by Hannah Ross
He and Glenn were a winning team, and it showed. The department's function was smooth as silk, the Van Wullens were happy, the funds kept flowing in, and Jordan now occupied a very handsome corner office with an elegant bow window, a large, sleek mahogany desk, a custom-made calfskin office chair, and a beautifully lit, artfully arranged aquarium in the corner, containing multiple shoals of tiny bright-colored fish. A luxuriously soft wall-to-wall Persian rug covered most of the hardwood floor.
"It's just as I said it would be," Glenn announced, brandishing an official-looking document with a prominent White Tower stamp. "The Registry program is kicking in, and that means plenty of work for us, old boy."
Jordan glanced up. "It's not like we have too much leisure now."
"This is nothing. We're going to smell some burning rubber pretty soon. Allie will have to get used to having you at the office a lot for a while. Weekends, all-nighters, whatever it takes. Tell Ruth her vacation is called off. We'll pay her overtime instead."
Ruth was Jordan's personal assistant, a bright and peppy Environmental Economics major, who dressed smartly, talked quickly, and occupied her own office across the corridor. Glenn nourished a soft spot for her, but Ruth was steadfastly professional. She was also twenty-five, which made her see forty-year-old Glenn with his bald patch and beer belly as a lecherous old geezer.
"And I'm afraid I'll have to send you across the Boundary, JT," Glenn said, trying to sound regretful. "There are some areas you'll have to inspect personally. This expansion program is sure a pain in the neck for our department."
Jordan nodded. He hadn't been across the Boundary for a long, long time. Not since his younger brother's wedding, when he took a few days off and made a surreptitious trip his boss and friend knew nothing of.
"I'm waiting for Ruth to give me some printouts of the reports and maps," he said. As if on cue, Ruth walked in, her freshly highlighted hair bouncing just above her shoulders.
"Here you go, Mr. Hurst," she said, sliding a thick file across the table. "I've revised this already. You have all of it on your computer, of course, but the maps are better seen this way."
"Thank you, Ruth."
"Will you be going out for lunch?"
"No, too much work. Would you please call the Italian place across the street and order cream of mushroom ravioli and a small Caesar salad for me?"
"Of course, Mr. Hurst. Would you like me to order something for you as well, Mr. Marshall?"
Glenn smacked his lips, though it was impossible to tell whether he was thinking of lunch or something else. "No, thanks, Ruth. I'm having lunch at Marvin's with some people from the head office." He puffed up with self-importance. "Would you like to come as well? To represent Jordan, you know, since he won't stir from his desk."
Jordan rolled his eyes. Glenn clearly hasn't refined his approach to women since our college days.
"Thank you very much, Mr. Marshall," Ruth said with cool politeness as she turned toward the door, "but I'll lunch at the office today as well. There's just too much to catch up on."
"You're making a fool of yourself, Glenn," Jordan said, shaking his head, once Ruth had walked out.
"Hey, it never hurts to ask. Besides, she might come around yet. I'm not that old, you know."
"Stop chasing college graduates, Glenn. It's pathetic. Now, if you can come to dinner Saturday night, Allie has a single friend of hers she'd like to invite, and the two of you could..."
"Please no." Glenn looked horrified. "Even Allie's cooking won't induce me to meet any more of her friends. Do you remember that woman who kept talking about her ex-husband and how he doesn't pay child support? I was ready to shoot myself by the time dessert was served."
Jordan wasn't listening. He was frowning over the maps. "Why is the location of this settlement marked as 'undefined'?" he asked.
"What? Well, I don't really know. Perhaps it hasn't been decided yet exactly where it's going to be."
"And the plan of it. There aren't any living quarters for families .Only a mess hall and dorms."
"That's because this isn't going to be a family settlement. It will be, uh, more like a workers' camp attached to some mines or something. It's all in the report, I think."
"A workers' camp? Is that whitewashed language for labor camp?" Jordan asked, his gaze as sharp as his tone.
"No need to make this sound so negative. Right now, these people are breaking their backs just to keep from starving, you know. They can't just be taken to a place where they get food, clothes and housing and then left to twiddle their thumbs all day long. They'll go nuts with boredom. Some useful work will do them good."
"Will they be paid? Because if not, you know, that's blatant exploitation."
Glenn looked uncomfortable. "I don't know. The financial department is supposed to take care of that. But it's not like the Illegals had any money to begin with. They won't feel the difference."
Jordan shifted in his seat, uneasy. "I thought the purpose of the Registry program was to give these people status, gradually integrate them into society."
"Don't get hung up on these particulars, JT. This is out of our scope. We're responsible for things like environmental conditions and clean drinking water, so let's stay focused."
Jordan nodded, hardly knowing he did so. He felt queasy at the thought of his brother herded among hundreds of others to a Registry camp and being forced to work for room and board, because no matter what Glenn said, he could hardly be deceived as to the purpose of the camps. His hand itched to pick up the phone, call Kate and beg her to get in touch with Ben and warn him. His prudent and reasonable self, however, told him it would be wiser to wait. Soon enough he would be across the Boundary, able to see all with his own eyes.
* * *
It was past nine o'clock in the evening when Jordan stepped out of the spacious elevator and opened the wide, polished door of his and Allie's apartment.
Residence was really a more proper word for it than a mere apartment. The building was located in a very respectable district, and the residents were clearly unaccustomed to the plebeian crowded rooms and tiny kitchens common in most of the Urban Islands. There were three bedrooms – one for the parents, boasting of its own private bathroom, and one for each of the children. There was a home office, a comfortable den, a cozy and spacious living room, a kitchen with long, gleaming granite counters and a table of solid oak. There were built-in closets with noiselessly sliding doors, large windows with venetian blinds, and an expensive fake fireplace that appeared very much like the real thing, provided one didn't look too hard. They moved here shortly after Jordan's latest promotion.
The children were already asleep, the lights soft and dimmed. As Jordan hung up his coat, Allie came forward, her steps muted by the soft carpet. He turned around and bent to give her a distracted peck on the cheek.
"Hi, honey," she said. "You're awfully late tonight. Is everything alright? You look overworked."
"Yeah, well, there's a lot going on at the department right now. Nothing to worry about, though."
"You must be hungry. I've made beef bourguignon today. Let me heat it up for you."
"Thanks, dear," Jordan said as his stomach gave a loud rumble. The ravioli was at least eight hours ago, and he hadn't tasted anything but coffee and a couple of biscuits since. He was famished.
Allie went into the kitchen. Soon, an enticing aroma made Jordan's stomach growl. While the beef bourguignon was heating, Allie placed a basket of rolls and a bowl of salad in front of him. Jordan buttered a roll and bit into it.
"Dinner will warm up in five minutes," Allie said. He nodded, forking up some salad.
The beef bourguignon, as always, was excellent, and Jordan soon found himself leaning back in his chair, contented, well-fed, and drowsy. Allie wasn't hungry, but she sat with him and each had a glass of red wine.
"So Glenn is indulging his workaholic tendencies again?"
Jordan grinned. "Sort of. Not that he's inventing work for us. It's re
ally there, but Glenn relishes it. He's the kind of guy who likes to go around bleary-eyed and boast of working eighteen hours a day."
"We've got to get him married, Jordan. It isn't healthy for someone his age to live at the office."
"Good luck. Glenn is a decent sort, you know, but kinda hard to please."
Allie got up to clear the table and load the dishwasher. Jordan refilled their glasses of wine.
"I'll have to go across the Boundary soon," he said, more abruptly than he intended. Allie turned around, her expression surprised and tense.
"Across the Boundary? Does this have anything to do with... with your family?"
Though Allie was always civil, even friendly to his family, a close relationship was out of the question. Allie was of the opinion that nobody but riff-raff would voluntarily go to live in the wild lands, and often wondered, though, thankfully, not to their faces, about the choice thus made by her husband's parents and sister. Jordan's younger wildling brother was an even greater point of awkwardness. Though they attended Ben's wedding, Allie never openly acknowledged his existence to any of her friends, and would have been mortified should anyone know of her close relationship to an Illegal.
"No, no, this is on behalf of the office," Jordan hastened to assure her, and her posture immediately relaxed. "An expansion program was decided upon at the White Tower."
"Oh, I see. But will you have to travel far? And where will you be staying? I hope you won't be expected to do anything unsafe."
"I'll be quite safe, honey, but I'll have to rough it for a bit. I'm getting a percentage of the department bonus on this task, though, so I have no reason to complain."
Allie nodded, satisfied, and suppressed a yawn. "Well, honey, it's been a long day. I think I'll turn in now. Are you coming?"
"In a minute," Jordan said.
He tiptoed over to the children's rooms, their doors slightly ajar. He could just hear their deep, slow breathing. Nine-year-old Travis was sprawled across his blankets, having kicked them aside in his sleep as usual. Five-year-old Macy was curled up like a ball under her bright quilt, one arm tightly hugging her teddy bear. Their features looked angelic in the weak, diffuse light of the nightlight, much like the babies they used to be years ago. Jordan felt a lump in his throat.
Only when he held his own newborn son in his arms did he comprehend what a heart-wrenching struggle his mother had gone through in giving Benjamin up. All that suffering. So cruel, so pointless. He shuddered at the thought of their darling Trav and Macy somehow, by a twist of fate, being not here, safe and comfortable in the cozy beds in their color-coordinated rooms, but shivering in a cold narrow bunk bed at the orphanage, as Benjamin had done throughout his childhood, having nothing to look forward to but a desolate, brutal, and possibly very short future. It could have been me, if I had been born third instead of Ben.
He shook his head. These fancies are useless. I'm an honest, well-to-do man who's lucky enough to be able to provide abundantly for my family. Surely I don't need to feel guilty about that?
"What's taking you so long, honey?" Allie's voice called from the bedroom.
"I'm coming," he said. He turned away from the children and went on to join her.
4
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If Jordan's wife had been at all concerned about her husband "roughing it" across the Boundary, she needn't have worried. The excursion into the wilderness was conducted with as much comfort and ease as a pampered bigshot from Environmental Restoration could expect. He was driven in a shiny new Explorer that was more than equal to the bumpy old roads, lodged in an inn in Resurrection Town for one night, and in the morning was taken onward to his next destination, a Registry camp in the making. It felt awkward to drive so close by his parents' farm and not stop to say hello.
After a long stretch of road to the southwest, the car stopped by a site that, Jordan presumed, was the camp. It consisted of a few rows of identical little shacks, some larger buildings evidently destined for communal use, and a tall fence all around, topped with barbed wire. The whole thing had a depressing look, and appeared more like a correctional facility than anything else. There was no sign of life in the place except for a few construction workers doing some minor finishing touches around the buildings closest to the tall gates, which were open to admit the department car.
As soon as the driver set him down, Jordan was welcomed by an enthusiastically smiling man in thick horn-rimmed glasses, who looked as though he must be the construction supervisor. He wrung Jordan's hand with an expression of exaggerated cordiality.
"Welcome, Mr. Hurst. I trust you've had a safe drive? Can I offer you some refreshments? I have a little office here with some decent coffee."
"Thank you, maybe later, Mr.…"
"Landman, Bernie Landman. I work in Environmental Improvement, but have never had the honor of meeting you before. Well, I suppose you'll want to take a look around?"
"Um, yes." Jordan cast a dubious look at the forlorn little shacks and the narrow concrete paths. "It appears the work here on site is nearly done."
"Yes," Bernie Landman nodded with evident satisfaction. "Everything was completed in record time, and as soon as the staff arrives, everything is ready to bring in the Illegals. Here they will undergo the Registration process, get vaccinated, and be treated for any diseases they might be harboring."
"And how long will they stay here?" Jordan asked. Landman looked confused.
"How long, Mr. Hurst?"
"Precisely. How long? Because…" Jordan walked over to one of the shacks and threw the door open, "…you can't possibly plan to house people in such crowded conditions unless it's very temporary."
The tiny space within consisted of a cramped little kitchen, a bathroom separated by nothing more than a partition that didn't quite reach the ceiling, and a few narrow iron bunk beds lined against the walls. "That's one of the housing units, I presume?"
"Yes." Landman gave a brisk nod. "A compact unit designed to easily hold six people."
Jordan looked him square in the eye. "Six people? Can you really say that with a clear conscience, Mr. Landman?"
Landman hesitated. "This is supposed to be luxury for those wild tent-dwellers. Electricity and running water, too! They should be beside themselves with excitement."
Jordan recalled his one visit to Ben's camp, the snug farmhouse, comfortable and neatly repaired, with a large orchard and garden all around, and children frolicking barefoot in the nearby creek during three-quarters of the year. How would the Eagles feel about being stuck in this miserable hellhole? There isn't a single blade of grass to be seen.
"Not that this is any of our business, Mr. Hurst, eh?" Landman dropped his voice confidentially. "I'm an engineer, responsible for the soundness of the construction, while you are supposed to give your verdict on pollution levels, unless I'm much mistaken? I can show you all our local reports. Everything seems to be in such perfect order that I haven't even bothered to drink bottled water. It's quite safe here, and I'm sure you'll reach the same conclusion. Of course, the same might not be said about the camp to the south. I'm due to accompany you there as your guide, but don't worry, we have protective suits ready for the occasion."
Jordan nodded. It's useless to argue with the likes of Landman. He's nothing more than a cog in a machine. This is all about the decisions of the White Tower. And, if I'm honest, about my indirect employers, the Van Wullens and the way they pull the strings.
After collecting the necessary samples of soil and water, Jordan and Landman walked back to the car together, carrying a couple of sandwiches and tall paper cups of coffee to sustain them in place of lunch. The protective suits were packed in the trunk, and the drive southward began.
At first, Jordan occupied himself by looking out of the window, but soon the landscape grew flat and dull. He retrieved his briefcase and, trying to avoid getting distracted by the bumps in the road, immersed himself in perusing some documents for the office.
>
He was startled by a sudden jerk, and the vehicle stopped. "What's the matter?" Jordan raised his head.
"Time to get out and put on the protective suits," said Bernie Landman, opening the door and hopping out of the car. Jordan followed him and looked south, where the landscape grew even more desolate behind a large warning sign emblazoned with bold red letters.
"But... But this is Pollution Zone C," Jordan said.
"That's right," said Bernie, already shaking out his protective suit. "But don't worry, Mr. Hurst. With these things on, we should be fine there for a couple of hours."
"I don't understand. Why would I want to inspect anything in Zone C? I know it's polluted, and it's going to stay that way for the next two centuries at least."
Bernie and the driver pulled on the suits over their clothes, however, so Jordan did likewise. He felt like an astronaut in the bulky gear, and made a lot of noise with each step. They settled back in the car and drove on, past war-ravaged scenes that had witnessed one of the bloodiest pages in human history.
The building that rose ahead bore the unashamed and unsoftened look of a correctional facility. It was a compact cube surrounded by a tall fence of concrete and barbed wire. Jordan felt trapped as the car drove through the great iron gates, which promptly closed behind them.
He had never before been inside a prison, but the interior was modeled just as he would imagine it. "What is that?" Jordan said sharply, pointing to a row of tiny rooms with bunk beds.
"These are the living quarters," Bernie Landman said, looking sheepish. He had opened the gates with his own key, and there was nobody else on site at the moment.
"Living?" Jordan repeated incredulously. "Nobody can live here. It's Zone C, the frightful nightmare of anyone who knows the least thing about ecology."
"Well, you're right, of course, Mr. Hurst," Landman assented. "But as far as I know, there are some very profitable mines in this area, which the Van Wullen Corporation wants restored. Some of the, um, newly registered Illegals are going to work here for a while under the care of a few…ah…supervisors."