It makes sense now how Lydia knew I was a Blue simply by asking my age. There are no fifteen, sixteen, seventeen year old boys here.
“But why?” I ask. A fear is creeping up my spine. I think I know.
“The prophecy,” Barrett says. He puffs the p in prophecy then grinds his teeth a bit as he repeats the word. Despite his attempt to look tough he seems happy-go-lucky and somewhat tragic at the same time.
“Right,” Lydia looks from Barrett to me. “The Executive President believed his government-trained psychic when she told him that a boy born in 2077 would grow up to assassinate the intended leader. A boy born of Red parents.” She takes a step closer to me. “He wasn’t taking any chances. He had all the boys from the year before to a year after killed.”
“Show him the carving,” Barrett says, pointing to my right.
I turn and Lydia brushes past me, grabs my hand and pulls me down the hallway. I like her forward manner; there’s an affinity I can’t explain. I follow easily until we turn a corner and it’s too dark to see. We stop. She presses my fingers against deep ruts in the wall. We trace the letters together. The heat of her hand on mine makes my blood leave my head. My thoughts are confused. I strain to see and make out tinges of gold on the wall.
Dalton
I’m very aware of her long black hair tickling my ear. Our heads are close together and I want to turn my face to hers. And even though our fingers are working out the letters I don’t care what they say.
Dalton Battista
I don’t care at all until she pulls me farther right, her fingers lightly pressing mine into the gaps that spell:
Dalton Battista is not
Is not what? Why is my name carved into the wall of an old birthing center in the middle of the Red slum?
Lydia presses my whole palm against the last two words and steps back. I trace the indentations twice to be sure I understand. I know what the letters spell, but I cannot fathom the implications.
I’m sweating. In spite of the coolness of the dark building a prickly heat squeezes my breath. The musty smell invades my nostrils, driving out the sweet scent of Lydia. Lydia Sroka. I feel weak-kneed and stupid.
Dalton Battista is not Lucas Sroka.
Why would anyone think I was? Why would anyone carve such an obvious fact into the wall of the place where Lucas, her twin brother, was murdered at birth.
Was I born here? Surely mother would have had specialists at the capitol. Grandfather keeps a staff of doctors even though he denies health care to the Reds. Of course I couldn’t have been born here.
But my fading tattoo …
I compose myself, stifle my thoughts, and look at the dark shadow that hides Lydia. I say, “Your brother? What does he have to do with me? Who carved this?”
She whispers something. The last part sounds like “Mo-shay,” and I shiver. In a normal tone she says, “You have to set things right. It’s your destiny.”
She pivots and the click of her shoes on the floor leads me out. Barrett holds the door as we pass. Anger, fear, and grief follow me out into the gray district.
“Can you find your way home or should Barrett take you?”
I search her eyes for answers, but I only see a challenge reflected back. I stand mute. The men who sang and guarded us are gone, but many people are walking up and down the street. Exodia’s slums are well integrated, not just Red and Blue, but black and brown and white. I’m getting strange looks; they’re not friendly like before. My anxiety wells up and I want to leave before I say something stupid.
I feel awkward. Embarrassed. My world has suddenly taken a hard left and darkened. What does she know of my destiny? Without another word I leave.
I go from hurried walk to pressured trot. I pass Bancroft Street and search for Burnell. I slow down, pick my way around some garbage in the street, and listen as a truck motors my way. It could be guards searching for me if Jamie didn’t do what I asked. A ride back would be nice, but I’d rather not get a lecture, so I cut between two identical houses and find myself in the middle of someone else’s problem.
I spot the blue tattoo on the kid’s elbow immediately, before he turns to see why I’m interrupting him. He is beating up on a smaller kid who is on his knees, feet toward me. The victim’s elbow, too, is quite visible, but it’s red. It’s odd that the bully would risk death. If he breaks a bone…
My tutor’s words float back to me: …post-apocalyptic immigration … breaking the bones of someone of the opposite tattoo … punishable by death.
I have things to set right, Lydia said. It’s my destiny. There was heat in her words. Outrage. My breaths come in sudden gasps like hiccups.
I grab the larger one, the Blue, and pull him off the kid. I take a swing. I’m big and strong and well-trained and for a second I wonder why I’ve been trained if the laws are such that what I’m doing is a crime. And yet my grandfather has an army–there are still wars within the Ninety states.
The Red kid scrambles to his feet and trips a few feet away to watch me hit his Blue assailant again. And again. I suck in air, blow out fury, punch at him a fourth and fifth time.
The Blue one staggers back and fixes me with a stare that shakes me to my core. His face is tracked with broken blood vessels. He is not a kid as I had thought. He is a man, a very angry, brutal man.
And lightning fast. He is in my face instantly, too close to punch. I draw back my arm as he locks both of his around me, pinning my left arm tight, crushing my chest in a death squeeze. His face burrows close to mine and he pours filth and vile into my ear. And threats. I pound his kidney with my right fist, but my hampered strikes are useless.
I bite his ear. Tear and rip and grind.
He drops his hold and lets forth a low-pitched scream. Like an animal. He rages. Then stops. He fixes me in his stare with a stillness that has more threat to it than if he had a weapon pointed my way.
I see the boy, off to the side, pick up two fat sticks. He should be running away, as I want to do. His bravery moves me. I spit then growl back at the man, at this Blue who probably has had more years of training, more practice than I. I lower my head and ram him. We fall together. I knock his breath away and roll off him as he flutters like a beetle on its back.
“Run,” I say to the boy. He cringes as if he’s equally afraid of me yet ready to strike now that he’s armed with sticks. I’m impatient with him. “Go!”
That blue elbow connects with a sudden force against my head, followed by a fist that finds my jaw. I stumble back, fall, scrabble to my feet. I hear a click, an unmistakable sound if you’ve been instructed in Suppression fighting. It’s a slow second that passes. He’s thinking he has the upper hand. He’s thinking I don’t know this style of fight.
He’s wrong.
He lunges for me and I step aside, swinging as I do, and I connect with unbelievable force. My fist to his temple. Just as my trainers have taught me.
I hear the Red kid gasp. He hurls the sticks, turns and runs; somehow he knows instinctively what I’ve done.
The man’s body is crumpled on the ground, his rage-clenched face now slack. He doesn’t move. I look in every direction, but see no one.
I wait a second or two and then touch his elbow, grab both arms, and drag him to the bushes. Under the bushes.
I feel for a pulse. There is none.
I look for the weapon. There is none.
I finish hiding him by pushing him farther under the shrubs. The ground rumbles under my feet.
Chapter 2 The Secret City
From the first page of the Ledger:
A priest from the Mid-land had seven daughters and they came to draw water.
KASSANDRA LOOKED AROUND the sky. The late afternoon sun hesitated above the west horizon. She could see a three-quarter moon plain as day and wondered if she would ever be able to predict the future and know things just by looking up. Her father did it all the time. He saw things in the stars and tried to teach her, but Kassandra was without a clue.
Sheep. That’s all she knew. All she could figure out. And she certainly would never have the chance to meet any boys if she stayed here.
“Thinking about leaving?” It was the twin, Deandra, who spoke. She walked up to Kassandra’s right side; the other twin lagged two steps behind.
“Yeah, like that was real hard for you to guess.”
The quiet twin, Marcela, parked herself on a rock and listened to her sisters.
Deandra spoke again. “I guess … I mean it’s more than a guess … I know that you’ll be gone when you’re eighteen.”
“That’s forever from now,” Kassandra sighed and nudged Marcela over so she could share the rock with her. She didn’t argue with Deandra. Her sister had a talent for guessing the future as if she had a crystal ball, her dad’s star chart, or a mind-reading ability. If Deandra said she’d be out of here by eighteen then it was probably so. But Kassandra hoped to meet some boys sooner than that, any boy, even a Blue boy. There were no Red males her age and the older ones had already gone south to Exodia looking for work or north to join the rebels. Life in a small, nameless town was tedious, mind-numbing, and dreary.
Kassandra rose up and used her shepherd’s staff, just a long, sturdy oak branch, to tap a belligerent ram back into the fold. She had to herd the sheep back from the south slope where they had trimmed the new spring grasses down to nubs. Another sister, Katie, eleven months younger, sat off to the side cradling a newborn lamb. Kassandra leaned on her staff for a moment and watched her sister. Katie continually frowned when a smile was called for, griped when she should have kept silent, and complained about anything and nothing. But she kept the closest watch on the lambs. The twins did nothing to help, content to weave daisy chains. But that was better than sitting inside their crazy house with the youngest three sisters and listening to their mother drill them on useless grammar exceptions and math problems and Red/Blue rules.
“Better get the sheep down to the pond,” Kassandra said. She whistled for Katie’s attention. All four girls spread out behind the flock and worked their way forward.
The sheep moved ahead eagerly at first then began to scatter.
“What’s wrong with them?” Katie shouted.
The ground shook.
“Earthquake!”
The tremors increased, the same tremors that shook under Dalton’s feet many miles away. The twins clutched at one another and Kassandra fell to the grass. She looked homeward, to the valley below, in time to see the giant wind turbine that had worked tirelessly for nearly a century break apart and topple. The hundred foot long glass fiber and metal blades landed in the pond sending water, algae, and mud splattering all the way back towards the house. The great base of the windmill lay on its side like an uprooted tree.
Kassandra stood up with her arms out for balance. The earth tired of its shaking and she lowered her hands. Quakes had been rising in frequency year by year, but none had been this strong. Not to have their turbine anymore meant something epic, she was sure, and not just because they would lose their electrical power. She had always thought of the structure as a beacon for God to see them. It waved its blades like children calling out for attention: Here we are. Remember us.
The bleating was deafening and Kassandra did the only thing that was sure to calm the flock. She began to sing. It was a song of comfort and hope, but sprinkled throughout were words and phrases that none of the girls understood. Katie joined in and then the twins harmonized. The sheep were well accustomed to the tune and hurried of their own accord to tangle themselves around the girls.
More slowly than usual they herded the flock home, far north of where Dalton dealt with a different catastrophe.
* * *
I trip over a broken curb and fall to my knees as the earth trembles one last time. I catch myself with my hands, scraping them against pieces of pavement and rock. My belt sacks dangle to the ground and I wish I’d filled them with food, water at least. My mouth is desperate for something.
I stay in this dog-like position for maybe ten seconds, trying to swallow, waiting for my heart to figure out it can’t keep up this hummingbird pace.
I will not think about what I’ve done. I will not dwell on the man’s face. I will not remember the ring on his finger, the patch on his shirt, the anger and surprise on his face. Or his blue tattoo.
I’ve done nothing wrong. I defended the kid.
I see raindrops on the earth, only a few. I wipe my eyes and rise. It is dark and I have been running without direction for too long. People have left the streets, tucked themselves into homes and huts and hovels, and I’m alone. I paw through a belt sack for my knife because I know I’m lost and I know there are wild dogs.
I find a street sign and read the fading letters: Pemberton. Somehow I’m at the edge of the slum. I’m sure because the streets are grouped somewhat alphabetically. I’ll have to weave my way back. I could call Jamie or the capitol guard post, but I’d rather not have anyone see me like this and guess what I’ve done. My mother is off on a mission to find a bride for someone–she’ll be unreachable. Besides, the sun has set and my solar phone, though one of the best refurbished ones available, probably won’t have enough power for more than a minute. I may need that minute later.
I force myself to walk. There’s enough light left to see my way. I’ve ridden through the slum at night, bumping along, staring at the poorly lit homes, holding my breath against the stench, ignoring mother’s happy voice as she chattered about another party, rally, or dinner as we returned from some political mission outside the capitol. But now I’m accustomed to the smells. I see the lights for what they are–oil lamps, candles, solar bulbs–and in the homes where windows are not broken or curtained I can see families. It only takes a second or two in an armored truck to pass each home, but I spend twenty or thirty seconds now walking by and I get a chance to see the Reds, really see them as people instead of, well, servants or slaves or criminals.
Criminals.
I walk faster. I can’t think about … the man I murdered. I think about Lydia instead. I want to see her again. I have questions to ask her. I’ll have to practice, memorize what I want to say, and rehearse how I want to ask. There is no sense to any of this. My destiny. A killing mandate. A prophecy. A dead twin brother.
I make it to the B streets distracted by my rambling thoughts. I cut across the field and look for the spot where I, and the thief Barrett, had climbed over. The guard said he was spying for Ronel’s people. I study the spot he had used to gain entry and exit from the usually secure capitol grounds. It doesn’t make sense if he was a spy. I walk along the fence and find a dozen places where he could have gained better access without being seen. Something occurs to me: perhaps he used the place he did precisely because sooner or later I would see him.
I walk away from the fence to get another perspective of my home. At night it doesn’t look much different than the dilapidated dwellings I just passed, only bigger. I feel no tender pull to return home. In fact, in this moment, as I finger the blade of my knife, the only emotion that stirs is a longing for my nanny. I haven’t seen her in eight years, yet she is the one I know I could confess to.
I hear a growl that makes me stop mid-stride. My head and hands and feet freeze. My eyes track around the shadows. Before I get to the edge of my peripheral vision I see the dog. He’s a stone’s throw to my right. If I charge the fence and leap up I’ll make it. He takes a single step and his throaty rumble is only slightly louder than the pounding in my chest. I hope I’m only imagining the slow advance of other dogs in the distance. Stalking shadows. Though a pack of wild dogs tearing me to shreds seems like justice for the crime I committed.
The growling intensifies, grows deeper and my fingers tighten on the knife. I judge the distance. I need to run.
I need to run now, before he launches himself, knocks me down, and locks his fangs on my neck. My knife is only a few inches long, not good for much more than peeling an orange or picking at my dirty nails.
<
br /> His front leg moves up. I’m wasting precious seconds. My legs move before I consciously command them. I run full out toward the nearest section of fence, ten feet closer than Barrett’s spot to cross. The wild dog lunges, crosses the distance between us in an instant. I jump too soon and catch the links lower than I should, but I clamber up a couple feet as the dog hits the fence, and his hard body sends a quiver along the wires. I almost lose my grip. His claws reach the metal inches below my heels and I crab up a little higher. I transfer my knife to my mouth so I can get a better hold and climb to the top.
The barbs are fortified with razor wire here so I cannot climb over. The dog has yet to bark. His growling gurgles with the saliva that drips off his fangs in anticipation. No other dogs have joined him. He is a lone killer.
Like me.
I inch along to the right until I make it to the broken barbs. I pull myself over, but I’m reluctant to descend. The dog is right below me. He doesn’t know that his fangs and claws won’t reach through the links. I’m equally unsure. Finally I jump out and away, roll on the ground, and pop up, knife ready. We stare at one another, two killers.
His eyes move slowly from my feet to my head as if he’s memorizing me. And then he lopes away without even a yip or final growl, his tail listing to the left, broken or maybe chewed off.
I put my hands on my knees and bend over until my breathing slows. I straighten slowly and stash my knife back in my belt sack.
* * *
Curled under a worn bed sheet in the room she shared with Katie, Kassandra lay awake listening to her parents’ worried voices. They weren’t too far from her open window, passing by with lanterns, off to inspect the fallen monster together. Her father had no idea what to do with the windmill blades or how to solve the problem of water and electricity. Her mother’s tone grew lighter as her father stopped talking altogether. Her mom was full of optimism: everything would work out; they had been through worse; they could build another.
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