by Hannah Ross
It isn't just about dying. It's about getting old and frail, unable to do the most basic things that you used to take for granted. I'm nowhere close to a nursing home, but there are times when I have less energy, less vigor than twenty or even ten years ago. What will it be like when I'm older, when I have to rely on the children for grocery shopping or to get to doctor's appointments? Maybe it would be better to go before I become a burden to them.
She was so deeply immersed in her thoughts that she did not hear the door open, and was startled when her daughter walked in.
Kate's face was flushed, her hair messy, her eyes sparkling.
"What's that smell?" Rebecca wrinkled her nose. "It smells like burned rubber. And you didn't come home last night. Where have you been?"
Kate looked at her as if the question did not make any sense. "Out on the streets, of course."
"Marching with the mob?" Rebecca looked terrified. "Kate, you could have been arrested, or worse! I was there, I saw some of it. People were shot right in the street! What did you do, burn car tires?"
"Soon it will be the White Tower that burns."
Is this really my Kate? My sweet, gentle Kate? She sounds so…so ruthless.
"It's all coming out now, Mom. The tower of cards is about to fold in on itself. People are beginning to understand that we let ourselves be cheated out of our basic rights. People are out there, Mom, demanding freedom. Demanding NOAGE and the return of their reproductive rights. Demanding the return of their lost children."
Again startled, this time by seeing and hearing a side of her daughter she never knew existed, she said, "Tell me the truth, Kate. Lately, you haven't been home very often. This isn't just about a new boyfriend, is it?"
Kate blushed. "Actually, there is someone, and I'm sure you and Dad will like him. But yes, there's more. We're working on making a change. A true change this country so desperately needs."
"Don't you remember Tracy Locke, and how you had asked me to be careful for the sake of us all?"
Kate laughed softly and shook her head. "And did you listen to me, Mom? Did you really decide to close your eyes and live as though nothing happened? No. And you were right not to." She paused and gripped her mother's hand. "There's too much of you in me, you know. It will happen, Mom. This time it will. Things will not remain the way they have been. There will be rebellion. Secrets will be revealed, laws will be changed. And we'll be able to look for Benjamin."
15
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Alexander Dahl leaned back in the leather armchair behind his polished mahogany desk in one of the uppermost chambers of the White Tower. In his hand he held a glass of whiskey, from which he took an absent-minded sip. He did not usually indulge in alcohol during office hours, but this had been a rough week, and it was not over yet. He did, however, hope the feverishly busy part of it was done, and for the next couple of hours at least, he would have peace and quiet to think and plan ahead.
This hope was extinguished within a minute. There was a polite but firm knock on the door, and Frederick Pearson's anxious face could be seen peering through the crack.
"Mr. President? I have the most recent report here."
Dahl made a slow, almost lazy gesture with his hand. "Come in."
Pearson edged forward and placed a black-covered file on the President's desk. It was stamped Confidential. Dahl laid a hand on the report but did not open it. He looked at Pearson instead.
"Where do we stand?" His voice was as sharp as his stare. He looks nervous. Bad news, then.
Despite being the President's personal assistant for a year and a half, Pearson never felt at ease when he entered the spacious, luxurious office where Dahl spent most of his working hours. Now it was worse. The atmosphere in the Tower was akin to that of a ship caught in a deadly storm, where everyone is trying to do what they can to survive. Dahl, however, appeared quite cool and collected. His eyes, like chips of bluish-grey ice, stared at Pearson with unmerciful scrutiny.
"We've issued a warning to every newspaper and newsroom, Mr. President, that they are not to report the worst of it. However, the mob is like a flood threatening to sweep over everything. I've never seen anything like it, not even during the food stamp protests."
Alexander Dahl nodded. It was impossible to read his expression. "What is it they want?"
Pearson gave a weary sigh. "I wish we could define it more precisely, Mr. President. As of now, we haven't established definite leaders. What do they want? Everything and nothing. There is talk of the abolition of reproductive laws, the opening of the Boundary, and of course, NOAGE."
"Have you released an official statement regarding NOAGE? It must be made clear the entire story is based on nonsense. An urban myth. The old legend of the Philosopher's Stone, unworthy of being taken seriously by intelligent people."
"The statement was released two hours ago. It's in the report. However, this leak by Norman Royce was unfortunate, to say the least."
For the first time, a hint of emotion, cold anger, appeared on Dahl's face. "I never want to hear that pathetic journalist mentioned again. I don't need to tell you how to deal with him, do I? Norman Royce is history."
"Yes, Mr. President. It will be attended to."
"Anything else?"
"Mrs. Dahl called half an hour ago, sir. She said she is expecting a return call at your earliest convenience."
A barely noticeable crease appeared between Alexander Dahl's eyebrows. His eyes traveled to the framed photograph on his desk. It displayed President and Mrs. Dahl at a charity concert a year ago. Eleanor Dahl was wearing an exclusively designed pale pink cocktail dress, a handsome set of pearls and a dazzling smile. Her blonde hair had been highlighted and drawn up in a smooth and elegant fashion. She was a pleasant and useful companion at such social functions, but she never presumed to meddle in the affairs of the White Tower. She seldom called her husband at the office.
"Did Mrs. Dahl mention the reason for her call?"
"She did, Mr. President. She wanted to ask whether you will be joining her for the weekend."
Dahl's first notion was to shake his head, as if warding off an irksome fly. He could not think about the weekend just yet. Then he recalled that some of the Van Wullens were invited for Sunday brunch. It was in his best interests to remain on good terms with the Van Wullens. Much of his initial power, and most of his financial assets, came from associating himself with that old and influential family. The marriage to Eleanor Van Wullen served as a catalyst to his career and his wife's relatives were not to be neglected.
"Call Mrs. Dahl and tell her I'm extremely busy right now, but will call as soon as I can. Also tell her I'll be down Saturday afternoon." Working through the weekend wouldn't do. It would send a message of urgency and panic that we need to avoid.
After Pearson left, Dahl leafed absent-mindedly through the report. Plenty of details, but nothing substantial. The riots seem almost a force of nature. But there have to be leaders. They will have to be caught and eliminated. An expression of disgust appeared on his face. I detest wasting time on idiots, but there's no choice. The mob has to be neutralized.
Saturday afternoon found Dahl in the back seat of his sleek black car. The Van Wullens drove limousines, but he disliked such ostentatious habits. His Mercedes was faster and moved so smoothly he hardly felt he was on the road.
"To Silver Oaks," he told the driver. There was no need to elaborate. The man knew the way.
The Van Wullens were an old, numerous, prosperous clan. They now held only a fraction of the assets they had before the War, but by the current standards they were still fabulously rich, perhaps even more so, in comparison, than before. They owned factories, offices, enterprises and, above all, land, an exceedingly precious resource in a United States reduced to a number of land Islands, each surrounded by a Boundary to prevent people from wandering into areas polluted by the War. Ordinary citizens lived in cramped little dwelling
s in functional apartment blocks, but the Van Wullens still owned landed property. Most of the houses were concentrated in two small Country Islands owned exclusively by the family. Silver Oaks, one of the mansions, passed by inheritance to Eleanor, and it was there that the President and the First Lady spent most of their weekends and holidays.
Tea was just being served on the shady verandah when the black car stopped at the gate. President Dahl stepped out and walked up the neat path, gravel crunching under his feet.
His wife rose from her chair to greet him. "This is a surprise, my dear. We weren't expecting you until later."
As always, Eleanor Dahl, a very handsome woman, looked impeccable. She wore a sleeveless knee-length linen beige dress, with a light white cardigan casually thrown over it. Silk stockings accentuated her shapely calves, and her feet were clad in white leather boat shoes.
Her husband bent to kiss her on the cheek. "Where are Stephanie and Priscilla?"
"They'll be here in a moment. They are just finishing a game of tennis. Come and say hello to Glenda."
Dahl arranged his face into a polite smile, resigning himself to his fate. He was not fond of his brother-in-law's wife, and he suspected she knew it. However, Glenda Van Wullen greeted him with every appearance of delight.
"Alexander!" she trilled, leaping up from her chair and planting an airy kiss on his cheek. "You look tired. I confess I'm rather surprised you managed to escape the clutches of the White Tower this weekend."
"Did you think I wouldn't come?"
Glenda laughed, showing perfectly bleached white teeth. She looked as fashionable as her sister-in-law Eleanor, but it was a different kind of elegance. Her blue pantsuit was perfect for showing off her tall, lean figure. Her hair, light brown with a tinge of red and some reddish highlights, just touched her shoulders. She sat back in her chair, took out a slender cigarette, and lit it. A wisp of menthol-scented smoke rose up in the air, and Dahl wrinkled his nose as he, too, settled in one of the white garden chairs.
"Sorry, Alexander," Glenda said. "I keep forgetting that you hate my cigarettes."
Dahl was perfectly sure she did not forget. "I don't mind," he said, thinking that staying back at the White Tower would have made for a more peaceful weekend.
"Ah, there you are, Tilly," Mrs. Dahl said with just a hint of impatience that was barely noticeable in her polite, well-bred voice. The maid hurried forward carrying a large tea-tray. Tilly had served the Dahls for twenty years, since the beginning of Alexander and Eleanor's marriage.
As if on cue, once the teapot and coffeepot, the muffins and sandwiches, scones and butter and jam were arranged on the snowy-white tablecloth, Stephanie and Priscilla appeared, still in their white tennis things and carrying tennis rackets.
"Daddy!" they called in unison and ran forward to greet their father.
Their pretty figures, merry chatter, and simple cheerfulness did much to make amends for their aunt's insolent irony. Stephanie, at sixteen, was a lovely and graceful young woman who greatly resembled her mother. Fourteen-year-old Priscilla was taller than her sister and had the slightly awkward look of teenagers who had grown a lot in a short space of time. She did, however, promise to grow into a fine woman. Hers was a different kind of beauty, to be sure, with the Dahls' dark hair and high cheekbones, but it only made for a more striking, interesting face. Her grey eyes, surrounded by long black eyelashes, were remarkably fine.
"How was your game?" asked Alexander.
"Priscilla is getting better, but I still beat her almost every round," said Stephanie, reaching for a small butter-and-caviar sandwich. With so many of the water resources polluted, caviar was outrageously expensive, but the Van Wullens always had to have the very best.
Priscilla nodded. "I'll beat you tomorrow," she vowed before declaring, "I'm starving" and grabbing a muffin.
"Don't cram food into your mouth, Priscilla," Mrs. Dahl scolded before softening her voice to offer her husband tea.
"Thank you, Eleanor. I'll have a little coffee. Black, with just a drop of cream, if you please."
At half past nine the next morning, a sleek limousine rolled up the lane leading to Silver Oaks. It held Glenda's husband, Andrew, their two children, Evan and Lucy, and their aunt, Daphne Van Wullen, a loud, prominent and, in Alexander Dahl's opinion, highly unpleasant character. A very fat, very rich, very opinionated old lady who never married, she divided her time between her numerous relatives. Dahl considered her a loudmouthed busybody and secretly despised her, but usually avoided direct confrontation with her, because Daphne's blunt manners and pushiness could not usually be conquered by well-bred answers and rational argument. She delighted in fine dress, and had a vast collection of hats akin to those aristocrats used to wear to horse races in Ascot, back when there used to be an England and an Ascot.
"We had a tiresomely slow ride, Eleanor," Daphne replied to her niece's polite inquiry. "I tell you, I was sorry I came with Andrew instead of driving up myself. My little car is a lot quicker and more efficient than this pompous black monster Andrew drives."
The weather was fine, and a huge table was spread in the garden, in the shade of a large oak tree. A sturdy, comfortable, pillow-laden chair was prepared especially for Aunt Daphne. It creaked under her considerable weight as she sank into it.
As they all sat down to brunch, Dahl was unfortunate enough to engage Daphne's attention. "Well, Mr. President," she said, loading her plate with waffles and bacon. "I hear the fat's really in the fire now, isn't it. Street riots! Whoever heard of such a thing! And all sorts of ridiculous demands, too! I'd think people up at the White Tower would know to keep such things in check."
"Aunt Daphne, I was hoping to distract Alexander from all this unpleasantness, at least for the weekend."
"Oh, sure, Eleanor, and you understand, of course, I'm not blaming Alexander for this mess. I merely made an observation." She let her words sink in for a few seconds. "I see no champagne on the table, Tilly."
"Champagne will be served at dinner, Ma'am."
"Oh! I'd think champagne would be served when one wants it served. Not that I'm criticizing any arrangement of yours, Eleanor." Daphne affectionately patted her niece's hand with her sausage-like fingers.
"Of course, Aunt. Tilly, champagne for Madam Daphne."
"At once, Ma'am."
Alexander Dahl was not sorry when brunch was over. His daughters ran off to the tennis court with their cousins and Eleanor, Glenda and Aunt Daphne went along to watch their game, leaving him and his brother-in-law Andrew to enjoy their cigars, the pleasant light breeze, and a bit of quiet, rational conversation.
Eleanor's brother, Andrew, was the only Van Wullen Alexander was not sorry to see. He resembled his sister in look and manner, but was her superior in understanding. Right now he fixed his brother-in-law with a piercing gaze as he released a puff of smoke. "You will have to give them something, you know."
Dahl did not pretend to misunderstand him. "I will not be seen as weak."
"It's not a question of weakness. Some concessions must be made, if we don't want to lose everything."
"We will not lose anything. I have already called the army into action. I can lift any restrictions on using force. That will take care of the mob."
Andrew wrinkled his nose. "Or it will start a civil war. These riots… How many people were killed the other day? Ten? A dozen?"
"Sixteen, according to Pearson's report. It was unavoidable. They had to be stopped."
"No doubt, Alexander. But it was unpleasant business, and we don't want things to get out of control. Otherwise it will be bad for the economy. Production will cease, stocks will fall, and all we have labored to achieve in the past two decades will lose much of its value. We don't want a power display, Alexander. We want things to be kept nice and quiet, if at all possible."
Dahl met his brother-in-law's stare. By 'we' he knew Andrew meant all of the Van Wullens. And, as annoying as it was, he could not just shrug them off. They had a claim an
d would not be dismissed.
"So what do you think should be done?"
"I suggest that you revise some of the reproductive restrictions. Many of them are outdated."
Dahl gave him a sharp look. "How about a round of golf?"
"Sure."
A servant was summoned to fetch the golf equipment, and soon the two men found themselves walking to the brilliant green, velvety-smooth course.
"Have I ever told you anything about our family's history, Andrew?" Dahl asked as they walked after their tee shots.
"I think I heard something from my sister. The family came from Sweden long ago?"
"Yes. The original name was Dahlstrom. It was anglicized several generations later. The family itself is very ancient. It can be traced back as far as the late Middle Ages, to a man called Henrik Haraldsson. We had connections to the royal house in Sweden, considerable assets, and great influence. Much of this, sadly, was lost in the emigration."
"That happened sometime between the Second and Third World Wars, am I right?"
"Shortly after World War II, in fact. There was very little tolerance toward certain…opinions endorsed by my forefathers. By some, they were called Nazis, a most unfortunate misunderstanding. My ancestors took no part in the barbarous manslaughter that occurred all over the continent in those years." He shook his head in disgust. "It was all so crude and unnecessary. But they did protest against the influx of immigrants that threatened to drown Sweden in a wave of inferior blood."
"That sounds a lot like racism to me."
Dahl dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand as he said, "You know as well as I do that not all people are created equal. Equality, the pet illusion of democracy, simply does not exist in nature. A Van Wullen should feel it as much as a Dahl. There is a place for everyone, but we can't all occupy the same place. We have Reproductive Undesirables working in the White Tower, you know, some of them in positions of great responsibility. They personally endorse the unofficial reproductive policy that we have practiced since the end of the War. The population of slums has shrunk considerably, and with it we have seen a reduction of crime, violence, and poverty. We have reached stability and relative prosperity. We cannot give it all up by relinquishing the Decree of Population Control."