by Hannah Ross
"Not in this area," said Dan Crow, who stepped outside to help them bring in their things. "With all our herds, we don't often go into towns, as you can imagine. We do send out scouts to gather useful stuff, of course, but tanning hides is a skill one needs to know around here. Look at these moccasins, for example." He wiggled his toes for emphasis. "Snug and warm, and no shoe I've ever had is more comfy than these. It's not like we don't kill animals for meat. So why waste the skins?"
"Do you make furs as well?" asked Priscilla, torn between curiosity and aversion.
"Yes. You won't see too many around here now, because most our furs are rolled and packed away in the winter camp, but there's nothing like a good fur. They make great cloaks, parkas, bedding… even rugs, if one has enough of them to use that way. They're nice for babies to play on. Oh, there you are, Rhoda." He put his arm around a slim, deeply tanned young woman with a cooing fat baby boy in her arms. The baby smiled and gurgled and stretched his plump arms toward Dan.
"How's my champ?" Dan took the baby from his mother and tossed him into the air.
"Careful," cautioned Rhoda, laughing. The little girl who hung on her pant leg peeped curiously at the strangers. "It's nice to see you, Ben. Have you come to spend a few days?" She gave Priscilla a quick and interested look, sizing her up.
"Yes, they're going to stay with us. I told them to put their things behind the partition."
"I'll bet you didn't offer them anything to eat or drink, though. Honestly, Dan, you're hopeless."
"Thanks, Rhoda, but we're not hungry," Ben said. "We had a bite earlier. We'll just grab our stuff and then sit down and rest for a bit. Then I just want to check on the horses and show Nell around the camp."
Once properly settled in and rested, Ben and Priscilla took a walk to the edge of the camp. They ascended to the crest of a low hill, from which they looked down upon the tents, the sheep and horses, and the people going about their business working, chopping wood, and cooking the evening meal as dusk gradually descended.
"This reminds me of stuff I used to read about Native Americans," said Priscilla. "Minus the sheep, I guess. It's like modern civilization never happened."
"That's a favorite saying of Raven's, you know. Civilization is just a blip in history."
Priscilla raised her eyebrows. "Is it? I like Raven."
"So do I. So do most people, Barry being one of the few exceptions, naturally."
"You used to like her more than most people," Priscilla said, watching him.
"Well, yeah." Ben thrust his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. "Things are different now, though." He turned and looked at Priscilla. "Raven and I used to be… I'm not sure what to call it. We were as close as two people can be without being full-time partners. But we both knew deep in our hearts that it would never work out. We were both too committed to our camps. Now she's with Taylor and I think one day they'll make it permanent. She and I are friends now. We'll always be friends, I guess."
Priscilla smiled and nodded as the smell of roast mutton wafted in from the direction of the camp. "I think supper's nearly ready. I'm getting kind of hungry. Aren't you, Ben?"
"I am. Let's go and eat. Just remind me not to drink any of Dan's beer."
He held out his hand and Priscilla took it, and together they walked in the direction of the cooking-fires.
36
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Tuesday, May 13
Miguel placed a finger against each temple and closed his eyes, hoping for at least a momentary respite, but to no avail. Rows and columns of numbers, letters, and formulae continued to run beneath his closed eyelids. He was overworked, overstrained, and wiped out from sheer exhaustion. His nerves were like taut steel wire. He didn't remember when he last ate. But what did all that matter when he was so close to the solution?
It wasn't the same formula developed by the late Professor Keller. He took a slightly different route. He tapped into a different DNA sequence to reach the same end, but the results were very satisfactory, at least in mice. The process of aging was dramatically slowed and even, in some cases, apparently reversed, though this demanded further research. The next stage, Miguel knew, would be human trials, and he trembled at the idea. He knew his supervisors at the White Tower would not allow him to dispense with that.
He well remembered the first human trial conducted with his early version of the formula. The mice showed varying results, and his supervisors insisted upon trying the formula upon several old peasants. "It won't hurt them," insisted a gruff, brisk voice over the phone. "And besides, they're old. They don't have anything to lose." Nevertheless, Miguel hated it, especially the fact that the formula was disguised as flu vaccine since revealing its real purpose was, naturally, out of the question.
The trials were disappointing. Most subjects displayed no results whatsoever. For one old woman, though, it was different. From a vigorous and active 70-year-old, she turned in a matter of weeks into a feeble and ailing creature that seemed to be at least a hundred. "Madre! Madre! You killed her," wept her daughter on Miguel's last visit. "You killed Mama." The old woman died soon after. Miguel never forgot the daughter's eyes, burning with accusation and hatred. He hastened to the laboratory, obliterated the entire last stage of his research and, with a trembling hand, picked up the phone to call his supervisor.
"Do whatever it takes to stop the drama," the voice growled over the phone. "Offer her money. Tell her the complications might have had nothing to do with the injection. Do what you must to keep the matter quiet. You know what happens otherwise, don't you, Hernandez?"
That was the precise moment Miguel knew he was trapped. He was still trapped, and always would be. And now it was nearly time to hand the formula over to those who thought themselves entitled to decide who lives and who dies.
"I hate them," he murmured, "I hate them." And it was true. But he hated himself even more.
Officially, he was told Professor Keller failed in his research, but Miguel knew the truth. If the first NOAGE formula had been a failure, the White Tower would not be so desperate to reconstruct it, and the Source would not have sold the scanty documents in his possession so dearly. A bit of digging brought Miguel within knowledge of the truth. Keller didn't fail. He succeeded, and walked away from success. He died, rather than surrender his secret to corrupt and evil hands. He paid the price. He was ready to die, and I admire him for it. But he was old. He didn't mind dying so much. I'm young, and I want to live. I can't deny it. I'm a coward. But at least I'm an honest one. And I'm not ready to give up my life, even if innocents can be saved by doing so.
"They will never let me go, not until I'm dead," he whispered to himself with a desperate shake of the head. Freedom would come with death, not before. He acknowledged it.
He knew what he had to do.
He was roused from his thoughts by the shrill trilling of the phone. Unwillingly, he picked up, expecting even more annoying and restrictive orders from the White Tower.
"Hola?"
"It's me." He perked up at the sound of this voice. He hadn't heard it in a while. "I'm back."
"Barry? When did you get back? When are you coming in?"
There was a pause. "I don't know. Sometime, I guess."
Miguel frowned. Something was fishy. "What do you mean, sometime? What happened?"
"Nothing in particular." Barry slurred his words, as if he were either very sleepy or slightly drunk, or both. "I need a break."
"I thought you just had one. Listen, Barry, I need you to…"
The line went dead. Miguel put the phone down. He was frustrated, but now he knew Barry was back.
He hurried out of his inner office and locked it. In the outer laboratory, half a dozen minor workers were laboring over some menial tasks.
"I'm going out," he said to no one in particular, more out of force of habit than for any other reason. It was not like he had to report to anyone here. He was the one in charge.
/> He knew where Barry lived, though he only visited the place once for a couple of minutes, coming away with a general impression of mess and neglect. It was a small boarding house not far from the docks, with a steep, rickety staircase Miguel climbed, huffing and puffing, until he reached the upper floor. Only two apartments were up there. One had the door torn off its hinges and a pile of construction rubble just inside the forlorn entrance. Miguel noticed a scurrying rat, alarmed by his approaching footsteps. The other apartment was Barry's.
For a long time, his vigorous knocking received no response, and Miguel was about to give up when a feeble noise and an annoyed exclamation told him someone must be home. He redoubled his efforts of pounding upon the door. "Barry, it's me. Open up. I'm not going away."
There was an indistinct curse, a moan, and shuffling footsteps. Finally the door was pulled open. Barry stood in front of him, disheveled, in a filthy shirt, unwashed, unshaved, with bloodshot eyes.
"You missed me, Miguelito? How very touching."
"Mierda! What happened? I've never seen you looking worse."
Without waiting for an invitation, Miguel stepped in. He had never seen a filthier, more dismal hole in his life. The apartment was a single space combining the functions of kitchen, living room, and bedroom, with a door leading to what was presumably the bathroom. There was only one window, tiny and grimy and letting in little light. The walls were peeling, with extensive stains of black mold in the corners. There was no furniture save for a dingy mattress with a hole in it, and a couple of scratched plastic chairs in the kitchen. "How can you live in such a miserable hovel?"
Barry gave him an ironic smile. "There's electricity and running water. Commodities some people would be willing to kill for. Besides, I don't spend much time here. I have a mattress to plunk down on and beer in the fridge, and that's enough for me."
"So what happened? You were all enthusiastic about going up north. Things didn't work out the way you planned?"
"I'd rather not talk about it, if it's all the same to you." His tone did not invite further inquiry.
"And now you're back for good? Because I'm tired of taking your crap, Barry. There's a bunch of new people at the laboratory, and someone needs to take them in hand. I can't do everything on my own. You get paid for this job, remember?"
"Only too well. Believe me, Miguelito, I love the nice little stash of money I made, courtesy of the White Tower. Don't judge my funds by the state of this rat-hole. I could easily afford a nicer place if I wanted to. I did want to." He sighed. "I thought that when I got back, I'd fix myself in a nicer area. Maybe where your folks live, or thereabouts. But…"
"But?"
"Never mind," Barry snapped. "Listen, did you come here for any particular reason, or did you just want to make sure I'm alive? Because if you don't mind, I want to get back to sleep. I have a splitting headache."
"No wonder." Miguel shook his head at the empty bottle of tequila standing next to the wall. "Listen, Barry. I need you to put me in contact with Los Lobos."
Barry looked at him as if he were out of his mind. "Los Lobos? Why the hell?"
"Not anything that particularly concerns you."
Barry wouldn't be shrugged off so easily. "Did you get yourself in some kind of shit while I was gone? Because trust me, you don't want to have any dealings with Los Lobos. You're not the type, a nice boy like you. You kept warning me about them yourself."
Miguel was losing his patience. "Can you put me in touch with them or not? If you won't help me, I'll find them on my own. But if you give me a number I can call, it might help."
Against his better judgment, Barry pulled a crumpled notebook from beneath his mattress and flipped a few dog-eared pages. He tore out a clean page, scribbled a number on it, and handed it to Miguel. "Here. This guy is called Ricardo, and he'll sell his own mother for a few dollars. If you want to do business with him, suit yourself."
"This isn't business. Nothing like your business, anyway. It's only…" He shook his head and pocketed the note. "Thanks."
"Don't thank me. I should have knocked you on the head and kept you tied down until you got over this idiotic notion you have, whatever it is. But I don't have the energy for that. Good luck."
Without bothering to say goodbye, Barry staggered back to his mattress, plopped down, and began snoring almost at once.
37
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Wednesday, May 14
Despite what he told his boss, as a conscientious Quality Assessor, Jordan felt it his duty to arrive on the site in question and personally examine the place. So as soon as he could block off the time, he boarded a train north and, getting off at the last forlorn and neglected little station, waited for the construction company car to pick him up.
He wasn't cleared to stay overnight, so time was short. He tapped his foot impatiently for several minutes before an old battered pickup came into view.
"You're the inspector?" the driver asked.
"I'm Jordan Hurst from Environmental Restoration."
"You're the man, then. Step in."
It took about another hour of driving straight north to reach the site. It was a flat, dull, desolate area, with neither trees nor water to enliven the landscape. The grey wall of the Boundary loomed in the distance. Jordan could see the vast expanse of gravel and broken rock where the terrain was prepared for construction of the factory. A couple of tents stood in the distance, their canvas flapping in the wind.
"Not much to see here yet," the driver said, "but I hear some major work is about to start."
Having said that, he evidently decided his job was done and walked off, leaving Jordan to his own devices.
Jordan looked up. The sun was high in the sky, and he realized he had to hurry if he didn't want to spend the night in a tent on-site. He opened his plastic briefcase, which contained what was essentially a miniature portable laboratory, and dug into the earth for a sample.
He spent the next few hours driving about the area, collecting ground samples, and doing some preliminary spot tests. More extensive testing would be needed for the report, but it was already evident the results were inconclusive, patchy. Some parts of the terrain appeared to have elevated pollution levels, while other seemed completely normal. This was neither here nor there, however. Either the entire area would be cleared, or none of it. Otherwise, no regular work could be established on the site.
How can I in good conscience pass this either way? I can't. Maybe, with proper precautions, a factory could operate here, but I can't recommend this place as a residential area for anyone. It's too remote for workers to live anywhere except on the spot, though. But there can be no stipulations. It's all or nothing.So how can I go back and report this to Glenn? He'll be seriously pissed off, and so will his supervisor.
He sighed and shook his head. This is a new job. I really don't want to prove myself a nuisance, but there's no way this area can be considered clean in terms of pollution. That isn't what they want to hear, though. They want to hear it's good enough… at least for Class B.
Again his head shook. Cramped Urban Islands for Class A. Dingy factories and leaky farm shacks for Class B. Exile away from civilization, with death or a pitiful, precarious existence for the illegals. And vast mansions, wealth, and land for the elite, those who were fortunate enough to be born into money and family connections. That's the way things are. That's how it always will be. It isn't for me to change this. I'm lucky enough if I can take care of myself, Allie, and the baby.
Heavy droplets of rain began to fall. They seemed more like lead than water. All of a sudden, Jordan felt an overwhelming surge of fury mingled with shame. He lifted his face up to the overcast sky. "I am no hero," he yelled. "I am no goddamn hero!"
He packed up his lab kit and walked back to the car. "Drive me to the station," he said, "I don't want to miss the last train."
* * *
He arrived back at the office early enough to catch Glenn before he went home. "
How was your trip? As big a waste of time as I feared?"
"I hope not. I collected some more lab samples. They should serve well for the report."
"Yes," Glenn nodded. "The report. No later than tomorrow at five, JT, eh? If you don't want to be disturbed, tell Norma not to pass you any calls. Everything else can wait."
"I'll have the report ready on time, Glenn, don't worry. But the pollution levels… I'll need to conduct more tests, of course, but I can already see that they aren't as consistently low as around here."
"Well, who expects them to be? Not me, surely. Nor Andrew Van Wullen. These things fluctuate a bit, you know, close to the Boundary."
"That's why people don't live there permanently."
"Officially, yes… but give me a break, JT. Class B have a lower life expectancy anyway. More often than not, they come from inferior stock. They piss their money away on booze and cigarettes, they kill each other in drunken brawls, they don't even care about basic hygiene. Pollutants that might theoretically kill an elephant in fifty years make absolutely no difference to them."
For a moment, Jordan was silent. Glenn sounds so sure of himself, so secure in his path, as if he has all the answers. Though that might be because he never asks any questions. Well, the hell with questions. They're never going to get me anywhere and I'm no damn hero.
He nodded. "Yes, Glenn. Yes. I'm sure you're right. See you tomorrow."
38
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Friday, May 16
For two days, Miguel did his best to keep a business-as-usual appearance. He went into the lab, supervised the experiments, wrote reports of steady progress and sent them to the White Tower, and gave instructions to his underlings. But he spent many hours shut in the inner office.
Two days after he dialed the number given to him by Barry, Miguel stayed up late, sitting at his old desk in his old room in his parents' house, writing and crumpling up page after page of lined paper.