This morning she would find out what those shadows really were.
Holding her breath, she pushed aside the heavy curtain. Instantly, golden sunlight flooded the bedroom, warming the air and energizing every color it touched. Even the peaked roofs of the houses across the road gave off a rosy glow.
If the view beyond this window was typical, then Veggieville was definitely not the sort of ghost town that her teachers had described in history class. Those benighted communities, finding themselves outside the boundaries of the urban districts during the Reorganization, had been vacated by their residents, gutted of their technology by looters, vandalized by gangs and drifters, and finally left to rot. The street Juno saw below her, however, was arrow-straight and lined with homes, about ten on each side, built of stone and brick in a variety of colors. Despite being weather-worn, each of these residences looked tidy and well-maintained. Every window was intact and glinting in the sun. Every door was painted a different hue. Except for their obvious age and the fact that the architecture varied from building to building, these houses might have been transplanted here from any urban district in Americas.
“It’s an enclave,” she breathed.
“It’s a town,” Angeli corrected her, and Juno could swear she heard a smile in the other girl’s voice. “There are hundreds more just like it all across Americas. Now, you’d better shut the drapes and put on some clothes before Carlos gets here. It’s a fifteen-minute walk to the dining hall. Remember what he told us last night: breakfast is served at seven-thirty sharp, tables are cleared at eight, and latecomers go hungry, no exceptions. So you’d better hurry up or we’ll leave you to find your own way there,” she concluded sharply.
Angeli was already dressed, wearing the same dirt-brown trousers as yesterday, paired this morning with a muddy-green long-sleeved top.
Juno flung her bag down on her side of the bed and began rifling through it for something appropriate to wear. Angeli hadn’t left her much to choose from. Finally she settled on a pair of denim jeans and a mustard-colored blouse with matching sash.
The other girl stared critically at the shoes Juno had picked out. “Those flimsy things will be ruined in the first twenty minutes,” she said, not unkindly. “I brought an extra pair of boots for you. Treated leather. If they fit, wear them. If they don’t fit, wear them anyway. We’re supposed to be blending in, and it’s better if people are smiling to your face rather than doing it behind your back.”
Smiling to her face? Juno wasn’t sure about that.
Every Eligible schoolchild came out to the Food Production Zone on at least one excursion — to tour a greenhouse, pick some fruit, eat a specially prepared meal, and visit the souvenir shop before piling back on board a chartered MPV. Even as early as first grade, Olivia had suspected a hoax. The travel time had seemed far too short, for one thing, and the students had been met by too many manically grinning faces. It wasn’t normal for anyone to be that happy about having MPVloads of little kids invade their space for a whole afternoon. And she couldn’t recall a single person on those field trips, not the students and not the food workers who greeted them, having to wear treated leather boots.
— «» —
The dining hall was a low wooden building set in the middle of a huge muddy field on the southern edge of town. Beside each of the three entrances sat a row of bristly fiber mats. As Juno took a turn at one of them, scraping the worst of the dirt off her soles before going inside, she had to admit that Angeli had been right. The uppers were stiff and the heels chafed a little, but boots were the most practical footwear for a place like this.
The hall contained a dozen long tables flanked by wooden benches, and the benches were filling up quickly. As Carlos led the way to his personal table in the corner — this one square and surrounded by actual chairs — the curious looks Juno had braced herself to ignore never materialized. In fact, people seemed to be doing their best to avoid making eye contact with her.
“Are they afraid of us?” she wondered aloud once the three of them were seated.
“Some of them are,” said Carlos. “When new workers arrive, it generally means others will be leaving. Anyone who has been here for more than three years is liable to be transferred. And Ineligibles have to pay full price when they travel or move house. It’s written right into their work contract with the Regional Council.”
“The workers are responsible for the cost of the move? But what if they don’t have enough in their credit account to cover the expenses?”
Angeli replied after a beat, “Then they have a hard decision to make.”
Juno’s next question died on her tongue as the doors at the far end of the room burst noisily open. A platoon of servers marched through them in formation, carrying platters of food, metal mugs and plates, and white enameled pitchers.
Reflexively she looked downward. The servers were all wearing boots.
In less than a minute, each table had been loaded up with trays of thick toast, sliced fruit, creamed cheese, and sausages, along with jugs of water and juice. And every eye in the room had then turned toward the corner where Carlos sat, not yet touching any of the food in front of him.
Hands remained folded in more than two hundred laps. For a moment, Juno wondered why. Then, with a sudden lump in her throat, she understood. The workers were waiting for permission to eat. Those people who had pointedly looked elsewhere as the three of them had passed weren’t just afraid of receiving a transfer order — they hadn’t wanted to be seen as challenging the most powerful person in Veggieville. Carlos Calvera was clearly the ruler here, the man who provided the tables and everything on them, and every worker knew it.
“When I pick up my fork, the rest of them will scramble to fill their plates. Serve yourselves quickly,” Carlos advised them in an undertone, “and take everything you need in a single helping. Breakfast is the only free meal of the day here, so the food tends to go fast.”
“What about lunch and dinner?” asked Juno.
“Those have to be earned by putting in a day’s work,” Carlos replied. “I’ll give you your assignments later. Now, no more talking. Let’s eat.” And he reached past her and speared two plump sausages at once.
— «» —
“You’re splitting us up? That wasn’t the deal, Carlos,” Angeli informed him darkly.
He looked unconcerned. “Perhaps. But it’s my standard operating procedure. Maybe, if you’d been a little more flexible about your standard operating procedure yesterday…”
“This is about those three families going to Breadbasket?” she sputtered. “You’re punishing us for a decision our driver made?”
“I am,” he replied, “and there’s nothing you can do about it. Out of the goodness of my heart, I’ve given you breakfast. Now it’s time for you to earn your lunch and dinner. Between now and eight-thirty, wagons are departing the plaza every five minutes for the fields. The overseer of field number twelve is expecting you, so don’t be late. Meanwhile, I’ll escort Juno to the schoolhouse to assist Isabela. Or would you rather the assignments were switched?” he added, raising a forefinger in warning when he saw Angeli opening her mouth to object.
Standing outside the dining hall with the two of them, being jostled by workers bustling single-mindedly around them, Juno listened to this exchange with a deepening sense of foreboding.
Dennis Forrand might be the Supreme Adjudicator for Americas and occupy a seat on the Earth High Council, but Carlos Calvera held the power in Veggieville, and he clearly enjoyed wielding it. Today he was using it to derail Forrand’s carefully laid plans. He had to know there would be repercussions later on. At the moment, however, all that seemed to matter to him was that he was in control and Forrand’s people were powerless to oppose him. Despite her brave thoughts earlier about abandoning her guide and striking out on her own, it was rapidly becoming clear to Juno that she and Angeli were
not in friendly territory right now. They would need to stay together, relying on each other for safety, at least until Veggieville was behind them.
“Angeli?” she ventured.
“Go earn your daily bread, Juno,” she replied, staring at Carlos with eyes that glittered like polished blue stones. “I’ll see you later.”
CHAPTER 3
Juno trudged along silently behind Carlos, out of one torn-up field and halfway across another, to the building that housed the Veggieville school. Like the dining hall, it was low and boxy and constructed of weather-beaten wood, with cross-bracing visible on the outside of each wall. Juno counted the windows as she and Carlos approached. There were four, most likely one per classroom; and judging by the mud that surrounded it like a moat, this school hadn’t been standing for very long.
About twelve strides from the front door, Carlos paused to let her catch up.
“Let me give you the FAQs,” he said briskly. “We have 146 students ranging in age from four to fourteen years old, and five teachers on staff, all Council-certified. This is not our first school. The original building was three stories high, stone-clad, and nearly an hour’s walk from the current settlement. When that school burned down, about two years ago, we built this one using materials salvaged from the surrounding area. The first school was named for someone the residents evidently admired. We would like to continue the tradition someday, but for now it’s just the Veggieville school. Shall we go inside?” he concluded, with an insincere smile and an ushering wave of his hand.
Juno had fully expected that it would be called the Carlos Calvera School. Fortunately, discretion prevailed and she kept this thought to herself.
After wiping their boot soles on the mandatory coarse fiber mat, they stepped through the front door into a narrow hallway punctuated with five more doors, all different from one another. The washroom door at the end of the hall was labeled with male and female stick figures. The rest were numbered from one to four. Two of these looked to be made of wood, and one had a faceted knob shaped like a huge transparent crystal. The second door on the right — a solid slab of metal, plaincoated dark green and fitted with a long, vertical steel handle — could have come from Juno’s old high school in Clearmeadow Enclave. As if on cue, the door swung away, and Isabela Bakshi leaned through the opening and beckoned to them.
She stepped back to let Juno enter. There was room for Carlos to pass through as well, but he chose to remain out in the hall. He looked stiff and uncomfortable, Juno thought with surprise.
“Mrs. Bakshi, this is Juno Vargas,” he said, introducing her as though they were strangers meeting for the first time. “She is going to be your classroom assistant.”
His voice hardened abruptly around the last two words. Juno glanced up, saw Isabela’s dark eyes shooting daggers at him, and repressed a shudder.
This was not shaping up to be a fun day.
Without another word, Carlos left. A moment later Mrs. Bakshi was walking a circle around her new assistant, looking her up and down. And frowning.
Juno’s heart dropped. Her first meeting with Carlos’s sister had been a rush to get the visitors indoors and settled for the night. Nonetheless, she had sensed warmth and kindness coming from this woman. Now it was gone, seemingly drained from her by the rough wooden walls and battered furniture of the classroom. In her small, cozy kitchen, Isabela had been a welcoming hostess. Here, she was clearly an educator, about to deliver a lesson.
Juno had a good idea what the gist of it would be. Like her brother, she had chafed under the demands and restrictions of the Relocation Authority, often trying the patience of the adults in her life. She had faced disapproving teachers before — and this one didn’t even know her. Preparing herself for a barrage of criticism, Juno clenched her jaw and stared at the vinyl-covered floor of the classroom. She waited. At last she heard Isabela remark, “I guess you’ll do.”
Warily, she raised her eyes to meet Mrs. Bakshi’s gaze.
“Well,” Isabela prompted impatiently, “are you ready to be a teaching assistant or not?”
Carlos’s sister was tall and slender, with elegant cheekbones and thick dark hair that today was gathered and twisted into a knot at the crown of her head. Even swathed in baggy clothing and without a trace of makeup on her face, she was a very attractive woman. Being related to Carlos also made her a powerful woman. While waiting for Juno’s response to her question, Isabela had drawn herself up. She now stood regally erect, with her arms folded over her chest as though daring the new girl to disappoint her.
Juno stifled a knee-jerk moment of rebellion. “I’m ready to earn my dinner,” she replied at last, wincing inwardly as the words came out a little more sharply than she had intended.
Isabela tilted her head and uncrossed her arms, but her lips were pursed. She’d caught the defiant tone of Juno’s voice and obviously didn’t like it.
“And you would prefer to do it in some other fashion?” she demanded. “Why? Do you feel this work is beneath you?”
“No, I just—”
“Or perhaps it’s the whole idea of working that repels you. Is that it? Do you feel superior to the rest of us and resent having to get your hands dirty with any kind of honest labor?”
Juno’s skin went prickly. Isabela’s voice had risen, her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were hard and glittering. Olivia Townsend had never been physically struck in anger; but for Juno Vargas here in Veggieville, anything was possible — especially now, with Angeli off in a field somewhere and not a witness in sight.
“That’s not it!” she yelped, taking a step backward. “I don’t mind the work!”
“Then why are you so ill-tempered? Be truthful, chica.”
Recalling the tension that had earlier chilled the air between Carlos and his sister, Juno inhaled deeply and took a leap of faith. “I don’t like being controlled. And I hate it when people break their word.”
“Ah! So we are of the same mind. Tell me, have I made promises to you?”
“No.”
“Then I cannot possibly have broken any. Have I demanded your obedience? Have I threatened you to get it?”
She was right — she hadn’t. Carlos was the one who had done all that. In a flash of insight, Juno realized that it might even have been the reason his sister was so upset with him.
Isabela didn’t wait to hear an apology. “In about twenty minutes this room will be filled with students,” she pointed out, “and we are both going to be very busy. So, let us begin again. Are you ready to be a teaching assistant?”
Juno straightened her shoulders. “What do you want me to do?”
This time the head-tilt was accompanied by a smile. “That’s much better. Each morning, I teach the thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds, and in the afternoons, I have the twelve-year-olds. These students are close to graduation. They spend half the day in school and the other half working to earn their keep.”
Funny — Juno couldn’t recall seeing any youngsters in the dining hall that morning. Then it hit her: there had to be a second breakfast service. That would explain why the tables were cleared at eight o’clock sharp, and why school didn’t begin for nearly an hour after that.
“They earn their keep? Doing what?”
“Whatever they are good at. Some of them will never be more than general field hands. But students with useful talent are apprenticed out at the age of ten and, with luck and a lot of hard work, will have a trade when they leave us. Just as Veggieville and the other communities are not officially residential areas, our school is not part of a standardized educational system. We are lucky to have five teachers here. Some places have only one, or none at all. There is no prescribed curriculum to follow. We do our best to equip these children with literacy and numeracy skills, instill a work ethic, and go over all twenty pages of the Council’s employment contract in class to make certain that studen
ts understand what they are signing.”
“But what if some of them qualify as—” Juno hesitated. Angeli had threatened dire consequences if she so much as mentioned the ‘E’ word aloud. “—able to do more. To be more than a field hand or a tradesperson.”
“You think our children are screened for Eligibility? I hate to disappoint you, chica, but that only happens in the urban districts. And any of our young ones who are urban-born, even to Eligible parents, are written off by the Council the moment they cross The Flats.”
— «» —
It wasn’t fair. Juno chewed slowly on her cheese and lettuce sandwich and thought about the students she had worked with in Mrs. Bakshi’s morning class. Yelena with the dazzling smile, whose caricatures and cartoons made everyone laugh, but who was preparing to sign on as kitchen help for the next three years of her life. Terry and Mac, identical twin brothers with fiery red hair, who dreamed of exploring the oceans but would probably never get to see one. Rachel, who sang with such joy and with the voice of an angel, and who deserved to be heard by a much larger audience than her fellow field workers. An entire class of bright, curious young people who would never be able to realize their dreams or their potential because the Relocation Authority had deemed them unworthy of opportunity.
The morning’s lessons hadn’t been at all what Juno expected. She was accustomed to sharing a school with hundreds of kids fairly oozing the brash entitlement of Eligibility. Here in the “industrial wilderness”, she’d been struck by the quiet respect these teens showed to their teacher as they filed in and took their seats, and by their shy politeness when Isabela introduced her as the new classroom assistant.
But there had been even more surprises to come.
The first subject of the day was literacy. Mrs. Bakshi reached into a desk drawer and pulled out something Juno had heard about but had never actually seen — a bound hard copy book. This one was dog-eared and blackened around the edges, and Isabela turned it briefly to show Juno the cover. She recognized the title. It was Animal Farm by George Orwell. Olivia Townsend had once begun reading that novel but had found it boring and juvenile and had deleted it from her personal library.
The Relativity Bomb Page 3