daynight

by Megan Thomason

  I dive low and then push upward with all my might, popping out of the water. After a few tries I’m able to grab hold of the shelf. I fall off and have to repeat the maneuver. On the fourth try, I pull myself onto it. Thank goodness I added pull-ups to my workout routine. The shelf’s about three feet wide and slick from the rain. I gouge my hand pretty bad getting up, so hope it’s worth it, because I really don’t want to get back in that water. The shelf is too slick to walk on, so I inch forward on my stomach, using my forearms to propel myself.

  The shelf angles upwards and narrows as it rounds the bend of the canyon mouth. But I press forward in darkness. The clouds have closed and the only way I can tell the shelf continues is by reaching out with my arms. It seems like hours pass before I have a decent view of the landscape again. I’ve managed to go from the inland side of the canyon wall, around the corner, and to the beach side. Waves are furiously breaking against the canyon wall below me.

  Gads almighty. I had no idea I’d climbed so high. I’m at least thirty feet above the ground on a shelf just more than a foot wide. The Eco barrier may be directly beneath me, but I can’t tell. There’s less than ten feet of progress to be made before the shelf disappears entirely. The only thing I can do is wait for daylight. If the storm clears and sun appears I’ll burn. My arms and head are exposed. The mud layer I’d once had on me washed off in the river. Perhaps the ocean route would have been wiser. Exhausted, I scoot my back against the cliff and close my eyes.

  Scalding sun wakens me. My skin has turned a bright pink. The stone ledge burns to the touch. I allow my eyes to adjust. Despite the debris left on the beach, I can see the edge of the Eco barrier at least twenty feet to the south of me. Keeping all but my head atop the ledge, I peer over the side to see if the canyon face is uneven and might provide enough footholds to allow me to climb down. I see a few, but not enough to descend thirty plus feet without injury. That leaves me two options. Signal my dad and hope his team can help, or return to the other side of the Eco barrier and swim the ocean.

  Signal first. I put two fingers in my mouth and whistle loudly in a pre-planned pattern of long short long short for about a minute. And then I wait. Given the Exilers will likely be sleeping, I try again. And again. Finally, I notice a figure jogging down the beach, hugging the cliffs to keep from being too noticeable. About fifty yards from me he stops and whistles a short long to respond. Only after I echo his tune does he catch sight of me and wave. He closes the distance and shouts up at me.

  “Blake? Is that you?” says Doc Daryn. He hasn’t seen me for nearly a decade, but perhaps my father showed him a recent picture. I figure he’s pretty old by now and may not have stellar eyesight, particularly in the bright sun. His hair’s long, white, and pulled back in a braid.

  “Yep. Hey Doc. I’m getting fried up here. Any chance you have a thirty foot ladder handy?” I say.

  “Sorry, buddy,” he says. “I will, however, go get your father and his team and we’ll try to figure something out.”

  “Hey, no hurry. I’m just in Garden City party attire and my sunscreen washed off. Take your time,” I say. He waves his hands in dismissal of my snarky comments and jogs back up the beach. It’s a full half hour before the rescue brigade arrives. They’re wearing large sun hats and other protective gear, and have a shovel and large fishing net. Looks like they want me to play aerial circus clown. Super. My dad confirms my worst fears when he tells me that he expects me to jump.

  “You know, Dad. We could just chat right here and then I can reverse my course. That might be a little safer than diving into your shoddily built fishnet,” I say.

  “We’re going to dig a hole under in case you break through,” he says. Sure, that would delay the pain, but who’s he kidding? He’s asking for me to jump to my death. “A ship will be arriving within the hour, so we’re going to have to get this done and move our conversation to the caves. Otherwise, we’re sitting ducks.” True, given the heavy raiding activity of Interceptors, the ships have taken to firing upon any suspicious activity upon beaches or in the water.

  They don’t get much of a ditch built in twenty-five minutes, so they better hold that freaking net tight. I may bounce, but that’s better than a thirty-foot free fall. I try to mentally calculate how far I’ll need to jump outward to land directly above the ditch and center of the net. They roll it out and the men take their positions.

  When my father gives the signal, I stand and pretend I’m jumping off the high dive at the local pool, rather into a twenty foot diameter fishnet held up by two dozen Exilers. I aim for center but am off by several feet when I land. They’ve held the net too tightly and the cords slice into my skin before giving way and thunking me to the ground on my legs and back. I avoid hitting my head, but twist my ankle. Thankfully, though, I don’t think I have any broken bones and I’m off the cursed ledge. Who knows how I’ll ever get back to Garden City, but I might as well take this one step at a time.

  Two men carry me back to the caves so that Doc can give me a once over. The lacerations and bruises will heal, as will my ankle. Of bigger concern are my burns. My party clothes are removed and I’m lathered with a thick gooey substance, and told to stay put for a few hours while it works its magic.

  “So Doc, how’s your Cleave?” I ask, trying to make conversation. Doc’s Cleave will always hold a special place in my heart. She was practically my mom after my own mother died. Doc looks away for a moment, before turning to answer me.

  “She passed a couple years back,” he says. “It’s been rough without her.” I can tell it still hurts him. They were as tight as any couple I’ve seen.

  “Oh no. I’m so sorry. How’d it happen?” I ask.

  “In an unfortunate skirmish,” he says, averting his eyes. There’s obviously a story behind it, one that likely involves the SCI.

  “With SCI security?” He gets a very serious look on his face and clears his throat.

  “Things have changed since you lived here. Not all the Exilers have the same goals. Linda went to bat for our beliefs and the opposition took issue,” he says.

  “Exilers did it?” I say, wondering if they were like the evil men who’d hurt me when I was young.

  He shrugs his shoulders and says, “What’s done is done and she’s got no second chance at it. I can’t dwell. It does no good. All I can do is try to do right by my people and avoid violence in the future.” I nod, tears in my eyes, it hitting me hard that Doc’s Cleave is gone.

  Doc forces me to eat some nasty cooked grain, which makes me wonder how I’d survived my childhood. How spoiled and picky I’ve become. I used to be grateful to get any food at all. Though, I do remember a time when I’d gotten a taste of the good life and it soured my opinion of Exiled food for the rest my time spent living on Thera.

  At age six, the Interceptors scored ‘the big haul.’ They’d sieged a freighter that was hauling supplies from Food City and Farm City to Garden City. Without any fancy-shmancy deep dock to pull into, and desiring to hurt the SCI’s transportation system, they’d run the ship aground north of the Interceptor caves in a lagoon between canyons. The Interceptors set traps to dissuade any SCI men from entering the lagoon to retrieve the spoils.

  Knowing the food couldn’t survive the trip to our hot caves, they’d decided to move the people to the food. Our family and countless others trekked the relatively short distance and spent a month aboard ship. The accommodations were grim and cramped, but not enough worse than the caves to complain about it. Plus, after months of famine we welcomed the plenty. But even more than the food, I embraced the change of scenery. What little boy wouldn’t want his run of a ship? One night I was an Interceptor. Next, a Spy. Then, a Militant. The younger kids on board, including Leila, served as my minions, the enemy, or my forces, depending on which game we played. Every adult had been assigned a full time job, so we had little to no supervision.

  On one particular night, the adults dispersed to fend off an anticipated attack. Garden City’s n
ext shipment was due, which meant a new ship and fresh crop of security detail aboard. They’d be on the lookout for us and would eagerly await the opportunity to recapture their ship and supplies, although the ship had been so badly damaged when maneuvered into the lagoons it had a questionable future back on the open seas. The SCI had no way to know that, though. So, the adults camped near the feed from the lagoon to the ocean and waited, leaving their misfit kids aboard the ship. An adult or two may have been left on deck, but the bowels of the freighter were fair game for deep exploration.

  That night I became ‘Blake the Great,’ a fearless explorer of unknown territories. We ventured into every nook and cranny of the ship, seeking great fortune and adventure. The metal ladders aboard presented no obstacle, as I found them infinitely more stable than the rope ladders of the canyons. Collecting items of great worth in a small plastic bag, we amassed a sizable treasure by midnight. By then we’d worked up a huge appetite and I decided to transform from ‘Blake the Great Explorer’ to ‘Blake the Great Hunter.’ The supply hold was strictly off limits, but the usual guards were absent. I’d figured we’d be in and out long before the parents returned, so no harm done. We unlatched the door and entered.

  The vault had been so vast that the light of our headlamps couldn’t extend the length of it. Rows and rows of supplies. Boxes piled to the ceiling. Labels I didn’t recognize. I’d been taught to read off a tablet the Interceptors stole in a raid, but had been limited to the text contained on that particular tablet, so most the supplies were unfamiliar. We finally found boxes labeled ‘Food City’ and figured that whatever was inside had to be edible. We opened the only box we could reach without toppling an entire stack.

  Jackpot. The box had been filled with raw sugar and chocolate chips. We divided the spoils and kept eating until we’d devoured every last bit. I’d never tasted anything like it, the sweetness overloading my taste buds in a good way. If the Interceptors had ever happened upon this stuff before, they’d kept it for themselves.

  Despite being stuffed, we were desperate to find more of the same for later. We sent an entire stack of boxes flying, which had a domino effect on the entire row. If we’d hoped our intrusion wouldn’t be noticed, we were out of luck. Thankfully no one had been hurt, as any of us could’ve been crushed had the boxes fallen a different way. Food had been strewn everywhere. We sampled everything that opened upon impact. Bananas. Cereals. Vegetables. Cookies. Many of the things needed cooking, but we didn’t know that. So we moved on quickly from things like dry beans and pasta, and hoarded the good stuff in a pile. I don’t remember a happier time in all my early years on Thera. We’d fallen fast asleep by morn with our mountain of goodies, for once without a care in the world.

  Our parents had not enjoyed a peaceful, bountiful night as we had. They’d engaged in a bloody battle with an armed SCI security detail. Ultimately the Exilers overpowered the security forces, but not without a couple dozen losses on our side—men and women. Many of the dead were parents of the kids who’d joined my feast. The good times never lasted long as an Exiler on Thera.

  Upon returning to the ship to bind wounds and prepare the dead for burial, the remaining parents found their children missing. A small search party scoured the ship before finding us sleeping, circled around our heap of favorite foods.

  There’s a couple ways it could’ve gone. The parents might have laughed about their kids getting their hands caught in the cookie and chocolate boxes. Admired us for being self-sufficient. For finding food and feeding ourselves. Or, they could whip the little thieves with leather lashes and confine them to assigned quarters for the duration.

  I don’t remember a whole lot of laughing on Thera, but I do vividly recall my father giving me twenty stripes for being the food raid ringleader. He and the Militant faction had taken out their anger and frustrations with the SCI on their children while the practical faction looked on with horror. With our wounds still fresh we’d been carted outside to help dig graves for the deceased in the marshy ground surrounding the lagoon. That included the kids whose parents died. I don’t think I’d even dug a full grave in a couple hours’ time, but that wasn’t the point. The Militants wanted us to feel so much pain for the loss of these Exilers that it would erase any and all pleasure we experienced during our feast. Living Exiled is about survival. Not sugar with whipped cream and cherries on top.

  Many tears had been shed as the remaining Exiled men lowered their friends’ dead bodies into their shallow graves. I’d seen dead bodies before. It had been earlier that year that Leila and I were caught in a flash flood and the two men who’d gone looking for us drowned in the impromptu canyon river. But it wasn’t until that moment I’d realized how hopeless life as an Exiler was. The odds weren’t with us. Starvation. The elements. Unknown forces of evil. There’d even been deaths in our community from spoiled food, snakebites and severe sunburns.

  The service was simple. Family and friends spoke kind words about the deceased having been committed to our cause until the end, the valiant way they’d fought our enemies, and that their sacrifice would be remembered by the living. The few Daynighters of the group who’d become acquainted with religion on Earth shared their beliefs that the dead would live eternally in heaven, a completely foreign concept to Therans who’d have been Exiled at the mere mention of a deity.

  Following the burials, our leaders chose to have all of us return to the caves. They didn’t want to risk another altercation with SCI security details. Our location was known so we weren’t safe. Our group carried as many essential non-perishables as possible, but the bulk of supplies were left behind. The plan had been for a small group to return to get more boxes, but a large team of SCI security members had promptly reclaimed the ship. So, our men returned empty handed.

  I never tasted sugar or chocolate again until I left Thera for Earth. Just the memory of my sweet encounter causes me to reject the pasty slop Doc gave me. I spit it back into my bowl and await my father. The sooner I get my message to him and updated orders, the sooner I get back to Garden City, real food, and to Kira.

  After waking up from a quick nap, I seek out my father. I find him in the adjacent cave entrenched in a war of words with Doc Daryn. No one seems to notice me so I play fly on the wall while they finish out their ‘discussion.’ The cave’s enormous—long and wide, with jagged ceilings low enough that I can almost reach out and touch the bats who are hanging. There’s a few hundred men gathered in the cave. More than half are positioned behind Doc, the others behind my dad. The contrast between the two sides strikes me. My dad’s men are lined up military style in an attention stance, waiting for orders. Doc’s men are lounging about in an unorganized fashion, watching the exchange, many nibbling on some hard biscuits.

  “Just go home, Doc and take your men with you. We’ve got this,” my father says.

  “You and your militant maniacs are on a suicide mission,” Doc says. “You are completely underestimating the capabilities of the SCI.”

  “The security in Garden City is weak. I worked in Headquarters for years, remember? There were never more than a dozen security guards in the building and they don’t even carry weapons. And throughout the city? There were none,” my father says. He’s pacing and waving his arms to emphasize his points. “The Ten and Grand Council? Completely unprotected. We have weapons and military training. They have no chance.”

  “That’s what they want you to think. That they’re weak. It’s a trap. They want nothing more than for you to march in there expecting to take them out so that they can annihilate you,” Doc says.

  “And how will they do that, pray tell? They’ll be lucky to get a ship from Military City to Garden City in a week with support. By then the leadership in Garden City will be replaced and we’ll use their own Eco barrier to keep the security forces out. We’ll easily get the community’s support once the Second Chancers find out how far they’ve been misled,” my father says.

  “Hank, have these imbeciles you su
rrounded yourself with polluted your brain so much that you actually believe that? You really think you can march in there and take over?” Doc says. He’s whirling his finger around his ear, indicating that he thinks my father has gone insane.

  “And what glorious, brilliant plan does your band of pacifist losers have? Keep scrounging for morsels of food and water until the Exilers become extinct?”

  “We Survivalists are strong in number and growing every day. Ten thousand plus, including our two sister communities. With the recent additions of several prominent Daynighter defectors we have the political clout to negotiate with the SCI. We’re structuring our own government and will ask the SCI to recognize us as a valid entity on Thera. We control several entry and exit portals and could easily expose the SCI on Earth, so the SCI government leaders will have to listen. If you go in there and attack, you’ll ruin any chance of negotiation.” My father laughs wildly at the Doc’s plans and signals his men to join the mocking.

  I had no idea that the factions within the Exilers had become so fractured. What was once mere annoyance now borders on full-blown civil war. My father never told me that there was more than one way to handle the situation and provide relief for the Exilers. I look around the room. Of the men I recognize—the ones I trust are with Doc Daryn. The ones I don’t are with my father. My mind reverts to what Doc said about the skirmish that killed his Cleave. Were the Militants responsible?

  My father, once done with his laughing fit, addresses Doc again. “You think you can negotiate with the SCI? You’re way more deluded than I am. If you threaten to interfere with their plans to create a master race of Originals and inflict their political theology on Earth, they will unleash all of Military City on you.”