The Remaking

by J. T. O'Connell

  That much was clear to her.

  He continued, “And that liberates them to do anything. Having a perfect goal, they can justify any evil deed to accomplish it.” Desmond added a few drops more syrup to his second toast.

  “What about the other assumption, I mean,” Sela said. “The tragic one.”

  “Well,” Desmond licked his lips and chewed for a moment, “according to that view, you can’t fix the problems inherent in human nature; you can only mitigate them, to some extent. However much you try to make one thing better, you can only do that by making something else or everything else worse.”

  “I’m just not following you,” Sela grimaced.

  Desmond frowned and said, “How about an example? The standards the Council sets on food quality. A lot of the food that’s produced doesn’t pass the quality standards. That makes food more expensive, because more of it has to be thrown out.

  “But the standards are way more rigorous than they need to be. They’re measuring pollutants in the parts per billion. Ten years ago, people who were as healthy as us, if not healthier, were measuring pollutants in the parts per million. So while the actual level of toxins in food stays the same, the Council continually tightens the standards, making them more and more difficult to meet.”

  Desmond held up his hands in the air, “Now maybe the quality of the food on the markets has gone up by some insignificant margin. It’s hard to say whether it has made a difference, since so many other things are factors in health. But what you can say is that families have to spend more now on their food budget than they used to. And that makes it harder to afford everything else in life.

  “By trying to fix one problem, the Council is making everything else harder for those who have the least, because the average family lives on the margins of their budget.

  “But what does the Council care?” He scowled, “They have enough money and power that they can afford to drive up costs on everything!”

  Sela thought about that as she ate. It was true. The Council rarely considered the long-term effects of each new initiative. Every program affected everything else somehow, and oftentimes the Council’s decisions were like someone stumbling around in a darkened room they had never been in before.

  “As to how the tragic vision approaches the world,” Desmond straightened his back on the stool. “Mankind is not perfect, so whatever problems mankind has, are going to infect the government as well. Therefore, the more power government has, the worse it is going to be. We support a small government that keeps out of the way of the people, as long as they don’t harm each other.”

  Desmond cut a bite off his toast, “A good government punishes those guilty of fraud and those who caused harm to others. But more importantly, a good government doesn’t do much else, because it can only do more by harming society, which is the very thing good government was created to suppress.”

  Thoughts began to stream through Sela’s mind. How would you build roads then? And what about public utilities and parks? What about education and public transportation?

  She wasn’t sure she subscribed to this “tragic vision” of mankind. Without a doubt though, the Remaking was awful. The Council was going about everything as though it were god playing with ants. But those ants were people, and it was wrong to trample them, no matter how perfect the ultimate goal of the Remaking seemed.

  “I don’t know what should replace the Council,” Sela said. “I just know the Council should be replaced.”

  Desmond took a deep breath and stared into her eyes. He spoke slowly, in a soft voice, “More crucial than replacing the Council, is what you replace it with.”

  Sela knew Desmond was right. And yet, she knew so little about history and philosophy and sociology. How could she possibly hope to try to replace the Council with a good government? All she knew was, she hated what the Remaking was doing to the people of Megora, what the Provisional Council was doing to her family.

  Why had she spent so many months hiding? She could hide while working to overthrow the status quo. The two necessarily went hand in hand. It had been the right choice to work with the Vines. Even if Sela still knew almost nothing about them.

  Now, having heard so much of Desmond's personal life, a comfort was seeping into her heart, a confidence that she could trust Desmond. He could be trusted to make those decisions, not merely how to undercut the Remaking, but how to put American culture back as the dominant arrangement of society.

  And by extension, she could trust the people Desmond worked with and for. They were so secretive, these Vines and their front corporation, Hannan Consolidated, she could never really get to know them. Even if she joined the Vines wholeheartedly, there were going to be necessary walls of separation.

  Desmond finished his plate and drank the last gulp of his coffee. He took a few glances at Sela, saw her in thought.

  He said, "Sela, I know you didn't want to talk about your past." Desmond paused, and she turned toward him, feeling her pulse quicken again. "I just want you to know that you can trust me. I am here for you, okay?"

  She leaned just a few degrees back. He wasn't asking her to talk about her private life. What life? her mind grumbled. She didn't have much of a life, because her secrets were so dominant.

  Desmond was offering his ear, if she wanted to trust him. He couldn't know why she was so private. Which was almost a shame. A smudge of guilt wrinkled behind her ribs.

  That's life, though, she thought. Her choices had been made, and she was cautiously compiling enough information to make this decision, this choice of whether or not to join the Vines, how much to be involved with their effort.

  Sela nodded and swallowed, feeling a small lump of emotion in her throat, "Yeah, I— I know, Desmond." Then she added, "And I appreciate that."

  There's no way I can trust him with this secret though.

  Chapter 13

  The wealthy streets of Desmond’s neighborhood buzzed and hummed and hustled with the weekend. Even still, business was thriving, plenty of suits moving this way and that. Impossible to tell was just whose business was productive, and whose was wholly adjunctive to the selective structure of the Remaking.

  And Sela realized the clothing styles for the weekdays were much more subdued compared to the weekends. More so for the women than the men, since women had a much greater range of eccentricity to choose from.

  Dozens of notices and advertisements for the Conference of the Remaking were speckled throughout Megora now. One could hardly move without the constant reminder that the World Provisional Council would be in the city in two weeks. Sela rolled her eyes at the signs and ignored them.

  People and cars packed the streets. Traffic was as calcified as evening rush hour. Desmond and Sela moved through Megora quickly though, and Sela soon began to recognize where they were.

  Obviously, they would not be debriefing the job at Max Gaines’ nook. Gaines didn’t want to be in on so much information. He would never lend out his office to so many people associated with Unmaking, with or without being there.

  And somehow, Sela could not picture Michelle Duncan in that dingy storage room, anyhow. Even imagining Desmond there seemed… awkward somehow, off kilter, out of balance. How many times had she seen Desmond? Every one of them, he had dressed for the wealthy districts.

  No, she had always known they would not be going to see Max Gaines today. Sela had not expected where they were going, though.

  “We’re meeting at Hannan Enterprises?” she asked.

  Desmond bit his bottom lip and glanced at her as they walked. She had never seen him do that before. “Yeah, just this time.”

  She squinted in a sudden blast of rays from the sun reflected from a mirror mounted a hundred feet up. Sometimes even sunglasses didn’t block out the glare.

  “This was your first time out for the Vines,” Desmond said, checking his wristwatch for the time. “There are some things we’ll be going over with you.”

  An impertinent frown rose i
n her cheeks. “If it’s an orientation, you can forget it,” she said. “I’m not joining up just yet.”

  Desmond shook his head, “It’s not that. It’s…” he quieted as a rude man walked right between them, oblivious, as he chattered away on his card.

  Desmond sighed and muttered under his breath, “Jerk,” but the thoughtless man wouldn’t have heard, even if he had not passed them already.

  They paused on the street, turning to face each other, forcing the foot-traffic to slide around them on the granite sidewalk tile. He looked at his watch again, checking the time.

  And then Desmond looked into her eyes. “Sela, I know we haven’t had much time to get to know each other. And I hope you’ll come to trust me, even if it takes a while.”

  Sela could see how troubled he was, how conflicted. “I… I do trust you, Desmond” she answered slowly. And it was mostly true. His quick reaction at Basil Davenport’s had brought her more confidence in him. It was one thing to have great credentials, but it was another thing entirely to do a great job.

  Desmond had shown he could think under pressure, not to mention acting and speaking, too.

  He nodded slowly and sighed. Someone walking past bumped his back, knocking him a step closer to her. He hardly noticed this time.

  She wrinkled her eyebrows, “Aren’t we going to be late?”

  His distant eyes returned, and he waved dismissively, “Oh, they can wait on us.”

  She hadn’t seen this side of Desmond either. Even as his words came though, he turned to continue down the street. Sela matched his pace.

  He continued, “We did the job, and we’ll get there when we get there.”

  They walked on in silence, listening to the noise of the city. Above the mingled voices, the crunch of tires on the street as each car crawled along. Occasionally music drifted out from lobbies or from speakers mounted over outdoor patios. Somewhere in the sky, a Fen whipped its blades through the air, shuttling some VIP from one building to the next, someone too important to bother with sidewalks and streets.

  As Sela looked up to see if it was within sight, Desmond turned and walked through the rotating doors of the building, their destination. Sela shook her head and followed, glad for the sudden quiet of the lobby. Folding up her sunglasses, she stashed them in a front pocket of her purse.

  A handful of people were scattered through the lobby, some on phone calls, some talking together and sitting on the expensive couches, beside real plants, and nice tables. Coffee was shared along with information. All voices were kept low, making the spacious room feel almost like a library.

  A maglift elevator opened as Desmond led the way. They boarded and Desmond spoke their floor to the voice controls, “Hannan Consolidated.”

  Soon they were moving past Ginger’s desk. She greeted both of them by name. Sela had only met her once, and yet the woman did not pause in her recall, even for a second.

  Several people in the office said hello to them, and Desmond nodded in return. They did not wait, though, moving right through the open office and to Michelle Duncan’s.

  Jericho was not at the receptionist’s desk. Desmond led right through to Michelle’s personal office.

  As before, the lighting was dim, depending more on the blue pallor streaming in through the windows from the warm, midday city. Michelle sat on one of the couches depressed into the floor.

  There were two other people. She didn’t recognize the man sitting on the far seat, had never met him before. The other man was standing. Sela stopped short, her breath catching in her throat.

  Ellis Kincaid stood, one hand wrapped around a steaming cup, the other in a pants pocket. His sport coat wasn’t the same he had worn at the party, but the style was identical. It was as though he had been transplanted from the party last night to Michelle Duncan’s office. He didn’t even look tired.

  “Ah, Desmond, Sela,” Michelle said, standing. “We were wondering when you’d make it.”

  Sela gasped for breath, her mind furiously working to reconcile such a high-level player like Ellis Kincaid at this meeting. There had been a standard workup on him, just like everyone else, on the memory card Desmond gave to her through Max Gaines.

  But he was here.

  Desmond answered Michelle, “Sorry about the delay.” He glanced at Sela, took her hand, and said, “Sela, you already know Michelle, and Mr. Kincaid.” Ellis Kincaid took a sip of his coffee. Desmond led her over to the couches and introduced the final man, “This is Phil Calhoun.”

  Sela shook hands with him, barely managing to say, “Nice to meet you.”

  Why was Ellis Kincaid here? Why didn’t you tell me he was part of the Vines, Desmond? Her mind raced with her pulse.

  Michelle gestured for everyone to sit as she went to the drink bar. She made the same drinks Sela and Desmond had had the last time they were in her office.

  Well, the last time I was in her office, Sela thought. Who knew when Desmond last here…

  She sat on the edge of the couch, next to Desmond, placing her purse on her other side, and the duffel bag on the floor. They accepted the mugs offered by Michelle, each saying thanks, Desmond’s voice much louder.

  Ellis Kincaid moved around the couch he stood behind, and sank onto the cushioned front. He set his mug of coffee on a coaster, and leaned back into comfort.

  Michelle sat. She picked up a tablet from the coffee table and scooted back on the cushions, “Alright. Sela, how did things go last night?”

  Sela looked at Michelle and hesitated, not because she didn’t know what to say, but she had expected Desmond would do most of the talking at this meeting. She turned to look at him, but he was nursing a slow sip of coffee, eyes down.

  “Well, uh…” Sela cradled her tea in her fingers, feeling the warmth through the dish. “It went… It seemed to go okay. We installed the virus and we didn’t get caught.” She shrugged, “Then we left.”

  Michelle smiled and said, “More specifically, if you please.”

  Sela sighed and set down her mug. She recounted all that had happened the previous night, everything that took place from the rappelling to their early exit from the party.

  She blushed and stumbled over herself at the part when she and Desmond kissed to evade Basil Davenport’s suspicions. None of those who were listening said a word or reacted at all.

  The night had been much shorter than they had anticipated, due to the presence of Irwin Harrington. Sela couldn’t remember much of what was said by those attending the party. She only remembered Terry Baxter’s social-climber antics because that conversation had involved her directly.

  Stung by embarrassment, Sela wondered if she had even tried to pay attention to the larger conversation she and Desmond had crept into with Ellis Kincaid. She felt mild shame that she could not even offer the topics discussed at the party.

  Surely with both Desmond and Ellis present, any relevant intelligence that had been discussed could be teased out of their memories. Why hadn't they told her Ellis was a Vine!

  Michelle took notes into her tablet as Sela spoke. When Sela finished, Michelle looked up, "You were interrupted by Irwin Harrington, then?"

  "Yes," she blushed again, grasping for something to explain her lack of retained information. "If he hadn't shown up, things would have gone much smoother. We would probably have more intelligence to report."

  Ellis Kincaid didn't have to leave when Desmond and I did, she thought.

  "Ellis tells me you managed yourself well, though," Michelle said, tapping her stylus against her thigh.

  "What?" Sela asked. "With Harrington?"

  Michelle nodded.

  "I didn't—didn't realize he was paying attention to us."

  Ellis rasped out a laugh and followed it up with a cough. "Some of us pay attention to everything around. Otherwise we don't survive."

  Sela shrugged and took a sip from her mug. "I had to think fast. That's all."

  Ellis spoke up again, "You saw him coming, and you gave Desmond
enough information to help you handle the situation." He quirked one corner of his mustache upward, "And you two managed to use getting away from him as cover to leave the room."

  Sela frowned. They hadn't left the room together, and frankly, what did anyone care? It was better to leave the room unnoticed than to leave with an excuse. Still, the job had gone well, other than having to deal with Harrington, and also that moment with Davenport.

  "You got the virus planted. That's the important part," Michelle stated.

  Sela looked at Desmond. He was still looking away, almost disconnected from the conversation.

  She turned to Ellis Kincaid, "How did Irwin Harrington get into Davenport's suite?"

  The black man shrugged, "He was invited."

  Sela shook her head and said, "But we had the invitation list, and a list of people who might go along with them." She looked at Michelle, "Harrington wasn't on that list."

  Michelle pursed her lips and affirmed that, "No, he wasn't on the list we gave you."

  Of course! Realization hit Sela like a cold shower. "You took him off the list before you gave it to me!"

  The look in Michelle's eye was telling, telling and piercing. Ellis snuffed through his mustache, a snort of apathy, as though it should have been obvious to Sela before this moment.

  She scowled, "You were testing me…" So that's what was bothering Desmond. She turned to him, "Did you know about this?"

  He finally met her eyes. She could see the pain in his. "Sela, I swear, I didn't know about this until last night. I—"

  "We made the decision not tell Desmond," Michelle interrupted. "He can handle himself in most situations, but we needed to know that you can."

  Sela felt a knot of anger twisting in her stomach. They set me up! This wasn't the sort of invitation she wanted; it would not entice her to join the Vines.