by Anne Corlett
“That’s exactly what it means.” He almost shouted it, and she took a step back from him, a whipcrack of shock snapping through her.
He made a visible effort to collect himself, and when he spoke again his voice was quiet, dampened down with something that sounded more like regret than anger.
“We’re too fragile. There’ve been other incidents. The whole thing is close to breaking right open.”
“People are scared,” she said.
“And that’s why they’re dangerous,” Daniel said. “Frightened people aren’t thinking straight.”
“Dangerous? They’re broken. That man back there, I think . . .” She broke off, her voice snagging in her throat at the memory of his hand reaching for something she couldn’t see. “I think he’d lost a child.”
“So did we.”
There was pain in his voice, and she took a hard breath in. “That’s different. We never had it in the first place.”
“We could have had it,” Daniel said. “If you’d stayed.”
“This isn’t about us.”
“It could be.” He took a step toward her.
“Stop.” She held her hands up, fending him off. “I’m talking about what’s going on here. It can’t be like this. People have to be able to make their own choices.”
He shook his head, looking frustrated. “We can’t risk it. If everyone splinters off into small groups, we’re done for.” He stepped in close, his expression softening. “We can rebuild. But we need everybody to contribute. We need people like you, with your medical knowledge. We need to train the next generation of doctors and engineers. And we don’t have long to do it. Once skills are lost, that’s it. Not everything can be learned from an e-book or computer.”
“And what about the others?” Jamie said.
“The others?”
“Mila,” she said. “Finn. You could probably find something for Rena to do. But what about Lowry? Do you really need a preacher? A prostitute?”
“We need everyone,” he said. “Farmers and laborers, as much as doctors and teachers.”
“And what if people don’t want to be farmers and laborers? It’s all very well for people like Doxton and the others. They’re doing pretty much what they did before. But you can’t just allocate people roles in some new society and expect them to fall into line. What if it’s not what they want?”
There was an odd look on his face, a mix of guilt and defiance, and it took her a moment to realize what it meant.
“You don’t care about them,” she said, slowly. “Do you? You don’t care what the little people want. Not as long as everyone does what they’re told, and you’re on the side that does the telling.”
He shook his head, but there was a heaviness to the gesture that made it look more like a concession than a denial. “It’s not like that.”
“It is like that. It’s going to be like forced emigration all over again.” Callan’s face flickered in her mind. “Instead of making people leave, you’re going to force them to stay and work.”
“Everyone’s going to have to work.” Frustration colored his tone. “All of us. Do you see me sitting on my backside, pondering where I might like to go on a bit of a jaunt? No. I’m here, trying to help rebuild our world.”
“What is it you even do here? You worked in statistics. How does that equip you to help run things?”
“Someone’s got to do it,” he snapped back at her. “And realistically it’s going to be—”
“The upper echelon,” she put in. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
He rounded on her. “How else do you think it’s going to work? The people who end up in charge are generally the ones best placed to be there. The ones who understand how things work, who can make difficult decisions. Not the ones who start fights in lines and try to raid the food stores. You don’t get it, do you? Just what a big gulf there is between the people at the top, and everyone else, particularly out in the colonies. We used to have the luxury of pretending none of that was true, that everyone was just the same. But now everything’s been stripped away, all but the bare bones. We can’t keep on pretending.”
“My God.” She stared at him. “What happened to you?”
“I spent some time in the real world,” he said. “You know, the one you did your level best to avoid.” He put a hand to his forehead. “Look. No one’s saying this is a perfect plan, or that it will be a perfect world, but it never was. We all muddle through as best we can. And, to be fair . . .” He forced a small smile. “The human race hasn’t done too badly.”
“The human race has come close to being wiped out.”
“But we weren’t.” Daniel reached for her hand. “We’ve survived. We have to find a way to go on. We have to make it mean something.”
She pulled her hand away. “More than being alive?”
“What’s wrong with that? People have always tried to make their lives mean something. They’ve always been thinking about the future, the next generations.”
“The next . . .” She broke off. “How many children?”
That man. His empty hand.
He didn’t answer straight away.
“How many?” she asked again. “How many children survived?”
He looked away. “None. As far as we know. Parents don’t leave their sick children to fend for themselves. No children, and no parents of young children, except a few men working away from their families.”
“So when you talk about rebuilding, you’re not just talking about the infrastructure, are you? You’re talking about the human race.”
He nodded. “There’s got to be a next generation. Otherwise what’s the point?”
She could feel the hollow space beneath the curve of her stomach, as clearly as if that loss were new. “Us.” Her voice caught in her throat again. “We’re the point. We’re not just a stepping-stone for the future of the species. People have to be able to choose what kind of life to lead.”
“People have never had that sort of freedom,” Daniel said. “There’s never been a time when we could just please ourselves.”
“But things could be different.” She was losing track of what the conversation was about. “People could make real choices. We could build something better.”
“We will. But it’s not going to be as easy as you think.”
There was an odd tension in his voice.
“What?” She searched his face, but he wasn’t meeting her eyes. “What are you not telling me?”
He put both hands to his face, rubbing at his eyes. He looked bone-tired, and she felt a pang of tenderness.
“The virus,” he said. “It had an odd life cycle. It attacked the reproductive organs first. We’ve had several survivors complaining of stomach pains, and some women with bleeding. We don’t have the personnel to do proper testing, but the preliminary indications are that at least a portion of the survivors are infertile.”
“A portion?” Jamie said. “How many are we talking about?”
“It’s possible that all survivors have sustained damage to their reproductive systems.”
He sounded as though he were making a public announcement, the impact of it muffled by a packing of medical terms and administrative jargon. She half expected him to urge her not to panic, and to stay in her home awaiting further information.
“So what are you saying? That this is it for the human race? It ends with us?”
“We’re not giving up. It might not be everyone, and it might be reversible. But it’s not going to be a case of people skipping off into the sunset with instructions to go forth and multiply. Nature might need a bit of help.” He held her gaze. “And we need help. From medics and research scientists. We need you. Your area was fertility.”
“In animals,” she said. “Not people.”
“The principles are the s
ame. And there’s only a handful of other people with relevant expertise. You could make a huge difference here.” He hesitated before adding, “And so could women like your shipmate, Mila.”
“Mila?” She stared at him, unable to process what he was saying. “What’s Mila got to do with this?”
“She’s young.” Daniel didn’t bother trying to soften the blunt edges of his words. “If there’s any chance of reversing the effects of the virus, younger women are our best hope. And it’s not as though . . .” He stopped and looked away.
“Not as though what?” Jamie said. “Not as though she’s got a choice?”
He gave a slight shrug, still not looking at her.
Understanding dawned. “Not as though it matters. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”
He gave a sharp shake of his head and finally met her gaze. “You know I don’t think like that. I just meant that she hasn’t exactly had things easy so far. Why wouldn’t she want a chance for something better? A chance to be part of something better?”
“So what are we talking about here?” Jamie said. “Some sort of breeding program? People forced to reproduce for the greater good? In between working in the fields, obviously.” She gave a cough of laughter. “Christ, it’s only been days. People are in shock, grieving, and you’re up here planning some sort of state-sanctioned prostitution. What sort of society would we be, if it started with something like that? With sexual slavery? We’d be poisoned right from the start. We’ve got to be better than we were, or what’s the point of any of this? What’s the point of us surviving?”
His expression hardened again. “We’re just trying to come up with a plan that doesn’t involve the human race dying out on our watch.”
“But why is it your watch? Why should people commit their lives to building something where other people get to sit on top and tell them what to do? If what you say is right, this may be the end. Maybe people should get to live out the last days of our race in whatever way they choose.”
“It’s not the end,” he said. “It can’t be. And if some people can’t grasp the need for us to work together, then that just drives home how vital it is for those who can see the bigger picture to take charge.”
“People won’t do it,” she said. “How will you make them?”
“Trust me.” His voice was quiet again. “We can make them.”
Last night his hands had been all over her body. The thought made her feel sick. Every other time he’d touched her over the years felt like collusion now, as if she’d always been a part of what was coming.
“I’m not staying,” she said. “Find someone else.”
“You are.” His tone was harder than any he’d ever directed toward her. “No one’s leaving.”
“I won’t stay. Not here, and not with you. I’m going to talk to Buckley.”
“Fine.” He turned back toward the boardroom. “Good luck with that.”
Jamie waited until she was around the corner before leaning against the wall and pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes. Thirteen years. She’d spent thirteen years of her life with him, and this was where they’d been heading all the time.
She took a deep breath, straightened up, and headed off in search of Buckley.
CHAPTER
16
The day wound tighter and tighter around Jamie. Buckley wasn’t available. His deputy was sorry, but surely Jamie understood how busy things were. Maybe if she came back later? The resettlement committee was sympathetic, but it was out of their hands. The head of security was not at all sympathetic, and he most certainly did not want her to come back later.
Around lunchtime, she went in search of Lowry but could only find Mila and Finn, sitting together in the far corner of the communal dining hall. As she walked toward them, a couple of young security officers stopped beside their table. One of them said something to Mila, running his hand down her arm in a quick, suggestive touch. The girl flushed and looked down.
“Is there a problem?” Jamie said, stepping up beside them.
The security officer’s gaze flickered to her ID mark, his expression re-forming into polite neutrality.
“No problem, ma’am. Excuse us.”
“What was that about?” Jamie asked Mila, as the men walked away.
“Nothing.” Mila’s expression was closed, and Jamie let it go.
No, Mila hadn’t seen the others since they’d been turned back from the ship. They hadn’t even been allowed to unload their things. Could Jamie maybe speak to someone?
“You may not need to unload anything,” Jamie said. “If I can just speak to Buckley, we may be able to sort something out.”
Mila shot her a dubious look. Jamie couldn’t blame her.
“Just my bags,” the girl said. “That’s all I need.”
“When are we going to Earth?” Finn said.
“He keeps asking that,” Mila said. “I don’t know what to tell him.”
“I’ll sort it out,” Jamie said again.
• • •
She found Lowry out on one of the terraces with his arm around a weeping Rena. As Jamie approached, he gently disentangled himself, but Rena clung on, leaning into him, her spare frame racked by gasping sobs.
“What’s happening?” Lowry said.
“I’m trying to speak to the guy in charge, but he’s pretty elusive, and no one else seems particularly inclined to help.”
“What about Daniel?” Lowry asked.
“He can’t help.”
“I can’t stay here.” Rena twisted around to fix Jamie with a pleading gaze. “They have to let us go.”
Lowry put his hand on her back. “We’ll get this sorted out.”
“We might,” Jamie said. “Or we might be stuck here until the administration figures out there are too few of us left to get away with treating people like something they can catalog and stockpile.”
“Why are they so set on keeping everyone here?” Lowry asked. “Surely it won’t make any difference if the odd few want to go off and do their own thing.”
“Depends on who those few are,” Jamie said. “Medics and those of childbearing age seem to be fairly high on their wish list.”
“They want to repopulate the world.” Lowry sounded resigned. “That figures.”
“Not just that.” Jamie hesitated. “There’s something else. The virus . . . they think . . .” She broke off, staring at Rena. The other woman’s face was gray-white, her eyes dark and hollow. The old cliché echoed in Jamie’s mind.
You look like you’ve seen a ghost.
“What about the virus?” Lowry said, dragging her attention away from Rena.
“They think it attacked people’s fertility,” she said. “They don’t know whether anyone will be able to have children.”
“We have to leave.” Rena’s arms were wrapped defensively across her body.
“I’m trying,” Jamie said. “But like I said, they . . .”
“I can’t stay.” Rena’s voice was rising. “I can’t be here.”
I can’t stay here had been the one strand of clarity running from last night’s encounter with Daniel to that final decision to carry on to Earth. Maybe Callan was right. Maybe people did live their lives in the negative.
I can’t be here.
I don’t love you.
This isn’t what I want.
“Rena . . .” Lowry began, but the older woman twisted around and backed away.
“I can’t,” she said again, and then her voice spiraled up into a near scream, although neither Lowry nor Jamie had tried to argue. “I can’t.”
She turned and stumbled away toward the steps at the end of the terrace.
“What’s wrong with her?” Jamie said.
“Long story.”
“I seem to have time.” She leaned against
the low wall.
Lowry came and stood beside her, looking out across the city. “It’s a sensitive topic,” he said, carefully. “Fertility, I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
“Rena’s infertile,” he said bluntly. “Or as good as. She’s got a genetic condition. She can conceive, but the defective egg will always be rejected by her body. That’s why she went into that line of research. To try to find a way of overriding the damaged gene. It was the worst thing she could have done, of course. Her personal obsession got tangled up with all the demands they put on her. And I think they knew that. And used it.”
“They?” Every fraught encounter with the other woman was taking on a new shade and hue, all coming together in a kaleidoscope of shifting motivations.
“Her employers,” Lowry said. “The administration.”
“You think they manipulated her? Why?”
He was silent for a moment. “You didn’t know her then,” he said, eventually. “What you see now, it’s just the bare shreds of the woman I knew. She was bright, super bright, with that kind of cleverness that sparks off in all sorts of directions, too fast for you to have any hope of keeping up. But she never made you feel stupid because you weren’t as clever. She was kind too.” He chewed on his lip. “No, that’s not the right word for it. She was desperately eager to do the right thing, and when someone was in trouble, she always wanted to help. But she was nervous about getting it wrong, so sometimes she’d stop just short of doing or saying what she should. Some people found her difficult. They didn’t realize how hard she was trying, and when she tried to explain herself or put things right, they’d get irritated with her. I think her colleagues ‘got’ her a bit more than most people. Anyway, from what I could tell, she was one of their prize assets. She came up with ideas, directions no one else had thought of. Some of her work jumped them forward years in their research. They had to keep her, at all costs.”
“But why would they need to manipulate her?” Jamie said. “If she was on board with what they were doing.”
Lowry shook his head. “Even back then she had doubts, fits of anxiety.” He gave a heavy smile. “It was her faith, of course. What she was doing couldn’t have been more at odds with the teachings of the church. She had a couple of major crises over the years, disappearing for several days, saying she was going to quit. But they always managed to talk her back. I don’t know exactly what they said, but I have my suspicions. She’d always be . . . different for a while afterward. Uplifted. Like she’d seen something that really mattered.”