Veracity

by Laura Bynum

  Again, the crowd roars.

  The director's assistant pushes onto the stage and attaches a small microphone to Lazarus's lapel. She sets another in front of the small black receiver so we'll hear when the transmission comes. "Ten seconds . . ." she whispers, and Lazarus holds up his hands. Everyone stills.

  Lilly comes over and takes my hand. "God be with us."

  The assistant flashes us a countdown with her hand. Five, four, three . . . Then slips silently away. We're all leaning forward, watching Lilly's receiver.

  Nothing. Too many seconds pass and our faces drain of color. A woman on my other side slides her hand into mine. It's slick. Hot with fear.

  Lazarus looks down at Lilly. "The frequency?" he asks.

  Lilly is terrified. I can barely make out her words. "It's tuned correctly."

  It's 7:00 for only a few seconds more. Then it's 7:01, then 7:02, then 7:03, and the world has collapsed. I watch the second hand on my new friend's watch.

  7:04.

  "Patience," Lazarus whispers. We've become restless. All popping joints and moving feet.

  "Oh, God!" a woman somewhere behind me cries. It kicks off a chain reaction of murmured prayers and sobs.

  "Quiet!" Lazarus shouts. He points to the black box.

  ". . . sshh-shhhhhhhhh . . . crrrrrr . . ." It's begun to crack and whistle. ". . . shhhhhh-k-k-k-k- . . . crrrkr-k-k-k-k . . ."

  These hissing snippets of sound come through the small black face of the receiver like sun coming through storm clouds. "Heeeeelllllllllooooooooooo . . ." I can see it reflecting on people's faces. Lighting them up.

  "Hello! They're saying hello!" Lilly shouts and a few people clap.

  The box makes a deep popping sound and out comes a fully formed voice, "Group . . . Fiiiive . . . aught . . . niiiiner . . . We have secured the primary!"

  There is a flurry of activity. The director's other crew members jump to attention. A woman races up onto the platform and presses a cloth to Lazarus's sweating head. Another scrambles onto the landing to take a reading of the suddenly breaking, early morning light.

  "People!" The director has a large white tube held to the end of his mouth. He shouts repeatedly for us to quiet down. Says we're going to be live in eight, seven, six, five, four, three . . . The final two numbers are mouthed by the assistant on the ground. She rolls two fingers toward the square and Lazarus, cool as the day I met him, smiles at the rest of the world.

  "My name is Lazarus Cobb. I've come into your homes and offices to tell you that the resistance has taken over the Confederation's networks, and earlier this morning, your slates were turned off. The former Confederation Cabinet is, at this moment, being held by members of this resistance until we can organize a trial presided over by you, the people. You have been robbed. Of your families, your voices, and your lives. This government has lied to you. Starting with one big lie that necessitated a million others." Lazarus takes a deep breath. Looks directly into the camera and tells the world as gently as possible, "Fellow citizens, there was no Pandemic. They euthanized hundreds of thousands of innocent people just to lay claim to the country! To begin anew with as many helpless orphans as possible, shackled victims of a holocaust made to run their new world for them!"

  I look around at our group. We've pressed into one circular body, have grown drastically in number, even since Lazarus began speaking. There's no more empty space between his concrete podium and the surrounding buildings. The camera will see only faces and heads, nine thousand of us, still as statues.

  "Those of you old enough to remember the beforetime are hereby charged with dispensing the truth to your fellow citizens. And those of you too young to know the truth will very shortly be provided documented proof of it. We will provide as much information as you need once more immediate concerns have been handled." Lazarus motions toward Noam, who climbs up onto the square with Noah in tow. "Let me tell you something, my brothers and sisters. Freedom--the concept of doing what is in your soul to do, of not being bound to the ideologies of others--is not just a state of being. Freedom is also a word. One of many that have been kept from you."

  Noam holds the leather tome gently by its spine so Lazarus is free to flip through its pages. "There is a book that's been kept from you. You know it as The Book of Noah. But in truth, it's something called a dictionary. This collection of words and ideas has been hidden from you for over three decades because the best way to enslave a people is to censor truth. To censor ideas that would otherwise set you free. What does the word censor mean? Let me tell you."

  Tenderly, Lazarus flips through the thin, yellowed pages. People around us who don't know about The Book of Noah are standing on tippy-toe, trying to see.

  Lazarus finds the page and reads with his head bent, "Censorship. To suppress or delete anything considered objectionable. Censorship. Exclusion from consciousness."

  Suddenly, the portent of this book is on everyone's faces. They watch Lazarus's hands as they move to another word. Nodding him along, hurry up, hurry up.

  He reads from another page. "Democracy. A government in which the supreme power is vested in and exercised by the people."

  Hands are going up all over the crowd. People have begun to shout out words they've heard and don't know. Or those whose meanings they've forgotten.

  Lazarus can't keep the smile from his face. He tells the crowd that there's no time to look up too many of them. But, if he points to them, he'd like to hear their requested words. A few hundred arms wave in the air.

  There. Lyrical.

  And you. Destiny.

  Sir? Ethical.

  Yes, ma'am? Independence.

  This goes on awhile until the director signals to Lazarus, Time to wrap it up, and our leader waves their arms back down to their sides.

  "There is one more definition I'd like to read before we move on. It's for the word veracity." Lazarus pauses to find me where I stand. "Veracity means the power of conveying or perceiving the truth. It means a devotion to truth. The kind of quality that will serve as a benchmark for our new government and remind us of the need for a diligence we lost many years ago."

  I nod my thanks and turn my moist eyes down. Lazarus's voice continues overhead.

  "My sisters and brothers, you have a language and a truth of which you know nothing! You have a history of which you know nothing. People--ancestors--who've fought for our freedom with words instead of guns.

  "Freedom is not an option. It is not a want. It is a need. Freedom to live according to the truth of one's own heart is as necessary as fire. As water. As food. As air. As you can see, we lost women and men here today. What further evidence could you require as to the timeliness and importance of this cause? As well as our commitment to it? Take note of these fallen heroes and understand that the price they've paid is worth the prize. Just as it shall be again, and again, and again, until we lay honest claim to honest lives."

  The audience is transfixed, their attention rapt on our leader's face.

  "Here, around this square, you see the price of freedom. But now you also see the reward. Come and be counted alongside us! There is a far worse fate than living in unsure times and that is the death of the soul. That is the true Pandemic!"

  Lazarus is as tall as a tree on that small cracked square. I try to imagine what the rest of the country must see. What they must look like, staring openmouthed at their televisions, or at the wall-mounted screens posted at their places of work.

  Lazarus says his good-bye and the camera pans away from us. It's replaced by a board marked up with crude instructions about what to do next. Where to go. How to get there. What will happen. The pirated stations will immediately begin broadcasting excerpts from Noah. Electronic copies will be sent out to every city. A library will be established in each county seat and will serve as the home base for lessons the resistance has prepared. We'll be providing them classes in history, literature, and a dozen other topics. And in return, we ask for their involvement in government. To learn
about American policy and be active in election processes.

  The camera stops rolling and we wander around for a while, not knowing quite what to do next. We won't know right away if Lazarus's words have been sufficient to have saved us from apathy. The world is on the other end of the camera and, for the moment, silent.

  apostasy

  discriminate

  ego

  fossil

  heresy

  kindred

  obstreperous

  offline

  veracity

  ve-rac-i-ty: habitual observance of truth in speech or statement; truthfulness; conformity to truth or fact.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  JULY 4, 2045. MORNING.

  "So. How are things going today? The last couple of weeks?"

  Mr. Weigland is sitting on top of his desk, short legs bouncing off the side. He's grown a goatee. A piping of orange hair on his chin that points down like an arrow and draws attention to his wattle. It makes his enormous smile look all the more ridiculous. He's trying to appear languid and carefree. But carefree isn't a moist face and high-pitched voice. That's nervous.

  Oh, God. What now?

  "Sit down, sit down." Mr. Weigland jumps off the side of his desk and his new glasses fall off his nose. "Oopsy daisy." He squats down to find them, patting the floor for the flashy gray metal and rectangular panes. He's sweet like this, flustered and fumbling. I pick up the glasses and hold them out. Let him feel his way to them, starting at my hand.

  "What can I do for you, sir?"

  Mr. Weigland leans against his desk, staying within reach of the tissues. Never a good sign. "You've had a hard couple of months." He stops. Is assessing my reaction to the mention of my lost daughter and attempted suicide.

  "Yes, sir."

  He smiles. "I have a little something set up for you. Something I think you might just really need." Mr. Weigland is giddy with himself. He pushes off the desk, nearly skipping around its edge. He presents me his phone, numbers-side out. "We all thought it might be good if you could call Sarah."

  I panic. He knows where she is. Mr. Weigland knows the whereabouts of my baby.

  The chair slips out from under me. Or maybe I fall out of it. Either way, I'm suddenly on the floor with Mr. Weigland's hands hauling me up, tucking me back in.

  He points up at the circular grate on the ceiling, at the recording disk through which we're being monitored, and holds a finger to his mouth. Sssshhhh.

  "You okay?" he asks, pulling a sheet of paper from the top drawer of his desk. "You want some water?"

  "Uh . . . yes. Please." I stumble over my response as Mr. Weigland jots down quick, sloppy words. "I would."

  He finishes the note and slides it quietly across the table. I read as Mr. Weigland retrieves the pitcher of ice water always perspiring on his bookcase. We've put my office cameras on a fifteen-minute hiatus. It's as much as we could get without drawing notice. All that's being recorded right now is what we say, so respond carefully.

  "Here you go." Mr. Weigland presses the cold glass into my hands. He kneels down in front of me and looks directly into my eyes. "No need to worry, Harper. Your daughter is in safe hands."

  "Thank you," I mumble.

  He's with the resistance. God bless Mr. Weigland. There were so many signs over the years. If I'd wanted to, I would have known.

  "If you don't want to call Sarah, I understand." Mr. Weigland goes back to his seat. "It was just a thought."

  I take the pen and write one question. Will it put her in jeopardy?

  He shakes his head no. "It would be perfectly okay for you two to talk. And that's straight from the company's grief counselor."

  Do I want to call my daughter? No. Veracity has become a girl named Sarah who might not want me. And if I do talk to her, I'll want to see her, touch her, hold her until this nightmare world folds back and reveals the blue sky of normalcy. A few moments of awkward dialogue won't ever be enough. But saying no isn't really an option. This could be my only chance.

  I put down the glass. "Would you dial for me? Please?"

  The receiver in the crook of his neck, Mr. Weigland punches in numbers from a card. He then comes back around to the front of his desk, where he can offer me comfort if things go bad.

  "Yes . . . hello?" He sits upright. "Yes, this is Mr. Weigland. I have Harper Adams here. Yes. Yes, thank you. That's very nice. Thank you. Well, uh . . . she's a little nervous. Uh-huh. How about I put her on?"

  This is my introduction. A few fumbling "um"s and "well"s and I'm handed the receiver, still warm from Mr. Weigland's grasp.

  I put it up to my ear. "Hello?"

  "Yes. Hello." It's not my daughter. It's a woman around my age with a softer voice. Lighter, as if she has no lost freedoms to miss. "It's nice to finally meet you. Talk to you, anyway." She's too immediately friendly. Too pert, like those women who form themselves into circles, pray for the sins of their neighbors, obsess together over their gardens, all that crap.

  "Harper Adams," I say. "And you are?" She won't answer because she's not supposed to and because she never does a goddamned thing to break the rules. I'd wager my pay card on it. "You are?" I repeat, not caring if it comes out sounding rude. She can't expect me not to ask.

  "Harper!" Mr. Weigland leans forward.

  I turn in my seat so he can't snatch the phone out of my hand.

  "I would feel exactly the same way you do, Miss Adams. But you know I can't give you my information." A pause. She's lost her voice. It comes back cracked, like a poor transmission. "This is hard for all of us."

  Christ. She isn't so docile, doesn't sit around in noxious church circles, maybe. Maybe is nice.

  "I'm sorry." I have to push it out.

  Her niceness should comfort me. This woman is taking care of my child, after all. But I'm selfish. I need something to tell me that my daughter won't love her more. Not now. Not later when she grows a woman's body, loves a boy who doesn't love her back, falls into the real world and loses some of her faith.

  "I don't know how to start this," I say, needing to dig my way out of this bitterness and prepare myself for Veracity. I need to be happy when she gets on the line. I need her to be listening when I warn her.

  "Harper." The woman says my name too carefully. Immediately, I know what's coming. "I don't know how to say this any other way. We can't get Sarah to come to the phone."

  The blood falls from my face. Mr. Weigland sees it. He reaches around my turned body and puts his hand on the phone. "You need me to talk to her? Let me talk to her . . ."

  "No," I say.

  My daughter's new mother thinks I was talking to her. "Both my husband and I feel it's not right to pressure her," she says beautifully. In that tone that means, I will not let you harm my child.

  "I was talking to my boss."

  "I'm sorry . . ."

  "No." I clear my throat. "Let's not use that word anymore. Okay?" I'll start crying. Sorry is the best descriptor of this situation. It doesn't need any further evidence. "What's your name?" I whisper, begging. "Just so I know . . ." Whatever I can know from a first name. Which will be mostly about this woman's parents: were they conservative or liberal; romantic or stoic; did they have her prior to the Pandemic or after. The name they chose for her will answer these things.

  Mr. Weigland stands up. Erect, disapproving. "They're not supposed to give names."

  I nod into the phone. "Never mind. It's okay . . ."

  "Sophia." She's almost crying.

  Sophia. It's a good name. Unconventional, which means she went through the Pandemic. Has probably suffered some and grown past needing the hard lessons. These are all good things pointing to normal. Telling me she'll know how to love Veracity. How quickly my needs turn. Now I want her to be a saint, a warrior, a safety net. My cardboard cutout.

  Mr. Weigland presses a tissue into my hand and it baits the tide. I start to cry. "Is she okay?" My voice wobbles over the question.

  "Fine." Sophia is nodding. Da
bbing at her eyes. I can hear the movement, the creasing tissues. "Happy as she could be, considering."

  Happy. I'll be glad she's told me this later. But not now. "Why won't she get on the phone?"

  The husband is listening. I hear the low drone of his voice behind hers, suggesting, comforting. They're deciding together what to say. I hear the woman call him by name. Jeremy. Perhaps she's done this for me.

  "Sophia?"

  She puts her lips right up next to the mouthpiece. Cups a hand over the answer. "She just . . . doesn't understand." Sophia breaks for a moment to take a breath. "There's just never going to be a good enough answer. Do you understand?"

  I sob. Don't try to hide it. "Listen to me . . ."

  "I'm listening."

  "Work with her on her Red Words."

  "We will. We already do."

  "It's important!" I say it with more force than I'd wanted. "Please. She could get hurt if she says one accidentally. I mean, she will get hurt if she tries to say even one. Do you understand? I've dreamt it," I say. "I know it."

  There is a pause on the other end of the line.

  Sophia comes back softly. "Okay." Then stronger, with understanding. "Absolutely. I promise. We promise."

  "Thank you," I say, though I don't think she hears me.

  Or maybe I haven't said it.

  All I can think about is getting off the phone. Running down the long main hall and lying down in the women's rest-room. I want to rest my head on the cool tile.

  "Will you tell her that I love her?" My mouth is wobbling. My words come out so warped, I don't know how Sophia understands.

  But she does. "Yes. We will . . ."

  I give the phone to Mr. Weigland and turn away. I can hear Sophia's voice assuring me, "We love her, too." It's in the air. Floating down like a feather. Landing like a lead weight.

  Mr. Weigland takes my place. He tells them not to be too upset. It's natural. We'll try again in a year, maybe two. Then puts the receiver back in its cradle.

  "Harper," he says.

  I don't answer.