Future Americas

by John Helfers

  I looked up and saw that ivy and other weeds had grown up on the walls, but the statue was clean of all growth. I pointed this out to Micah and he said, ‘‘When there are no gatekeepers around, the people who live nearby, they make sure Father Abram is clean, and is safe. It’s a sacred duty to them.’’

  Then I noticed more offerings, piled at the base of the giant statue, of fruit and stones and wooden carvings. I said, ‘‘Do they pray to him, as well?’’

  Micah looked at me with surprise. ‘‘Of course.’’

  ‘‘What for?’’

  ‘‘To come again, sire. To come again and free the slaves.’’

  My mouth was dry, and I took another swallow of water. ‘‘Slaves? Really?’’

  He looked to me and then gently turned me about, to look out by the wetlands by the approaching bay. Columns of smoke rose up from the cane fields. ‘‘Sire . . . who do you think works out there, all day and all night?’’

  ‘‘Workers . . . servants . . . who else?’’

  ‘‘Sire . . . there are slaves out there . . . who do the work . . . slaves that cut the cane that is brought north to your land, so you can make the fuel that runs your engines, and your airships. And I know that there are slaves, even in your lands, even in your household. Am I not right?’’

  I shook my head. ‘‘We have servants . . . they are not slaves.’’

  Micah laughed, but there was no humor there. ‘‘What kind of servants are they? May they leave when they wish, to take position elsewhere? Do they earn any type of salary, or does their pay go to their debts . . . as indentured servants? Tell me, sire . . . tell me about your servants.’’

  I thought about what he said, and there was a truth there, that I had never thought about. It had seemed . . . normal, for it was in our household, and the household of other families, that we all had servants, servants whose families had incurred debts, years and years ago. Their labor, day after day, went to reducing the debt. . . . Day after day, without end, without stopping.

  ‘‘Come, sire, do you know of any servant who has ever left someone’s employ? Do you?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ I said, my voice sounding weak and shallow here, in this temple. ‘‘No, I do not.’’

  Micah said, ‘‘A slave is a slave, no matter what they are called. Working in the cane fields, working in your lavish mansion, up there in the northern lands. If they are not free, they are slaves. And it’s as simple as that.’’

  He turned and looked up to the statue, his voice firm and quiet. ‘‘I know what you and the others think of our ancients, of our lands, of the empire that was here. We know of the troubles we were accused of doing, the hate and wars we supposedly started . . . I don’t know the truth of that. It is in the past. But what I do know is that this empire that was so hated once, produced a man like Father Abram, a man who freed the slaves. And any empire that can bring forth such a man . . . well, not enough of its true history is known.’’

  I looked back as well. Something about that steady gaze and knowing who he was, I felt small.

  Micah said, ‘‘And perhaps, someday . . . another Father Abram will return to these lands. Come, sire, it’s getting late. We must leave.’’

  Which is what we did, though I almost fell twice, walking down the stairs, looking back up at that steady gaze.

  When we got back to the hotel, Micah was nearly out of breath, sweating, as he stood there in the gathering twilight next to his pedicab. I shook his hand and before I could say anything, he said, ‘‘Sire . . . when you return to your empire, remember your trip here. Talk about us, who we are . . . and of Father Abram . . . and . . . well, I must show you something.’’

  From his own pouch he took out a very small round coin or medallion, which he held up to me. It was old, nearly obscured, but I held it close and felt something close about my chest as I recognized what was on the medallion. On one side was the temple, and on the other side, there was a carving of Father Abram. I held the medallion tight and said, ‘‘Micah . . . I must have this.’’

  ‘‘Sire, please, it’s something I’ve had—’’

  I reached into my pouch, took out a silver sovereign, and then a gold one, and pressed them into his hand. ‘‘I need to take this with me, as a reminder, Micah. I really must.’’

  He bowed. ‘‘As you wish, sire. It was . . . it was an honor to be your guide today, sire. Do have a safe trip home.’’

  And then he got into his pedicab and left, and I went into the hotel, to return my sash, and to get to my room before Father arrived.

  The next day, as our luggage was being prepared by the hotel’s servants (slaves, I thought, slaves) Father looked to me, as I rummaged through my pouch, and said, ‘‘Armand, what’s that coin?’’

  I took out the medallion and passed it over to him. Thinking quickly, I said, ‘‘I . . . I bought this from a local. It’s a medallion, to honor a great man who once ruled the old empire here.’’

  Father took the medallion, examined it, and then laughed. Tossed it back over to me.

  ‘‘Armand . . . I’m sorry, I truly am, for leaving you alone for so long, for you’ve been taken. This is just an old, old coin from the days of the old empire here . . . and even at the empire’s height, this coin was used everywhere. Billions of them must have been created . . . and you can find them in almost any of the ruins. You said you paid for this coin, Armand?’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ I said, my face warm with embarrassment.

  Father kept on smiling. ‘‘I’m so sorry, son, but you were robbed. Even when it was being used during the old empire here, it was often ignored or thrown away. That coin is without value, no value at all.’’

  I looked at the coin, rubbed the edge and the faded face of Father Abram. Thought of the statue, thought of the temple, thought of the pride of Micah in his ancestors and this old man. I rubbed the coin even harder.

  I raised my gaze to him. ‘‘I’m sorry, Father,’’ I said. ‘‘I think it’s priceless.’’

  SUFFER THE CHILDREN

  by Barbara Nickless

  Barb Nickless’ short stories have appeared in a wide variety of magazines and anthologies, including All Hell Breaking Loose, New Writings of the Fantastic, and Fate Fantastic. Currently at work on her second mystery novel, she lives in Colorado with her husband and two children.

  THE GAWDERS MOVED us seasonally, like we was birds. Skinny, bent-over, plucked-to-the-skin birds.

  The winter afore my change, the Gawders hauled us to the north end a Miner 3B and turned the temp down five degrees so we’d know it was winter. The holographs went from lily fields to black rivers and dead grass. Needled trees stood all solid in the distance like Gawd’s soldiers. The light was fainter, and everybody looked blue, as if we didn’t have enough air.

  None a us had ever knowed real seasons or seen real flowers or trees. In the domes there wasn’t nothin like that. But we liked the holographs. If you touched the picture, words like Colorado Ponderosa or lichen lit up and a bell chimed to remind us to pay attention, like the bells at prayer time.

  ‘‘When you gonna need a word like pon-der-o-sa?’’ Flea would ask, and we’d laugh and laugh.

  But every member a the Flea Pack would’ve given anything to see a real, live Colorado Ponderosa.

  When we wasn’t workin, the Pack sat near the vents. We’d take turns leaning over the grillwork, waiting for the
fans to kick on so we’d get a full blast a air. The higher we got on the ventilator chemicals, the more dreamy-sad we got, like the way you feel when you just know things gotta change on account a you can’t take them the way they is any more. The Gawders hadn’t caught on to what we was doin. Or maybe they didn’t care, we had this one thing.

  Sure, we didn’t have nothin else.

  It was Seven-Day, and the mines was closed. The haulers and loaders and scoopers all stood still, silver flamingoes roostin outta the rain. Rings leaned over the vent. Flea was fixin his crutch where the rubber foot had cracked. His muscles was all bunched, and he had a little frown between his eyes. He was hummin somethin he’d sung afore, some song he brought from North.

  I twirled a bit of hair round my finger and wondered if he’d walk me home again.

  Fox Girl poked my arm. ‘‘Willow.’’

  Rubbin my arm, I looked over at Fox Girl.

  ‘‘What?’’ I said.

  Fox Girl was givin me the eye. She winked at me, then licked her lips at Flea.

  ‘‘What?’’ I said again. Fox Girl gets bored, likes to cause trouble, that’s what Flea says.

  Fox Girl made a circle with the fingers of her left hand, then stuck her right index finger in and out of the hole, in and out. She nodded toward Flea.

  I knowed Flea was right. I should pay no nevermind to Fox Girl. But I’m not myself all these last seven-days, my body all shook up like it aint quite mine no more, and bein tall and tall and gettin taller till I don’t know who I am. I tried to close my mouth, but trouble boiled up inside me and I frowned at Flea and let loose his secret.

  ‘‘You goin streamin today, Flea?’’ I asked.

  Flea flipped up his shades and stared at me. I could just about read his mind. Supposed to be our secret, Willow, he was sayin. No one else supposed to know about that tunnel.

  Right off, I was shamed.

  ‘‘Just jokin,’’ I said.

  But Fox Girl was on me quick. ‘‘You’re not. You think them stupid stories are true.’’

  Rings sat on his heels and flicked Fox Girl’s arm. ‘‘Sometimes you too mean.’’

  I shrugged, all not-caring like. ‘‘Not so stupid, them stories.’’

  Streamin was a myth, a dream, like Flea said half the stories in the Praise Book was just made-up. All us wantin to believe and refusin at the same time on account all that hopin can hurt.

  We was a sorry pack a birds, ha!

  Flea should a told me it was a bad joke, left it at that. Stead, he dropped his shades, said, ‘‘Don’t know if I’m going, Willow. You?’’

  The fans clicked on and I put my face in the spray and snorted, feeling the sting deep inside. Breathe deeply, my child, like the preacher said to me on baptism day.

  I pulled my head back and sneezed. ‘‘I’m thinkin I might, you show me that tunnel.’’

  Fox Girl jumped to her feet. ‘‘Stupid talk! Nobody ever got out a the Praise Dome. We gonna stay here and work till we nothing but bones, and then we’ll have babies so our babies can work till they nothing but bones. And they’ll all be stupid or crips or crazy, just like us. There no tunnel. They was sealed up afore we was born.’’ She stomped her foot. ‘‘Get true.’’

  Her voice echoed along the gray tiles of the shaft, booming around like a bird that lost its way and kept bangin into things.

  I looked at Flea. ‘‘There a tunnel?’’

  ‘‘There’s a tunnel. An old mining duct from before they built the Bios Domes.’’

  My arms pimpled and I rubbed them.

  Every six months, outsiders from the Bios Domes come to check on us, to ask us questions like how we doin and to listen to us pretend to read. Every time they come, the Praise Dome opens up a crack like there was all the sudden enough good air to lift us up and carry us away, just like them invisible updrafts the birds float on in the canyon hologram.

  ‘‘Think I will, then,’’ I said.

  Fox Girl sank to the floor. ‘‘It’s a sin, hopin for something not gonna happen.’’

  ‘‘Fox, you not much a saint, anyway,’’ Rings said. Rings is taller’n all a us, with gray eyes and hair dirty-white. He’s got a death wish and eyes that go flat when the Gawders talk. ‘‘Flea says there’s a tunnel, there’s a tunnel. Let’s do it, Flea Pack.’’

  My heart was poundin now. But Flea looked at me and smiled.

  ‘‘You the brave one, Willow. You find us all a home.’’

  Fox Girl snorted, but it was a soft, weak sound.

  Rings cocked his head. ‘‘Gawders.’’

  Flea swung up on his crutches. ‘‘Sublevel 1,’’ he mouthed. ‘‘Behind the secondary shaft.’’

  We flew from the Gawders like we had wings.

  I made my way toward Sublevel 1 by cuttin through Blessed Park. It was my favorite place in the Prayer Dome. It had bright grass that looked real, and if you didn’t go barefoot you could pretend it was soft like everyone said real grass was. Up above, a patch a dome was lit like it was blue sky outside stead of the rain. It was nice to have somethin between the gray and us. All that color shook me up, made me feel a touch deep inside, better than the air vents.

  I couldn’t enjoy it none today, though.

  Honor thy Gawder. And Gawders don’t believe in streamin.

  We wasn’t like the mainstream kids. We was the lucky ones. Snatched from the very jaws a death, praise be, and given homes and jobs. Never mind some a us was crips or crazies, and we wouldn’t a been if we was mainstream. We’d a had gen-screens if we was mainstream, and we’d a been fixed afore we was born.

  Course, we wasn’t sposed to be born.

  I slipped through the crowd, walkin slow and casual. Walkin with downcast eyes, proper like. But there must a been somethin on my face, somethin fierce or scared. Suddenly there was a Gawder walkin next to me.

  ‘‘Praise be,’’ he said.

  I walked slower. ‘‘Praise be.’’

  The Gawder was tall and old, with long gray hair and stone eyes. His hands looked tough and stringy like the roots in the holograms. My heart hammered like to leap out a my chest.

  ‘‘What is work, girl?’’ the Gawder asked me.

  ‘‘The way to purity,’’ I answered.

  ‘‘And where do idle thoughts lead?’’

  ‘‘To the deepest place of all, the very mineshaft of the devil.’’

  Quick as a snake he reached out and grabbed my wrist, squeezing it hard, jerking me to a stop. ‘‘You look idle, girl.’’

  ‘‘I’m not, Elder.’’ Tears stung in my eyes from the pain in my wrist, and my breath was comin too fast.

  He pushed closer to me and his hand jumped from my wrist to my shoulder. ‘‘You be needin a pinch from Gawd’s hand?’’

  ‘‘Oh, no, Elder.’’

  ‘‘Do you know about pride?’’

  I nodded, feelin his hand quiver on my shoulder, his fingers curlin neath my coveralls to press against my flesh. His face got red, and his mouth hung open. His breath was all hot.

  ‘‘Do you think you’re beautiful, girl?’’

  ‘‘No, Elder.’’

  ‘‘The devil works through beauty.’’

  His fingers dug into my skin, stoppin afore he gave me the pinch that wou
ld send the burnin down my back. His other hand traced the letters a my name on my coveralls, just over my breast. Miriam 237.

  ‘‘Where is your flock, Miriam?’’

  ‘‘Doin their wash.’’

  ‘‘What dorm you in?’’

  ‘‘Block C, Row 12, Column 41.’’

  ‘‘Go to your room, girl, and wait for me. Maybe I’ll come and see you. Gawd’s work.’’

  ‘‘Yes, Elder.’’ I let the crowd sweep me away from the Gawder, but I felt his eyes flamin into me, like the eyes a the devil himself.

  It’s a sin to think a the Gawders that way.

  But streamin was a sin. Bad things happen to sinners, even I know that.

  When I saw Flea ahind the secondary shaft, I said, ‘‘We can’t go.’’

  He was the only one there. He pulled me ahind the pipes and kissed me.

  ‘‘You’re brave, Willow,’’ he said. ‘‘I loved you before, but I love you even more now.’’

  ‘‘We can’t do it. The Gawders know. They know everything.’’

  ‘‘They only want us to think that.’’

  ‘‘A Gawder stopped me in the park. I’m supposed to be waitin for him.’’

  Flea’s face got red, and he punched the wall.

  ‘‘You’ll hurt yourself,’’ I said.

  ‘‘It’s because you’re beautiful. You’re almost fourteen. You’re almost onto your Change. They won’t leave you alone much longer.’’

  I turned my face against his shoulder.

  ‘‘I’m afraid a being a sinner.’’

  ‘‘Willow, you’re no sinner. You’re just a girl trapped in a sick place.’’