“Don’t worry, Araceli, you’ll get a bath. And clean clothes. We’ll go to the monument.”
“That’s too far!”
“Unless you’ve got a better idea. The lake is farther, you know. Do you have any ideas for transportation?”
Araceli threw another weed. “We should have horses, like everybody else.”
“Horses stink, too.”
* * *
The President of Defense, James Truslow, took pleasure in learning of young Battista’s indiscretion. He wished his own son would show a similar ruthlessness. He was training Jamie to be the kind of man that he himself was: decisive, assured, cold-blooded, merciless. These were brutal times, with a dangerous but stable government, and he was in a position of power almost equal to the Executive President. And he had plans.
He left his suite of rooms and headed toward the old conference room, now used as a library or archive, the only place to study up on old Battista’s experiments. He slowed as he reached the Executive President’s apartment, ready with a lie should the old man appear, but the hallway was empty—there was not even a guard—and he slipped quietly into the conference room.
He went straight for the ledgers, journals that held supposedly prophetic information. It was that information which was the stimulus for the Culling Mandate and other horrific laws, though Truslow didn’t perceive them as particularly unjust. He had perused the journals before, but thought them to be useless. His interest now was in searching for the names of those gemfries who participated. A year ago Battista had told him that the documents and the participants had all been “disposed of.” Truslow had reason to believe differently and with the younger Battista’s recent criminal conduct things were falling into place.
He found the stack of ledgers and pulled out the bottom one. He opened it and began scanning the information. Names, dates, observers, statements. All very interesting, but nothing that jumped out at him. He worked his way up the stack and when he finally reached the top notebook he mentally crossed his fingers. His luck failed. This ledger was missing several pages at the front, unevenly torn away. He counted the ripped stubs with his thumbnail and forefinger and cursed aloud.
But he quickly regained his malevolent focus as the first remaining page revealed something unexpected and he knew precisely what his own next move should be.
He replaced the ledgers and listened at the door before he opened it and moved out into the hallway. As there was still no guard he assumed that the Executive President was in his office on the top floor, five minutes up the stairs. He took them two at a time.
“Yes, Truslow, what now?” The Executive President’s greeting was considerably softer than usual.
“There’s a wicked little invasion in the south that needs a bit more attention than you anticipated.” Truslow was always careful to make bad news sound trivial. “We’ve sent another battalion to take care of matters there. Also I’ve ordered the round-up of those subversives. A little re-education and we’ll have a few hundred replacements for those we lost in the eastern battles last month.”
Truslow studied the President’s movements. The old man was uncharacteristically docile this morning. His hands were shaking and he was shifting in his seat from side to side, uncomfortable.
“Is there something the matter, sir?” Truslow thought he knew exactly what the matter was and saw his chance to expedite things. He sat down on the edge of a wooden chair and wondered if he was about to see a twelve percent prediction soar to one hundred.
“There’s been an incident,” the old man began, gripping the edge of the antique desk, “with my, uh, grandson. He killed a man.”
“A Red?”
“No, worse. A Blue, down in the slum. I want a trial.”
“That doesn’t happen.” Truslow stood back up. He could put himself in jeopardy, but what he had just learned from the ledger gave him confidence. “Sir, you have to put out an execution order.”
The old man rose, too. “I know. I’ve done it already. But my daughter …” He began to cough and clutched at his heart.
Truslow knew all too well how much Battista’s daughter meant to him–they were all but married. Truslow had plans for her, too. She was a sensual beauty, a trophy, a replacement for the wife he’d just divorced.
Under the Articles of Confederation of the Ninety States the President of Defense was next in line to act as leader if the Executive President died. He would certainly be the logical choice should an election be demanded.
The President of Defense raised his voice to match his commander, and put all his cards on the table. Stating loudly and clearly all that he learned from the torn ledger, Truslow argued until Battista slumped back into his chair. He was blue in the face. A heart attack, thought Truslow. He watched Bryer Battista gasp and point, directing him to get help.
“No,” Truslow said softly but with absolute menace. He sat down instead. And waited for death.
Chapter 5 Tripled Guilt
From the third page of the Ledger:
The next day he went out and saw two of them fighting. “Why are you hitting him?” he asked.
One answered, “Are you going to kill us, too?”
I WORRY THAT the stink that radiates from Vinn will never leave my nostrils. I follow him along a path more rugged than the forest where we parted from Lydia and Barrett six or seven hours ago. Carter is behind me with my food bag hoisted on his broad shoulders. He jabbers on about “the kid”, meaning Barrett, and endless stories about how Ronel’s people take care of fugitives, punctuated with asides about what they do to traitors. I hunch to the weight of the money bag which, because I’m not as smooth as Barrett, makes the occasional jingle as we press upward.
I worry, too, that I’ll never see Lydia again. Our goodbye extended with a lengthy handshake. Not much shaking though–our hands stayed still. My fingers, grasping, tingled to her warmth. Maybe it only lasted a few seconds, or less than that, but at that moment I felt a connection to her that slowed down time, stretched out the goodbye long enough to tie a knot between us. I managed a word or two beyond thank you. A lot for me. And then she took off after Barrett.
Carter says we are almost to the camp. We pass a look-out spot where they had spied the solar-bikes. The bikes, he tells me, have most likely already been re-purposed, and the bodies buried. He seems detached, almost casual, as he speaks so dispassionately of my pursuers’ deaths.
Vinn stops, runs a grimy hand through dirty brown hair, and tells us to take a break while he checks a side trail. We wait. I would like to sit on my backpack or the ground at least, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to get back up. I brace myself against a thick tree trunk instead and listen to more of Carter’s gruff chatter.
I swear I smell Vinn’s return before I hear or see him. He has a small furry animal flopping on his back, dead, gutted, dripping a little blood down his already stained vest. No wonder he smells of death.
“Supper, or maybe breakfast,” he says, obviously proud. I don’t need to ask how Vinn could be successful so quickly because Carter explains that he had set a trap early this morning as they headed out. Their camp was close now. Close by their standards. Another mile.
I expect to find their camp primitive, but it is actually a string of small cabins along a hidden lake. Carter tells me how they planted pine trees over the dirt road entrance many, many years ago. This spot has remained undetected ever since or at best ignored by the rare spotter plane. My grandfather has been especially shrewd in accumulating experts in various fields, aviation being one of them, and though the supply of usable aircraft is dwindling, the smaller planes still make up a decent part of his treasury. Airliners, of course, were grounded before I was born. The spotter planes are used to look for civil armies. Sometimes innocent crowds have been labeled as such. I’m ashamed that I’ve ignored what the Executive President has done to these people.
We enter the first cabin and Carter starts a fire in the fireplace. I should offer them f
ood from my second pack, but right away men, women, and children file into the cabin carrying bowls and trays and pitchers. There are foods I’ve never seen before, offered with hospitality I didn’t expect. They sing a shorter version of the song I heard in the slum–same tune, same strange words–and then we feast.
Women glance curiously at me from time to time. The kids pay no more attention to me than they do to the adults. The men, also, are a cautious lot and do not address any questions to me directly. I am him, he, the Blue and other vaguely referenced nouns as they squeeze what information they can from Carter. Carter, however, speaks as if he has known me from birth.
It grows late and the conversations ebb and flow with the same worn-out topics I hear in the capitol, but they are interspersed with compliments to the various cooks, gratitude, thanksgiving, things I never hear at home. I’m comfortable among these people, but though the room grows warmer, I’m not so comfortable that I can roll my sleeves up and reveal my indigo colored elbow.
“Hey, Vinn,” one man says. His long hair is tied back with a strand of fabric, his sleeves are rolled up, his tattoo a large red wrinkle until he bends his elbow and it stretches out smooth. “We managed to get that solar-bike’s photovoltaic panels to fit.”
“So you’ll have the pump working tomorrow?” Vinn asks, scratching at his beard.
“Yup, and we put the wheels to good use, too. Stored the rest of the parts in the—” he looks toward me as if I might be taking notes, then pulls his attention back and finishes, “—the bridge cave. So if ya want, me and my boy can escort this one up to David’s.”
I check around the room trying to figure out who among the twenty or more people crowded into the cabin is this man’s son. I’ve grown used to Vinn’s smell and Carter’s constant babble, but getting a chance to travel with a father and son is unexpectedly appealing.
“Nah,” Vinn snorts over the banter that has resumed as people begin to clean up plates. “Carter and I will see he gets there. Made a promise to Bear and his girl.”
My stomach clutches at the phrase he uses. I have to stop thinking of Lydia. I can’t even hope to see her again.
* * *
I awake stiff and sore. Vinn offers me the use of their rather modern bathroom, some clean clothes, and a breakfast that has simmered all night—a stew made from that small furry creature. We each have a bowlful and then he strains the broth and ladles it into a container to take on our journey. He sits back down across from me at the rough wooden table. So far I’ve let others guide me, hide me, lead me farther away from home, farther from my guilty deed, away from the lethal punishment that I deserve. My vocal impotence has allowed me to be a silent lamb, herded along without protest. But they must expect something from me. They have killed my pursuers. They have risked discovery. I can’t be this important.
“Vinn,” I hesitate, waiting for my tongue to obey my thoughts. “What do you know about me?” I see he’s considering his words, too. I add another question while he thinks, “Why are you all helping me?”
He clears his throat and his facial expression changes to something that could pass for pity. “We know you were named Dalton Battista, raised the son of Olivia, grandson of Bryer, the unelected Executive President who claimed to have united ninety states and provinces of North America … who set up a new central government after coordinating the executions of …” He says more, outlines a history of terror, domination, and more than twenty civil wars in as many years. All of what he says runs parallel to the history I’ve learned, yet with only a few alternate adjectives and verbs he shows me a truth I hardly suspected.
My mind races along with the story he tells. I resist certain facts, but others fall into place, glow with a tinge of gold that strengthens their truth. I asked what he knew about me, but he is avoiding that question and instead is teaching me much more about them. They are Reds. They are farmers and laborers and hard-working people. They hoard guns and help outcasts and political refugees, but for reasons much clearer to me now, I see the injustice.
I interrupt him. “How do I fit in?”
“You’re not who you think you are.” He gestures at my left arm. “Roll up your sleeve.”
I do. I know how purplish my tattoo might appear. Maybe even red. Vinn nods his head as I bend my arm. I point my elbow first at him and try to twist my arm so I can see at least the edge of the mark. Yes, it’s red toned.
We’re both silent for a second before he says, “We’re helping you because we’ve learned certain things. Things that lead us to believe that you’ll be the one to get us out of this–for lack of a better word–slavery. We follow David Ronel, but he preaches that he is not the one to give us back our country. He says it will be accomplished by a man who knows Exodia well. Your name keeps coming up. On walls. Carved into tree trunks. Painted on rocks. Scratched into metal panels. Iron even.”
Vinn stares at me. I don’t know what to say.
He continues, “Ronel says our victory will begin by taking back Exodia. It’s the central part of this continent, the least affected by the radiation fallout, the most valuable in terms of land, food, water, and the new throne of government.”
I swallow hard. I feel nailed to my seat. How do they expect a shy kid to lead them?
“Your mother is not your mother.” Vinn says, kicking back his chair and rising. He seems angry.
I’m shocked by his statement and can only think to offer a fact equally scandalous: “I killed a man. A Blue.”
He looks intently at me. “We know. Everyone knows. Your grandfather has a warrant for your execution. It’s what put your escape plan in motion. You’ll be out of his reach if we can get you past the perimeter. News like this stays pretty localized. You’ll be safe away from Exodia’s grasp.”
I ignore his statement about my mother. She is my mother.
It doesn’t really surprise me that my grandfather is not hesitating to follow his cruel law. I would have been dead by now if I hadn’t run when I did. No trial, no chance for an explanation from me, no desire but to make an example of his own grandson. A doubt creeps in–am I his grandson?
Carter knocks before opening the door. “Ready?” He seems unusually quiet this morning. I wonder how long he’s been at the door.
Vinn nods, collects some things. I hoist my golden stash onto my back and grab the food bag as well.
* * *
I stand at the edge of the lake and watch as Carter helps Vinn uncover a rowboat and retrieve the oars hidden beneath. We stow our bags in the bottom, push the boat into the shallow water, and Carter and I maneuver ourselves without rocking the boat too much, with him in the middle and me in the back. Vinn gets his feet wet pushing us off from shore, leaps in, and sits at the bow. Carter uses the oars to spin us out and around and headed toward the far shore. He rows with steady, strong strokes.
Vinn catches me scanning the sky. “Don’t worry,” he says, “it’s too early for spotter planes to get this far. We’ll make it to the other side no problem. This’ll cut three hours off walking around the lake.”
I redirect my attention to the water. I’ve seen lots of lakes, but I’ve never been on one or in one. There’s a river in Exodia. I haven’t set foot in it. Maybe someday I’ll learn to swim.
I look into the depths as the weedy bottom disappears and the water’s color changes from green to darkest blue. I grip the edges of the boat and center my weight, keep my head up, and focus on the shore. I count Carter’s strokes and I’m surprised when I reach a hundred and we seem no closer.
Carter is facing me and speaks in bursts as he works the oars, pulls, lifts, sinks them in again.
“Won’t be long, kid.
“Don’t worry.
“I’ll get ya there.”
We’re only three strokes closer, but his assurance shrinks the distance. I surmise it’ll take twenty or thirty minutes to cross. I close my eyes and picture Lydia. Lydia Sroka. My mind wanders to the feel of her hand on mine. The carving we trace
d together. Her dead brother’s name. I keep my eyes pressed tightly and think of the strange sentence: Dalton Battista is not Lucas Sroka. I rearrange the letters in my mind’s eye, a game to make the time go quickly, until I fit them into a sensible message: Dalton Battista, sit on Usala’s rock. My eyes spring open because I’ve heard of Usala’s rock from my Red nanny. One of her stories about Ronel. A siege, or stand, or victory, something short-lived, at Usala’s rock, the old monument from the terrorist attack of … of a date I can’t remember.
The shore looms close and the boat rocks as Vinn jumps out to pull us the last yard. Carter joins him to pull until they’ve beached the entire thing and I have to forget my anagram, wobble myself out onto dry land, grab my backpacks, and watch the men camouflage the handy transportation. I wonder if they’ll need to wait for dark to row back, to be safe.
“How far?” I ask.
“Not far,” Carter replies, but for him that could mean an hour or a day.
Vinn snorts, throws some dirt up in the air, and watches it fall back to the earth. I’m sure he’s checking wind direction, aware of his own foul scent, but he reminds me of a bird that dusts its feathers in a sandy bath or a dog that rolls on the ground and whips up a powder storm. He seems satisfied and leads us up the bank and through a woodsy mound that opens onto a rise overlooking valleys on either side.
I see farms, much larger than the ones we passed yesterday before Barrett made us dart into the woods and off the highway. I wonder aloud if we will follow old roads or continue skirting farms and settlements through woods and old parks.
“Not far,” Carter says again. “We’ll catch the old pipeline. Traveling gets real easy then for a straight forty or so miles. We’ll try to catch a truck. Don’t want to wear out those fancy shoes of yours.”
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