by Laura Bynum
Lazarus brushes away the books between us and takes my hands. "This is a lot to consider. Are you okay?"
I nod. "Yes." But there's so much.
He turns over my hands, rubs the skin of my palms. "We had the numbers to take them all those years ago, Harper, and we have the numbers now. What we lack is a way to talk to one another. A way to wrestle away the technological advantage from a surprisingly small group of old men. Now is the time for us to come together. What we're doing isn't surviving. We're dying, slowly and quietly." Lazarus is whispering. It makes one of his voices lift while the other dips. "Your family died with their integrity intact. Integrity means living life according to one's own measure. Doing the right thing as it's defined by just you and God and nobody else." Lazarus grimaces. He's been twisting in his seat for a few minutes, trying to stretch his back.
I go to his medicine bag hung up on the wall and dig into the slouching front. I bring him the largest vial. Pour him some water as he unscrews the top.
"Thank you." He swallows two tablets between large gulps. "Do you have any questions?"
I nod. "What was it like for you back then?"
Lazarus rubs thoughtfully at the stubble on his chin. "I had an important position at the time so I was recruited, which means I was taken by force to one of their vetting centers and handed a packet of materials that outlined everything. The new governmental structure. The surgery I'd be having to implant my slate. My new position. It was a press kit. There was even a DVD that explained all the benefits of living and working in the Confederation."
He smiles at some memory. "If you were a man of some consequence, you got a beautiful young woman as an assistant. If you were a woman, you got a beautiful young man. They handled chores, served as nurses. If you wanted something more, they were lovers. It was a strange introduction to life in the Confederation of the Willing. Here comes this stunning woman with legs up to her neck. She pours me a glass of wine, asks what kind of carpet I'd like installed in my new home, then tells me there won't be any more traveling or music or free self-expression. They'd be replacing those with nicer things. It worked for a while. With me and the rest of the country. But then we got to remembering what it had been like before."
Clusters of insurgents formed. They killed Blue Coats, spray-painted government buildings with the Red Words coming out on daily lists. These groups thrived for short bursts of time. But without a glue stronger than rage to bind them, without a leader, resisters grew disenchanted. They quit. Or took their lives.
"So the government put together a team of social scientists," Lazarus says. "They came up with the antidepressant you know as Occlusia, doubled the number of bars, provided free sex. Their goal was to anesthetize the public and it worked. People stopped killing themselves, but they were so high on their antidepressants they couldn't remember the Red Words. Before Confederation scientists found the right dosage, it wasn't uncommon to see people walking around with scorch marks on their necks. And the smell . . ." He grimaces. Leaves off.
Lazarus doesn't like this topic of conversation. I can see it in the way he turns his head, offering me an ear instead of a voice. So I ask something else. "I've heard it was Noah who developed the slates. But who discovered how to break them?"
The ponderous, world-weary look leaves Lazarus's face. He turns to me with fresh eyes, laughing. "Noah didn't develop the slates."
"Who did?"
"Scientists, neurosurgeons, linguists. Twelve of us, in total. I was second generation to the project. The first model had already been developed but it didn't always spark correctly. Too many infractions and a person could catch fire. So I was asked to be lead on the optimization team. While working out the misfiring issues, I studied the way slates were implanted."
My eyes fall to the scar running above and below Lazarus's slate. The skin there is dull and shriveled. A mottled purplish pink. "How did you break?"
"Every morning at eight o'clock, the pretty, young assistant I'd been assigned would come in and hand me a needle full of Occlusia. She was supposed to watch me so I wouldn't stick it in the dog they let me keep, or take it to the bathroom and flush it down the toilet. One day she came in, gave my dose to the sofa, and threw a schematic on the table. It was the last piece of the puzzle. The insertion points. Precise measurements of how the slate's extensions are placed around the carotid. The risks were obvious and the process, well, you know the process. And the possibilities for harm."
They'd been clearly written, taking up the whole second page in one of my many recruitment letters. Breaking one's slate has and could result in death, stroke, heart attack, infection, long-term damage to the voice box. And so on. The ways in which you could be maimed or killed were mind-boggling.
"Where'd you break?"
"Right there in my apartment with my new assistant, who by then had become something a little more. I went first. It was a bad one. But I was off the grid immediately. We had no trouble getting out."
Lilly pokes her frowning face around the canvas door. "We have news from Dover."
Lazarus looks up. Nods. "I'll be out in a few minutes."
"It's Dover!" she shouts.
"Another few moments, please." Lazarus is calm with his answer.
It's a quality that infuriates Lilly. She grunts, then disappears.
I have two or three minutes, tops. "What about the assistant?"
"We had to get her off the map as quickly as possible, so she pulled over on old Interstate 55 and broke right there in the backseat. Thankfully, hers went better than mine. She knew a doctor who stitched me up a new pair of voices, then we came here."
"What happened to her?"
Lazarus points to the hall. "That assistant was Lilly. She'd been a world-famous linguist before the Pandemic. Before they turned her into a nurse." He shrugs. "Lilly and I, ours was not a real-world passion. We knew each other too well by the end of the first week to keep confusing excitement with love. Then along came Noam."
Lilly clears her throat from the door. She's been listening. Is glowing red beneath her gray hair and large plastic eyes. "It's time to go."
Lazarus smiles. "Just telling our novitiate about old times."
Lilly pulls back the canvas to reveal the empty hall. "Now Wernthal is calling."
Wernthal is the magic word. Lazarus gets up. Almost leaves without a good-bye, but then stops to give me his most attentive look. "Losing your perspective happens faster than you think, Harper. I expect you to be paying attention."
Lazarus kisses Lilly on the top of her head and scoots past. The old girl turns her face toward the wall as he goes. Sniffs.
"Dinner's at six." When she looks over, I see that times past have clouded her eyes. I can read the secret on Lilly's body as if she's written it there in ink. She's still in love with Lazarus.
"Lilly," I call out before she can walk away.
"Yeah?"
I motion her into the room, far back, away from the canvas door. "Can I ask you something about John?"
Lilly looks at me hard from behind her thick glasses. She's protective of their Blue Coat. "You can ask."
"There was a book he was looking at when we were out at the farm. A child's book."
Lilly frowns. "I'm waiting for the question."
"Did John lose a child?" Such a loss imprints itself very specifically on a person's energy. A son, a young son, is what I saw imprinted on his that day at the farm.
Lilly puts a hand to her mouth and taps her lips, thinking how best to answer. "That man's loss is equal to your own, if that answers your question. Now, if you'll excuse me, Harper . . ."
"Is he a good man, Lilly?" I blurt out. "I know he's a Blue Coat, but his colors are so . . . the opposite of that."
"John Gage is a good man," Lilly says sharply, then walks to the door.
Her approach causes the canvas to swing. Standing there behind it is a woman named Elsbeth. She's huddled against the cloth door, one ear proffered up. She and her husband are always
doing this, skulking around the bunker. Listening in on conversations. Lilly sees her and makes a sound of indignation, then pulls the canvas door as closed as it gets.
"What does it matter if John is a Blue Coat? Or that he's lost a child?" Lilly says. "You find someone in this world who makes you feel right about yourself, you'd better hang on tight. It's not unusual to find the right person, Harper. It's recognizing them before they're already gone that's rare."
With that, Lilly leaves.
I can't imagine the burden of it. Living a whole life with the man you love but can't have. Down here, stuck with the everyday reminder of what might have been up above.
TWENTY-ONE
AUGUST 14, 2045. NIGHT.
It's eleven o'clock at night and I'm in the library, at my post on media watch for another hour. Just when a filler program called How to Spend One's Off Time is supposed to begin, up comes an image of the National House, its white facade turned yellow by the lights. A special press conference has been called on President's front lawn but President isn't there. Instead, it's a handful of his Managers, a legion of Blue Coats, Helen Rumney in a new off-white suit, and Mr. Weigland.
Helen Rumney is smiling into the camera. Next to her, Mr. Weigland looks bloated, his eyes swollen from lack of sleep. His gaze settles on the nearest camera and his head moves just so. Just the way he used to do when signaling me. Watch out, Harper. Something's coming.
I grab my notepad and ready my pencil.
With no prelude, Helen Rumney begins the announcement of a new set of Red Words. They're shown on the screen as she speaks, scrolling left to right beneath her feet so the viewer can get the full benefit of her matching off-white shoes.
. . . Insurrection. Rebellion. Revolt. Revolution . . .
These are words I don't recognize. They're from the beforetime and no longer in use. There's only one reason the government adds pre-Confederation words and that's when they're doing what Monitors call a Themed Sweep--the extraction of an idea from society by revoking all associated terms. I jot down the words without looking at my notepad, watching the small scroll at the bottom of the screen as others are announced.
. . . Riot. Sedition. Uprising . . .
Finally, some with which I'm familiar. And all of them pertinent to us, a group of resisters grown large enough to warrant a little defensive action.
Helen Rumney finishes the list and smiles into the camera. She's giving me a We know you're out there. Though, really, a list like this--one that threatens to reveal their purpose--is more. It's a declaration of war.
I take down the rest of the Red words while keeping my eye on the list that continues to scroll across the bottom of the screen. Between the words Helen Rumney has announced are three she has not. Car. Drive. Gas. They are ubiquitous words, the kind that will keep Monitors busy for weeks. Trick words, each one a net.
I pull off my blue footies and sprint out of the library barefoot. Halfway to Noam and Lilly's room, I start shouting their names. By the time I turn the corner, they're already standing at their door, sleep thick on their wrinkled faces.
"What is it?" Lilly rasps.
"Helen Rumney just gave a Red List update from the National House lawn." I'm winded. Steady myself against the wall.
"Just now? At eleven o'clock at night?" Noam asks.
Lilly pushes him aside. "How many words?"
"Eleven."
"Anything unusual about them?"
"Most of them have to do with the resistance. But then there are these three. Car, drive, and gas. Also, I saw them in the list they run on the television, but Rumney didn't announce them. Anybody not watching wouldn't have heard them."
Noam and Lilly turn to each other.
"Good Lord," Lilly whispers.
"Did we send out a runner?" I ask.
"We sent out Eric," Noam answers. "It was a run to Antioch. For medicine. That's eighty miles away. He'll need to stop for gas."
Eric was the man sitting next to Rita in Noam's viewing test. The man with the sore, yellow stomach.
"No, Noam." Lilly blinks up at him. She can hardly get it out. "He came down sick. We sent Ben instead."
Ben. The man with the pregnant wife.
Tonight, anyone who missed this announcement and stops to get gas is at risk for stumbling onto a Red Listed word. Which, of course, is the whole point. Car, gas, and drive are three words so endemic to the process of refueling, a few thousand Confederation citizens will pop their slates tonight. Any runners out there, their slates already broken, will be able to say these words just fine. And that's how they'll get caught. By not getting zapped.
I put a hand on Noam's arm. "If this is a trap, they'll have warned the Service Managers at every station."
Noam nods and takes off like a shot, gone to tell Lazarus. Lilly slips back into their room. All I see are white limbs dipping in and out of clothes.
"Lilly, someone must have told them we were sending out a runner."
She steps back into the hall, head shaking. "Impossible."
I bite my lip. Don't want to be the one telling her this. "Helen Rumney wouldn't go to this kind of trouble without knowing there was somebody worth catching out there."
"Why not?" Lilly asks harshly. "They've never been loath to harm the innocent."
Noam and Lazarus are hurrying down the aisle toward me. They've probably heard most of what's been said.
"Whatever else they may be, Lilly, they don't like snarls in their system. Even right now, I can guarantee you Tracking and Data has already been jammed with data files and disparity reports that will set them behind at least a week. It's why we don't issue Red words at night or on weekends." I pause. "Why they don't issue Red words, I mean. I'm sorry."
Noam puts a hand on my shoulder. "Nothing to be sorry for."
Lilly is unmoved. "Impossible! The only people who go up top, outside of Ezra and me, are the runners! Those people risk their lives to bring us the things we need to live, so don't tell me you think it's one of them! There are no leaks in my media room and there are no leaks in our group! The last thing we need to be worried about is each other. You understand?"
She marches away down the hall and Noam motions for me to let her go. He tells me anything more will be wasted on Lilly, resident matriarch to all us children.
I grab hold of Noam's arm before he and Lazarus can follow her. "What if Ben's caught close to Antioch?"
"Then we'll be lucky. We have Blue Coats in Antioch who can get him out of the field."
"What if he's caught closer to Bond?"
"John was sent to Grange this morning. That means Jingo's the only Blue Coat on patrol in the area," Noam says, following Lazarus down the hall. "Try and get some rest, Harper. We'll call you if we need you."
A woman named Tabitha is coming down the hall, stopping at each room to inform us of what's going on. I know her from media watch. She sits three rows behind me, has a naturally deep voice. It ebbs in and out as she sticks her head into rooms to announce the event.
"Hello?" she says, then knocks twice on the earthen wall. Before I can answer, she's popped her head through my canvas door. "Harper, we have a Code Black. That means we have a potential medical emergency and essential personnel only are being permitted in the trauma area."
Tabitha's fair-skinned face disappears before I can ask her any questions. I have to follow her out.
"Wait . . ."
She frowns. "Yeah?"
Our walls are thin and our doors inconsequential. Les, the resident of the next, and last, room down, has come out into the hall rather than wait for Tabitha to come in. He's a nice man. Sixty or sixty-five, another professor. He leans against the wall to listen.
"Where's the trauma area?" I ask Tabitha.
"At the mouth of the back tunnel. In Noam's gym."
"Am I essential personnel?"
"Maybe." She shrugs. "We'll find out if and when Ben gets brought in."
Tabitha looks at Les, who waves her along. He's already go
t the message.
"If you don't want to wait in your room, a group of people have gone to the kitchen to make bandages," Les offers, then disappears back through his canvas door.
By the time I make it to the kitchen, everything's done. The bandage-making crew have torn up the few scraps of clothing they could find and dispersed. All the dishes have been washed, the counter has been cleared. Potatoes are already soaking for the morning breakfast. There's nothing left to do.
In the main hall, a group of women are sitting with Mary, Ben's wife. They take turns rocking her. Holding her head on their shoulders, their bodies moving in unison like a pump. It's ritualized. A thing they've done before. Her belly is the only thing I can see of her as I pass by.
I'm on my way back to my room when I hear people talking in the area by the back tunnel. I veer off course. Don't take the hallway leading to the sleeping quarters, but slip onto a side path that empties into Noam's gym. I nod at the few people shuttling quickly past and keep going until I'm standing in what's become a trauma area.
The stumps used as seats have been pushed together in the shape of a long, narrow table. Next to it is a cart someone's wheeled in from somewhere near the kitchen. The caster tracks are still visible in the dirt floor. On this cart is a collection of needles and vials. I don't study the contents too long. Noam and Lazarus are coming toward me from the dark rear tunnel. I can hear them discussing supplies and the forecast for the next week's weather. Like everyone else, they're trying to kill time.
"Harper!" Lazarus calls to me while coming into the room. He's in pain. I can see a rosy-red corona floating over his joints.
"Yeah?" I jog over.
"I need you to be here in about fifteen minutes," he says. "They're bringing in Ben." It's a bad sign. Means he's been caught by Jingo.