by Young, D. L.
I should have heard horrible noises, the worst sounds imaginable, a thousand animals tearing each other to pieces. Instead there was only a strange, unnatural silence. I took a deep breath and stepped into the tunnel.
When my specs adjusted to the darkness, a group of silhouetted shapes at the far end of the tunnel took form: a person surrounded by dogs. I notched up the contrast and zoomed in. It was the girl and her pack, heading in my direction. The dogs appeared oddly calm.
Was it over? Could it have ended that quickly?
She recognized me and ran over, her face twisting with anger.
“What happened?” I asked. “Did you get him?”
“He ain’t here,” she sneered.
“He’s not here?”
“That’s right. He and his whole pack, all five hundred dogs, gave us the slip. Now how you think he knew we was coming?” She tapped her temple, indicating my specs, her eyes narrowing in accusation. A sinking feeling knotted my stomach.
“What are you talking about?”
“Your specs, mod-mama,” she said. “He picked up your transmission and hightailed it outta here.”
I swallowed. “But I thought nobody used tech in Dog—”
“Almost nobody uses tech in Dogville. But Demonio’s got tech out the ass. He’s always scanning, always listening. Thinks his old narco buddies are gonna show up to settle some score.” The girl tapped her temple again. “But if you ain’t got no tech he can’t pick up on you. That’s why we don’t use it around here, get it?”
My heart sank as I suddenly understood what I’d done, how utterly I’d blown it. The conversation with Gonzalez about the girl and the raid. It might as well have been a fireworks show announcing the attack.
The girl snorted in disgust, then turned away. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the specs she’d taken from me earlier. “These things project?”
I nodded. She took a pin-sized archive from her pocket and loaded it into the small jack in the specs’ temple arm. She laid the specs on a cement block, then double-tapped the corner of the lens. A projected white box appeared on the tunnel wall.
“Take a look at what you just messed up,” she said.
She turned away from the projection as a small boy, maybe four or five, came into focus.
“What is this?” I asked.
The girl looked down and kicked the dirt. “It was a Tuesday, I think, when baby brother wandered away. Then the day after, one of Demonio’s dogs showed up on my turf with this archive hanging around its neck.”
Baby brother? “Wait a minute, you have a brother who lives here with you?”
“Lived,” she corrected.
The boy stood in a clearing in the woods, his eyes wide in terror. The first dog was on top of him in seconds. The video had no sound, only the gruesome images of the boy screaming in silence as the animal dragged him to the ground.
“Dogs ain’t like people. They ain’t born evil,” the girl said, her voice wavering. “That narco starves them nearly to death so he can get them to do...bad things.”
More dogs joined the attack and began to rip the child apart. Teeth gnashing, flesh tearing. I turned away and threw my hand over my mouth, fighting down the acid taste of vomit in the back of my throat.
I could barely fathom what I’d seen. The ghastly pictures played over and over in my head, as I knew they would for a long time to come.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
But even as I uttered the words, even as I felt the revulsion sickening my stomach, a part of me had already begun to salvage the story. Arranging the pieces into a narrative, editing the footage, writing the promo copy.
A beautiful young girl’s world falls apart when her baby brother is viciously murdered at the hands of a heartless narco. She vows revenge and embarks on a life-and-death quest in the heart of a ruined city.
The girl stared at the ground, heartbreakingly beautiful even in her anguish. I discreetly tapped my specs and began to record. Her haunted face was the perfect image for a fade to black.
The Jacob Seeds
Hanif Ahmed stood on Torrox’s southern dockyard, gazing out at the Atlantic ocean in the soft, purple glow of dusk, waiting for the fishing boats to return. His arms prickled with goose bumps in the cool air of early evening, and the only sound was the soothing, rhythmic slush of water lapping against the superstructure. He spotted a sail on the horizon, a pinpoint of white surrounded by a dark, endless ocean, as faint and fragile-looking as a match’s flame. Minutes passed and more appeared, scattered across the water, miles separating each speck of white. As they approached Torrox and slowly grew larger, the boats came together to form a wedge-shaped flotilla, their traditional formation for the final leg of their homeward journey. The small, single-mast craft that moments before looked as delicate as floating scraps of bread were now a single unit, a mighty fleet powering its way through the white-capped waves.
The tension in Hanif’s neck and shoulders eased. Since his earliest memories of childhood, the sight of the fishing boats coming home never failed to cheer him. He found the fishermen’s sense of community comforting: the bellowed greetings across the water, the good-natured jokes directed at the boats with the smallest catches. Whenever Hanif was troubled, he always came to the docks to watch the boats arrive, and lately he found himself coming more often.
Families began to make their way to the docks to meet loved ones and help unload the day’s catch. The children came first, running and shouting, followed by spouses and sweethearts. Hanif forced himself to smile as people recognized him and stopped to say hello or shake his hand. He tried to be gracious, but his sudden fame felt like ill-fitting clothes, uncomfortable and awkward.
A voice boomed from behind him. “You going to give me a hand with this tuna or just stand there playing Mr. Big Shot?”
Hanif smiled, this time genuinely. He turned and spotted Dilon bringing his boat to a drifting stop at the bottom of the jetty’s stairs. Hanif walked down and Dilon threw him a rope that he secured to a dock cleat.
With a lightness and ease that belied his large frame, Dilon hopped onto the dock. His crew waved to Hanif and began to arrange the wriggling fish into workable piles.
“Nice catch,” Hanif said.
“We do what we can for the greater good,” Dilon said, slapping Hanif on the shoulder. “So how’s life in the fast lane?”
“Fine,” Hanif replied.
Dilon’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve never been a good liar, Han. Remember when we were like seven or eight, and you smuggled extra protein rations to me when I was sick? Geez, you would have thought you’d committed murder by the look on your face.”
Hanif smiled thinly at the memory. There was no fooling someone who’d known him so long.
“Let’s take a walk,” Dilon said.
Hanif shook his head. “No time. I just stopped by to say hi.”
“Come on.” Dilon said. “You’ll be doing me a favor.” He motioned toward his boat. “I hate unloading. You may not be aware of this, but did you know fish actually smell bad?”
“You sure it’s the fish that smell?” Hanif said.
“Now that’s just wrong, Han. I risk life and limb on the raging sea, and this is what I have to come back to?”
Hanif laughed. “How about I stay and unload the fish and you keep my appointment?”
Dilon’s eyes widened. “That’s right, I almost forgot. You’re meeting with Mr. Big Trader tonight, aren’t you?”
Hanif nodded and asked, “Want to come along?”
Dilons’s face wrinkled up like he’d tasted something sour. “Hang out with a politician? I’ll leave that to big shots like you.” He motioned toward the sea. “I see enough sharks out there.”
***
The night sky began to wink with stars as Hanif made his way down the narrow footpath. He passed the fish processing building and the rows of small, identical steel-and-concrete residences that housed the fisherman’s families.
He turned north and entered the gardens that covered the greater part of the superstructure’s uppermost level. The solar-powered path lamps started to blink on, though Hanif hardly needed them. He could have easily found his way in total darkness. As Director of Agriculture, the post he’d held for fifteen years, he’d walked these garden paths countless times, carefully nurturing Torrox’s food supply.
He passed under the thick tarp protecting newest seedlings, feeling the temperature rise to a cozy warmth. Earlier in the day, his team moved another dozen of the Jacob-variety soybean plants from the lab’s greenhouse to the gardens. He knelt down next to one and rubbed a leaf between his thumb and index finger. He smiled inwardly as he stroked the thick, rubbery dermal tissue. Even as seedlings, the tough little plants hardly needed the tarp for protection. He stood and folded his arms in satisfaction, admiring the Jacob plants. After so many years of failed starts and frustrating setbacks, at long last they were ready for large-scale production.
Over a dozen Torroxian botanists had contributed to the project over the years, but it was Hanif’s brilliance in genetic design that his colleagues credited the most. His fellow citizens rightly considered the miraculous plants Hanif Ahmed’s creation, his enormous contribution to the greater good of Torrox. No more protein rationing during thin harvests, no more worrying about dwindling fisheries, no more frantically-negotiated deals with the mainland during lean years. Torrox would finally have a steady, reliable food supply.
After a few moments his smile faded as his pride melted into melancholy. He could never look at the Jacob plants for long without making the bitter comparison to their namesake. He turned away and headed down the path in the direction of his appointment.
***
For the first time in his life, Hanif felt under-dressed. From the moment he entered Keane Andersen’s well-appointed home, he was acutely aware of his plain, utilitarian work clothes, their threadbare elbows and knees. The trader’s sprawling, lavishly decorated residence was unlike any home he’d ever seen, at least in person. For Hanif sprawling estates and mansions were the things of bootleg movies from the mainland. He never imagined such a place could exist on his home island.
Hanif and Andersen sat at opposite ends of a long ornate table in a dining room that was as large as the average Torroxian house. The two had never been formally introduced, knowing one another only by reputation and a handful of mutual contacts. Andersen wore a black dinner jacket made of some rich, luxurious fabric Hanif had never seen before. At thirty-six, Andersen was ten years younger than Hanif, but with his athletic build, boyish features, and boundless energy, he seemed much younger. The staff from a nearby restaurant served prawn appetizers followed by salt cod and grilled vegetables.
“Your home is lovely,” Hanif said as a staffer removed his dinner plate. “And the meal was delicious.”
“Thank you, Director.” Andersen lifted his glass of wine. “Trade liberalization has been good to me.” He took a drink and placed the glass on the table. “Can I ask where you stand on trade policy? Should Torrox continue to open commercial ties with the mainland or are we betraying the Founders?”
Hanif shifted in his chair. Most of his colleagues considered Andersen’s pro-commerce platform akin to treason, an affront to the Founders’ vision of communal harmony and self-sustaining economics. Having devoted his adult life to the study of soybean DNA, Hanif hadn’t given the topic much thought. On the rare occasions when he considered matters of personal wealth and open commerce with the mainland, the concepts felt as strange and alien to him as Andersen’s opulent home.
“I like to think of myself as open-minded,” Hanif said cautiously, “when it comes to serving the greater good.”
The trader’s eyes brightened and he leaned forward. “I’m glad you feel that way, Director. Torrox could use a few more open minds these days.”
Andersen rose from his chair and moved to the large-paned window that spanned the length of the room. “Contrary to what my opponent says, I believe the Founders were great men, Director Ahmed. Wise men, visionaries. But political philosophy must evolve with the times or it risks becoming obsolete, wouldn’t you agree?”
Hanif didn’t answer.
Andersen gazed out the window. “My advisers tell me the election for Chief Administrator is shaping up to be the tightest in our history. It seems trade policy has the public divided, split right down the middle.” He turned toward Hanif. “With a population of only ten thousand, I’m sure you can appreciate how every vote matters.” Andersen lowered his chin. “And the right endorsement could very well tip the scales.”
The comment and its implication caught Hanif off guard. He groped for a reply. “You might be overestimating my influence,” he said. “I’m just a scientist.”
Andersen smiled. “Yes, just a scientist. A scientist who’s managed to do something no other scientist on the mainland has been able to do. You’re too modest, Director. You’re a celebrated son of Torrox, and deservedly so.” The compliment was delivered with such apparent sincerity, for a moment Hanif almost believed it.
“Tell me, Director, do you think it’s fair, or even morally defensible, that we hoard these seeds like some miser in a Dickens tale while the children of the world starve? Tell me where this outdated ‘Torrox first’ policy makes sense, with your plants or anything else, because I simply can’t see it.”
A worker entered carrying two dessert plates of chocolate mousse. She seemed to sense the tension in the room, clanking the desserts onto the table and hurriedly exiting.
Hanif cleared his throat. “Mr. Andersen, I’ve spent years in a lab trying to solve a very serious problem. In the course of my work I don’t stop to think about the political implications.” He knew his non-answer wouldn’t satisfy the trader, who had the look of a man intent upon getting what he wanted.
Andersen stepped toward Hanif. “Ah, but your work has lots of implications, political and otherwise.” He paused for a moment, then added, “For example, what if I were to tell you there’s great interest in your plants, Director Ahmed? Mainland interest.”
Hanif blinked. There were laws about that sort of thing. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Have you been speaking with the mainland about—”
“No, no, of course not,” Andersen laughed, waving his hand. “I would never violate our wondefully antiquated privacy statutes.” He walked over and sat down next to Hanif. “I’m speaking hypothetically, of course,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “Let’s suppose, hypothetically, a small group of Torroxians had the foresight to arrange a licensing agreement with the mainland. Such an arrangement would be quite lucrative for those involved. And a pro-commerce administration could make such an arrangement possible. Hypothetically speaking, of course.”
Hanif swallowed, finding his throat dry and scratchy. Was this a bribe? Was this what the dinner had been leading to all along? He turned Andersen’s words over in his mind. Yes, he decided, that’s exactly what it was. A political bribe. A high crime.
Andersen’s eyes were fixed on him, keen and observant, sizing him up. The trader gestured toward the window and the ocean beyond it. “You know what’s happening on the mainland as well as I do, Director. Floods one year, droughts the next. Crops are failing everywhere. Famines in North America, for goodness’ sake.”
He leaned in so close Hanif could smell the wine on his breath. “Those tough little plants of yours can grow anywhere. Do you
have any idea what that means in a world where billions are starving?” Andersen grinned as if he were about to reveal the most wonderful secret imaginable. “We’ll be able to name our price,” he said.
Hanif clenched his jaw. The shameless greed of this man. This trader, this peddler who hustled and schemed in the ridiculous pursuit of piles of money. He was exactly the kind of man Hanif’s grandfather would have loathed, and rightly so.
Hanif sucked in his breath, steadying himself so he could tell this trader where he could go. His plants weren’t for sale and neither was he. But before he could speak, Andersen pushed away from the table. The screech of his chair against the floor made Hanif jump. Andersen stood and moved again to the window, his back to Hanif.
“I can see that righteous indignation on your face, Director.” He turned to Hanif and raised his eyebrows. “Before you say something you might regret later, could I give you some advice?”
Hanif said nothing, suddenly remembering that in a few weeks this man might very well be the most powerful person on the island.
“History,” Andersen said, “is full of countless fools who misread the political winds, chose the wrong allies, and then paid dearly for their misjudgment.” He lowered his head, his eyes cold and serious. “But you don’t strike me as a fool.”
***
“So what did he offer you?” Chief Administrator Wellington asked as she stirred sweetener into her coffee. “A big house? Points on a licensing fee for your plants?” She raised her thin white eyebrows and gazed at Hanif over oval-shaped spectacles that rested low on her nose. When word spread about Hanif’s visit with Andersen, the incumbent Chief Administrator reacted quickly, summoning Hanif to her residence early the following morning.
The two sat alone in the front room of Wellington’s humble, sparsely decorated home. Following her election four years earlier, Wellington had refused to move into the larger, more elegant official residence of the Chief Administrator. She’d famously declared in her inaugural address, “I neither deserve nor expect special treatment for serving the greater good, which for any patriotic Torroxian should be its own reward.”