Force

by A.R. Rivera

Click Your Heels Together Three Times

  The snow stays compact until a half mile from the city. Then, the deep drifts soften and turn to slush. It’s like walking through freezing quick sand. I’m huffing long before I get close enough to make out details of the buildings—which are enormous. Like high-rise apartment buildings. Really shitty ones.

  Los Angeles has its’ share of Projects. They’ve all got that distinct plainness, a type of bland uniformity that tells they are low-income, no matter how new or old. These apartments are eerily similar, only fifty stories higher than the ones in my universe.

  The slush gives way to mud and there’s a notable change rise in temperature. As I near the border of the city, the mud dries. The air feels much warmer and heavier as if there’s more oxygen in the atmosphere, but I still don’t see any vegetation.

  Before I reach the boundary—which is a high cement-type wall—I’ve already flipped open my hood and am halfway to regretting the layers of clothes.

  Searching the area for cameras yields nothing. I’m not sure what a camera would look like in this place, so I look for anything, a small box, a panel or floating device strapped to a post, but still find nothing. They probably have a thousand Biolocks hiding in this thing.

  No signs of surveillance, but there are plenty of warning signs—big, red squares—that use pictures instead of words. I’m not familiar with their weapons or forms of punishment, but judging by the depiction of crude human forms suffering at the hand of a giant bolt of electricity, I don’t want to get caught breaching this barrier.

  Without a soul in sight and no visible surveillance, I drop my pack and change out of the extra layers of clothes. After everything is repacked, I take up the backpack pause to listen for the telltale hum of electricity. Hearing nothing, I begin searching for signs of buried wires, a hatch, or trap doors in the dirt. But the only markers I find are footprints—mine. Not a single green shoot or even a rock. Without vegetation, it’s not tough to guess why there are no signs of birds or animals.

  I take up a chunk of dried mud and heave it at the wall. It crashes into the side, crumbling. I take up another chunk and aim at the air just above the wall. It doesn’t seem like the hunk of dirt hits anything, but it erupts into green flames that turn it to ash.

  Great.

  After changing out of the radiation suit and spending the better part of an hour searching and learning as much as I can, I am sure the wall itself is not electrified. It’s the air above I need to worry about. Shouldn’t be a problem since I’ve got the stones. The problem is finding my way over the wall. It’s too smooth for traction, too high to climb, and there’s not a single tree or shopping basket, or board in sight. Only cold earth and distant billows of snow.

  I think of the stones—the way they waited, floating after the Orb crashed. Maybe they were trying to tell me something.

  Before I think it through, I’ve got the pouch in my hand. I’m stripping the rubber case away and holding them up to the wall in front of me. I have no idea what I’m hoping they’ll do, I’m just waiting for the stones to work their magic.

  And waiting.

  And waiting some more.

  I shake my head, wondering if I should give a command. Clearing my throat, I whisper, “Threestone, would you take me up to the top of the wall and safely get me through the green fire? And if it’s not too much trouble, could you get me down the other side, too? Unnoticed?”

  Of course, I’m being sarcastic. I’m talking to rocks.

  The black stone begins to glow, then the red, and then the white. I make a mental note to write it down for Eli. I’ve only ever seen them light up simultaneously.

  There is nothing to see only the sense of that familiar bubble, the one that protects me from the destruction of the gateway. I feel it close around me and then my feet leave the ground. Soon, I’m level with the top of the wall, then above it. Green fire shoots from I don’t know where, but it fizzles and disappears. I keep going, keep floating down the other inside.

  My boots gingerly touch down on thick green grass. Fervent gratitude comes on so strong, it’s nearly as shocking as the floating trip over the wall. I kiss each rock and shove them back in their pouch for safe keeping. Then stuff the pouch into my pocket.

  Turning away from the outer wall to get my first look around, my shoulder smacks against another wall. I’m like a little kid made to stand in a giant corner. This second wall is not part of the high perimeter barrier, but serves more like a divider in a tray of ice cubes—like the walls they build around swanky suburbs to keep out the riffraff—except this wall is smaller and solid—and very strange, It’s constructed of a hard, translucent material. It’s clear like glass but feels like metal against my knuckles. Sounds like it, too.

  On the opposite side of the clear barrier are row after row of those project-type apartments I saw from my first day in this plane. They’re dilapidated, set along filthy streets. There are people up and down the sidewalks in front of them, all dressed in bland jumpsuits. Like a band of khaki clad auto mechanics.

  As I stare, a little boy toddles past. He looks at the wall and beats at it with a tiny hand. I crouch down to his eye-level. The boy grins when I wave at him. A man, his father I assume, runs up behind the toddler and takes him away.

  “Recall that they can’t see us.” The voice shocks me into an about-face. The source is a woman with her arms folded across her chest.

  She stares politely from five feet away while I measure her and the situation. Dark brown hair. Triangular face. Pretty and older than me; probably mid-forties. A little chunky compared with very clear, blue eyes.

  We are standing to one side of strip of lawn that runs along both walls and merges where the stones dropped me. It’s an apex of green, here, at the corner of where the two walls meet. Nearest to us lies the beginning of a long row of weird, rounded houses set alongside a uniform row of shade trees. Behind this woman is an open lawn and a tree-lined sidewalk that runs parallel to the clear wall.

  I adjust my backpack. “Yeah, I... recall.”

  She steps from the sidewalk, crossing the lawn towards me. “Are you recently transferred? I have never seen you before.”

  “Yes,” that sounds like the perfect explanation for my unexplained presence.

  “What ward do you come from?”

  “Mother, leave that man alone.” A man lurches from the other side of a row of neat shrubbery and marches up to take the woman by the elbow. I can’t help noticing the way his eyes widen and then shrink when he looks at me, or how he looks older than I do, yet just addressed this woman as ‘mother.’

  “You should not make contact with strangers. Come home, now.”

  “She’s fine,” I say, “we were just talking.”

  “That’s kind of you.” He says but clearly doesn’t think I’m kind at all as he disappears back behind that ridiculously straight line of hedges, tugging his mother behind him. They’re both wearing smooth, clean clothes in pale green, with bright green bands around both wrists.

  Walking out of the knoll, I take in the suburban-type place the stones have brought me. This part of the city is the opposite of the one on the other side of the transparent wall. Aside from the all-gray color scheme they share, and rounded corners on every building, this place looks exactly like a suburb with lots of grass and trees, and clean air and sidewalks. On the other side of the clear wall, there’s a noticeable layer of grime over everything.

  None of what I’m seeing blocks out the conversation that the mother and son are having as he drags her towards the door of the nearest gray house.

  I can’t understand all of what’s being said, but the son’s tone is gruff. The old woman stops in front of a tall doorway surrounded by pylon-like hedges and flags me with a frantic wave. When I nod, she jerks her elbow from the clamping companion.

  “Young man, you must join us for dinner.”

  I’ve been trying not to think about food until I got to a place
where I could find some. Just hearing the word dinner makes my stomach shout.

  Behind her in the doorway, her irritated off-spring is speaking to someone I can’t see.

  “Ignore him.” The woman directs. “This is my domicile. You are my guest.” She crosses the yard to loop her arm through mine. I let her because I’m hungry.

  She’s smiling, adding, “I don’t like even numbers at the table. It’s bad luck.”

  “No, it isn’t.” The man in the doorway says as we pass through.

  “Leave your mother alone, Alfaeus.” A younger woman in a smooth pastel green jumpsuit swats at him. “She requires respect.”

  Alfaeus turns to me—“You are welcome to stay, of course,”—and disappears down a long passage.

  “See?” His supposed mother grabs my arm again, this time on the other side, leading me through a very light, sparsely furnished entry, into a great room with vine plants crawling up the walls and thin gold-colored furniture that looks like it’s formed from painted toothpicks.

  “Young people make wonderful company when they aren’t your relations.” She chuckles. “My name is Citrina.”

  She waits expectantly for me to act normal and introduce myself.

  Once I do, we exchange a chest level handshake. Citrina leads me to a large dining area. From the number of rounded doorways on every wall, I’d guess that this dining room is centrally located in the middle of the house.

  Against the far wall, starting in the corner, there is a tall flowering plant with pink buds, then a closed archway. A small table on the other side, with what looks like a pitcher, and then another archway. It’s the same thing along the other three walls. There’s one corner-less doorway that leads in from the kitchen and three others that open up from dark halls. Like connecting tubes in a hamster cage, this room is the bubble. Every wall is pristinely white and smooth. The floors look hard and shiny yet give a little with each step, like a carpet.

  I stand with Citrina while the dining room fills. She introduces me to everyone as they walk in. It can’t be customary for people to pause and stare when introduced, but they do. Pause. And then stare at me. Or do a double-take. But then they smile and sit. There are seven seats filled, myself included.

  Geode, a man who looks about my age, but swears he’s ninety-five. He has light brown eyes and skin. His wife, Amethyst, is a pretty brunette with a permeating grin. She brags that she’s over one hundred when I make a fuss over Geode’s age. The two are very talkative. They’ve been married ever since they can remember. And each seems genuinely pleased with the other, despite the fact they were assigned to one another, not traditionally chosen as most units are.

  “Assigned? Really?”

  I use more enthusiasm than necessary, taking a note from my old man. He told me once that if you want to ply someone for information, you’d better do it with as much kindness and enthusiasm as you can muster, or the person being plied will get suspicious. It seemed like a dumb thing to say to a thirteen-year-old, but it comes in handy.

  Feigning interest, I let whomever do the talking and redirect any questions with tones that imply curiosity, rather than saying what I really want, which is “please explain because you are too weird for me to relate.”

  Also, it’s peculiar that everyone at this table is wearing green clothes and a bright green band around each wrist—everyone except the bright-eyed woman serving us all dinner. She’s wearing blue.

  “Oh, yes. We were matched perfectly.” Amethyst says.

  “That doesn’t happen very often,” I say.

  She smiles widely. “No. It does not.”

  “And what about you two?” I turn to the other couple at the table. Quartz and Ore. I was introduced to them over the first course which was a thick, green soup. I and everyone else ate except Quartz. She’s very lean; probably dieting.

  “I am displaced,” Quartz folds her hands in her lap.

  “That must be something.” I’m trying to sound intrigued but, it’s difficult, not knowing if this ‘displacement’ is good or bad. Her tone was too even to guess.

  Ore speaks up. “It has been six years.”

  “Six years and seventeen days.” Quartz reiterates.

  I nod my head.

  Citrina, the kind woman who invited me joins in. “What was it like?”

  Her son, Alfaeus, rolls his eyes when Quartz begins to explain. He’s a forty-five-year-old brat that acts like a fifteen year-old entitled brat.

  “I recall the feeling my strength drained away. My hands,” she holds up her right, “they were so weak. I miss the connection to that body, but I do not miss the fallibility. I prefer this perfected state. Still, I must remind myself that my essence belongs here, now, in this biosynthetic vessel.”

  Wholly crap. Is she saying what I think she’s saying? It would explain the flawless skin and perfect posture. But how is that even possible?

  “It was compiled just for you at great expense,” Ore says.

  “What about you? What is your assignment?”

  I don’t like Alfaeus. He’s smirking, thinking he’s caught me off guard with his question. And he has.

  I hesitate, thinking.

  “I know what he does,” Citrina announces. “He is a Youngling Guide.” Her eyes pan the table. “I saw him looking through the Palisade at the offspring.”

  “Is that right?” Geode asks, his brown eyes shine as he takes a bite from a new plate set before him. It’s piled high with an assortment of brightly colored foods I can’t identify because they’re all square with rounded corners. “Are you a Guide?”

  “Go on,” Citrina insists, “tell them, I am correct.”

  Alfaeus rolls his whole head this time. “Mother. There is no way you can know a man’s contribution cycle by looking at him, especially when he lacks appropriate sorting bonds.” He raises one hand and points at his green wristband.

  “She’s right.” I say, “How did you know?”

  “The way you looked at the child in the Squalid.”

  “What way was that?”

  Citrina leans forward. “As one who would make a Youngling Guide.”

  “It’s awful, living the way they are, like the ancients.” Amethyst shakes her head.

  “Forced to raise their own children—can you imagine,” Geode agrees.

  “Your contribution cycle must be draining.” Amethyst shakes her head.

  “The little boy looked happy,” I say.

  “Of course he did, he’s never known anything other than Squalid living.” Geode continues but is interrupted by Alfaeus.

  “Yes, and I blame parentage. It’s not natural.” Alfaeus whips his head from Geode, to glare at Citrina. “Isn’t that right, Mother?”

  The blue-clad server has been standing off to one side since dinner began. She’s served and poured our drinks, cleared the dishes from the first two courses, and now strides through the dining area holding another impossible amount of plates.

  She announces the main course is some kind of chicken I’ve never heard of and I’m afraid to ask questions. So I just watch as she bows low and passes plates.

  Her arms extend to unnatural lengths like growing boughs on a sapling—bendy, but strong. Her blue uniform shirt is plain, but low cut. Alfaeus grins for the first time, staring at the voluptuous server beside him. She has a subtle blue light rimming the pupils of her eyes. For a second it flickers and then I know it’s more than a reflection of the lighted dinner setting, its electricity.

  They’ve got a robot maid, I realize and am surprised by the pang of jealousy I feel. I mean, this is my second encounter with androids today and the first was not a pleasant experience, but I was weaned on The Jetsons. What kid in his right mind didn’t want a robot-maid like Rosie? Still, seeing that ambition in practice is strange. Like science fiction turned reality.

  The part that ruins it for me is the way Alfaeus watches the feminine machine with a gaze that makes me feel like I’m trespassing.

>   Freaky Weirdo.

  I scoot my chair further from his.

  By the time dinner is over I’m nauseated. I could’ve eaten a lot more than I actually did but the food tasted weird. Everything looked weird and the textures were distinctly gelatinous.

  No matter which fare I tried, every one of them, whether water, dessert, or protein in the main course, they all left an aftertaste of some taste I can’t describe.

  So when the robotic maid, with her corn-silk braid and glowing eyes, approaches one last time to offer coffee and sugar cake, I refuse. She complies, but cites that I’ve not eaten enough to sustain me, that a lack of appetite is symptomatic of illness and that I should summon a Healer if I’m unwell.

  Everyone looks wide-eyed at her suggestion. So I do, too. Pretend that I’m shocked and then lie.

  “I take my larger meals earlier in the day and eat lighter in the evening.” Everyone looks at me like I’m the freaky weirdo which is my cue to make up an excuse.

  “I’ve got work in the morning.” I don’t wait for acknowledgement, but stand and wave, thanking them all for the hospitality and offering to see myself out.

  Citrina still follows, probably making sure I find the right archway.

  “Thank you again for inviting me.”

  She smiles, eyes full of kindness. “I’ve never met a citizen as thankful. We simply upheld Doyen’s Law of Reciprocity.”

  “Doyen.” My ears prick up at the word and I want to ask what it means, but the doorway between us closes before I can.

  The sky outside is dark though the lamps keep nearly every inch well-lit. No one roaming the night or walking a dog. I suddenly wonder if there’s a curfew and wish I had thought to check.

  Curious and lacking options, I head for the see-through wall that Citrina called the Palisade. Seems no one over there is out either. The street lights are much dimmer, though, so I can barely see beyond the corner of the closest apartment building.

  I touch the pouch in my pocket and wonder, “Can you take me over there?”