Veracity

by Laura Bynum

  Tap, tap, tap. Five minutes left. Next to me, the assistant flares.

  I step toward the floating map and begin with the back row.

  I don't fill in all the spaces correctly. Helen Rumney doesn't need to know the depth of my abilities, or how far into a person's mind I could reach if so inclined. I don't write down a ten where the Manager stands, either.

  Our time ends and the lights are turned up. Candace and I are allowed to sit down on the edge of the landing with our feet dangling into the abyss while we wait for our answers to be tallied. We're exhausted. Drink glasses of juice and nibble on protein bars. Rumney has learned the hard way to let us recuperate. Used to be she'd put us in her fancy car, anxious to get to the office, and one of our weak stomachs would ruin her fine cloth upholstery on the way back.

  With the lights brought up, we can see the people lined up in the sunken room. Some of them are putting on a show for us. Looking bored when they should be scared. Calm when they should be nervous. Like the guilty woman in the front row. She is a well-practiced stone. No one will come to get her because I've kept her little secret. Better to have her on the streets than the government any further into our heads.

  Helen Rumney marches over. "Excellent results," she says. "Candace. You're our Alpha." Copies of our answers are dropped onto the floor. My chart has a couple dozen markings. Red circles placed around the squares I've thrown. Candace's answers are nearly identical, save for one--the awful woman from the front row. Instead of an O, she's put down a ten to show them a terrorist. A ten, meaning absolute threat.

  Candace! I try to look in her face, but Helen Rumney steps between us.

  "This effort has proven very helpful to our argument, ladies. I can guarantee that within the year, you two will be the heads of a brand-new department! You have no idea what BodySpeak means for Tracking and Data! We'll be bringing in bad guys without the drag of judicial input. Monitoring as we know it will become obsolete. No more post-event, after-the-crime processes of justice. It will become a new, proactive approach to handling terrorism. That's how we're going to roll out the campaign. What do you think?" She kneels down and picks up Candace's chart and I'm able to see my friend's face. She's calm. Almost happy.

  She knew what she was doing. But why?

  Helen Rumney shows the chart to both our assistants, then motions to the guilty woman standing just below. "Row one, space two. Take her into custody, please."

  The woman shrieks and flails all the way out of the room, glaring up at us whenever she can. She's indignant, stunned to have been caught. Next to me, Candace has her eyes glued to the piece of paper in Rumney's hands. She won't look at me, our new Alpha Monitor.

  Two weeks have passed since the test and the conference led by Manager Strauss. Candace and I are barely speaking. We are busy. We are avoiding each other. It's both, in equal parts.

  I feel as if I don't know her anymore. Worry I might have been best friends for all these years with an illusion and not the real Candace Hillard. The thought makes me leave the women's gym when she comes in to run. Keeps me falsely preoccupied with files all day long.

  "Harper." Candace has stopped at the door to my cubicle. She speaks while rifling through her mail. "I'm going out of town for a while . . ."

  I push away from my monitor. Pull off my headphones. "Where?"

  Candace shrugs, her eyes glued to a pink notice from Quality Assurance, nothing she cares about. "It's one of Rumney's projects. I'm sending Hannah to stay with Mrs. Cutchins for a while. Could you water my ficus while I'm gone?" An ugly plant that's been molting brown leaves onto her floor ever since she got it.

  "Sure."

  "And would you stop by sometimes to check on Hannah? You know how Mrs. Cutchins can be."

  I look at Candace's face but her eyes are still averted. It's a strange request. Emily Cutchins, Hannah's housekeeping assistant, is as organized a woman as I've ever met. "Sure."

  "Thanks."

  Candace goes to her office and grabs her purse. She begins to walk down the aisle leading to the elevators without anything further.

  I jump out of my seat and follow her halfway down. "Candace!"

  She stops but doesn't turn around. "Yeah?"

  I cross the final few feet between us and put a hand on her shoulder. "Are you okay?"

  She reaches up and puts her hand on mine. "I'm great." But it's a lie. She's radiating worry and pain. Is virtually blinking with it.

  "Hey." I try to turn her around, but the hand on mine squeezes and then lets go. And off she runs to catch the elevator.

  Once there, Candace never turns around. Not even when I shout an I love you and the silver doors close.

  I go back to my cubicle and immediately call Mrs. Cutchins, who tells me in a very strange tone that everything is fine. I'm not to worry. I can come over to see Hannah in a week, maybe two. In the meantime, she's thinking of going to the ocean for a while. She'll be pulling Hannah out of school. I'm not to bother coming over until she calls. They won't be home. They'll be gone. She has to go. They're packing.

  A couple of days later, I go to the break room for a cup of coffee and find it filled with Monitors. They look back at me with pale faces. Knit themselves into a barrier through which I won't be able to see whatever it is they're watching.

  "What's going on?" I ask.

  No one answers.

  In the silence, I hear a man's voice coming from the television. "We've always suspected a dormant strain might have survived. Now we know."

  Another, deeper voice follows. "Dr. Priory, how might this illness progress? Do we have a trajectory on the symptoms and, well, how they may play out?"

  I strain to hear the doctor's answer over the Monitors, who are shooing me away. "Well, yes and no. When we have the mother here, we'll be able to do more testing on her and then, well, we'll see . . ."

  "For God's sake, Becky!" a Monitor named Ann shouts at the woman nearest the set. "Turn it off!"

  Becky looks over as I thread myself toward her. "Harper, you're not going to want to see this . . ."

  "Don't you turn off that television!" I clear the crowd just in time to find an image of Hannah up on the screen.

  Becky puts plump fingers over her face. "Oh, Harper!"

  Oh, God. There is my vivacious goddaughter, now a scared, skinny girl lying in a hospital bed, eyes big, tubes running into both arms.

  A doctor with bad skin and thick glasses stands next to her, his face trained on the near camera. In a cool voice he says, "This young lady has contracted a resurgent strain of the Pandemic. Look there, on her arms." He points and stands back so the camera can zoom in on an array of crusting red sores. They're as large as bottle caps, maybe a few dozen on either arm. The doctor adds from offscreen, "She's also got them on her torso and upper thighs."

  "Harper." It's a whisper in my ear. Someone has taken my arm. They lead me away from the screen to a chair someone else has pulled out. "Sit."

  "Look at her eyes," the doctor clucks. "Such immediate loss of fatty tissue . . ."

  I'm pushed into the seat as the doctor is replaced by a Manager with black eyes and white hair. He tells us that masks will be distributed and symptoms will be posted on the Confederation website. Adds while walking to the mouth of the hallway, "We're attempting to contact Alpha Monitor Hillard, who's been sent on a highly classified mission." He motions for the camera to pan back toward Hannah as he finishes his comments. "Candace, we hope you're able to see this." The camera closes in on my goddaughter's face. Finds a tear starting at the outer corner of one eye and follows it down to the splotched and scabbing skin of her neck. "Time to come home, Alpha Monitor. Time to come be with your daughter."

  The man finishes by saying that anyone other than Candace shouldn't bother going to the hospital. No one else is being permitted entrance for obvious quarantine reasons.

  All around me, it's pandemonium.

  The early morning traffic is light, as it has been for the last few days. People are s
taying in where possible. Most of those on the streets are wearing the protective blue masks. I catch them watching me at stoplights. Peeking at me through the windows of their cars. Perhaps it's that I'm godmother to the dying girl and best friend of the absent Alpha mother. Or maybe they're surprised to see me without a mask, breathing the polluted air. It's not bravado, or stupidity. I simply know there is no threat of infection. How I know, I can't explain.

  I park my car in the underground garage and walk the few blocks to the Murdon Building. When I make it to National House Square, I notice there are no people waiting outside the prostitutes' quarters and many queued up at the prayer tents.

  "Morning, Monitor Adams." Security Guard Jones smiles as I pass through the gate.

  "Good morning."

  He picks up my satchel and purse from the conveyor belt and slides them over each of my arms, taking his time to adjust them on my shoulders. Head lowered, lips close to my ear, he asks, "Heard anything from Monitor Hillard?"

  I shake my head no and he nods, lips rolling back into a frown.

  At my office, I put down my things and turn to find my desk covered with dozens of new folders. I pick up the top one and stare at the two words stamped on its front: Urgent and Confidential. Slowly, I turn it over, holding my breath. Praying not to see what is indeed stamped there in bright red ink. Security Class Alpha.

  I put a hand over my mouth. Jesus, no.

  Something has happened. Last night, sometime after I left, someone left these Alpha class files in a long, sliding pile on top of all my others. I close my eyes. Have they already killed her? Without any formal notice, have I already become the Alpha?

  Quickly, hands shaking, I gather up a few of the beige folders to take down to Mr. Weigland. I go to push out of my seat and am grabbed by the arm. Before I can see who it is, the files are knocked to the floor and I'm pulled through my cubicle door. Candace is marching us down the rear aisle, her stride long and fast. She doesn't look over as we pass Mr. Weigland's office, but I see him there. His head turns quickly, conveniently, away.

  As soon as we're through the door to the women's restroom, Candace pushes me against the marble counter and begins turning on all the hot water taps. I watch her as she works. Her hair is loose and kinked. Not styled as she usually has it, every curl pristine and in its place. Her long nails have been cut and her hands look chafed. She's not wearing a suit. Isn't even wearing her own clothes. I can tell by the way they fit. Her dark blue trousers are too short, ending at the top of black lace-up boots. The straw-colored jacket is a man's, and beneath it there's a beige cotton shirt stretched tight across her chest.

  "Sssshhhh." She holds a finger to her lips and points at the fogging mirror. As I watch my reflection thicken and fade, she backs up toward the door and sets a foot along its base.

  Letters are forming, condensing on the mirror. Cursive writing that's hard to make out because I've rarely seen it like that, full of loops and connected. With the oil of her skin, Candace has written something inside the obscuring steam.

  There is a resistance. There is such a thing as The Book of Noah. Inside it are all the answers to all our questions, how we'll win back our lives. It's worth fighting for. Even at this cost . . .

  I look immediately back at Candace, who nods. Yes. She was recruited by this resistance. Yes. She tried to run.

  "Hello!" A woman is banging against the closed door.

  There's more writing but no time to read it. The door moves toward us an inch, then recedes. Candace repositions her foot and spreads her arms against the threshold for leverage.

  "Just a minute," I say, turning off the hot water and turning on the cold.

  I dip some paper towels into the basin and begin wiping at the mirror.

  "Hello! Hello! Let me in, please!"

  "Spilled some water . . . just a minute." I throw away the towel. Use my forearm against the mirror, like a blade.

  "Hey!" One heavy push and Candace is knocked sideways.

  I quickly ease down from the sink's marble shelf and turn just in time to see the woman come in. It's a Monitor from the south wing. A rustling, broad woman who wears thick glasses that are currently hanging by a string around her neck. She stops when she sees Candace. Her expression of annoyance turns into one of pity. With a nod and a quick turn of her head, the woman trudges down the line of toilets, taking the one at the very far end. She doesn't see the smudged mirror.

  Quickly, Candace and I finish wiping away the words. I've barely tossed the last of the paper towels into the trash when, again, the door's pushed inward, this time producing a dark cloud of men. Most of them surround Candace, trapping her inside the tight circle of their bodies. The rest make themselves into a fence neither I nor the heavy Monitor can breach.

  "Alpha Sentient Monitor Candace Hillard!" One of the men begins calling her numbers. There are so many, they run together. "501. 505. 637, 688, 881 . . ." All the worst ones are there. Rape and torture. Numbers reserved for people needing to be made an example of.

  I can't see Candace through the blue-clad bodies between us, but I can feel her. The fear and rage that had marked her for all the weeks surrounding BodySpeak is gone. What's left is peace, the fragrant deep purple of forgiveness and finality. Clouds of it are rising off of her. They collect above her like waves of heat and impale her captors with soft, potent tendrils. Some of them are changed by it. Confused, they step away, leaving an opening through which I see a part of her face. Her green-brown eyes. Half a smile. She's ready to go.

  At first, I think Candace is being escorted by gunpoint to the bank of elevators. I expect the Blue Coats to take her out of the building and down to the Geddard Building, where the torture will begin. But when the silver elevator doors open, a new group of policemen appear--three of them short and one tall, even taller than Candace. The shorter men are folded into the waiting group as the tall one takes the lead. He walks directly toward Mr. Weigland, who's been trying to penetrate the wall erected around Candace with no success. The tall Blue Coat takes Mr. Weigland by the arm and heads the whole bunch of them down the hall toward the large conference room. I watch from the middle of my group, captive or onlooker, I'm not yet sure.

  Candace flashes me a backward glance and my composure is lost.

  "No!" I'm screaming. "Stop! Stop this!" I know where they're going, what they're about to do, and cup my hands around my mouth to scream. "Candace! Candace! Candace!"

  Just before turning into the meeting conference room, the one we visit Mondays and Wednesdays to go through the latest Red Listed words, she turns around.

  "My baby paid for this!" she shouts. Candace has stopped moving of her own accord and is now being dragged along the other way. "Make it worth it!" She's producing tears that run in perfect lines down both cheeks. "Make it worth it! Make it worth what happened to my baby!"

  A Blue Coat begins toward me. He asks, "What was that supposed to mean?" That thing Candace just said. Does it make sense to me? Is there something he should know?

  All I can see of this man are his colors. He's obscured by a cloud of brick-red lust and dark brown self-loathing. I'm stunned when an arm comes through this fog and grabs me by the arm. Like the lens of a camera adjusting, the Blue Coat comes into view. He's short, with scratches scarred into his cheeks and neck. One of his earlobes has been bitten off. These are the signatures of his victims. Wounds he probably considers trophies. It produces in me a rage I'm able to use as cover for my lies.

  "I don't know what she was talking about!" You asshole! "And I don't have anything else to tell you, so fuck off!"

  The man is confused by my seeming lack of fear. He lets go of my arm and steps back. Pulls out a cigarette for our wait.

  The other Blue Coats are going through the women's restroom. I hear a summation of their efforts as they pour back out. The only thing found was a spill mopped up with a basketful of wet towels. No sign of messages. No remnants or codes. No utensils that would've been used in their production.


  I'm taken to Mr. Weigland's office, where another group of Blue Coats are waiting to question me. Then I'm pushed into a chair and made to regurgitate into a recording device answers that mean nothing. Lies I know damned well will set off alarms upon even the most casual review. But what are my options? Anyone with any sense will see right through me. It's absurd to think that the thing to kill me may very well be my ineffectual ability to lie.

  The sound of a gun firing startles us, even the Blue Coats who've been shouting over one another to make sure they each get in their questions.

  Someone shot Candace. I can't believe it. From the deflated looks on the other Blue Coats' faces, neither can they.

  "No." I stand up and nobody stops me.

  I step toward the hallway and am pushed back by the tall Blue Coat coming through the door. He's disheveled. His brown eyes full of what he's just done.

  This is the Blue Coat who just killed my best friend.

  This man is all business. He pushes me roughly back into my seat and goes directly to Mr. Weigland. Without asking, the Blue Coat frees the handkerchief my Manager keeps neatly tucked in his vest pocket and uses it to wipe off some blood caught on the ridge of his hand. Candace's blood.

  "No." It's such a simple recalcitrance, I don't recognize it as being me. "No," I repeat so low, no one even hears.

  Mr. Weigland can't meet the man in the eye. He takes back his ruined handkerchief and folds it perfectly between his hands. Tucks it back into the lapel of his suit.

  Is this what we've become? I am lost. This is, finally, beyond what I can comprehend. We now stand for formality over the murder of our loved ones. Is that who we are? Is that who I am? This can no longer be the place I live, the place I work, the place I raise my child. Where am I to go. Where am I to go. Where am I to take Veracity.

  "Harper," someone is saying.

  I ignore them. Candace is dead. Killed by a Blue Coat. Worn in Mr. Weigland's right front pocket.

  Sharper, spoken in a concerned whisper, "Harper."