As they entered the spacious chamber, Dot gasped. She stared up at the circular ceiling, its carven branch-work originating from the walls, met in the center—like spokes of a ship’s wheel. Between each of the branches, ran slender planks of cedar, curved to fit the shape of the house. The roof’s epicenter was exposed and Dot saw the evergreens that towered above the council house—limbs heavy with needles. Kim sat in the middle of the chamber. A table laden with food and drink was situated nearby. The others who were gathered rose from their seats as Táan and Dot entered.
Reba placed her hand on Dot’s shoulder and offered her other hand to Táan. “Welcome Bear, my name’s Reba—our people call me ‘Skaukw.’ I’ve heard many good things about you.” Dot blinked in surprise when Reba used Táan’s Yáats' Ýaat'áay name, it sounded strange coming from another. She observed Táan blush as Reba spoke his name. What’s all this? she wondered. Reba motioned for them to join her. “I’m sure you’re both hungry. We’ve saved some lunch for you—please, eat.” Táan handed Dot a fork and they piled large helpings of noodles with clams and mushrooms onto their plates. Dot broke a loaf of flatbread in half and offered the other portion to Táan. They took their seats next to Kim and attempted to eat as quietly and politely as two famished young adults could manage.
Reba turned her attention back to the elders, pacing slowly as she spoke her thoughts, “And so, Mr. Chen and his lethal research leave us with few options: Do we flee? Do we hide? Or, do we resist? We have all heard what its capabilities are, and we know that it—that he, cannot remain here in the Greenwood for long. We must now decide what should be done. I cannot make this decision alone—I’ll need to hear what you, our elders, think.” Reba took her seat at the head of the table. “Please, tell me.”
Dot and Táan exchanged glances as they finished their meal. Kim remained silent, staring at his folded hands. The five elders sat motionless, their eyes focused on some unseen object in the middle of the chamber. At last, the silver-haired man named Kay stirred and, turning his gaze to the Chief, said, “We are all in peril while Mr. Chen remains, that much is clear. It is only a matter of time before HSA will track him to our borders.”
Reba nodded in agreement and Kim glanced up as Kay continued, “I believe we should look to our people first as we consider the choices.”
Gracie Lamdúu clasped her weathered hands together and shook them, saying, “Yes, it’s true that we put ourselves at risk by inviting this man and his strange medicine into our village—this is true. But if we turn him out and do not help find the solution to what has begun, then we will eventually be at greater risk—is that not so?” She looked around the table and then back to Reba. “Surely HighTower will use this weapon against those they perceive as enemies once it is back in their possession. Who seated here does not believe that the First Nations people would soon be on that list?”
Old Ruby Awaa wagged her thumb in the air, “Ha! That’s nothing new. Our people have been on the Wáasdan Ýaat'áay list since they arrived. This is just another means to an end.” The elders nodded their heads in concurrence. Astounded, Dot peered over at Kim, he returned her look with an almost imperceptible nod. A lengthy pause followed as each council participant considered the outcomes of HighTower’s plan.
Reba rested her hands on her knees and sighed. She turned toward the scientist and said, “So then, what is your intention, Mr. Chen?”
“Pardon me?”
“What are you planning to do with the information you possess? You’ve most certainly risked your life getting here—to this country. You have put the lives of your new friends at risk and now the lives of those who are sheltering you.” Leaning forward, Reba looked directly into Kim’s eyes. “So, my question to you is simply this: What do you hope to accomplish, now that you are here?”
Dot set her fork back on the plate. She hadn’t given any thought about what Kim might do with his dangerous research. As far as she knew, he merely wanted to keep it out of the hands of HighTower… but how?”
Kim frowned, running his hand over his sharp cheekbone as he pondered Reba’s question. At length, he replied, “I must find a very important man—he is someone who will know what can be done with this technology and he has the power to make people listen. To accomplish this, I must travel to the city of New Seattle and—hopefully—speak with this individual.” Kim placed both hands together and rested his chin on his fingertips. “However, as you have correctly surmised, while I possess this research and—of course—for as long as I have proof of HighTower’s involvement, I am not exactly a guest you would want to keep around.”
Reba glanced at several of the elders before speaking. “How would we do this—help you find this powerful individual?”
Kim looked around the room in bewilderment. What he saw in front of him was a handful of elderly Natives, two teens and a confident, but naïve tribal leader. He took a deep breath and said, “I appreciate everything that you have done for me so far—and I am forever in your debt—especially yours, Dot,” Kim paused. “But there is nothing that any of you can do against the strength of HighTower. You should not get more involved in this matter than you already are. It will only bring trouble to your village.”
Kay leaned forward on his cane. “It is precisely because of the power that HighTower holds over us, that we must help you, Mr. Chen.”
“I don’t think that you realize how ruthless they are—what they are capable of.”
Reba placed her hands in her lap and spoke softly. “There isn’t a household in the Greenwood who has not lost a family member to HighTower at one time. We’ve all been indoctrinated into their capabilities. That is why we are here.”
Táan nudged Dot’s leg as they listened to the council members relate stories of loved ones who’d been taken or killed by the HSA. Dot bowed her head as the others spoke, but glanced at her friend out of the corner of her eye. Marta’s dead son was in her thoughts as well.
Kim cleared his throat, “Unfortunately, I am unable to send the data through any electronic methods—the risk of HighTower intercepting it is too high. I must meet this man in person, and convince him that I mean no harm.”
Gracie Lamdúu shrugged and replied, “This cannot be so hard. You have managed to persuade an entire village—no, two villages—that you’re a man of good intentions. Surely, whomever this person is, will see that as well—after he hears your story.”
Kim shook his head, “Sadly, I’m convinced that the governments involved and HighTower will have covered their bases; damaging my reputation would only be the first step. I don’t know what story will have been fabricated, but I’m sure it won’t be a good one… By now, I am most likely a terrorist or doomsday fanatic.”
“Who is the person that you’re searching for? Does he know who you are—or who you were?” Reba asked.
Kim replied, “His name is Raj Kaleka, he is the president of a very powerful organization called ‘ATHENS.’ Powerful enough that they alone can stand up to HighTower—in fact, on many occasions, Mr. Kaleka has condemned HSA’s humanitarian violations. His organization is no friend to HighTower.”
Táan cleared his throat, “Excuse me, I know I’m not part of this council or anything… I was just wondering though, what makes you think this guy wants to get in the middle of some genetic-weapon conflict? I mean, doesn’t he have enough other stuff to do—that is, if he’s such an important person?” Táan fidgeted as he realized everyone’s eyes were upon him. “I don’t mean to shoot holes in your theory Kim, but what’s stopping this Raj guy from just handing you over to the authorities, providing you could even set up a meeting with him?”
Dot looked from Kim’s face to Táan’s and then to Reba’s. There was an expression of concern written on all of them. Kim took a deep breath before he answered. “There is nothing to stop him from doing exactly that.” Turning to face Dot, he continued, “There’s nothing to say that he wouldn’t either. I have to believe, that there is go
odness that will show itself when it is needed. For instance, if Dot had not stopped to help me—and if she hadn’t sent for you, Táan … If Marta, Russell, Doc and now all of you gathered here, had not listened to my story and decided to believe me, to consider helping me… What can I say? I can only try. If I don’t try and fix this somehow, then that which is good will eventually be lost. And power, greed and fear will be all that remains.”
Reba stood up and walked to the center of the chamber. Clasping her hands behind her, she looked up through the opening and watched the shadows form between the evergreens. She spoke her words toward the branches. “The research Mr. Chen possesses cannot remain here in the Greenwood; we are not strong enough to hide it from the HSA. Mr. Chen should find this president of ATHENS, and expose HighTower’s involvement. Although, he can’t go alone—especially in his present condition.” Reba turned to the elders. “I think it is up to us now to help him.”
Kay grasped his cane for support and leveraged himself off the bench. Standing upright, he bowed his head. “Na chan. I agree, Skaukw.” One by one, the elders stood and repeated the words that Kay had spoken. Dot and Táan watched as they solemnly bowed, then left the chamber. The room became quiet. Reba rubbed her shoulders, slowly stretching the muscles of her neck. With an ironic smile, she said, “Well then, Mr. Chen. I suppose we must now make a plan.”
18 La Garrote
Paris France. Jul 16. 2033
48°51'32.1"N 2°24'06.4"E
Dusk settled around the Rue des Montiboeufs. The rush of traffic had finally calmed and Garance took that as a sign to leave her bar stool at the Souris Timide. She tipped back the last of her stinger and set three notes on the counter. “Merci, Henri.”
“Bon, a la prochaine, Garance.”
She walked the half-kilometer to her flat, stopping to purchase a pack of smokes and baguette. The evening sun splashed pastel colors across the stucco fronts of the buildings along the street. Garance unlocked the door of her apartment and kicked her sandals off on the mat. She looked up to press her code into the sensor alarm and gasped. Her flat lay in ruins. A planter lay on its side, soil and foliage covered the foyer. Her sparse living room was in shambles. Garance peered around the corner of the room. “Allô?” She pulled her mobile out of her jacket, shouting into the receiver, “Callum! C’est Garance—rappelle-moi!” Pressing herself against the wall, she made her way back to her bedroom. “Allô—qui est là?” She felt her breathing become shallow, her voice was shaky. Kicking the door open, Garance stepped into the room. “Merde!” She stooped to pick up the fallen armoire that blocked the entrance, the contents of its drawers were strewn across her carpet. Garance noticed that her bedside table was tipped over, papers and a bag of weed lay on the floor next to her vibrator. “Putain de merde!” She slumped against the door. With trembling hands, she put a cigarette to her mouth and flicked the lighter. She tried Callum’s number three more times, but there was no answer. He always worked at La Balise until at least 10 p.m. Something wasn’t right. She returned to the entryway and grabbed her shoulder bag, checking to make sure her computer was still inside it. Garance pulled a package from behind a picture frame and stuffed it in her bag. She took a last look around her apartment, opened the front door and slung her bag over her shoulder. Taking the stairs two at a time, Garance’s mind raced. Who would do this? Why doesn’t Callum answer? Back on the street, she ran the entire distance to the office. The sun had set while she was in her flat and Garance now searched for the front entrance in twilight. Her breath came in hoarse gasps. Putain cigarettes! She spat onto the sidewalk and looked cautiously around before opening the main doors and heading for the stairs. An elderly man with a Pomeranian glared at her as she brushed past him. Garance fumbled in her pockets for the office keys as she climbed the steps. She glanced at the signage on the landing: Au quatrième étage—fourth floor. Slipping the key into the vintage lock, she turned the knob and entered. The room was dark, moonlight silhouetted the furniture. Garance reached for the metal wall switch and waited. She tried again. Nothing. “Allô… Callum?... Veronique? Is anyone here?” Placing the keys back in her pocket, Garance stepped further into the office and stared into the shadows. She froze in place, suddenly aware of a strange quality in the air. “Callum?” The smell persisted; metallic, almost earthy—there was a certain heaviness to the scent. Something primal inside Garance’s brain told her to run. She inhaled slowly and pressed forward, inching her way toward the work stations. As she approached her desk, she tripped over a small object. Garance felt around the floor, touching a coil of razor-thin wire. She picked it up, holding it toward the light from the window. The wire was sticky, that much she could tell. Garance ran her index finger and thumb along the wire and yanked her hand away as a sharp pain ran across her finger tip. “Ouille!” She stuck her finger into her mouth and tasted her own blood. Setting the wire on the edge of her desk, she went to Callum’s chair. She pulled the swivel seat toward her and Callum’s head flopped to one side. His left hand dangled from the armrest, blood covered the front of his shirt, pooling in his lap. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Garance backed away from the body and crashed into the table where Callum’s computer and piles of paper usually sat. The desk was empty.
Covering her mouth to keep from screaming, Garance rushed toward the door. She slipped on the hardwood floor, slick with Callum’s blood, landing hard on her hip. Garance slid around as she scrambled to reach the exit, “Mon Dieu—qu’est qui ce passe?” she sobbed. A note tacked on the doorjamb caught her eye. “à emporter Libanais.” She snatched the note and shoved it into her pocket as she tore her way out of the room. In the light of the hallway, Garance looked down at her trousers. Her left pant leg was smeared in gore from where she’d fallen, her fingers were bloody—both her own and Callum’s. Immobilized with panic, she stood at the top of the fourth-floor landing, staring at her hands. She heard a door close somewhere down the hallway; the sound of keys on a chain. She spun around and went back inside the office. Garance ran to the farthest window, opposite the desks—not daring to look back at Callum’s corpse. Pressing her full weight into the sill, she slid the window up enough to squeeze through. A rusty fire-escape was attached to the building’s stucco façade. Garance had no idea if it functioned, or if it would support her once she put weight on it. She lifted the corroded ladder away from itself and extended it toward the street. The rungs only reached to the second floor. Climbing down as far as she could, Garance searched in vain for another set of escapes. “Merde,” she peered into the dark second story window next to where she stood—it was vacant. She could feel her pulse racing, feel the panic beginning to rise… She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. A drain-spout ran down the corner of the building, not three meters away from her perch. She leaned out and grabbed the façade, placing her left foot on the ledge, gently at first… It held. Step by step, she slid along the ledge. As she reached for the pipe, her fingers slipped and she fell several meters. Her hands dug into one of the spout’s supporting brackets, stopping her descent with a painful jolt—the attachment slicing into her hands. She sucked in her breath and wrapped her thighs around the drainpipe, whispering, “S'il vous plait… Mère Marie.” Garance looked below, the street was dark and empty. She slid down the drain, clenching and unclenching her legs to control her speed and wincing at the pain as the rusty metal abraded her palms. The spout ended two meters from the pavement, Garance released her grip and fell to the ground. Pulling her shoulder bag to her side, she shoved her hands into her pockets and ran down the street.
The archaic neon sign that hung in Al Ajani’s restaurant window flickered perpetually—as if unsure whether to fully commit to commerce. Kassim wiped his hands on his apron, reached over the table and yanked the chain to its off position. He glanced at the young woman with red hair, sitting alone in the corner booth. Veronique was a regular in Al Ajani, but he could not recall ever seeing her this late at night—certainly not with such a disheveled appe
arance about her. He liked this girl; a very put together Parisian woman—friendly enough, but not overly so. He liked to watch her walk, imaging how she moved in bed. Tonight though, she was a wreck—her make up smeared down her face, her hands shaking as she held her cup of Maatouk coffee. He chose to give her space and ignore the tears. He walked behind the counter as the front door opened with a tinkling of brass bells. “Nous avons fermé—We are closed,” he shouted, waving his hand in attempt to shoo away the customer. “Non…aller.”
Veronique looked up, “She’s with me, Kassim. S'il vous plait?”
Kassim glared at the newcomer. He didn’t like her appearance—dirty, sweaty, blood all over her clothes. She looked like a street urchin. “Un quart d'heure,” he grumbled and walked into the kitchen.
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