The Salvation State

by Marcus Damanda

  Jeez, Rebecca thought, feeling her face redden. That was a nice first impression. You’re sharing a room with this person for at least two weeks. Be nice, Rebecca. “I’m here for cutting school.” She hoped the admission would put the conversation back on an amiable track. “Other things too, I guess. But that was the main thing.”

  Caroline smiled. “Cutting school…,” she said, letting out a low, scandalized whistle. “How criminal.”

  Unable to help herself, Rebecca smiled back.

  ****

  Second Salvations Camp 6: Angel Island

  “Everybody makes bad choices,” Mrs. Riggs said, her mouth curling in a small smile. “And we’re dealing with it, as parents do. She’s a child. She’ll learn.”

  It was still Friday, but she was dressed in her Sunday best. She held her husband’s hand, giving it a squeeze for the camera, then exhaled heavily as if to say, What more can a mother do?

  Ruth Black wasn’t fooled. Even the poor TV reception could not conceal the plain discomfiture in the woman’s bearing. And her anger was hardly even buried—more like a thin layer of dust had been hastily kicked over it. Ruth sniffed in pure disdain. Real women could bury their anger far more convincingly than that.

  The banner under the husband read: Pastor Mike, Youth Service Leader at Emmanuel Christian, New America Unity, Annapolis, Maryland.

  He nodded at his wife. “People need to see that everyone struggles with this. We’re not immune. I guess I’m just here to say, if we have to consider programs like these for our child, then anyone might have to. Don’t wait until it’s too late.”

  Ruth Black chuckled. “For you, Pastor Mike,” she said to the television, “it already is.”

  Chapter Four

  Casings

  Wednesday, August 19

  Damascus Teenage Retreat

  Rebecca checked her watch but did not slow her stride. Total time: eleven minutes, fifty-two seconds. Eight laps around the track was the rough equivalent of two miles. She frowned and picked up her pace. She was determined to lose nothing, physically, during the time she was here. She waved at Caroline in passing. From a wooden bench just off the side of the track, Caroline flashed her a tired “V for Victory” sign with her fingers.

  Five days in. Nine more to go. Just nine days.

  The best thing that could have been said for those first days was that there had been no time for boredom.

  Every day they got up at five thirty. After breakfast, morning services went from seven until eight thirty. Classes began at nine and lasted until noon, then resumed after lunch and went from one until four. Small-group spiritual counseling with Miss Gabrielle ate up the hour between five and six. Then there was dinner, evening services, the strap—just the one, unless you had demerits that day—and evening prayers. And then they had their assigned bible reading in the dorm before lights-out and bed.

  Caroline had gotten terribly homesick on the second and third nights. She had been a little better yesterday, though, and Rebecca dared to hope her new friend was through the worst of it. Neither of them had been this far from home or family before.

  Independence, such as there was to be had for the young and God-fearing, was an experience that began at age eighteen with Citizen Registry. Until then, most parents and teachers did what they could to shield children from the corruptions of the world—so much of New America still needed taming—and also from their own awakening realization of free will.

  Free will is God’s gift, her father often said. Going all the way back to the Garden. But it is also our greatest test in this life.

  The educators at DTR were, at their best, more like tutors than teachers, since students still received work electronically from their respective base schools. At their worst they were mere babysitters. Trying to learn algebra with nothing but palm computers for help had more than once nearly driven both Rebecca and Caroline frantic. Even now, in the hour everyone called Free Four, Caroline spent the time with a mess of papers at her side, trying to organize her True Science notes.

  Running, Rebecca felt her body and spirit unclench. Her head cleared. Her emotions balanced, growing ever steadier with the rhythmic slapping of her sneakers over asphalt.

  She hadn’t gotten in trouble once, not a single demerit, just as she had promised she wouldn’t. Neither had Caroline. Staying out of trouble wasn’t so hard when you were already in trouble, she reflected as she completed her tenth circuit of the track. The teachers and prefects at DTR, except for Miss Marcy, were more than happy to allow their young charges to do their time quietly and with minimum drama. And yet Rebecca and Caroline were rare in that they had gone so long—and from the very start—without a single correction of their behavior.

  For that, they—and a few others—were being rewarded tonight: a trip into town with Miss Paula and a meal at Daddy-O’s. Back home it wouldn’t have been a big deal. Here it was better than a party. They’d even get to miss evening services—although just being in Miss Paula’s company would likely make up for that.

  The hardest day-to-day thing, Rebecca reflected, had been keeping her mouth shut, especially with the stress of the schedule and no alone time at all. Even now, Rebecca could see Miss Marcy cruising down the thin causeway toward the track.

  Just give me one hour. Just one, God. Please.

  It wasn’t just the sight of Miss Marcy that bothered her, though. She was reluctant to admit it, even to herself—it was her devil’s half talking again—but she couldn’t help but feel an acute stab of jealousy every time she saw any of the prefects on their Revgrav scooters. When it was Miss Marcy, well, that just made it worse.

  You don’t deserve that. How Queen James doesn’t see right through you…

  The scooters were pure white, with the DTR logo and the black outline of a cross painted on their sides. Motorized and gas-fueled for propulsion, they could go up to forty miles per hour. The scooters didn’t actually have a reverse-gravity system, in spite of the brand name. Instead, they hovered by magnetic repulsion—which also auto-balanced the vehicles and made them nearly impossible to wreck. The opposing magnetic fields under their slim carriages created a light-bending effect that made the scooters look like they were leaving a fading trail of liquid metal behind them, even in daylight. Too cool.

  As Miss Marcy glided onto the track, Rebecca completed her last circuit and stopped when she reached Caroline again. She looked all around, panting, hoping to spot at least one other person who might have drawn the prefect’s attention. But there was no one else out here. Miss Marcy was here for either Rebecca or Caroline. Maybe both.

  “I smell trouble,” Caroline said, nodding at the incoming scooter.

  “Wonder what she wants,” Rebecca said, still catching her breath. “It’s not like she’s our counselor.” Probably here on her own. Probably wants to goad us into saying something stupid.

  “It won’t be anything good,” said Caroline, then cast her gaze earthward as the prefect stopped in front of them.

  Miss Marcy was the very opposite of Miss Paula in nearly every conceivable way. Taller, thinner, prettier, and twice as chatty, she should have been the popular one, the way people typically judged each other. But she delighted in the misery of others and did little to hide it—except for when Queen James was around. She was so openly nasty, in fact, that Rebecca didn’t think she had any friends among the other prefects—all of whom hung on every word the plumper, less-assuming Miss Paula said, following her lead in all things great and small.

  Rebecca wished it had been Miss Paula who had been sent to them, whatever the reason.

  “Blessings of the Lord,” Miss Marcy said, staying on the scooter and leaving it running.

  They returned the greeting. Rebecca followed Caroline’s example and averted her eyes. Miss Marcy was likely to interpret any look she received as an overt expression of disrespect.

  “You. Brown hair. Mouse. Your work is a mess. You’ll never get it in order like that. What made you want to
bring it outside?”

  Caroline fumbled for words but failed to make any.

  “Look, if you can’t clean that wreck up in the next three minutes, you’re better off just throwing it away and starting from scratch back at the dorm. The notes are all online anyway. I’ll time you. Ready? Go.”

  Rebecca heard a beep from a digital stopwatch.

  Fresh tears.

  C’mon, Caroline. Do not feed this troll. You know better.

  “I’ll need to check it,” Miss Marcy said. “Make sure you’ve organized it and not just piled it together. If you can’t do it, I’ll drop off one of the palm-coms to your room. You should save it on the school server anyway. Safer that way, yes?”

  Still no answer, only papers being shuffled in a breathy hurricane of desperation.

  “And you,” she said. “Ponytail. Horse-face—Rebecca, right? Look at me.”

  Rebecca looked up. “Yes, Miss Marcy. Rebecca Riggs.”

  They studied each other.

  God … please. I want to deck her. You’ve given me the skills to deck her. Help me stay cool.

  “Well, now, aren’t you a disgusting mess?” she said, looking Rebecca up and down.

  “I’ve been running, Miss Marcy. Strengthening the temple of my body.”

  Miss Marcy smirked. “Try not to touch me more than you have to. I’m supposed to take you to Mrs. James, God only knows what for. Do me a favor and at least wipe your hand sweat on your pants first, all right? I don’t feel like being slimed by you any more than necessary.”

  Feeling’s mutual. Wish I had a pair of gloves. Or a full body suit.

  At the push of a button, a second seat unfolded from the back storage compartment. Miss Marcy patted it. “On you get, then. You’ll need to clean up first, so no time to waste.”

  Rebecca climbed on and took hold.

  Then Miss Marcy’s watch beeped again. She snapped her fingers and received the stack of papers from Caroline, who still had her head down but had managed to compose herself. Miss Marcy looked them over, one page at a time. “My goodness,” she said. “Looks like you actually managed it. See? That’s the power of a little fear for you.”

  “Thanks, Miss Marcy.”

  “Hard for me to be sure, though. Never was much good in science class. Remind me, Mouse—you were sent here for grades, yes?”

  “Yes, Miss Marcy.”

  She tore the papers in half, dropped them on the track. “Redoing all this will help you remember the material, then. Wish someone had done this for me in science.”

  With Caroline’s face downturned, Rebecca could only gauge her reaction by the trembling of her whole frame. She wanted to meet Caroline’s gaze, to try to communicate in some way that she would help her get caught up back at the dorm. Heck, it was only one tear—maybe they could just tape the pages back together.

  But Caroline’s face was the only part of her that didn’t move, not even to shake.

  “Pick it up,” Miss Marcy said. “Here at DTR we recycle, you know.” And the scooter shot forward, even as Caroline went to her knees to pick up her trash.

  ****

  Daniel couldn’t believe it. I wasn’t born this lucky.

  The attendance deacon barcoded them at the church’s exit, but Daniel hardly noticed.

  This has to be some kind of sign. Maybe there’s a God after all.

  Beyond the attendance deacon, out in the blue-carpeted foyer near the double front doors, Pastor Harland was having a whispered but heated argument with, of all people, a technician. More specifically, an alarms technician. Daniel could see the Schmidt’s Securities truck in the parking lot and made out the same logo on the young woman’s shirt.

  “We don’t have a night watchman,” Pastor Harland hissed. He had delegated service farewells to the assistant pastor, whose eyes flitted back and forth between his boss and his flock uncomfortably. “We don’t have security cameras. ‘Just’ one night is one night too long. This has to be fixed today.”

  If he was trying to be discreet, he was doing a piss-poor job of it.

  The technician shrugged apologetically. “Have a youth lock-in or something. There’s your free security. How about that?”

  Pastor Harland huffed in disgust. “What? With two hours’ notice?”

  How is this even possible? Daniel wondered as he and Mom received their cards and drew closer to the debate. Other churchgoers also seemed interested—but theirs would only be an idle curiosity. Daniel’s was far more practical. He hadn’t committed to actually stealing from the church yet. Mom had been allowed back at her old job on a probationary basis, so there’d be a check at the end of the week. But the last of their money had gone into the offering plate today—even after they had sold their only computer at the pawn shop.

  Daniel felt like he’d done a pretty good job of casing the place. Volunteering a few weekend hours of janitorial services had allowed him to verify that the office behind the chapel did indeed house the offering plates. It was reasonable to assume the money was in there, even though there wasn’t a safe. Daniel guessed it was about a fifty-fifty chance he’d at least get something if he could manage to jimmy the desk drawers and the offering plate cabinet.

  I’m not a thief. At least, I’m not one yet.

  But there was no food in their cupboards. And their power had been cut off. And their rent was late. And their car was almost out of gas. Again.

  And this opportunity… It was just so perfect.

  Pastor Harland ended the conversation with a quick “Blessings of the Lord” before Daniel and his mother passed him on their way out.

  “I feel like I see you every day now,” the assistant pastor said to them with a grin, plainly relieved to see Pastor Harland and the technician part company.

  “You pretty much do,” Mom chuckled. Damn, she was good at this. Then she looked at Daniel, obviously waiting for him to contribute.

  “So much to learn,” he said, trying to sound pleasant.

  ****

  Wendy Scruggs drove the truck all the way back to Schmidt’s parking lot before taking out her phone and checking her messages.

  From her brother, Barney: I think I know what to do in the matter of R.R. New info, praise His name. But it has to be this Friday. Will tell you more when I see you later. We need bigger wheels for you, something with a flatbed. Or a cement mixer or a dump truck. See what you can find. This is going to be fun!

  Wendy wondered if the techie truck would suffice. Knowing Barney, probably not.

  The second message was from a man she knew only as “DC.” He was talented enough, but he was also a bit of a worrier, which was irritating. His message, as ever, was direct and short: Tell me it worked. Please tell me that.

  Wendy decided to answer DC before her brother. I don’t know. H is a little obvious and eager. Subject may not have “bought it,” but has been circling the bait since surveillance started. If it doesn’t happen tonight, it doesn’t happen. Made sure of that. We’ll know tonight. She was then about to answer Barney, but DC’s response came immediately.

  Hope it does happen. Don’t want B involved in both. He’s unstable.

  He’s reliable. We’ll be done by Friday. Wendy waited. Once she was certain DC had nothing more to add, she texted Barney. DC is concerned about collateral damage.

  Minutes passed.

  Trust me, sister. It’ll be glorious.

  ****

  Miss Marcy parked the scooter next to the other six docked Revgravs. It was getting on toward five, after all, and it wouldn’t do for any of the prefects to be late for “spiritual counseling.” Wordlessly, Miss Marcy jerked her head back in a gesture that said, plainly enough, Get off.

  Rebecca got off, feeling a strange mix of exhilaration from the ride and relief at being able to let go of the driver. She could not keep herself from watching, though, as Miss Marcy operated the controls, first retracting the second seat and then tapping in the passcode that locked—and perhaps unlocked—the garage door.
>
  On the handlebar console screen, the passcode appeared only as a series of asterisks. But the passcode itself was so stupidly simple, Rebecca had no trouble making it out merely from watching Miss Marcy key it in: JesusC1.

  Anyone would have noticed. Really, it was impossible not to.

  Don’t even think it, Rebecca scolded herself. You’re on a mission of goodness here.

  Miss Marcy then took out her phone and dialed up Queen James. In a voice unnervingly sweet and deferential—an effort of transformation that actually registered in her facial expression—she told Mrs. James that she had gotten Rebecca, but that Rebecca needed to clean up and change before seeing her.

  Rebecca heard the sigh from the other end of the line.

  “Very well. Do encourage her to be quick, please.”

  Miss Marcy palmed the phone off, her features at once defaulting to her far more typical sneer. “I’m sure you heard that. What are you waiting for? Move it, or I’ll hurt you.”

  Knowing the way and believing her, Rebecca jogged off.

  Chapter Five

  Night Lights

  Rebecca checked herself again in the lobby bathroom mirror before proceeding to the head caretaker’s office. She looked all right, she guessed. She didn’t think she had any uniform violations, and she had pressed the shirt only this morning. Of course, originally she’d done that to be all the more presentable when going out on the town, but now she had to be at her absolute best for Queen James.

  Hair down. Cuffs buttoned. Perfectly calm.

  I can’t be in trouble. I haven’t done anything wrong. That I know of.

  It was 5:10 p.m., though. If she didn’t get going right now, she’d be in trouble for sure. Silently, she scolded herself for putting off the inevitable.