by Glenn Damato
“Are they gone?” Nathan asks.
“They’re gone. Don’t be afraid.”
We’re told children belong to the community. That’s wrong.
These belong to me.
TWO
School assembly in forty minutes. I’m safe and alone in my room, but my fingers still shake. They need to get still soon.
Playa Vista Academy pushes a promo to my Stream: Special celebration! October twenty-sixth, Moon Festival! I’m on parade, but that can’t be right. It’s Tuesday.
I snap, “No parade today!” and get my explanation.
Yes, the Academy will parade this morning. Today isn’t just any Moon Festival, but big anniversary Moon Festival, exactly thirty years after Lin, Xiao, Huang-Lee, and Zheng accomplished their historic first landing.
This, on top of everything else.
The promo babbles about the Chēngzhăng flights. Courageous pilots and engineers established a scientific outpost at the crater Copernicus. They showed the world what could be accomplished under Global Harmony. Except I know Global Harmony didn’t exist thirty years ago.
The fake Cristina in the promo happily marches with her classmates in a perfect uniform. She’s a bit prettier than the real me, her nose a cute little button, chestnut-colored hair longer and more lustrous, toothpaste-tube body altered to have curves in the right places. They do this on purpose, another trick to get me to watch.
In reality, I’m toward the bottom of the curve in the prettiness department, and my uniform hasn’t been washed since last week. I pick it out of the laundry net, give it a sniff, and check for food spots. A couple of quick licks and fingernail scrapes and it’s clean enough.
What do they expect, parading both Monday and Tuesday?
Worse, this is for a supposed historic event that isn’t even true—not the way the instructors tell it. The Chēngzhăng flights happened. They did send people to Copernicus and the Mare Imbrium. But others were on the moon before Chēngzhăng.
The America states landed men with the Apollo spacecraft a long time ahead of Global Harmony. Twelve men in six flights to different locations. Why were they all men, anyhow?
Why isn’t Apollo—the real first landings—ever covered in school? Why isn’t Apollo anywhere on the Stream?
I pull on calf-length white socks, then the massive, clunky white parade shoes everyone loathes. There’s just enough time for a quick look at my Apollo book. I need to wash the Chēngzhăng Moon Festival jabber out of my head, along with the Policía and Dottie eating the pill. All of it, I need to forget and forget fast.
My book, my treasure, kept in the bottom dresser drawer concealed and protected under a layer of folded skirts. I place it on my lap. A square block of shiny paper, heavy and huge.
Apollo: The Epic Journey to the Moon, 1963-1972
I open the cover and run my fingers across the blue handwriting on the first page:
To my daughter Cristina on her ninth birthday.
May your spirit one day carry you to the heavens.
Signed with a flourish: Francisco Flores, PhD. Francisco—also known as Paco—my father. He taught me to always play the Autoridad’s games, so I call him Paco instead of papá.
Across the bottom half of the same page is more handwriting. Thick black lines, each letter neat and straight:
To Paco, No dream is too high for those with their eyes in the sky.
Best wishes
Buzz Aldrin
This one page, touched and written upon by both Paco and Buzz Aldrin—my father and an Apollo man who flew to the moon. Both of them, on this paper under my fingers.
The book is dated 2013, ridiculously ancient. I flip paper to the first landing. Armstrong. Aldrin. Houston, Tranquility Base. The Eagle has landed. Every page and every pic is in my memory but when I hold this book, what happened back then becomes real, and I can feel Paco Flores and Buzz Aldrin with me.
Or maybe I’m just another crazy chica.
The intricate Apollo hardware must have been more fragile than the silver cylinders of the Chēngzhăng spacecraft, especially the Lunar Module. How much control did the pilot have? What did he see, feel, and think during the landing?
The need to know—the yearning invades my head all over again.
But reality calls. I close my book and hide it under skirts. After class there will be time to re-explore every detail of those two hundred and seventy-two pages.
I jerk my left white sock up a bit, then don my pale blue beret and pull the front edge the proper length forward. Today my rosies come with me. I take them from their hiding place inside a rolled-up sock and drop the burgundy-colored beads into my uniform pocket. The miniature cross makes them a religious icon, something the Autoridad requires to be kept at home.
Today they’re coming; what’s life without risks? What are they gonna do, drop my Score to 200?
Along with my Apollo book, my rosies are Paco. Paco, on his knees, rosies in his giant hands. He did that every evening before bed. What was he doing with these rosies intertwined in his fingers? They were something he cared about deeply, and that’s reason enough to keep them close.
My own fingers are calm and steady.
I pull on my white silk gloves and stretch them halfway back to my elbows. How stupid is it to walk to school wearing white gloves? I screwed with two Policía, but I’m scared shitless to go near the Academy on a parade day wearing an incomplete uniform.
◆◆◆
Culver Boulevard is blocked by columns of fast-marching soldiers in green and brown camouflage. They’re grouped by homeland. Texas follows Japan follows Honduras. Their helmets, machine guns, and stiff, jerky style of walking always terrifies Nathan. He squeezes my hand tighter.
“They’re not going to your school,” I assure him, the thumps from hundreds of boots almost drowning out my words. “They’re going to mine.”
Global Harmony says we need plenty of soldiers to protect us from the Khilafah. Maybe that’s true, but I doubt it matters much. The soldiers also guarantee the Autoridad can do anything they want. Harmony is everywhere across the world, but their soldiers and the Autoridad are here in our faces to make sure we never forget who has the final word.
As long as we don’t forget, there is peace.
When I was around six years old, I stood at this same corner and felt a bomb explode. Felt it, right through the soles of my feet. I remember people running everywhere all the time. I remember sidewalks covered in blood. I remember a dead lady’s ripped-up face hanging off the top of her body. One time there was another bomb, and someone, I forget who, made me and Paco and some other people go outside and look at a row of men kneeling in the street. They each held a big brick or something over their heads. When any of them let their brick drop, a soldier shot him in the back.
Wild times. And long over. Because of the soldiers. So why am I not grateful?
It’s a relief to drop the kids off at their school because Culver’s fast getting crazy. The chaos begins blocks away from the Academy. The Autoridad closed off the streets and swarms of spotters fly in formation overhead—the hefty kind, with weapons. They’re scanning our faces from fifty meters up and maybe looking into our brains too.
All this for some high-ranking político. That guarantees a speech, another waste of time. The instructors will form us into lines and we’ll parade, and then hear how lucky we are to serve Global Harmony.
Banners hang from the top of the bleachers: the baboon face of Marco Javier Crespo, governor of Alta California. Marco decides on a Moon Festival tour of Los Angeles, so what better place to start than a morning extravaganza at Playa Vista Academy? Politicos can’t get enough of themselves.
I enter school grounds ungreeted and not terribly welcome. Thank you, 208 Trust Score. Even so little as a friendly smile might lower their own Scores. I’m invisible, and who can blame them? The good news is, I don’t care. I don’t need them. They consider themselves nothing but collections of atoms, products of se
lfish genes, adrift through spacetime with the single goal of increasing their Score. Score is everything, your total value, your worth as a human being. A high number makes their lives easier and better in every way—eating, sleeping, gaming, even love.
Years ago, my Score sometimes cleared 700. I was a good girl, never contradicted the instructors or questioned what we were told. I watched the right promos, volunteered to march and be a guidon, and kept my mouth shut. Young, stupid, too easily intimidated. That’s over. Now my life is harder and maybe futile, but I truly don’t care about my Score, and I don’t need anyone else.
Even so, someone does notice I exist. Not one of the tall, handsome gatos, of course, but an on-and-off friend who’s also too old to be at the Academy. Faye and I see each other at the same time. She has my guidon along with her own, gripping both heavy wooden poles even though she has only two fingers on each hand.
“Marco picked Playa over Venice and Hawthorne,” she tells me, which might be good news to her. Faye has a habit of casting her eyes downward when she talks, as if she fears her own words.
“Our great luck. But it could be worse. It could be raining.”
I can’t help glancing at Faye’s hands as she passes my guidon pole. Special white gloves with two fingers each, an index finger and middle finger for her right hand, a thumb and middle finger for her left. She’s a guidon bearer even though she can barely grasp the pole with her limited number of fingers.
A few pendejos call her Four-Fingered Faye.
Everyone’s heard the story. Faye was mandated, along with her parents. This was a while ago, when we were both twelve. Faye came back with a lot fewer fingers.
That’s all anyone knows.
Faye’s Score is 375 and it never tops 400, so she doesn’t have much to lose by associating with me. It might even raise her Score if she could get me to say or do something that raises my own. No success with that yet.
Instructors walk up and down the field shouting, “Asamblea!” Hundreds of chattering voices hush. We all drift into proper place, and order emerges from chaos.
Principal Alvarez probably dreams of someday ascending to Marco’s level of divinity. His usual smug expression is replaced by a formal posture. He puts both hands on his hips and barks, “Let's see some snap!”
Everyone has a case of sizzled nerves. Gracias, Marco Javier Crespo.
A whistle blows and we fifteen guidon bearers come to attention. I check my guidon post is perfectly vertical, twelve centimeters from my chest, and the guidon flag—the flag of Alta California—is unwrapped and free. On signal from Alvarez, I take two steps forward, turn about-face, and deliver my command.
“First squad! Atten . . . hut!”
Faye is next with her guidon, the flag of Alberta. The other squads carry the banners of Chihuahua, Cuba, Venezuela, Australia, China, Germany, and other homelands. Each guidon bearer brings their squad to attention, six hundred students total. Fifteen multicolored flags wave in the breeze.
Principal Alvarez marches across the rows, stops, and pivots on his heel. A distant hum grows to bone-shaking strength, and three helicopters pass over the field. They’re dull gray with red stars and followed by a swarm of spotters. The massive craft settle down and throw swirls of dust across the rows of students. Soldiers sprint into protective formation.
Alvarez growls, “Academy!”
I stand a little straighter and yell from my diaphragm, “First squad! As one! March!”
Left foot first . . . clunk, the sound of a hundred heels striking the pavement together in perfect cadence.
Spine erect.
Guidon post vertical. Twelve centimeters from my chest. Eyes forward.
“Column! As one! Right!”
Principal Alvarez directs the ranks onto the field. Hundreds of arms swing together, thirty centimeters to the front, twenty centimeters to the rear.
I lead my squad across the front of the bleachers. Marco the Magnificent stands on his platform. The dumpy little emperor wears silver pleated pants and a dark red shirt. An enormous vid screen depicts Marco doing various noble things. Marco riding a horse. Marco with some niños. Marco picking fruit or something.
“Column! Eyes! Left!”
Our squad jerks our heads so we face Marco. We parade past him and his stupid smirk.
A whistle blasts . . . fifteen flags dip simultaneously, automatically, no need to think about it. Another blast. Our guidon posts and their flags shoot upwards instantly, as one, with perfection.
The columns double back and form up before the bleachers. Alvarez calls each squad to a halt. My squad stands to the right of the platform, still close enough to experience every nuance of Marco’s idiotic expression. The illustrious man expects a serenade in his honor.
Grandiose music booms. That’s the signal: they raise their right arms with fists clenched, the People’s Victory salute, every arm at a sixty-degree angle. Every right arm but mine.
I’ll carry my guidon with the flag of Alta California because that’s my homeland. But no People’s Victory fist salute from me, never ever. I’m a people, and it’s my damn fist.
The Stream prompts hundreds of voices to sing in chorus.
Marco Marco Marco!
You are number one
We are your children, you are the sun!
I keep my mouth shut. Not one word escapes my lips.
You care for us, shelter us, give us what we need
You are dear leader, we are all agreed!
Marco grins and pumps his arms. He surveys the sea of faces and bobs his head in ecstasy with every word.
We stand for Alta California
Under the red, green and white
Each of us are equal in your wise and knowing sight!
Wouldn’t it be terrific if Marco's knowing sight noticed me not singing? One person here refuses to worship.
We give a hand, we do our part
Our obedience makes our bright future start!
One closed mouth out of hundreds wide open. But Marco is too far away to see the most tightly closed mouth in the world.
Marco Marco Marco!
Hear our voices call
Welcome to our school, we love you one and all!
Marco belches out a giggle. Which will be worse, the song or the speech?
“Friends!” Marco’s amplified, nasal voice thunders across the field. “I love you too!”
They all shriek with delight, including Faye. My mouth stays shut, even more shut than before.
“I will always be here for you,” la pene de mierda diminuto goes on, barely audible over the screaming. “I will protect you, I will provide for you, I will be your strength!”
The Stream cues them to quiet down. Marco’s screechy whine resumes. “We have a particular reason to feel pride this morning. A glorious event happened thirty years ago today, a time before any of you were even born.”
He motions toward the familiar old vid. The Chēngzhăng spacecraft on the moon, Ming Huang-Lee and Sheng Xiao planting a red and yellow flag into the gray surface.
“Now I ask you to reflect on the meaning of this achievement, not only to the world, but to each of you as servants to Global Harmony.”
I whisper, “Do I look like a servant?”
Faye turns her head toward me, then snaps forward.
“Think about it!” Marco cries, gesturing with his arms. “The very first people to reach the moon! The first!”
What a liar. Does he even know it’s a lie?
If he doesn’t, he should be informed of the facts.
If he does know, he must be exposed as a fraud.
A phony. A liar.
Marco flashes a smug grin. “The first ever! What an achievement!”
The Autoridad requires everyone to tell the truth. But here’s Marco Javier Crespo, cheerfully declaring a lie. They all lie, all the time.
Whatever they tell us, it’s a lie.
My gut thrashes like a hooked fish.
My ni
ños.
Beak Nose lied to me.
Of course she did.
Now I know it. She tricked me, got me to walk away without a hit, so they can pull the niños from their school later today.
I’ll never see them again.
How could I be so stupid? They always lie, and they never stop.
Here’s Marco Javier Crespo, telling more lies. “The first human people to achieve such a thing. How was this even possible?”
I clench my guidon pole so hard it quivers. My mouth opens. Words explode outward. Only five words, but loud and strong.
“They were . . . not the first!”
Marco stands frozen for one heartbeat. Then his face twitches, mouth a tiny circle of surprise.
I have more words. The problem is getting them out. I stammer, “Apollo . . . first!”
Can’t stop thinking about the niños. Take a breath and focus. “America states got to the moon before Chēngzhăng!” I scream. All eyes are on me. “Neil Armstrong! Buzz Aldrin!” I deliver that last name with force, because Paco actually met him.
More heartbeats. My throat burns. I said it, and everyone heard it.
Now what?
Whatever happens, I’d do it again. Yes, absolutely.
Marco laughs as if someone told a joke. An Autoridad official—not a Policía but a slender man in a gray jacket—waves a signal. Earsplitting music engulfs us. Alvarez throws both arms straight up. Instantly, six hundred Academy students yell and cheer.
Marco goes on with his speech even though no one can understand the words. What difference would it make? We’ve heard it all before. Faye’s eyes are sorrowful. I smile, but her expression doesn’t change. Is this moon outburst the final episode that drives her away?
Speech completed, the governor bows to the dignitaries and strides across the platform with his cadre. He turns directly toward me. I look straight back at him. His grin widens and he flashes his palm in a hasty kind of wave. A taunt? Of course it is. He knows it’s all a lie, and he’s getting away with it. The rotors on all three helicopters spin up, but the non-stop screams of adoration wipe out the sound of the engines.