by Laura Bynum
Candace is the Alpha but she couldn't come. There was some kind of conflict, a meeting somewhere she couldn't miss. I was there when she told Mr. Weigland. To my amazement, instead of chastising her, he'd walked across his office and taken her into his arms. I was asked to leave, please. To close the door on my way out. Mr. Weigland would be by in a few moments to discuss my files, or whatever I'd come to discuss. He never stopped by that afternoon three days ago, or made himself available when I stopped in to ask why I hadn't seen Candace since.
"No, sir," Mr. Weigland answers. "She's not the Alpha Sentient, but she's damned close. Damned close." He pumps a fist in the air for emphasis. Chortles nervously.
The old men huddle, speaking to each other in an indistinguishable hum. A moment later, they look up again. Nod at Mr. Weigland and disappear through the door. I've been approved for the task.
"What do I do?" I ask.
Mr. Weigland points to the opaque window behind me.
"Watch."
He flips a switch and the fuzz clears. On the other side, four people appear. Three men and one woman. Already, there's blood on the floor. Hers.
"Oh, God."
In the other room, cameras are mounted to the walls. Their toggles are here, on a control panel before me. I move one until a close-up of the woman appears on a screen. She's sitting on the floor. Her head is down, showing me dark roots with the barest hint of gray starting. She's in her thirties. Around my age and a little too thin.
"Is she a known terrorist?" I ask.
"Unknown."
The woman opens her mouth and I see where a tooth has been knocked free. I pan down with the camera. See the pale edge of it in the cup of her right hand. It shines white off her dirty palm.
"What do we have on her?" I ask Mr. Weigland. He's messing with some papers and hasn't yet seen the blood or the woman.
"You're supposed to be watching," he whispers. "Not asking questions." He points at a fan on the ceiling and the round outline of a lens farther up. I'm being monitored. Recorded for later review.
It's a sickening feeling, to know that later, people will be checking this recording to validate the authenticity of my effort. Going over every single peak and line, sorting me out. Deciding what to do with me if I've thrown the test.
"Harper!" Mr. Weigland is looking at me. He jabs a thumb toward the window. Mouths, Watch!
"Watch with me." I wait for him to put down the page and come over. Together, we look at the assemblage on the wall's other side.
"Oh, God." Mr. Weigland hadn't anticipated the woman and her lost tooth. And, really, this much is nothing.
Mr. Weigland puts a hand to his mouth. He's made his days about the numbers and the words and not the people and events behind them because he doesn't want to acknowledge the violence. This woman in the other room is evidence of what he's chosen to ignore. It compresses him like a coil. I watch his small, knobby shoulders roll forward as he backs away, whist, whist, whist. He moves until his shoes hit the closed hall door and I can no longer see his red face without turning.
"Watch the screen, puh-lease." His voice is thick, breaks the one syllable into two.
I turn away from Mr. Weigland and do as I'm told.
The lead Blue Coat is on the far right side of the room. He has white hair and a full belly. Is sitting atop a desk. The other two defer to him. They keep their heads slightly bowed while asking permission to lift the woman from the floor and give her a little what for, just to make things go a little faster.
"You ready?" the older Blue Coat asks. He's looking at the wall between us. They see it as a mirror.
Mr. Weigland leans over a small cluster of holes drilled into the panel. Depresses some button or throws some hidden switch. "Yes, sir."
The old man nods at his men. They pick the woman off the floor and stretch her arms away from her body. She doesn't complain or lift her head. She stays chin on chest. Knows someone's watching and doesn't want me to see.
"Subject is thirty-eight and single," the older man says. "We started watching her ten months ago when she got flagged for too many Red List violations." He slides down from his table seat. Walks slowly to the trio on the other side of the room. "She's Maintenance, level one. A garbage collector. Not too damned bright but smart enough for them, I guess."
I turn to ask Mr. Weigland, Them? Who's them? But he's already scrambling. Trying to press the intercom before the old Blue Coat can say anything else. "Sir? Sir!"
"Yes, Weigland. What is it?"
"She's not cleared yet, sir!"
"Not cleared?" The man rumbles over to the mirrored window. Puts up his fat hands so I can see the hollows of his palms. "What in the hell are we doing here if she's not cleared? She's the goddamned Alpha, for Christ's sake!"
"She's the Beta, sir."
The old man chews on this for a moment, then turns and goes back to the table. "Fine, then. We think the subject is a trafficker. Running books. Just the one, if you get what I'm saying. Am I allowed to say that. The one book?"
Flushed, Mr. Weigland nods. I have to point him to the intercom. "Yes, sir. The one book's fine, sir."
He's talking about The Book of Noah. A week ago, the phrase was again placed on the restricted list. This time, even for me, the Beta.
The old man continues. "We pulled a kill pill out of her mouth just in time. You know what kinda pill I'm talking about, right?" They're talking about a poison pill. Terrorists call it a kill pill. Something to keep their people from being tortured for information.
"Yes, sir." Mr. Weigland is glowing in his discomfort.
The old Blue Coat loosens his collar. "What I'm trying to say in this goddamned moronic way is that the suspect isn't stable! We need to get on with this interrogation, with or without your uncleared Monitor, before this suspect gets another chance to take herself out! Are we good, Mr. Weigland? Our department's not taking any shit because you people couldn't get your Alpha to come." The old man smiles coyly up at the mirrored window.
Mr. Weigland is sweating profusely. "Yes, sir. Just proceed as you need to. I'll, uh . . . I'll write a note."
"Your girl want to start first or what?" the old man asks.
Mr. Weigland looks at me and I nod.
He answers for me, "Yes, sir."
"What do you need us to do, then? We need to move the subject or something? You want us to get her face up for you?" The old Blue Coat doesn't wait for my response and shouts at the woman, "Look into the camera or I'll have my boys do it for you!"
The Blue Coat nearest her marches over. He grabs the woman by the hair and yanks back until all her features are clear under the lights, save for her eyes, which are pressed shut.
Oh, God. I put out a hand that lands on the window. There are the same long brown lashes. The full lips, no longer chapped. It's Lucille, the girl from Mr. Mitchell's class.
"Harper?" Mr. Weigland comes over. Puts his big eyes all over me. "What is it?"
"Make them stop."
On the other side of the wall, the old man is shouting. He wants the subject's eyes open. Doesn't matter how.
"This isn't helping!" I rush past Mr. Weigland toward the intercom but don't know which button to push. "How do I talk?" I flip buttons and levers, shouting as if the old man can hear me. "Hello! Hello! Stop it! It's not helping!"
"Harper!" Mr. Weigland wraps his wrists around mine. Pulls me away while whispering in my ear, "What are you doing?"
"I know her," I whisper back. "Help me, please."
Mr. Weigland looks through the window toward the men who're pulling at the woman, extending her. He grits his teeth and reaches under the panel. "Sergeant, our Monitor would prefer the subject be left . . ." He can't think of the right word and frowns over at me. ". . . unadulterated. If you don't mind."
The Sergeant motions his men off the suspect. Immediately, she ducks her head. "Okay. You've got two minutes. What next?"
"Sergeant, sir . . . Monitor Adams is a part of BodySpeak."
&n
bsp; The old man's look of skepticism subsides. He sighs. Scratches his head. "So she can see this suspect's answers? Is that right?"
"Something like that, sir."
"Something like that or exactly that?" The Sergeant pushes off the wall. Comes closer so he can frown right into one of the cameras. "We don't have time for bullshit, Manager."
Mr. Weigland looks at me. "Ask your questions, sir. My Monitor will read the woman's answers." He shrugs. Is this right?
I nod vigorously.
The old Blue Coat motions to the others, who come sulking back over to his side of the room. "We're to shout out our questions first, boys, and give this Monitor here a little time. We'll get to doing it our way soon enough."
The two men are eager. Their questions come out tangled, one on the tail of another.
Do you have a copy?
Fuck that. We know you have a copy! Tell us where you got it!
Is it whole?
Is there only one?
Is it being carried into the war?
They really talking about going to war, or what?
Lucille has pulled something over her head, a drape of camouflaging energy. It deflects everything. The dark and mirrored walls, the men and their red-black hate. It's a good bit of cover but I'm able to project my way through it anyway. It's as simple as touching the substance with the thought of a finger. It's aqueous. Ripples outward like the disrupted surface of water. Lucille jolts and the substance splits. Sentient Lucille. She recognizes me easily and for a few seconds, we're safe and away from all this death and torture. Then Sergeant starts barking and I'm sucked back into the observing space.
"Does she have the goddamned book or doesn't she?" Sergeant looks into the camera and smiles. "Does she have The Book of Noah?"
Mr. Weigland glares at me. Well?
I'm too fuzzy to speak quite yet. It's too early.
Sergeant yells, "Goddamnit, Weigland! How long are we going to do this?"
"Harper?" Mr. Weigland is asking gently. Behind him, Sergeant is shouting the same question through the speaker.
I'm sad to the core. Ask thickly, "Can you bring her closer to the camera, please?"
It's what Lucille wants.
Mr. Weigland steps to the speaker and relates the information. In the other room, Sergeant has the two Blue Coats deliver Lucille closer to camera one. She smiles up at me. I've done right.
"Does she have a copy of The Book of Noah in her possession?" the Sergeant asks.
I answer, "No."
"Has she read The Book of Noah?"
I nod yes. Mr. Weigland relays my answer.
"Does she know where to get a copy of The Book of Noah?"
Yes.
"Is she a part of the resistance?"
Lucille answers this time. "Yes."
"All right, Manager Weigland . . ." I hear Sergeant saying.
But I'm watching Lucille. A ball of electric blue has begun in her chest. It expands past her other colors, envelops them.
I put my hand on the screen where her face is barely visible beneath it. She reaches up and touches the bare metal of the camera's arm. There's a terrible beauty to what she's doing. I wish Mr. Weigland could see it. And these men.
Mr. Weigland has a hand covering the microphone. Harper?
In the other room, all three Blue Coats are in the far corner, conferring.
Lucille's hand is firmly on the camera's metal joist. She begins, smiling, " 'Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.'" She smiles at exactly the place I'm standing, "It's called a po-e . . ."
Poem. I don't know this word, have never heard it before. But it's there, like those long-ago numbers from Mr. Mitchell's class, suddenly stamped on her energy. P-O-E-M has appeared over the territory of her bosom, even before she can get out the final syllable that will set fire to her slate.
The silver explodes, becomes a spark of orange-red, and back goes Lucille's head. The Red Listed word has become a surge of electricity eradicating her voice and rolling up her eyes. It shoots through the camera's metal arm and explodes the bulb, and the fuse beyond. The lights go out and all that's left in the other room are voices.
Goddamnit! Goddamnit! Goddamnit! Walker, why the fuck weren't you over there!
You told us to give her space!
Motherfucker!
Sarge, maybe we can still read her. Have that Monitor brought in . . .
Too fucking late! It's too fucking late! How's she supposed to read a corpse!
Mr. Weigland and I sit together in the dark on the floor, not moving. We listen over the open microphone to the people coming and going in the interrogation room. There is the scraping sound of Lucille's body being removed. A hose unwound. Water forced through. The high-pitched hiss of blood being washed off the concrete. Then the gurgling sound of it being sucked down the drain. Sergeant says there's no fucking way they're going to do this again. No. Fucking. Way.
The announcement of the program's termination is a small relief. Salve on a terminal wound.
"Harper. You okay?" Mr. Weigland asks.
"Sure," I answer. Look what Lucille became. So much more than me.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
AUGUST 8, 2045. MORNING.
"Get up." Ezra shoves me on the back. She's standing at the side of my cot wearing garb different from her norm. She's in all earth colors. A beige cotton T-shirt. Canvas pants cow-pattied in greens and browns. "Here." She tosses me a handful of clothes like her own. "Get dressed. Meet me in the back room. Training starts in five minutes."
I'm about to meet my trainer.
I roll out of the cot. Shuck myself like an ear of corn. "Who's training me?" I ask simply. As if I don't care.
Ezra rolls her eyes. "I'm your trainer, Adams. Jesus, I'd have thought you'd figured that out by now." She disappears back through the canvas door before I can close my mouth.
I sit limply on my bed. Pull on my socks. The right boot slides on without a fight. The left one needs to have the laces pulled out some, but I don't want to slip it off, go to all the goddamned hassle of working them loose again. So I jam in my foot, yanking on the heel with both hands until my fingers turn white, but it won't go. I pull it off. Slam the boot into the near wall.
"Motherfucker."
When I get to the back room, Ezra's already moved the tables and chairs out of the way. She's sitting on the floor, stretching and smoking a cigarette.
I drop the too-small boot on the floor. Sit down and try again to yank it on. "Are we allowed to smoke down here?"
"I'm allowed." Ezra blows a smoke ring my way. "Now listen up. We're going to run through self-defense and ground skills."
"What about weapons?" I ask, taking too much time with the laces. The way Veracity used to do when she didn't want to go anywhere.
"We don't hand out guns to every new recruit." Ezra gives me a long-suffering look. Stubs her cigarette out on a dish brought in from the kitchen. "Have you ever even seen a gun?"
"Yes." I work in the country's capital, drive past the National House all the time. I see guns every day. Hear them as long, tall blips on dead peoples' files. "I don't want one. I was just asking."
"Good." Ezra takes her plate of ashes and sets it on a corner chair. "You know why most Blue Coats don't carry guns?"
"I don't know, Ezra. Tell me." I can't focus on this woman and her sour mood. A haze has begun to rise up from the floor, like heat coming off hot pavement. I watch it float toward the ceiling and try not to notice the walls and how they shake as Ezra talks. This is how my claustrophobia begins. The room falls apart first, then me.
Not now. Not with her.
Ezra drones on but I'm lost to her voice.
"Hey! Adams! Have you heard a thing I've said?"
I've been staring vacantly past her. Move my eyes over and nod. "Cops don't like guns because there are more of us than there are of them. Because they can fall into the wrong hands. Because they prefer to t
orture people. I heard you." It never ceases to amaze me, this other brain I've developed. It keeps me prescient when my first one wants to wander. "Do we have any guns?" I've started to sweat. Wipe my head on the hem of my shirt.
"A few. But any weapons you'll be bringing onto the field, you're already wearing. Now put your hands up."
A few people have come out to watch. They stand propped up against the walls. Sit sideways in the chairs.
Ezra moves to the center of the room. Frowns at my stance, my curled-up fingers, my thumbs sticking out over the knuckles. "Did you actually practice?"
One delivery from my recruiter was two sheets of dissolving paper showing sixteen basic fighting stances. It took me two hours in the women's locker room to learn just over half of them. By the end of that time, my sweating palms had disintegrated a good part of the edge.
"Yes." Some. I didn't have anyone to practice with.
She leans down and takes hold of one of my hamstrings. Digs in with the tip of her thumb.
"What are you doing?" I step away and she pulls me back.
"Hold still." She pokes me on the back. Tricep. Bicep. Delt. Hard. Quick. Punishing.
"Ouch!"
Ezra smiles, just barely. I see the corners of her mouth go up. "I need to know what I'm working with. Take off your shirt."
I've done my time on the wood floor of my bedroom. In my closet doing pull-ups on a bar I installed as if it was just there to hold clothes. Am happy to pull my T-shirt over my head, show off the muscle I've spent months of countless hours making. I throw out my chest. Subtly squeeze my fists to pump a little extra blood into my arms. I'm excited to see how Ezra will react.
She circles me with a frown. Unimpressed, underwhelmed, unhappy with my meager tithe. She shakes her head. "You've been doing all your exercises?"
"Yes."
She crosses her arms, looks more closely at my torso. "For how long?"
"Since I decided to break."
A sigh. "Christ, we have some work to do."
"I'm not that bad." I hate that I say it. Wrap my arms one over the other, covering up.
"Uh-huh." Ezra pulls her T-shirt over her head and I'm abashed.