We park along a residential street in a mid-sized city and recline our seats. As I fall asleep, I think about Jamie. Mila looked up his medical records for me earlier and read them off to me. It turns out he’s not drugged. He slipped into a semi-comatose state all on his own late last night.
His pulse and breathing have remained steady and strong, but I haven’t been able to rouse him enough to eat or drink. I try not to let it worry me, but honestly, it terrifies me. Mila already confirmed that she shut down his Navi entirely, so whatever it was doing to his brain should have stopped, and that means he should be getting better soon. I don’t know what it means that he’s not.
All along, I’ve been telling myself that once the source of the problem was removed, Jamie would heal naturally and go back to normal—back to the person he used to be. And I can’t afford to entertain any other possibilities.
After Phoebe falls asleep, Mila replies to the email from Slava Knyazev. She sends the message from her [email protected] email address.
I’m listening.
Slava:
Ms. Bremer,
Then I will get to the point.
First, I want to assure you that we want this whole thing to go away. I want you to understand that we never intended for anyone to get hurt. You may laugh, but it‘s true. Our highest priority is profits, and in our line of work, we need a robust economy and at least marginally healthy society to ensure those profits. This epidemic was unintended, and we are working hard to fix it.
Now, I’ve watched our previous videos with you. It‘s clear to me that you don‘t care about money, luxury goods, vacations, or any of the other things those thugs offered you. I also understand that you don‘t care about people other than your mother—and I apologize again for the tactics used with her previously—but the point is, I’m not going to waste time appealing to your humanitarian instincts.
It seems to me that what you do care about is programming. Good, clean, fast code that does its job. And you‘re very, very good at it. Is that about right?
Sincerely,
Slava Knyazev
Mila:
Yes.
Slava:
I know that you had to work your way up from being a Navi technician. At the risk of offending you, and I apologize in advance, I know it took you years to even be considered for a programming job, only because you can‘t have a Navi. You‘ve never been treated fairly, despite your brilliance, because of your "disability."
If you were to help us fix HAD, and if you were to be revealed as the one who solved it—but of course, you find that the true perpetrator is someone else, not us—then imagine the opportunities that would open up for you. Imagine the status associated with being the coder who solved HAD. Having your genius recognized. Being able to pick your projects and your fellow coders from here on out. Does that interest you?
I know I’m dreaming. The all-night diner swims in front of my vision, rippling in black and white and then breaking into random spots of color. Every table is filled with people. They all stare into their Navis without expression, occasionally lifting cups of coffee to their lips. A procession of waiters bring trays of food, which also waver and ripple.
I know that something terrible is going to happen, and I can’t stop it.
My disguise is slipping. I feel my wig dragging down my face, and I try to put it back, but the tangles of hair fill my hands. I throw the wig aside, hoping no one will notice. My makeup is melting. I wipe my face, and my hands come away covered in thick, waxy red lipstick and too-bright pink blush. I must look like a clown.
Every face lifts up just slightly in unison as they all receive the same bulletin in all their Navis at once. Then every face turns toward me.
Recognition blossoms. “That’s her. That’s the one. That’s Eve!”
From beside me, Mila looks at me with disinterest. “They’re going to kill you,” she says dispassionately. “What else can they do?”
They stand and walk toward me, their movements robotic and their faces blank. I try to get up, but Mila holds me down with inhuman strength. Then, at the last moment, she simply disappears.
As they tear me limb from limb, I feel the ligaments rip and the joints give way. I feel the flesh and skin pull apart. I scream.
Mila shakes me awake. My body is calm, my breathing restful. She shows no sign of alarm. “It’s getting light out,” she says. “We should go.”
While we grab a fast-food breakfast and I struggle to forget my harrowing dream, she tells me that, according to the news, the authorities have projected that we’re heading to the Mexican border and checkpoints have been instituted in a tri-state range to intercept us. It makes me chuckle, thinking how frustrated they’ll be when we somehow manage to slip through.
Then Mila goes back to work. She tells me that she’s tracing the logs to find where the malware has been either installed or given new directions from “command and control” servers. “If we can find the point of origin, then we can identify the companies responsible,” she tells me.
With Mila working, Jamie tuned out, and my Navi turned off, it’s quiet in the car. I have no one to talk to and nothing to distract me. At first, I spend all my mental energy trying to forget my dream, but at last it releases me, and then, as the miles wear on, I find myself thinking more—and more deeply—than I’ve had time for in years. I’m not sure that all that mental activity is adding up to anything, but it feels different. I decide, after a while, that it feels good. Looking around at the world and letting my own thoughts tumble through my mind… it’s calming.
I find myself thinking about my Collective, wondering how everyone is doing. I wonder if they miss me, if they’re worried about me.
Perhaps somewhat belatedly, I also think about Mr. Pataky. He’s going to be upset at us for running away like this. As difficult as he could be, I realize I don’t want to disappoint him. I hope he doesn’t fire us as his clients. He seemed like a good attorney.
And, wow, are we going to need a good attorney.
Twelve
At last, late in the morning, the sun blinding me and making me wish my Navi’s auto-sunglasses feature was working, we exit I70 into Zanesville, about fifty miles from Columbus. As I recognize the old landmarks, my heart starts to flutter in my chest. I realize that perhaps I should have warned Mila about my community. Actually, I could have spent the whole trip trying to prepare her and it might not have been enough.
“Mila, just to tell you a few things about my family…”
She doesn’t look up from the laptop.
“Plain people are insular and deliberately under-educated. They know nothing about the outside world—nothing about popular culture or history. A lot of them don’t even know who Gandhi was or JFK or anything.
“They’re religious and strict about it. Almost anything you can think of to do is considered a sin. Recorded music, dancing, drinking, photos, watching TV. Cursing. Art. Jewelry, makeup, having your hair down. We’ll need to adopt plain dress as soon as we get there.”
“They seemed fine to me on the phone,” Mila says, seemingly unaffected by my litany of warnings.
I cast a look over at her. I take note of her modest attire, her lack of jewelry or makeup, and the fact that I’ve never heard her curse. She doesn’t listen to music or own a TV, either.
Still, I shake my head.
“You don’t understand. We’re going to be treated like second-class citizens because we’re ‘worldly.’ We don’t belong in their community. We’re sinners, and we’re going to burn in hell. So… don’t expect a warm welcome.”
She glances over at me. “Then why are we coming here?”
“Because they don’t have Navis or even smartphones. They don’t have computers of any kind. They don’t even have electricity. They’re off the grid. And they’re also kind of notorious for passive resistance to the authorities in situations like this. I’m hoping they’re going to be willing to hide us.”
Mila
doesn’t comment, and I don’t say anything else. I scan the farmland and gardens on either side as I drive up to my parents’ house, looking for people I recognize. But it’s hard to distinguish them from each other with the plain clothes—the long, full dresses, aprons, and caps on the women, and the dark pants, white shirts, and suspenders on the men.
I both love and hate coming home, but mostly, I hate it. Certainly, if they weren’t my family, I’d never come here.
I pull up into the driveway behind the carriage my parents drive. The house is large, two-story, and wood-framed—identical to all the others in this community. “Stay here with Jamie for a minute,” I say. “I’ll ask for help to come get him.”
I’m already feeling resentful and upset as I approach the back door. But what can I expect? They’ve never forgiven me for being who I am. And it isn’t my fault that I wasn’t born to be like them.
I knock on the door, and in a few moments, my mother answers it. Her eyes widen. “Phebe!” she exclaims. “Where is he?”
By the way she says it, I know that she already knows. Probably some busybody in town—from normal society—recognized the name Bernhart from the news and then told someone in the Plain community, and the word spread.
“He’s in the car,” I say. “I need Dad’s help to get him in. He’s not doing so well.”
Mom pushes me past me and hurries out to the car. Mila is standing by it, but Mom ignores her to open the door to the backseat and slide in partway, trying to get a good look at her baby boy.
Dad is walking up the driveway to the house. He’s always come home from his work at the carriage and harness shop for lunch. His face, always sober, darkens when he recognizes me. He takes in the whole scene, with the car and the stranger and Mom half in the backseat. “Is James in there?” he asks.
I nod.
“Then help me with him,” Dad says.
I usher Mom to the side and Dad pulls Jamie out, holding him up under the armpits. I catch him by the knees. It’s awkward, but we get him into the house. Mom hurries a few steps ahead of us and puts a coverlet and pillow on one of the sofas in the spacious living room, and we lay him down there.
“Blood pressure cuff and thermometer?” I ask of Mom as I check his pulse and pupils again. My people are big believers in do-it-yourself doctoring. She brings both items. A minute or two later, I report, “His vital signs are still good. Bring me some water, Mom.” I’ve been trying to get water into him every few hours, but he hasn’t taken any yet. Getting him rehydrated is my most immediate concern.
“So, what’s wrong with him?” Dad asks.
I heave a sigh. I guess it’s time to face the music. I’m opening my mouth to speak when Mila interrupts. I look up to see her hovering at the entrance to the room.
“There’s a third wave,” she says. “Of Hyper-Aggression Disorder. It was first reported on the news last night. It’s affecting new patients as well as many of the old ones. Symptoms are much more severe. Hallucinations, blackouts, and seizures are appearing in as many as sixty percent of the third-wave patients. Jamie is one of them.”
As I stare at her, open-mouthed, wondering when she was planning to tell me this, she steps toward my father. “I apologize for intruding in your home. My name is Mila Bremer. I’m the one who spoke to you on the phone yesterday.”
My mother is so startled that she almost drops the water she brought me. “Your mother! That’s your mother upstairs!”
Mila nods. “May I see her?”
“Of course, of course,” Mom says. She puts the cup of water on the coffee table and leads Mila away.
“Why did you take him out of the hospital?” Dad asks me.
“They wouldn’t let us take out his Navi,” I say as I try to get Jamie propped up with his head steadied by cushions. His eyes flutter as I do so. “And the Navi is the cause of the problem. That’s what’s causing HAD. We had to get him out of the hospital so we could treat him.”
I open his mouth and carefully put in a trickle of water. His eyes open briefly, and he swallows. I breathe a sigh of relief and give him some more.
“Why are they saying you’re some sort of terrorists?” Dad’s brow is wrinkled. He doesn’t understand anything about the outside world, but he doesn’t trust me entirely, either. I can see that in his expression, and it hurts.
“We were trying to fix it, Dad. Nobody else knows that it’s the Navis. Whoever’s responsible for this thing, they knew we were on to them. They tried to get us out of the way.”
He crosses his arms, still looking down at his youngest son. “The world brings nothing but trouble.”
I don’t say anything. Jamie stops drinking water and tries to look around before drifting back off.
Dad looks at me coldly. “And you’ve brought that trouble to my house, Phebe Esther.”
I swallow hard. “But I need your help, Dad. And we help each other. It’s our way, to help each other.”
He remains cold. “You’ve left our ways behind.”
I take a deep breath and think hard before I speak.
“But you haven’t.”
I bite my lip before I can say anything else that might make things worse.
We look at each other for what feels like an eternity.
Then he looks me up and down, and his distance is supplanted by everyday disapproval. “Go put on some proper clothes, and then you can come down for lunch.”
When I pause at the open door to Mrs. Bremer’s room, I feel like I’m intruding. The rooms in my parents’ house are large, and in this room, there are several chairs to the side of the bed, where the three of them are sitting and chatting pleasantly. Mrs. Bremer appears to be in both good spirits and good health, with rosy cheeks. She’s wearing some of my mother’s plain clothes, including the cap.
When she sees me at the door, she waves me in. “Why, hello, there! Come on in, join the fun.”
“Actually, Mrs. Bremer, it’s time for lunch. I need to get Mila and myself dressed properly.”
Looks of alarm on the faces of the other two tell me that I’ve misspoken somehow.
A shadow crosses Mrs. Bremer’s face, and she looks around in confusion. “Is Mila here?” she asks.
Mila shakes her head at me, a tiny but emphatic motion.
“Um… no?… No, of course not. But you know… she looks a lot like Mila, so I… got confused?” I’m improvising the best I can, given my level of fatigue and tension, but everyone beams at me approvingly, so apparently, I’m on the right track.
“Oh, I know,” Mrs. Bremer says. “Doesn’t she? If she were only a few years younger and didn’t have that long hair, she’d be the spitting image of my girl. Tell me, how do you know Mila?”
My brain freezes, and I stare helplessly.
“From college,” Mila supplies. “Phoebe and I were both seniors when Mila was a freshman. We were all students together. Of course, now we’ve graduated, but Mila hasn’t yet, or she would have come with us to visit.”
“Oh, of course.” Mrs. Bremer smiles.
“But you heard Phoebe. It’s time to go down to lunch. I’ll go get dressed and be right there.” Mila gets up and escorts me from the room.
Once in the hallway, I take over and lead her to my bedroom. “I know you said she was senile, but I didn’t realize she didn’t even know you. Oh my gosh, Mila.”
I look back at her and remember how I messaged her about Jamie a couple of weeks ago. He doesn’t know me anymore, I said. And when she didn’t reply, I thought she didn’t care. No. She understood too well.
“My name is Margaret for now.” That’s all Mila says.
I wonder why she doesn’t keep explaining to her mother who she really is. I guess it got too painful after a while. Or maybe her mother doesn’t deal well with the news. Some senile patients don’t.
I take her to my room and find some print dresses that will do, even though they’re too short for her. They’re only just past the knee, which is almost scandalous in my comm
unity. I give her an apron and show her how we put our hair into a bun and secure it under the cap.
“Why do you wear the caps?” Mila asks.
“It’s Biblical,” I say. “First Corinthians 11:5: ‘But every woman that prays or prophesies with her head uncovered dishonors her head.’ And since we never know when we might need to pray, we have to have our heads covered at all times.”
I’m surprised that I remember the exact Bible verse. Apparently, at least part of my brain is still working, even if it’s only the part that remembers Bible trivia.
We work our way downstairs. We’re both so tired that we’re starting to weave when we walk.
Mila stops in the doorway to the dining room when she sees that they’ve pulled out the card table and set it against the wall with place settings for us. My parents set places for themselves alone at the big table. They even took away the other chairs.
I was excommunicated when I left the community, and, of course, Mila and her mother have never been anything but worldly, so we’re not considered suitable for sharing a table with godly folks.
I’ve fought this battle before and lost—painfully. I don’t feel like fighting it again right now, so I sit at the card table and gesture for Mila to join me there.
Maybe now she understands what I meant by “second-class citizens.”
She glances up and asks, “What about my mother?”
“We take her a tray, dear,” Mom says, her eyes downcast.
That’s a good way to skirt the issue. I was wondering how they explained this treatment to a patient with senility.
Mila nods. She surveys her lunch hungrily—there’s real chicken and homemade dumplings and green beans—and is about to dig in when I put out my hand to stop her. My father clears his throat, and we bow our heads as he says grace in his funereal tones.
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