The Divinity Bureau

by Tessa Clare

  My family is cursed. I know my father has enemies, as he’s a politician that’s known to have done a few tricky things throughout the course of his career. But that’s where the cycle should end. My mother is a former lawyer that gave up her career to take care of us. How far would the penance for my family’s crimes stretch? How long would it be before Autumn or I end up on the election list?

  My dad immediately appealed his election. From what I heard, the process is tedious. In most cases, it takes months to see a district chairman, which stretches further than the thirty-day deadline allows.

  The first hearing is a request for an extension for the elected so that they aren’t required to report to the bureau’s headquarters by the usual thirty-day deadline. It wouldn’t do any good for an appeal hearing to occur after the person is already dead. So that’s where the extension comes in, but it’s often denied. Still, the Bureau has a history of individuals that will appeal for the sole purpose of being granted an extension. They know that their time is running out, but they’ll make it go on for as long as possible.

  My dad, due to his position in Parliament, didn’t need to wait for an extension. Nikolas Hemmingsworth, our district chairman, saw him within a week. My dad was also fortunate enough to be able to afford a lawyer. In this case, he chose a former colleague from his days as a private practice attorney. The two of them hired three analysts. The first that testified against the effect of overpopulation (who claimed that it was a myth). The second spoke about the long-term effects on the Divinity Bureau by electing someone – especially one with a significant role in politics – that’s underage (he claimed that it would hurt the image of the bureau, thus impacting the department’s influence in the long-run). The third focused on laws and tried to claim that my dad’s election was illegal (as it turned out, there wasn’t anything written in law that stated that the bureau could only elect those over a minimum age – but he tried to interpret a clause as such).

  The final part of his appeals consisted of testimonies from his family.

  “Now, remember,” Henrik had said to me. In between sessions, he had pulled me outside the courtroom to remind me that he depended on me. “The District Chairman’s name is Nikolas Hemmingsworth. Don’t bring up politics. Focus on portraying me as a loving and caring father. Maybe you can bring up the time we went to the Iceland’s? Not a lot of people get the chance to leave the Confederal Districts. Remember that time when we got lost on the way to the ski slopes, so we stopped at a restaurant that had their own foothill? Remember how they let us borrow their gear and we got to go sledding down the mountain?”

  “I’m not five, dad,” I say, irritated that I had to spend the day in a courtroom when there was a protest happening outside the bureau’s headquarters. “As I recall, we went to the Iceland’s because Mom found out that you were cheating on her and wanted space.”

  My dad’s eyes darkened. “Don’t be difficult. Leonard says that we have a good chance of winning. Don’t blow it.”

  In the end, I did blow it. Both my mom and sister had testified before I did. They reminisced about the good times. It was as if my mother had forgotten that my father had ever been unfaithful to her. It was as if my sister had plenty of memories with my dad – but we both knew that he spent much of our childhoods away from home. But I wasn’t angry with my father. I spent my entire life accustomed to his long absences and short temper. But I was mad at the system.

  “State your name,” Leonard says as soon as I’m standing on the podium. I feel small at the moment – like the hearing room is the belly of Moby Dick, and I’ve been eaten alive.

  “April Maheva McIntyre,” I say, my voice shaky.

  “How are you related to Henrik McIntyre?”

  “He’s my father.”

  “Can you describe your relationship with your father in more detail?”

  I pause.

  “He created me, I guess,” I say, my half-hearted attempt to lighten the tense atmosphere. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see my dad giving me a dark look.

  “Alright,” Leonard says, a smile crossing his lips. Is he amused? It seems like it. “Can you describe some of your memories with your father?”

  “He took care of my family and me,” I say without hesitation. “We never went hungry, and we always had a roof over our heads. Every so often, he’d take us somewhere cool – like the Iceland’s. It was awesome to be able to leave the Confederal Districts for a little while…” I could never understand why we weren’t allowed to leave in the first place. Don’t we have an overpopulation problem?

  I know that Leonard wants sensory details, but I’m not willing to share them. My memories belong to me – not a room full of strangers.

  “Do you feel that your father deserves to be elected?” Leonard asks.

  “No,” I say without hesitation.

  There’s a moment of silence. Right now, I wish that I was anywhere else. I feel like a chess piece in a game where I don’t know the rules. The way that everyone is staring at me – Leonard, my dad, Nikolas Hemmingsworth, Gideon Hearthstrom –

  Wait, Gideon Hearthstrom?

  “Well, Chairman,” Leonard says, interrupting my thoughts. “I turn the floor over to –”

  “My dad doesn’t deserve to be elected,” I say sharply. I want everyone – especially Gideon – to hear me. “You know why? It’s because this whole system is fucking ridiculous! Why should one guy…” I point to Hemmingsworth. “… have any say over who lives or dies? What qualifies you to play God? The fact that you’re in a fucking suit and you have a fancy title?”

  Leonard turns red. “That’s enough, April!”

  “It’s not enough!” I roar. “The whole system is nothing but corrupt – and it serves no one!”

  “That’s enough,” another voice interjects. I recognize it as Hemmingsworth’s. “Please have Miss McIntyre removed from this hearing immediately.”

  A security officer appears at my side, tugging on my below. I pull my arm out of his grasp. I don’t need to be escorted out. I’m ready to leave the room without hesitation – and it didn’t escape my notice that there’s a protest happening outside the bureau’s headquarters. But as I’m moving, I can see Gideon Hearthstrom watching me. I’ll never forget his stone-cold expression.

  My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of knocking on my door. I assume that it’s my mom with another lecture. Logically, I know that my mother doesn’t have a lot of time left. I shouldn’t be shutting her out – and yet, what am I supposed to do? Grab tea with her and tell her what an amazing mother she is? She’d be able to see right through me.

  “Go away,” I spit out.

  Instead, the door slowly creaks open. I expect a whiff of cigarette smoke to come in through the doorway; but instead, Autumn creeps in.

  A hesitant look crosses her face. “Can I come in?”

  I want to say ‘no,’ but Autumn is propping herself next to me on the bed before I can utter another word.

  I sigh. “What do you want?”

  “I don’t know,” Autumn admits. “I had a nightmare; but when I went past Mom’s room, she was on the phone and cursing someone out.”

  “Probably her lawyer,” I say. I have vague memories of her doing the same to Leonard last year. “She should know better than to bite the hand that’s going to be saving her ass from death.”

  “Yeah,” Autumn agrees, though her expression indicates that she’s anything but agreeing with the situation. “April, do you know what happens to people when they get elected?” I raise an eyebrow. She should’ve learned this at least five years ago. “Like, what happens when people report to the agency? Do they line everybody up and kill them all at once?”

  I cringe at the thought. “I don’t know. I heard it was pretty peaceful. Someone once told me that the bureau hires chefs and lets everyone pick their last meal, but that seems a little far-fetched. I think they do it by lethal injection, though.”

  From what I remember, they d
on’t report to the bureau’s agency. Even at twenty stories tall, there’s no way that the headquarters can house a million people. They’re given some undisclosed location, and they have field agents that return the bodies afterward.

  “It sound a lot like how they treat criminals that are about to executed,” Autumn observes.

  “It’s nothing like that.”

  “Of course not,” says Autumn, bitterness seeping into her tone. “Mom and Dad aren’t criminals.”

  ‘That’s debatable,’ I want to say. My father was arrested twice. The first time was because a district chairman allegedly paid him to update the maximum age policies, and the second was for lying to Nolan Fitz when he claimed that overpopulation wasn’t as big of a deal that it was (from what my mom said, he used fraudulent documents and false studies to prove his point). Fortunately, my dad was lucky enough to be acquitted both times.

  “We’re going to be orphans,” Autumn says grimly.

  “No, we’re not,” I say, even though it sounds hoarse in my ears. “You know that Mom is going to try and get an appeal hearing.” It would buy her time, at least.

  “I know – but remember how well that worked out for Dad?”

  “It’s two different situations.”

  “I’m not a kid anymore!” Autumn explains. “You don’t need to tell me that everything is going to be alright when it isn’t.”

  I feel nauseous by the implications. Once, Autumn had been a baby. My parents hired a nanny; but occasionally, I’d change her diaper and feed her a few bottles. When Autumn was a toddler, I was the only one in the household with enough energy to keep up with her. But I pulled away when Autumn grew older. Unlike me, Autumn is an introvert. While I had dreams of giving public speeches, Autumn’s lifelong dream was to be a writer. When I was a kid, she was a shiny toy that I could play with. Now, she’s a person with her own thoughts and emotions. We’re two different people. Once, that felt like a bad thing – but seeing her now makes me think that it’s wonderful. I wrap an arm around my sister, who lays her head on my shoulder.

  “Remember when you were five and you were determined to break the world record for the tallest tower of toy bricks?” I ask. Autumn nods. “And remember how you spent five days building it in the backyard before it started raining and it came crashing down?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You started crying,” I reminisce. “Especially when some of the pieces ended up getting lost in the mud. Then mom came out and reassured you that it wasn’t the end of the world. She said, ‘When life breaks you down, you have two choices. You can either leave the pieces on the floor…’”

  “’Or you can rebuild yourself so that you’re stronger than before,’” Autumn finishes. “I left the pieces on the floor. There was too much mud.”

  I laugh. Our parents ended up buying her a new set less than a week later; but by then, Autumn had found a new hobby to keep her interest.

  “We’ll get through this,” I promise. “If we don’t, then we’ll just have to find a way to rebuild ourselves.”

  “I don’t want to live with a foster family,” Autumn admits. “I heard that it’s awful. I heard that drug addicts would adopt kids so that they can get money from the state to buy more drugs – or that parents will take kids and neglect them for their actual children. I’m sure there are lovely folks out there, but I don’t want to take that chance.”

  “You won’t,” I reassure her.

  “What if the appeal is denied?”

  “You’ll stay with me,” I say. It takes me a second to believe the words coming out of my mouth. Can I take care of my sister? It’d be a lot of responsibility. I’d be required to attend school functions, keep an eye on her grades, and mold her into an adult.

  “Will they let you?” she asks.

  I think about the implications. Autumn is a smart kid, and I’d be lucky to be her guardian.

  “I’m twenty years old,” I say. “I’m technically an adult.”

  “But what about Dr. Gray? What will she say?”

  “I don’t care what Dr. Gray says,” I say with newfound determination. My mind is made up. “I just care about keeping us together.”

  “So, I’ll stay with you?” Autumn asks, her eyes wide and brimming with tears. “Do you promise?”

  I think about the responsibilities that would come with my next words – and I don’t want it any other way.

  I nod. “I promise.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ROMAN

  “R oman!” Macy exclaims in surprise as soon as she sees me. “What are you doing here?”

  I attempt to offer my best smile, but the reason for my visit is nothing to smile over. It’s a Friday afternoon. I had six tickets left in my queue, but I chose to leave work early when I had gone a week without hearing from April.

  “I heard what happened,” I say. “I wanted to check to see how you guys were doing.”

  There’s a chance that Macy might hate me after all this. She knows that I work for the Divinity Bureau, and she’s not on favorable terms with the agency. I hope she can see past my job and recognize that I only want to offer my support.

  “Oh, Roman!” she exclaims, pulling me into a hug. “You’re too sweet.”

  Shocked by the sudden display of affection, it takes a moment before I wrap a comforting arm around Macy. When I made the decision to come to the mansion, it was to make sure that April was alright. I suddenly feel guilty for not thinking about Macy, who just found out that her life was being cut short. She didn’t deserve this fate.

  “Is there anything that I can do?” I ask.

  “It depends on what my lawyer says.”

  I stop myself from saying anything more. Technically, I’m not allowed to testify at appeal hearings. According to my employment contract, it’s a conflict of interest. But I’m not sure if this is the moment to bring that up.

  “Listen,” I say, pulling away. “I’ll talk more about this later, but can you tell me where I can find April?”

  Macy looks away. “She’s in her room. She hasn’t left since she found out…” She trails off, unable to bring herself to say the words.

  “Thanks,” I say making my way towards the elevator. “I just want to talk to her for a few minutes.”

  I take the elevator to the third floor, where April’s bedroom is. There are only two rooms on that floor, and April’s room is the one with a door that’s been slammed shut. I give it a knock. “April?”

  No answer. I try again.

  “April, it’s Roman.”

  My only response is silence.

  “Listen, I know you’re upset. I know you probably don’t want to talk about it right now…” I pause, listening for a sound from the other side of the door. “But I was hoping that I could change your mind. Or at least get you to talk to me.”

  I wait for a response, but none comes.

  “Could you at least open the door?”

  The door doesn’t bulge. I sigh and slide to the floor. I’m ready to give up when I hear a voice from the other side of the door: “Can you answer one question for me?”

  I press my ears against the door, afraid that I might miss something if I stop paying attention for a split second. “Of course,” I answer softly.

  April’s voice is so soft that it sounds like a whisper. “Why didn’t you do anything to stop it?”

  My mouth falls open. “What?”

  “You heard me,” April says, her voice growing louder with newfound determination. “Why didn’t you stop my mother from being elected?”

  I press my forehead against the door, wincing at her words. “April, there wasn’t anything that I could do to stop it.”

  “You could have tried,” she hisses.

  ‘She’s hurting,’ I tell myself. People say awful things when they’re upset. Still, my reasoning doesn’t heal the sting from her words.

  “Trust me,” I say, pressing my brows together. “I never wanted this to happen. The last thing
I ever wanted was for you – or your family – to get hurt.”

  “It’s not just about my family.”

  “Then what is this about?” I ask, my voice growing desperate. “Please – tell me, what do I need to do to make this better?”

  “How many people have died since you started working for the bureau?”

  I’m taken aback by her question. “I…”

  I don’t know what to say.

  Unfortunately, my silence is the only answer that April needs. “I knew it.”

  “Knew what?”

  “You sit behind a computer all day,” April says bitterly. “You see a name on your screen – not realizing that this is a person with a life, a family, hopes, and dreams. Then you destroy that life by electing them!” Her words hurt. I wish she’d open the damn door so that she could see. “I get it. There’s only so much you can do. But once the day is over, you go home, collect a paycheck, and forget about it. That’s what I can’t seem to understand.”

  I slam a fist against the door. “It’s not like that! Trust me, April, there is so much that you don’t know – things that I want to tell you…”

  I want to tell her everything: the election report, seeing her name on the list, coming to her work, the ruined hack job on her father’s computer, and the research that I had done on her family. I let out a breath. “I’ll tell you everything if you’ll please open the door.”

  I press an ear against the door, not caring if I fall over. But I never do.

  The last thing I hear from April is a solid, “No.”

  Macy asks me if I want to join her and Autumn for dinner. A better part of me lost my appetite, but I accept in hopes that April will come downstairs to join us. Instead, her plate of food goes untouched. The sight makes me cringe.