by S. K. Falls
I hear footsteps and I crane my neck to see over the head of the woman in front of me. Two Chinese Monitors approach the chalkboard: Monitor Wang and a young woman with her hair in a bun. I remember her; she was one of the other Monitors I saw last night.
Monitor Wang bounds to the chalkboard, his gait as enthusiastic as it was last night. The woman looks over us, beautifully remote, her eyes glittering like black ice in the sunlight. A small smile plays on her lips, cold as the morning air. Small puffs of white leave her mouth as she breathes.
Monitor Wang picks up a piece of chalk and writes in English:
SERVICE BEFORE SELF.
Then, under that,
FUGITIVES BROUGHT TO JUSTICE: 59
December 12, 2078.
There is a strange sort of tension in the crowd of New Amanians around me. The lines don't move much, but I can see the faces of people—where before they were placid, waiting, they now look tense, uneasy. I wonder what has blown in on the wind. I can sense that something bad is happening but am blind to the cause.
Monitor Wang clears his throat.
"May you serve the Great Land," he says.
"Glory to the Great Land," the crowd intones.
He folds his hands behind him and begins to pace, occasionally casting his gaze out over the crowd, stopping on a face here or there. When his eyes alight on me, I feel prickling, as if his gaze is something tactile, full of teeth. "Let me introduce myself to the newcomers. I am Monitor Wang.” He points to the young woman. “This Monitor Ng.
“New Amanian fugitives captured doubled since yesterday." He holds up two stubby fingers to demonstrate his point. The meaning of his words sinks in, and a beat begins to pound in my temple. I look sideways at Shale, but he's staring straight ahead, no sign of worry in the way he stands.
"New cell of fugitives captured yesterday." Monitor Wang pauses just long enough to spit on the ground. “Parasites!” He unfolds his hands and begins to walk back and forth in front of us. He reminds me of pictures of pacing jungle beasts I've seen from before the War. "Now they question for connections." He stops and stares at us, a grin slashing across his face. Monitor Ng, the female Monitor, nods. That strange, detached smile is still on her lips.
Monitor Ng steps forward, the nascent sun’s rays glinting off her almost blue-black hair. "Hard work is important. You are New Amanian, but you don’t have to live like dirty fugitives. You can build new life for yourself.” She sweeps the crowd with her gaze, letting this information digest. “Go to office for sign in. Remember: bad harvest means no food. May you serve Great Land."
“Glory to the Great Land.” the crowd echoes. We’ve only been here one night and already the net is closing in.
We march with the other two rows on either side of us, out of the compound and down a small dirt road. I watch as tiny dust clouds rise up in the wake of our footsteps.
When we arrive at a minuscule wooden shack, we stop. Immigrants enter the shack one by one. They come back out wearing a hat with a pointed top and carrying various supplies.
The crowd is quiet, but the tension roils just below the surface. I feel it in my bones, the heavy, reverberating footsteps of an approaching threat. The captured fugitives might be Captain Jerome and his team, which means our timeline has been cut short. It is imperative that we move out of this compound to somewhere safer.
CHAPTER NINE
When it is time for me to go in to the small office, I gesture to Ceres and we enter together.
Inside, a middle-aged Monitor with leather-like skin frowns at us. "Xin de?"
I stare at him. "Pardon me?"
He blows an impatient breath through his teeth, wet and whistling. "New? New girls?"
"Yes." I clasp Ceres's hand. "We're new."
He looks down at a sheet of paper, checking for something. "ID," he says, without looking up.
I hand him the plastic Chinese ID—Kalliope Palmer’s—and hope that he doesn’t notice the slight trembling of my hand. I nod to Ceres and she hands him hers, too. He studies the cards, nods, marks something on the sheet and hands them back. We appear to have passed, for now. I try not to let my shoulders sag in relief.
"You will plant beans." He points to a shelf. "Take hat, boots, and bag. Trowel and seeds are in bag. Plant all seeds before shift is over. Washrooms on north and south ends of fields."
I glance at the shelf and turn back to him. "All right. But first, I have a question about my friend, Daliya.” I gesture to Ceres as I speak confidently. Perhaps if I say it like I expect it, they will give me what I ask for. “She needs a doctor. How can I make an appointment for her to see one?" I will myself not to perspire, not to give a hint that we have anything to hide. I am so afraid that I will call Ceres by her real name or say that she is my sister. If I forget, if I make a mistake, I will put all of us in danger. A part of me wonders how long before one of us slips, before the game is up.
The Monitor folds his arms across his thin chest and glares at me. "She got injury? Serious injury?"
"No, it's for a check-up." How can I explain to him what she's been through? The nightmares that keep her thrashing through the night? "Please. She...she needs to be checked." She needs to talk to someone who can help her understand the things she saw, the things that broke her. Surely a doctor—even a Chinese one—would soften once she saw the plight Ceres had been reduced to by her own government?
The Monitor laughs—actually laughs, his eyes crinkling with mirth. "No check-up," he says. "Go. Work."
I stare at him a moment longer. I wonder if he's always been a hateful man, or if being in this position of power has eaten away at everything good inside of him, everything that makes him human. I grasp Ceres's hand again and we collect our hats, boots, and bags before we head outside.
We pass by Shale as he waits in line. He stares at me, his brow furrowed. We need to discuss the fugitives who’ve been captured, but we can’t do it now, where we might be overheard. I feel the weight of Monitor Ng’s gaze on me, and I keep walking. We go to where she waits, a few yards down by the side of the road, a pad of paper in her hand. From so close, I see that her face is smooth and pale, like she is made of glass.
"ID," she says.
Once again, Ceres and I hand over our plastic IDs. She marks something down and hands our cards back. "You are checked in twice on way in and twice on way out. If you try to escape, we will put out radio alert. All officials in Great Land will be notified. You will be captured and put to death. Okay?"
I know she must understand what she's saying, but the way she says the words is as though she's telling me that it might rain tomorrow. I force myself to nod. "Okay."
She waves us by and we make our way farther down the winding road, the icy wind whipping and grabbing at our clothes and hats. The sun has risen and when we emerge into an open area, I stop and gape at the sight before us. There are neat, precise squares of land as far as the eye can see. Each square has been flooded with muddy brown water—just as Trigger said it would be. This must be where they farm fish and beans. The water reflects the yellow, gold, and orange of the early morning sky, turning the fields into a quilt stitched out of fiery squares of watery fabric.
A few women go around us; their movement jolts me back into the present. Without hesitation, they slide their feet into the rubber boots, shoes and all, and step down into the water. Some of them spread out their fishing nets, while others begin to dig in the bunds surrounding each square parcel of field. I smile at Ceres, trying to appear positive. “Let’s get to work.” When she looks at me, there is no joy in her eyes.
◊ ◊ ◊
Planting winter beans in these mucky fields is a tough job, one that leaves us sweating in our wool garments in spite of the chilly air. The mud underneath my feet constantly sucks at me, and my too-big rubber boots slide off. Before too long, my feet are sodden. The straw hat protects my face from the wind and the sun, but my hands are chapped and raw within a half hour.
I look at Cere
s, at her hands caked with dried mud, her mouth cinched tight as she grapples with the frozen ground. There are a few other women around us, but they're intent on their own whispered conversations. Monitor Ng patrols the fields, weaving around the orderly square parcels of water, watching for any deviant behavior.
I step close to Ceres. "Just do the bare minimum so it looks like you're keeping busy. I'll do your share of the work."
She looks at me, a line of sweat running down her face, and shakes her head. "N-no." Then she grazes my belly with a finger.
I understand what she means, and a lump forms in my throat. She's worried about her niece or nephew.
"I'll be all right," I say gently. "Promise."
But she shakes her head again, and stubbornly stabs at the ground with her trowel while I look on. I sigh and go back to work.
After about an hour of digging and working in the sludgy mud that sucks at my rubber boots, my tunic is plastered to my back and rivulets of sweat run down my face and chest. My bladder hangs heavy and my back feels made of stiff iron rods. Even though I don’t look pregnant, I’ve noticed my body changing. It tires so much faster now than it used to, and aches and pains I never had before flare up regularly now.
When I hear footsteps, I stop and turn, my heart racing because I expect a Monitor. But it is only Shale. Relieved, I step closer to him, eager to talk about what was said on the courtyard this morning. “The announcement...”
He nods. "It’s not safe for us here anymore." His eyes scan the fields as we talk.
I’d realized the same thing, of course, but I’m still struck with misgivings. A gust of winter breeze blows a lock of my hair against my face. Tucking it behind one ear, I say, "Where would we go? We just arrived. If we left so soon, wouldn't it be suspicious?"
He rubs the back of his neck and I notice a ghost of a wince. "Yes. We need more information before we act, of course. That's what I needed to tell you, actually. I had a chance to speak with Trigger about it this morning; we’ve both been assigned to rebuild that wall. He says he knows where we could find out more about the cell they've captured, and what they might know about us."
I notice that his movements are a little too stiff, just a little too careful. He's in pain. Under his clothes, his bandages are probably blooming with blood, his bullet wounds yawning open every time he moves. I force myself to focus. "Where?"
"It's a place underground, called a yez—a nightclub. It used to be a warehouse. Anyway, the yez only operates during the night."
"Is he sure?" The last thing we need is to walk into a situation that's even worse than the one we are in now.
"Yes." There's something about Shale's eyes—a shuttered look—that tells me he won't say more. “But I don't expect you to come. I'll fill you in when I get back."
"No, I want to. Ceres can stay in the wopung while we're gone; she’ll be all right for a couple of hours."
"That's not what I'm worried about." He looks down at my belly. The glance is fleeting, but I feel the weight of his gaze as if he'd put his hand on my stomach. "I'm not sure what this place is going to be like. Trigger says it’s a place without inhibitions, without rules."
"I've been in dangerous situations before.” My mind wars between a positive response to Shale's protectiveness and annoyance that he feels he knows what's best for me. Don’t I have the right to decide this for myself? It’s as if pregnancy has stolen my right to speak for myself. I remind myself that he said nothing of the sort, and take a deep breath. "I'd like to come. When are you leaving?"
Shale stares at me a long moment, as if he wants to say much more. But in the end all he says is: "Tonight. There’s supposed to be some training session later on. We can go after that."
◊ ◊ ◊
My muscles protest all the hard work I’ve done today. I am listening to the sound of our feet making the walk home—shuffle-drag, shuffle-drag—when suddenly, the rhythm is punctuated by a thud. I look up to see that a woman well out in the front of the line has dropped like a lead ball. She lies motionless on the cold ground as the line bobs and weaves around her, as though she is merely a rock in their path.
As I watch, Monitor Ng approaches the woman with a small pail of water at her side. With one hand on the bottom of the pail, she upends it with a quick tip of her slender wrist. Spluttering, gasping, the woman sits up, one hand at her brow. Monitor Ng smiles calmly. “Take your place in line.”
The woman scrambles to her feet, shivering. Cold dislike for Monitor Ng drips down my spine, but I keep my face a mask of indifference as my portion of the line passes her slowly. I feel her empty eyes on me as I walk by. Her fingers tap the side of the empty plastic pail, keeping rhythm with my steps.
After our IDs are checked once more, we wait outside the office to return the bags and hats and boots. It is dark now, and I have the sense that night comes early in winter. The world gives a sense of having buttoned up, huddling in on itself with warmth. The wind carries with it the promise of snow.
CHAPTER TEN
Back in our wopung, I have Ceres wash up first and sit on one of the cots. I wrap a blanket around her shoulders while I heat up some soup, my mind spinning at the array of colorful jars and sacks of grain. It is still hard to believe we don’t have to worry about food. But how much longer will that be true? How much longer until we are thrust out into the unknown once more as the net closes in?
Our day isn’t over, tired as we are. We have yet to go to a training session, where we’ll be taught the ways of righteous living. I found out today that these sessions are held three times a week. They refused to tell me what all they entailed, however. I feel a swoop of nerves at the unknown. But I can’t afford to let my anxiety show, not when Ceres is already so afraid.
I sit across from her, on my cot, with a bowl of my own. After a few spoonfuls of steaming broth, I speak quietly. “Are you all right?”
She looks up at me, her brilliant golden eyes distant. “Y-yes.” But she says it without feeling.
“Are you scared?”
Her face crumples then, and tears begin to fall. She nods. Setting my bowl down, I go to her cot and pull her into my lap. Some of her hot soup sloshes onto my arm, but I don’t even feel it. “It’s okay.” I stroke her soft hair. “I promise I’m going to keep you safe.”
“M-my f-fits, Vikki...” She trails off, her breath catching in her throat.
I understand what has her so frightened. She was hauled off to the Asylum in New Amana because they said she was defective, unworthy, because she used to have fits. I kiss the top of her head even as anger grips my chest—anger at people who managed to convince her she isn’t good enough. “You haven’t had one since we found each other at the camp,” I remind her. “And you told me you haven’t had one in years. Maybe you’ve grown out of them. Besides, they don’t have Asylums here, Ceres.” I lean in closer. “I’m going to find out where we can go that’s safer,” I whisper. “Okay? That’s what Shale and I are going to do tonight. We won’t be here much longer.” I study her face, wondering how much she understands of the fact that those fugitives were caught. I decide there’s no reason to tell her what exactly it might imply.
She nods. After a few more moments, she sits back up and picks up her spoon again.
After we’re finished with supper, we head out in the cold, our breath like white smoke. The sky is gunmetal streaked with orange, studded with stars. I breathe in the air, marveling at how fresh it is. Can it be our world is truly like this now—brilliant and colorful, clean and clear?
I peek at Ceres, walking slightly behind me, her steps slow and methodical. On impulse, I grab her cold hand in mine. She darts a glance at me, startled. When I grin, a ghost of an answering smile hovers on her lips. There are a million things that could still go wrong. We may be at the beginning of another long, hard journey. But still, at this small sign of my sister’s joy, my heart soars.
◊ ◊ ◊
The night is filled with the steady thrum of con
versation. Ahead of us, dozens of New Amanian men and women walk in a loose group toward the iron gate through which we’d entered the compound last night. We file through the gate under the watchful gaze of a short Monitor. Another Monitor stands guard at the entrance of a low, nondescript beige building off to the left, just outside our compound. It is as bland and practical as the small, squat concrete houses we live in. I hadn’t noticed the unlit building last night in the darkness.
We file up to the bored Monitor at the entrance and hand her our IDs. After a cursory glance at them, she looks back up at us without feeling. She may as well have been looking at blocks of cement. “Enter, turn right.” I wonder where her mind is as her mouth repeats the words over and over. Does she have a family in the real world? Did she choose this job to provide for them? “Sit in classroom on floor.”
I do as she says, Ceres clutching the back of my jacket as we enter. The single bulb on the low ceiling illuminates the interior just enough so I can see where I’m going. There is a long, narrow corridor before us, the walls and floors the same drab beige color as the exterior of the building. At the far end of this corridor is an open door. From here, I can see New Amanian men and women seated on a dirty linoleum floor, their legs crossed. Though no one looks especially nervous, they are all completely silent.
My boots squeak on the floor as I walk into the bare room, echoing in the empty space.
The New Amanians on the floor are arranged into rows, and Ceres and I sit side by side. The room is poised, waiting. Every time an immigrant enters I look up, expecting that Shale will be next. But each time I am proven wrong. Trigger enters and, catching my eye, winks quickly before looking away. The stream of people coming in slows to a trickle and then stops. The entire compound is here, except for Shale. I haven't seen him since our talk this afternoon. After I saw how Monitor Ng treated the woman who fainted, after I realized just how cruel they can be, I can’t help but be worried for his safety. I am just starting to worry, wondering where he could be, when he enters.