by Leahy, R. J.
Five years. Somewhere in my mind, a timeline intersects. “Devon.”
“Yes. I may not have been able to arrest you, but I felt safer having you on a short leash. We’d been monitoring Mr. Blaze for some time, allowing him to continue his illegal activities in exchange for information. Not that there was any conscious collaboration on his part, but criminals are easy to manipulate. In your case, all I had to do was make sure he learned the truth about you.”
“Wouldn’t it have been simpler to just have me eliminated?”
“Believe me, I was tempted more than once, but for some reason, I always held my hand. Maybe it was gut instinct that one day you’d be useful, or maybe I just enjoyed watching your fall; to go from being a Liedercounselor to living as a shade, hiding in the shadows, forced to do the bidding of a drug-addicted psychopath.”
“Not much different from my previous life.”
His face turns deep red. “That’s twice you’ve insulted me. I would not risk a third.”
“There’s nothing you can threaten me with now.” I gaze at the couch, the cushions still depressed where she lay. “Why?”
He looks momentarily confused. “Ah, the girl. I had nothing to do with that. She’d burned herself what, about eight months ago?”
I nod. She was cooking and reached out to grab the handle of a boiling pot. I told her it was nothing, that it would heal on its own, but she was worried about infection. She went to the clinic for treatment. “You turned her foul.”
He taps his ash onto the floor. “Not me. Enhancement is a separate division; you know that. But fences always make good candidates. They come in contact with so many unsavory people. Hers was simply the next name on the list. Just routine police work. Nothing personal.”
Nothing personal. The sound of distant gunfire filters in through the window. Abby’s dream of bringing the quarters together may be dead, but she did get her revenge on Kingston and now she’ll have helped bring Keillor down. That is something, anyway. “Shouldn’t you be in hiding?” I ask.
“Should I?”
“The Ministry will be breathing down the Council’s neck for their failure in controlling the riots. The Council will need a scapegoat and you were made to order. They’ve been looking for years for an excuse to expel you—or worse.”
He smiles. “They have, haven’t they? Can’t say I’ve made many friends among the board. Oh, and I see your point. These riots have been the worse ever recorded. The death of the Angel certainly ignited the people, didn’t it?” He takes a drag. “Or should I say, our Angel.”
A coldness creeps over me. Ever since Pen first related the story of her and Abby’s escape from the G.D., something has been nagging at me, just below the surface. I couldn’t quite put a finger on it, until now. Too many coincidences; too much good luck.
“I don’t believe you,” I say, but there’s little conviction in my words.
“Yes you do. You believe me because deep down you know she could have never survived a purge, any more than she could have escaped the Garden District. You believe me because you know full well that no resistance movement has ever operated, could ever operate, so long in the open, especially with that idiot Kingston at the helm. Tell me, who do you suppose released those pamphlets throughout the city?”
I feel dizzy. My head is pounding, as much from confusion as pain. He’s lying; trying to cover up for his own incompetence, just like before. He’s lost control of the city and now he’s pretending it was all part of a plan. I try to remember everything that’s happened, to find some hole in his story, but I can’t concentrate. The memories of the last few days are too jumbled, too scattered. “No. No, you had her arrested.”
He sighs. “Blueshirts. Their incompetence can usually be counted upon, so naturally they chose this occasion to stumble across her and make an arrest. The Angel operation was covert. Few even within the Council were aware of our activities. I couldn’t just order her release without arousing suspicion, so I had no choice but to take possession of her myself. I had hoped Kingston would attempt a rescue. I practically sent the fool an invitation, having her delivered to the One Twenty Seven in that way, but it turns out he wanted her even less than I did.”
Kingston. He’d wanted Abby out of the way. Was he working for the Council? No, that’s impossible. I don’t even realize I’m speaking aloud. “Kingston?”
“Our first choice to lead the resistance, but he proved useless. We drove him out two years ago with the idea that he could incite the quarters, but he failed miserably. The man simply has no charisma. So we turned to the girl. We knew of her anti-government leanings of course—just as we knew of her mother’s.”
Something Abby said comes back to me. “Aneurysm?”
He shrugs. “Anyway, we were well aware of the girl’s continued contact with Kingston. He had failed to ignite open rebellion, but at least he’d formed the basis of a resistance. We hoped she would be the spark to set things in motion.” He took a draw from the cigarette. “Naturally, we were correct.”
I feel crushed under the weight of his words. I want to shut him out, to stop listening. My denial is barely a whisper. “Lies…”
“Don’t be a boor. Remember your training.”
A Counselor’s judgment cannot be clouded by preconceived notions. In the face of overwhelming evidence, even the unpleasant fact must be accepted as truth.
So this was all a Council operation. The resistance, me, Abby, Devon; everyone made to dance like so many marionettes. Keillor’s right. Somewhere inside, I think I’ve always suspected, but I didn’t want to believe it. But why? What were they trying to accomplish? I have more questions than answers, but I hardly care anymore.
He studies the glowing ash of his cigarette. “Call it providence that I never killed you,” he continues. “After all, who better to break into a Counselor Station, than an ex-Counselor? By the way, using my name to instill suspicion in Liedercounselor Remy was inspired. He and I have never seen eye to eye. His distrust however, has been duly noted and will be addressed at a later date. Knowing Remy, I imagine the encounter was a painful one?”
It’s a rhetorical question and if not, it should be. I don’t answer.
“No doubt. But as I said, this was a covert operation and he was not—as they say—in the loop. Besides, had he gone easy on you, it would have only raised your suspicions.”
How many were, I wonder? How many were in the loop. “Faisal?”
“One of mine. I don’t think he ever fully appreciated what we were doing, but he was dependable. I was not happy losing him. Still, collateral losses are to be expected in these situations. The raid on Mr. Devon’s place was unfortunately, unavoidable. We’d lost track of the weapons we allowed to ‘slip’ into Kingston’s hands. When they reappeared on our sensors with the tags still in place, it was clear what Kingston’s intentions were. I couldn’t allow Devon to kill the girl. I needed her to die out there among the people, not at the hands of a known gangster. I hope you appreciate that none of the Counselors involved in the raid targeted either one of you?”
He crushes the cigarette out on the table. “Now then, are we all caught up?”
“Except for one thing. Why are you telling me all this?”
“Just following orders.” He checks his watch. “I’m afraid we’re out of time.” Standing, he readjusts his coat before replacing his hat and clapping once. The door opens and the four Counselors return, stepping briskly. “Take him.”
SEVENTEEN
I’m placed in the back of a shiny black sedan, a bull-necked Counselor at my side. Keillor sits up front with the driver. The ride takes us past burned-out buildings and streets littered with the remains of looting, as well as a few bodies. Columns of smoke float upward in the distance. We encounter no mobs and I wonder if Keillor has tracked a route around them, or if the city has finally sated its blood lust.
A large security force greets us at the entry to the Garden District. We weave slowly past barricade
s and armored vehicles, the sedan receiving salutes from low-level Counselors as we pass. The gates are opened and I get my first glimpse inside.
It’s deserving of its name. Lush green lawns greet us as we slide almost silently into the restricted area. Enormous beds of flowers whose name I wouldn’t begin to know, line both sides of the roadway. Glancing down side streets, I can see tall trees gracing the courtyards of elegant homes. It’s beautiful, far even beyond even the Delphi district and its beauty breaks my heart.
Now I know why so few are allowed in. Who could see this and ever be satisfied with a life outside the Garden? This is the life Reed deserved, but one she could never have imagined. This is where Abby and Pen were born, what they awoke to every morning and to which they could never return. As the car glides further into the Garden, I think I understand Pen a little better now.
We come to a stop before a tall building. Glass and metal, it’s stylish and well designed, nothing like the grim facades outside the gates. I’m assisted out of the car, held between to Counselors. My ankle is still throbbing and my ribs are making themselves known. I cough and grit my teeth against the pain.
There are no signs above the doors, no indication of the building’s purpose. I’m taken up the steps and through the doors to the elevator. Keillor inserts a card into the slot above the buttons and presses for the top floor. No one speaks as we watch the numbers tick by.
The doors open to an elegantly appointed room: twelve-foot ceilings; thick, textured carpet in red and gold; heavy velvet drapes with gold tassels. The air is touched with the scent of lilacs. There’s a sitting area in the center of the room and I’m placed in a large, upholstered chair. Keillor says nothing as he leads his men from the room. I’m left alone, clutching my chest and wheezing.
A side door opens and a man walks in. Well dressed in a grey suit and colorful tie, white handkerchief peeking out from the front pocket. He’s older, much older than I am, with grey hair and wearing gold-rim glasses.
I know this man. I have seen his image a thousand times, on the DVL, on billboards and in newspapers. Yet, there is something different about him in person, something I can’t identify but that makes me stare awkwardly.
He goes to one of the large windows and looks down over the city. “I understand this is your first visit to the Garden District. Beautiful isn’t it? Perhaps the last beautiful place in all the world.”
He sighs and moves from the window to sit across from me. There are no Counselors, no bodyguards of any kind. Just the two of us alone.
“Director General?” I say.
“Yes. Forgive me, I am unused to introducing myself.” He raises a finger and the side door opens again.
A man in waiter’s livery comes in carrying a tray with a teapot and two delicate china cups. A small plate holds biscuits. The servant sets the tray down and pours both cups before leaving as silently as he entered.
“Chamomile tea,” the Director says, lifting the cup to his lips. “I find it wonderfully soothing for the nerves.”
My cup remains untouched. Another time I might have been awed to sit in the presence of the Director General, but this is not another time. I’m tired and confused and numb from pain. Not physical pain but the deep, unreachable pain of loss; of Pen and Abby, but mostly of Reed. The situation is so surreal that I wonder if this isn’t some trick of my mind, some survival mechanism. I can easily imagine I’m in an interrogation cell somewhere, screaming. Maybe this is what madness feels like.
“What is it you want?” I ask, brusquely. No reason to even feign obsequiousness, not now. They have nothing to threaten me with. Reed is gone and my fate is sealed.
He ignores the rudeness. “I simply wanted to meet you. I have been told many times that an ex-Counselor is not possible, yet here you are. That makes you a very unusual man and I admire unusual men. They’re so rare these days.”
He takes another sip of his tea. “But perhaps I should not be so surprised. Counselors as a rule are quite resourceful and Obercounselor Keillor says you were one of his best agents.”
“Forgive me if I don’t take that as a compliment.”
A tight smile. “I understand. It is difficult to look back kindly upon an institution with which one has lost faith.” He swirls the cup in his hand, breathing in the aroma. “Have you read much history?”
“Not much, but then, it’s pretty thin reading.”
A wide grin. “Very true. We like to keep the official history of the city short. The masses have no need of more. Better for them to concentrate on the present. But as I say, you are an unusual man. You have been to places they have never seen.”
“Have I?”
“No need to be circumspect. You may speak freely here. Are you aware of how many times our city has been rebuilt?”
He asks the question casually, as though the mere insinuation that there was a previous city isn’t a treasonous act.
“Three,” he says, not waiting for an answer. “Three times we have destroyed ourselves and three times we have crawled up from the ashes to start again, always reduced, always less than what we were before. I do not believe we can survive a another fall.”
I think back to the map etched into the wall in the tunnel. The old city was much larger than it is now.
“The reason for the decline is always the same: insufficient food. Land that used to be fertile becomes fallow and we can no longer feed ourselves. Sadly, the next course of events is always the same: fear followed by the collapse of the social order followed by mass starvation. Our species is nothing if not predictable. I have worked hard to prevent this from happening again.”
“By setting the city against itself; by destroying it?”
“Oh no, you misunderstand entirely. We aren’t trying to destroy the city; we’re trying to save it. The wall is testimony to that. Please, try the tea.”
I reach for the cup, but the effort results in a coughing fit. The pain in my ribs is like a hot poker to my chest and I double over in the chair.
When I look up, he is holding his embroidered silk handkerchief out to me. I take it and hold it to my mouth, splattering it with specks blood. For a fleeting instant, I have the ridiculous urge to apologize. “That wall will kill twelve million people.”
“And save fifty million, let’s not forget that.” He sets the cup down. “However, I have always felt the Council underestimated the civil unrest that would follow sealing the gates without cause. I believe it would raise an uproar, even among those not friendly to the Huenta or Aramaic quarters.”
“You really think the other quarters would care?”
“About their deaths? Possibly not. But people aren’t stupid. They might easily accept the genocide of their neighbors, even cheer, but it wouldn’t be long before they began to wonder if they weren’t next. That could lead to uncertainty.”
“And uncertainty invites chaos.”
“Precisely.”
“So you needed a reason to close the gates. A city-wide riot would give you that reason.”
He smiles. “You see right to the heart of the things, I like that. Yes, but getting an entire city to rise up at the same moment is not as easy as it sounds.”
“No, I can’t imagine it would be.”
He leans forward. “The trick is to give them all something to believe in, something every quarter can rally around.”
“The Angel of the City. Your idea?”
A slight bow of the head. “A lesson gleaned from an old religion; a martyr.”
“She gave them hope.”
“Exactly.”
“Then you killed that hope.”
“No, not I. That would have been counterproductive. Hope had to die, but it had to die out there, among them, so that each quarter, each faction, would blame the other.”
“Risky. Doesn’t sound like something the Council would go along with.”
He sits back, picking up the cup. “No, but I like to think of myself as an unusual man as well. It was
not easy promoting Keillor over the objections of the Council, but he has proved himself indispensable, as have you, in your own way.”
“So you ran this entire operation yourself, right under the nose of the Council. Impressive.”
“Thank you, but I have done only what is necessary. After what the city has endured these last few days, even the most anti-government agitator will agree that sealing the gates is the only means of restoring order. Then, at the appropriate time, we will let slip that a new, more virulent plague has broken out in the sequestered quarters. At that point, no one will question why they must remain closed.”
He shrugs. “Then we will simply let nature take its course. We will gain the land we need and do so without a breakdown in the social order. There will be no collapse, no civil war. Society will survive.”
No mass executions. No resettlements. Nothing to blame the government. When news of the ‘plague’ breaks, the Ministry might even be lauded as saviors of the people. “But in the end…”
“In the end?” Another sip of tea. “In the end, we are all doomed, are we not?”
“Some of us sooner than others.”
“Ah yes and so we come to you. You may not realize it, but you represent a bit of a predicament for us. Interrogation by the Council would raise questions I would rather not have asked.”
“Uncertainty again.”
“Quite.”
“But you get can around the Council. You’ve already proven that.”
“True, I could have you killed at any time, but I won’t, and for two reasons. One, whatever the means of your death, news would eventually leak out. Secrecy within the Council is not what it used to be. People know about you. They know you helped the Angel. Your death at the hands of the government could be destabilizing. I’ve used the death of one martyr to my advantage, but I have no desire to create another.”
“That’s one reason. And the other?”
He smiles. “Because I simply don’t wish to.”
“Thanks, but somehow I doubt you’re going to let me just walk out of here.”