All the Whys of Delilah's Demise

by Neve Maslakovic

  All the Whys of Delilah’s Demise

  Neve Maslakovic

  Copyright © 2021 by Neve Maslakovic

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN: 978-1-7366979-0-0

  for ArtWorks

  and all the good people there

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Neve Maslakovic

  1

  “So you’re the person responsible for the death of the number one,” the burly man in a security uniform tells me. “Have a seat.”

  A room with no windows, brightly lit by overhead lights. A metal table polished to a spotless shine and a pair of matching chairs. The man closes the door and takes the other chair. He gives the impression of never having cracked a smile in his life. He’s the head of security in the Dome of New Seattle and his name is Bodi.

  “Scott. Rank…” Bodi glances up at my halo—his ConnectChip displays it in his eye field—and continues. “…in the bottom thousand. You’re here to tell your side of the story.”

  It’s not an invitation but an order. I attempt to defuse the tension in the room by offering, “Scottie is fine.”

  Scott conjures up someone more put-together, taller and with no gap between their front teeth…and is more of a guy’s name, which I’m not. The Birth Lab assigned it to me, same as Bodi’s name was to him, though it’s hard to believe that the large, grim man facing me was ever a gurgling infant. Above the significant eyebrows and the knobby nose is the halo my own chip, Cece, superimposes upon his person; the colors in the ring of gems add up to a respectable Top Thousand rank, meaning Bodi’s liked well enough despite the gruff exterior.

  “I’m going to stick with Scott. What are you, twenty?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “And you’ve been with the Agency for how long?”

  In a stark mismatch to my lackluster social skills, I’m an intern at the hub of town life—New Seattle’s Social Agency, of all places. “Just under three months.”

  “And they assigned you to liaison with Delilah.”

  “Yes.”

  “A lot of responsibility for an intern,” he observes. “When did you see her last?”

  Delilah, gone. Impossible to comprehend. I’m having trouble processing what’s happened, much less being blamed for her death. “Last night, at the anniversary celebration. What took place after…”

  “The celebration,” he repeats. “All right. Start at the beginning.”

  I shift in the chilly and uncomfortable chair. “Can I pace? I think better on my feet.”

  At his nod, I start a slow back-and-forth between two walls. “The beginning… I suppose it was yesterday morning. You see, I’d recently decided that I no longer wanted to be Scottie the No One. I wanted to be someone.”

  2

  Monday, March 15

  The last morning of Delilah’s life started normally enough for me. Before hopping on my bike, I paused outside Housing Thirty-Three—my room’s on the second floor—to watch the birds flit about in the sun. Living in the Dome means no variety—all the birds pecking at the front steps of the building were house sparrows, small and plump and gray-brown. Lately they’d seemed twitchy—fueled by more than their regular feed. I’d have said that they were acting as if on the lookout for something from just over the horizon, except that New Seattle’s horizon is limited to solar-glass panels and titanium beams that meet the ground. I was not the only one who’d noticed the change.

  This, however, was not the morning to try to puzzle it out. I jumped on the bike and set a course for the Agency. Cece, is it eight yet?

  Two minutes, Scott.

  Eight is when the People List updates for the week and it’s never good news. I picked a familiar argument to kill time as I pedaled along. Cece, I should at least be able to get YOU to call me Scottie given that you’re inside my head. Can’t you ignore your programming for once and go back to doing it?

  Cece responded to my nudge with her usual answer. Now that you are an adult, Scott, I’m required to address you by the name that matches your People List entry. You know that.

  Cece, you’re a brick wall.

  I am not a brick wall. I am neural mesh embedded in your brain tissue and coupled to a communication chip implanted behind your left ear. The Knowledge Repository…

  There was a pause here as Cece dipped into the repository and I swerved to avoid a pothole, my bike rattling with effort.

  …defines a brick wall as a large number of kiln-fired clay objects organized row by row into—

  Never mind. It must be past eight now. Well?

  Nine thousand two hundred fifty-three.

  Thirty spots lower than last week. Steering the bike one-handed, I reached into the basket for the breakfast I’d brought along—a bag of cafeteria “mix.” Leftovers, a stale medley of raisins, walnuts, and sausage ends. The sausage ends, though cold, weren’t bad but the raisins were little green rocks that stuck to my teeth and I dropped them on the ground behind me for the sparrows to gobble up. Where I live, the only way to afford fresh eggs and bacon—though this was a morning when I wouldn’t have been able to keep a large breakfast down—is to climb the popularity ladder.

  I’m a low-Lister, my rank in the bottom tenth—out of ten thousand. I don’t have oodles of friends, a valuable skill, or a unique talent. I’m terrible at schmoozing and even worse at endlessly tooting my own horn. Even if it weren’t for all that, what cut off my rank at the knees was the Code of Conduct violation I graduated with—a stone around my neck.

  Keep your fibrils crossed, Cece, I thought in the direction of my second inner voice as I biked. The expression is one I made up when I was twelve, which accounts for its lack of sophistication.

  Today Delilah chooses someone for a brand. Do we hope it’s you, Scott?

  Like I said, keep’em crossed.

  Will being Discovered by the Duchess garner you more gems? Cece asked as I rounded a corner. Of the four gem types that feed the People List, a flame-red ruby is best, as it indicates that a person has a high opinion of you… second best is the burnt-orange amber, indicating that the person considers you to be all right… bright green jade means they have doubts… and, finally, ther
e’s the inky onyx. It should be avoided at all costs or your rank will tumble, especially if the onyx is given by a high-ranked person—

  —or the Code Enforcement Office, I know. I don’t need a refresher course. How did Lu and Dax do?

  Lu is now at 988 and Dax is at 241.

  Lu and Dax had leaped up some more and that, at least, was good news. Crunching a walnut, I pedaled on. Lu and Dax are my PALs—Permanent Allies in Life, a link more formal than friend but less binding than family. I used to have three PALs, but now have the two, so the “permanent” part is a bit of a misnomer.

  Town architecture follows the curve of the Dome, three- and four-story buildings turning into seven- and eight-story ones as I entered Founders Square, the decorated platform in its middle awaiting the evening’s festivities. I rolled to a stop to let a trio of pedestrians pass. Magda, Mia, and Audrey, an inseparable—and insufferable—PAL group.

  “Is that whatshername—Scott?” Magda, the ringleader, gave a snicker as they shuffled along purposely slow in front of me. The numbers capping their halos slotted them into the Top Hundred; the suites and balconies overlooking the square are reserved for New Seattle’s most popular people. “Did you see how faint her halo is? And those clothes?”

  My shirt and slacks, their black faded from repeated washings, came with me out of the youth center, where things lean toward basic and where someone overestimated my growth potential by a quarter or so of the sleeve length. I brightened things up with an old-fashioned men’s necktie I picked up for cheap at the market—a periwinkle paisley one—by tying it around my waist. My meager salary goes toward the necessities of life—rent and food, not threads. Besides, black, faded or not, is great for hiding bike-grease stains.

  “Tooth Gap probably thinks she’s got a chance but with a lousy rank like that…”

  “Never mind her. Who do you think Delilah’s going to choose this year?”

  “Well, not you, Audrey…”

  I called out to their backs, “And good luck to you today, too,” both meaning it and wanting to add something from the Code’s section Z (Watch your language! Twenty-two words and three gestures to avoid.)

  Judging by the twitch of Magda’s shoulders, I was pretty sure they heard me.

  A block past the square, the faces of the Top Ten greeted me on the narrow building I was approaching. On the Tenner billboard, things were much the same as last week, the only change Samm and Sue toggling their number five and six spots as usual, the pair wearing jokey expressions in their snapshots.

  Delilah was at the top, as she had been for nearing-on fifty years. The billboard showed its age, a pixel here and there a lifeless freckle dotting the image, but the inimitable quality summed up in her brand—the Duchess—shone through. The angle of her chin and the hair tossed back radiated charisma, clout and authority rested comfortably on the high cheekbones, a zest for life could hardly be contained in the eyes. Or so it seemed to me as I rolled to a stop under the billboard and slid my bike into the rack out front. Having emptied the remainder of the cafeteria mix onto the ground—a couple of sparrows made a beeline for it at once—I went inside. The Agency has its thumbs on both sides of the scale: we help people improve their social standing—if they can afford us—and assess it by churning out the List. It’s a fine dance that only works because there’s strict separation between the Listkeeper’s office on the fifth floor and the rest of the staff.

  I took the stairs two at a time to the fourth floor. I found Wayne blowing on the last of the invitations to dry the ink. My mentor is five years older and sported the usual light stubble and shoulder-length hair loosely tied in the back. Sliding the stack in my direction, he reminded me to join him in the square once I was done delivering the invites—Delilah’s first of course.

  “Wayne, what do you think my chances are?” I asked on the way out. “For the brand.”

  Wayne looked up from the felt-lined case where he stores unused cardstock. “That’s easy, Scottie. One in fifty-two.”

  Fifty-two was the number of candidates, youth center graduates in the past year, in the running for the Discovered brand—with me as the oldest. Delilah had left her choice, to be announced at the evening celebration, till the last minute.

  A short hop took me back to Founders Square and to the round building on its east side. Leaving the bike against a cherry tree, I took the back door in. Mrs. Montag was set to open in three days with Delilah in the starring role, and half-costumed actors popped in and out of dressing rooms. Daydreaming about my future prospects, Delilah’s invite in hand, I knocked on the door at the hallway end. Here goes nothing, Cece.

  “Just set it on the table, newbie.”

  Delilah closed her eyes again, having barely glanced at the invite I propped against a jar of facial cream. She was being readied for rehearsal by Evan, who expertly juggles the roles of makeup artist, hair stylist, and stagehand as needed. Mini-bulbs lined the vanity mirror, a handful of them dark permanently.

  As to the paper invite, it’s a tradition. On a typical Monday, the graceful black-ink letters penned by Wayne on deckle-edged ecru cardstock serve to remind the Tenners what’s on the social menu for the evening—a banquet, cocktails, an entertainment show, the monthly gala—all of it meant to honor them for their town leadership. This was no typical Monday. It was the day of the annual celebration of New Seattle’s founding anniversary, eighty-five this year, and everyone was invited. I’d been coming by to provide planning updates and make sure Delilah’s wishes were accommodated, doing all I could to put my best foot forward. I couldn’t believe my luck—having spent nine months doing bike-deliveries while doggedly applying for an Agency internship, I was accepted into the event-planning division and with that had come the liaising with Delilah.

  I stood to the side, nervously awaiting my turn, as Evan attended to Delilah’s hair. Its shine and lack of gray were due not just to his care but to the special perk reserved for the number one, a longevity cocktail: Eternal Life. I focused my eyes just above Delilah’s reflection in the mirror and Cece topped it with her halo, vibrant red with rubies and a sturdy 1 in its center. Holding my gaze steady set the gem comments popping out in columns to the left and right: “The Duchess shines on the stage and off it … I can’t imagine anyone else in the number one spot … Talent, charm, the Duchess has it all!” I had noticed over the course of my visits that even Delilah’s exes—there were quite a few gems in this category, though faded over time, an artificial effect—had good things to say, clearly not bearing grudges about being sent on their way; I wondered, having little experience on that score, if that’s standard.

  My own ruby for her showed up in the rotation, awkwardly-worded. “Best wishes from a big fan.”

  As to my own gap-toothed face in one corner of the mirror, I noticed a shiny smudge on my chin from bike grease and quickly wiped it off.

  Evan chatted as he worked. “The olive oil conditioner will keep it nice and smooth for tonight… Boring braid for the rehearsal, but we’ll make sure to do something brill for the party. I just wish it wasn’t eighty-five, that’s all. People are saying we should be worried.” The hand with the brush paused and I knew what Evan was about to say. “’Cause of Gemma Bligh’s curse.”

  The story of Gemma Bligh and the curse made the rounds every year in the youth center. It starts—and quite a tale it is—with the Dimming. Particles released into the atmosphere to counter global warming reflected sunlight a little too well, causing year-round winter. Domes went up all around the world. New Seattle’s first generation—the Founders—was chosen by a lottery limited to those under the age of twenty-four, excepting essential experts and a handful of children. Old Gemma Bligh fumed to anyone who would listen that the Founders were turning their backs on those left Outside. She made the trek from her Seattle neighborhood to the newly-built Dome on a snowmobile, the tale goes, alone and suffering in the cold so much that she lost her voice along the way. Denied entrance, she pounded and scratched a
t the glass—at street level it’s not the solar-collecting kind, just sturdy and thick—before being sent away. She died soon after, leaving behind a curse on New Seattle timed to hit when the town made it to her own age: Eighty-five.

  That is, if you believe that sort of thing.

  “If only we knew where Gemma’s curse will strike,” Evan went on, his fingers expertly knitting a long braid. “People say she aimed it at the very heart of the town. All the Founders are long gone and those of us who live here now, well, what’s it got to do with us how Gemma was treated back then, right?”

  “What indeed. It’s all a basket of nonsense.” Delilah was not in a good mood, I realized, and her next words only confirmed the impression. “The Dome isn’t going to collapse or burn up or whatever disaster it’s supposed to be. No need to spread made-up tales.”

  Evan, chastised into silence, turned his attention to the make-up jars. Where skin is concerned, even Eternal Life can’t help, and I watched the contoured lines on Delilah’s face—the topography of a life—disappear under a creamy paste; seventy years of living cut in half for the stage lights, even for rehearsals. Evan reached for eyeliner and the movement sent the invite sliding off the table. I picked it up and set it back.