what to do with your arms, cross them over your chest. You’re six-foot-five for Christ’s sake. It will make you look intimidating. You need people to listen to you. You need to be authoritative. You need to be an asshole.”
“You don’t need to be such a jerk,” he takes a step towards me, scowling.
“Sam, do you really see what’s going on here? What these people are doing? They think they are making everything better, but they are just sending society into the dark ages. Women, men; we are no longer equals. Crane’s project to create genetically submissive humans, that’s no better than slavery.”
“Yeah,” he replies. “I’ve been thinking the same thing.” I look up as he towers over me. My hulking, angry brother. “You need to check the attitude, Andie,” he warns. “I want to get out of here too. But pissing everyone off isn’t going to get us anywhere.”
I shrug at him and step back to regain my personal space. “I think you should take one of the Guardians with you,” I tell Sam, changing the subject and watching the two we brought with us as they wander the train platform.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Sam, they’re better guards than the Volker. One already tried to save your life.” I remind him of the incident when he first showed up and tried to protect the children at the Pasture from being tattooed.
“Yeah.” He begins to run his hand through his hair, stopping partway through and crossing his arms. “Maybe you’re right.”
Ramirez steps off the train and waves. “Ready?” he shouts.
Sam waves back. “That’s my cue, Sis. See you in a few hours.”
“Hurry back,” I tell him as he jogs for the engine car. One of the Guardians trots protectively behind him. “I’m sorry I was a bitch,” I mumble under my breath as the train leaves the platform.
“What’s that?” I hear the voice of Richard Ruiz ask from behind me.
“Nothing.” I wave my hand at him, hoping he didn’t hear my pathetic apology. “We need to get the manatee ready and make sure it’s saturated with a full dose of the medication,” I tell him.
“Done,” he tells me, pointing across the parking lot.
I see smoke and people gathered around large-barrel grills. Within moments the scent of grilled manatee makes its way to us. It smells like a delicious bacon hamburger. My mouth waters.
“Don’t eat it this time,” Richard warns.
I narrow my eyes at him. Richard looks at his diamond-studded watch. “Well, looks like we should get you ready to greet the Survivors,” he tells me.
“I don’t need to get ready.”
“We need to get your supplies and your list. You know, the magical list, as you called it.” He winks at me.
Richard Ruiz is a Funding Entity. He has to be.
“Don’t wink at me,” I warn him. “It’s creepy.”
Richard throws his head back and laughs into the afternoon sun. He unbuttons the top three buttons of his dress shirt and removes his tie as he catches his breath. “Crane keeps warning us that you have a bad attitude.” He uses the tie to wipe at his eyes. “But I really just think he doesn’t get your humor.”
I cross my arms over my chest just like I told Sam he should do. But at my height it does nothing to make me look intimidating. It barely gets Richard to stop laughing.
“Okay, okay, let’s get going. We have to get the list and swabs for your samples.” He starts walking towards Headquarters, waving for me to follow him.
--
It’s well past evening when Richard opens the door to the committee room. “Train’s coming,” he tells me.
I pick up the box of swabs, the list and notebook, the cooler with the snap-freeze ice packs, and follow Richard out of Headquarters. Three Guardians tag along. We follow the tracks past the platform, spanning the few hundred yards until we make it to the cement wall. The air is saturated with the scent of grilled manatee. My stomach growls. Richard pulls out a set of keys and unlocks the gate leading to the open area between the cement wall and the electrified fence.
“No electronic touch pad?” I ask him. That’s what we have in the Phoenix District, a touch pad with a code to open it.
“Too humid down here,” he tells me. “Corrodes the electronics.”
“So who gets the key to the outside?” I ask.
“Those who are chosen,” he answers nonchalantly, as if it weren’t a problem that everyone is locked inside. But that’s what it’s like in all the Districts; no one in, no one out. Unless there are special circumstances, like a lack of Residents or a Sovereign who needs to learn a few lessons.
“They’re not bringing the Survivors to the platform?” I ask.
“No, it’s easier to be out here if something happens, if they rebel. Easier to contain them near the perimeter of the district,” he tells me. “And force them back out.”
I stand next to Richard and watch as the train pulls up. My stomach fills with an uneasy feeling. I’m nervous, afraid of whom they’ve brought back. If they’ve brought back anyone at all.
My thoughts drift back in time to Tonopah, when Sakima showed me his assembly of Sovereign who sit at their gates all day to judge who will enter and who will be thrown back out. I didn’t want to see it then. And I definitely don’t want to take part in it now. But I don’t really have a choice now, do I? This job Crane wants me to do, these tasks I have to perform, I don’t do them willingly. I do them to keep my children safe, to keep the ones I love safe. I play Crane’s twisted game because I know that Morris will die and then I might have a tiny chance at changing something. Still, I’d like nothing more than to retreat home and raise my children in peace. To grow old and gray and help them become better people. Better than what I have turned into.
Sam and Ramirez jump down from the engine car. They head to the rear cargo areas, sliding them open. A Volker stands near each door helping the Survivors get down. There are three train cars with people that don’t seem to be full. But still, it seems like many more than we planned on finding tonight.
The Survivors trail out of the train
, with their gaunt faces, their tattered clothes, the children with their bellies distended in hunger. They look tired, hungry, and desperate. They look like they came from some third world country. But then, that’s what our Great Nation has been reduced to. I remember the commercials on the television, when we had television: Just a penny a day could feed one child…
We have no money, no currency. We get paid with protection, food, and clothes in exchange for doing a job, whatever job has been assigned to us.
Third-world countries. With all their poverty and disease and social injustices. That sparks an idea. I remember a tiny morsel of information about those third world countries. A great majority of the African and South American population developed a way to survive malaria infections, or at least their bodies did. They had a genetic blood disorder in which their blood cells became malformed, sickle-shaped. It was those people who carried the trait, instead of affliction with the full disease, who were less susceptible to the disease of malaria. Those people survived.
My focus shifts. I gaze at the Survivors, searching for skin color, features, accents, anything to tell me that these Survivors might have African or South American ancestry. The Volker line the Survivors up. A single line. I take their name, their previous occupation, swab their cheek, label the sample, and place it in the cooler.
As they pass through the gate a Volker leads them to the parking lot where workers are handing out plates heaped with manatee. I glance once and then turn away, not wanting to see what Sakima told me was his favorite part of assimilating the Survivors.
“It’s quite impressive. The chosen get cleaned, provided with clothing, tested, assigned duties and living quarters. They get their first meal also. It’s very interesting to watch. The transformation these people go through, the look in their eyes when they are handed a plate of warm food, and how the food changes them, returns them to civility.” That’s what he told me.
Their first meal, their first dose of Halcyon, it will permeate their brain, it will make them cooperate. I continue with my task, trying to numb that part of my brain and my soul that’s screaming at me how wrong this is.
--
It’s our second day of scouting for new Residents.
Today the men went out on foot headed east. Sam and Ramirez lead the way with a Guardian and two other Volker. They are headed towards the shopping mall and the small camp near the pond.
I keep myself busy and try not to spend too much time thinking of home. I categorize the new Residents samples, preparing them for travel back to Phoenix where Kira, my lab manager, can analyze them. Then it will be simple, searching the data for the sickle-cell gene and breeding it throughout the new population. That should solve their problem. Of course, I will also have to work the subordinate gene into the Resident population.
Emanuel and Richard leave me alone in the committee room to do my work. I stare at the computer, wanting to call home. Until finally, I do. I select the Phoenix icon and wait. Not long after the screen lights up and the image of Burton Crane comes into focus.
“Ah, Andromeda.” He smiles at me. “What a pleasant surprise. How are things in the sunny Crystal River District?”
“Great,” I reply as sarcastically as possible.
“To what do I owe this call?”
I force a breath, preparing myself for one of those moments where I let my guard down and tell Crane exactly what I want. “I’m calling to check on my family.”
“You miss them already?” he asks with his smug smile.
“You know I do.”
“Why it’s barely been a full day.”
“Just tell me how they are. That’s all I want. I need to know.”
“They are fine. I even gave your husband the next few days off from his duties at the nuclear plant until you return.” He overemphasizes the term your husband.
I nod at him, forcing out the words, “Thank you.”
“I believe you have never said those two words to me before.” He raises his right eyebrow and tips his head to the side.
“Don’t get used to it,” I mumble.
There is a moment of silence as I stare at the wall behind Crane’s head, and I’m sure he’s looking at me. “Are you solving their problems?” he asks.
“I think so.” I tell him. “A team went out last night and today to search for Survivors.”
“So that is your plan?” he asks. “Simply repopulate the District?”
“No,” I tell him. “Since the malaria is so rampant down here I think it would be a good idea to breed the sickle cell trait throughout the District.” I watch as Crane smiles at my plan.
“Make them good and hearty,” he tells me. “That’s what we want, healthy Residents.” I hold my mouth closed, wanting so badly to say something back to him about how he just referred to these people as though they were a stew we were cooking for dinner. Thick in the head and hearty in the health. I shudder a little. “Will I hear from you again, Andromeda?”
“I’m not sure,” I tell him, pressing my lips together in slight disgust. “Goodbye,” I tell him suddenly and turn the video feed off, no longer able to look at his speckled face.
--
On the third day the men return.
I hear a whistle from outside Headquarters, followed by the rush of running footsteps. Emanuel raises his head; he’s sitting across the Committee room table from me. We both get up. I collect my box of supplies and we exit the building.
The Volker are making their way towards the gate. We follow them. I skip a few steps, trying to keep up, eager to see Sam, hoping that he has returned safely.
I run up behind Richard, who is at the gate sorting keys. As I stand a few yards away, trying to catch my breath, I look past him. Sam and Ramirez look tired and dirty. The Survivors that stand behind them look even worse. Desperate people, following a pied piper with hopes and dreams of a better life, a better future.
But isn’t that how our country first started out? Seems we’ve gone full-circle in this attempt to re-vamp humanity. I wonder if Crane’s realized this yet. I wonder if the other Entities have realized this.
--
“Name?” I ask the father of the family of five that stands in front of me.
“Jackson,” he answers.
“Ages and previous occupation,” I ask, flipping through my list of missing and desired Sovereign. I stop when I find their surname. They’re on the list, they are predetermined Sovereign.
“Pediatrician, forty-two. My wife is forty. She was an endocrinologist.” I raise my head and stop writing. This family is an easy in. I scan their faces, noting their dark skin. Perfect. “We have two daughters, ages ten and fourteen. And three sons, age sixteen, eight and two.”
I look at the family standing in front of me, realizing that I only count four children. Two boys and two girls.
“Where’s your other child?” I ask.
The mother reaches behind her back and leads a toddler out. I smile at him. He smiles back. His eyes squinting, his cheeks plump. It’s when he stops smiling I notice that his ears are too low, his eyes spaced a little too far apart, his tongue pushes against his teeth, a little too large for his mouth. This child has Down’s syndrome. Shit. This family is exactly what Crystal River needs, two doctors, a healthy family that probably carries the sickle cell trait. But Crane’s rules ring in my ears. No genetic defects.
“Has anyone in the family had sickle-cell disease?” I ask them. The father hesitates. “It’s a good thing,” I say.
“My grandmother did,” the mother speaks up, solidifying my speculation.
I focus on the child. “Downs?” I ask softly. The parents nod in agreement. I look at the father, unable to hide the remorse on my face. “We can’t take you,” I tell him. He nods, as though he was expecting my reply. “I know you’re not going to leave your child, but we have to follow the rules.”
“It’s just one extra chromosome,” he pleads with me. “He’s not going to pass that on. He has a
heart defect. He may not even live long enough to make it to puberty.” I notice the mother reach out and pull the child to her. I shake my head, angered at myself for enforcing these rules that I hate so much. “If he were your child you wouldn’t leave him behind,” the father tells me.
I remember the speculations from Dr. Akiyama about Raven and his quietness. “No, I never would,” I tell him with utmost truth.
They turn to leave, all of their heads hanging. They will not dine on manatee steak, or be given a home, or fresh clothes, or the safety of the fence. I watch them collect their things, the dirt-stained bags, tattered clothes, empty water bottles. They are going back to whatever hole they crawled out of. They will dine on whatever scraps they can find and that father, with his teenage sons, will do whatever he can to protect his family in the desolate world Crane and the other Entities have created.
I feel horrible. And that’s an understatement. Something clicks as I watch them. I am going to join the ranks of Entity soon and perhaps this could be the first change I make. Not splitting up a family.
“Wait,” I call the father back to me. “You are going to have to hide him or something. These people, they won’t bend the rules. But we need you. We need your family here in this District.”
He nods.
As I hand him a pass, I catch Ramirez out of the corner of my eye, watching me, his hand resting on the assault rifle that’s slung over his shoulder. I wave the family through the line and watch as they walk through the gate to receive their meal. As they pass me with smiles on their faces, my thoughts continue to drift to Tonopah. No wonder the Sovereign are medicated there. I might be able to tolerate the decisions I just made if I were also. But I did a tiny bit of redeeming: I let that child inside. That child with Down’s syndrome. An outlawed child in the eyes of Crane. I’m not sure who will face the worst punishment for him being within the gates: the family, Emanuel, or me? I let them pass after all. I could argue that failure was not an option. We need these people. Perhaps their dedication to their new District will negate their son’s genetic inequality. Not that any of them could have done anything about it. Not that he is less of a person. He smiled at me. And I think it was the first smile I’ve seen from a Survivor.
The Phoenix Project Series: Books 1-3: The Phoenix Project, The Reformation, and Revelation Page 63