by Ellen Larson
“Oh yeah,” said Thad.
“Dja get the soap?” Thad poked at the clutter on the shelf above the sink. “Huh?”
“No,” she said. “Did you bring my pills?”
A glass fell to the floor and shattered. “Fuckin’ war. How long does it take to make a fuckin’ bar of soap? Fuckin’ JCP. You’d think somebody somewhere’d wanna start building something so I could get out of this job and get back to doing something useful.”
She watched him wash by moonlight, his back bending and straightening over the sink as he tried to make best use of the trickle of water coming from the tap. When he finished, he took the ragged piece of linen that served as a towel and went to stand at the open window. The moonlight illuminated the broad planes of his face and turned the muscles of his arms a pearly gray.
When he was dry, he turned and picked up his shirt. “You were hot tonight, Reb.”
“And you were in too much of a hurry.”
“Fuck that shit!” He threw the makeshift towel at her. “You get away with it with the Ratskies because they think they need you. I don’t. So don’t push me.” He turned away, back to the moonlight.
The pleasure she had found in him was a dying memory; the sense of well-being already faded. So quick. The familiar heaviness descended upon her like a shroud, all the darker in contrast with the brief moment of light. Imaginary light. She shivered, unable to bear the thought of another night alone in her barren room. Empty hours like black acid eating away at what there was left of her, while the taunting ghosts of the past poked sticks at her mind and jeered. She threw back the sheets and sat, naked, on the edge of the bed. Not tonight, of all nights, she couldn’t take it tonight.
She stood and went to him. “Hey. I only meant I don’t see enough of you.” If she could get her hands on him, get his hands on her, she could pretend she cared who he was, get him to take her back in time again.
“No hard feelings.” He tucked his shirt in. “I know you’re a glutton for—yeah, well, you’re a glutton. See ya Tuesday?”
“Don’t go.” She leaned against him and tugged at his shirt.
He exhaled in annoyance and pushed her away. “Leave me be! You know damned well I’ll lose my billet if I don’t check in by twelve.”
She shifted her attack to the buttons on his pants. “It’s only just eleven.”
“Yeah, right. Last time you said that my wife and kid froze on the street all night.” He pushed past her toward the door.
“So?” She caught his arm as he turned away, and held his hand against her. “You were warm.”
“Would you cut it out!” He picked her up and threw her bodily onto the bed. “Isn’t it hard enough just getting through the day? Fuck.” He stood still, staring at the ceiling. Then he turned to her. “You just can’t stop, can you—you have to destroy everything you touch. What the hell’s the matter with you, Rafi?”
She lay where she had landed, her cheek pressed against the rough blanket. “I wish I were dead.”
“And for the life of me I can’t figure out why you’re not, the way you act.” He went to the door and stopped. “Look, we’re done. It’s been fun, but I won’t be coming back.”
She barely heard him. “I can’t fight anymore.”
“Then do like the rest of us; try to make the best of a shitty situation.” He opened the door. “Watch out for the glass in the morning.”
The door closed behind him. She listened as the sound of his footsteps thudded along the hall then clattered down the creaking stairs, then faded away to nothing.
“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered, and clutched at her head as the first ghost appeared.
CHAPTER TWELVE
* * *
One year earlier
She sat on the floor, number four of fourteen, clothed in orange, her arms bound behind her like the rest, her shoulders touching the shoulders of her comrades on either side. They were proud, at peace; their manner befitting those who knew they had fought and failed not for personal gain but for a just cause. They had not sought death—indeed it had been their mantra to live to fight—but they would not shy away from it, now that it had run them to ground.
They had fought together long after reason dictated they should have stopped, proving beyond doubt what might have been done if enough people had been willing to risk death to change the future—if Omari Zane had not betrayed them. But the past few months had taken their toll. Six months before, they had numbered almost a hundred. The Last, they called themselves, and had made a pact to go down fighting together. At their final stand, two thirds of them had died when Rasakan commandos, tipped off by an Oku collaborator, had stormed their encampment, plasma guns blazing.
The three-member tribunal entered the room, faces hidden behind silver shields. The guards pulled the fourteen to their feet.
The hearing was short. Death by hanging, to be carried out at dawn.
The prisoners showed no reaction. The sentence was a formality, the first, best choice for all parties. Death was a friend to them; together they had dealt it out and together they would embrace it. Why not? Their world had already died, and the Last were not the sort to accept a flawed imitation.
At a signal from the guards, they turned and shuffled proudly out of the room.
“Merit Rafi?”
She kept moving. It had been a long time since she’d used that name, and she’d done her best to forget it. But the line stopped, and the guards pulled her out and brought her to stand before a small man dressed in black and gray.
“What do you want?” she asked. Her left eye was swollen shut, so she had to turn her head sideways to see his red half-shield.
“Are you Merit Rafi?”
“No.”
“Then you won’t mind if we check your biomets to make sure.” His voice was like liquid metal.
Another man approached, a bioscanner in his hands.
Merit stared haughtily at her captors. “Take your hands off me.”
“She matches the description, Doc,” said the man. “And she’s the right size.”
“For what?” snapped Merit. “This is absurd! Let me go.”
“Hold her head still.”
The man touched the scanner to her neck. It only took a moment.
“My name is Gabriel Castor,” said the man with the metallic voice. “On behalf of Rasakan Authority, I congratulate you. You’ve been approved for rehabilitation. Move the others out.”
The guard’s grip was like steel on her arms.
“No!” She watched the line of prisoners shuffle past. “Let me go! I pled guilty! I demand that you carry out my sentence!”
The small man shook his head. “You don’t really mean that, Merit. You’re going to get a chance to go back to your old life. You should be grateful we found you in time.”
“No!” She twisted her head around.
The last of her comrades turned and looked back as he passed through the door. There was surprise and doubt on his face.
“Take me, too!” she cried, and for the first time she struggled against her bonds.
DAY TWO
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
* * *
Sunday, 16 April 3324, 9:00 a.m.
Down the boulevard from the JCP building, nestled among the laurel trees in the bend of the River, stood a tall concrete building with low wings on either side. Above the covered entrance hung the floral insignia of Rasakan Authority.
The south wing was occupied by the medical facility, a medical facility heavily guarded by sentries in gray and black.
“So.” Gabriel Castor put both hands around his coffee cup, as if warming cold fingers. “Merit Rafi. A big day for you yesterday. And an even bigger one tomorrow.”
Merit folded her hands in her lap.
“How are you coping?”
“Okay so far.”
“Any disorientation or anxiety due to the increasing pressures?”
“Nope.” It was dangerous, lying to
him, but on this day it was less dangerous than telling the truth.
“Good.” The rim of the cup clicked against the bottom of the red half-shield as he drank. “Good.”
Merit’s gaze drifted around the office. A ceramic cat hung from a hook on the cement wall. Embedded in its stomach was a clock, the big hand on the seven and the little hand on the six.
“Although,” he continued, “a certain amount of anxiety would be natural, given the situation. I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just wondering if you’re letting yourself really consider what this means.”
“Sure I am.” She reflected a moment. “The people will be upset when they hear Zane is dead, but less so if we can name the killer.”
He smiled as he lowered the cup. “That sounds like something the Marshall would say. I was thinking more about what this means to you, personally.”
“Oh.” She knitted her brow. “I hadn’t really thought about it. I guess I’m glad my crew is gonna get some playtime, maybe a better life.”
“Good, good. And what about your life in the future?”
“I really don’t know. I haven’t had much time to think about it.”
“Merit, I know how difficult it’s been for you to face the fact that you even have a future. This is a good opportunity to start thinking about what you want to do with it.”
“Right.” She nodded. “Okay. I will.”
“Good.” He sipped his coffee. “Now, what about the real issue. It’s been a long time since you’ve flexed.”
Her throat tightened. Did he suspect her indecision?
“What about this business with your—what do they call it—atonement—is that the word?”
“Attunement.”
“My apologies. Attunement. I trust someone will be checking to make sure it’s still functional?”
“No worries. Once attuned, attuned for life.”
“Once a Retrospector always a Retrospector, eh?”
She started to speak, then fell silent.
“Are you quite sure you’re all right, Merit? You seem a little quiet, distracted.”
“I’m okay. Didn’t sleep much last night, is all.”
Castor twisted in his chair, grunting as he reached to open the window blinds.
Morning sunshine filled the room. It hurt her eyes.
There was a fluttering sound behind her. She turned her head. A pale yellow bird sat on a wooden perch in a wire pagoda. With another flutter, it hopped to the door of the cage, its orange feet encircling the hinge, its beak pecking at the wire.
“The dreams again?”
She shook her head, and forced herself to say: “Had a fight with my fella.”
“I’m sorry. Was there a scene?”
“Not really. He just—broke it off.”
“How did that make you feel?”
“Dunno.”
“Try.”
She took a deep breath and regarded the ceiling. “Annoyed, I guess. Yeah, annoyed. Maybe a little stupid.”
“No sense of loss? Abandonment?”
She shrugged. “Nope.”
“You’re sure? No sense of betrayal?”
“No. I feel like I wasted my time on him. Good riddance.”
“Did it trigger any flashbacks? Any hallucinations?”
“No.”
“Good. Not that I’m saying breaking up with your fellow is good.” He gave an artificial laugh. “But it’s good you’re not too upset.”
“Is it? I thought I was supposed to be working on getting in touch with my emotions.”
“Yes. But people come and people go—sometimes when we don’t want them to. It’s a sign of good mental health to be able to take it in stride.”
“Like I said. Waste of my time.”
“Good. You’re beginning to accept it when things don’t go your way. That’s a hard lesson for someone who’s been through what you’ve been through. Now. The next step is to allow some happiness back into your life.”
She smiled—a tense, superficial smile.
“Does the idea frighten you?” he asked.
“You can’t be frightened by something that’s not really there.”
“Merit, you know how I feel about sarcasm. And about avoiding my questions. It’s perfectly clear that something’s bothering you. You know it’s important that we be honest with one another.”
She tried to speak, to tell him something—anything, but nothing came.
“I know this is difficult. Let me help you get started. You’re having feelings you don’t want to face about this ex-boyfriend, aren’t you.”
Her heart leaped. Behind her, the bird flapped its wings against the wires of the cage.
“I thought so,” he said. “You’re not the actress you think you are, Merit. Admit it. You were more upset than you’re willing to acknowledge by this breakup with your ‘fella’ last night.”
She stared at his shield for two seconds, then made up her mind. “No, I wasn’t.”
“Merit.”
“Truly, I wasn’t. But . . . there is something bothering me. And it has to do with feelings. Not having any, and then, having some. It’s hard to talk about.” She took a deep breath. “Something happened. While we were arguing.”
He settled back in his chair. “Tell me.”
“I was real angry. More so than I’ve been in a long time.”
“That’s okay. It’s an honest emotion.”
“Yeah, well, I said some really cruel things.”
“I see. And you are ashamed of what you said?”
“No. He deserved it. The thing is. . . .” She swayed her head, remembering. “It felt good. Real good. To hurt him.”
“Ah. So you said more things.”
“Yeah.”
“So that you would feel good again.”
“Yeah.” She bowed her head.
He nodded and brought his fingertips together. “And that upset you, didn’t it. That you might have become the sort of person who would take pleasure from hurting someone, even someone you don’t respect anymore.”
“Yeah.”
“Merit.” He sighed and shook his head. “You mustn’t be so hard on yourself. What have I been trying to tell you for weeks? You’ve been starved for something to feel. Any emotion seems like pleasure to your psyche, because you just need to feel. It’s a trick of the mind. Do you understand?”
“Kind of.”
“It doesn’t make you a bad person.”
“Really?” she asked.
“Really. You have the option of apologizing, you know.”
Merit ducked her head. “I don’t think so.”
“When you’re ready,” Castor said. “Merit, you have to stop shutting out the world. Even though you think it will hurt you if you do. Stop resisting. Let the world in. Stop looking back. Look to the future.”
“Right.” She drew a deep breath. “I know. I’m trying.”
He smiled, showing his tiny teeth. “Good,” he said. “I know it seems like uphill work, but you’re almost there. Things will be easier after tomorrow—if all goes well. You’ll see. You’ll be part of the world again, respected by your peers. I know how important it is for you to be part of a group. And of course there is the financial gain.”
“Yeah. The Marshall knows his bribes.”
“He knows his job. A rewards system is a useful therapeutic tool.”
Stung, she spoke sharply. “I don’t care about myself. I’ve got a girl who’s been waiting two years for proper medical treatment, and a really gifted boy who can’t afford to go to school—not to mention that there’s no school for him to go to. They need the money.”
“You’re all over the place today. Are you taking your meds?”
She folded her hands and nodded.
“You’re sure?”
She looked at his full mouth and double chin, at his round shoulders and body, too tight for the black and gray uniform. “Ask the nurse. He took the urine sample.”
He r
aised the coffee mug to his lips and let it hover. “You have such expressive eyes—even now, after . . . well, after everything. I see so many eyes that have lost their ability to reflect the soul. But not yours. They sparkle when you’re angry, lose their luster when you’re sad.”
“Maybe I should wear a shield.”
“Merit.” His voice. “I’ve already warned you once today about the sarcasm.”
Fear’s tendrils tightened around her throat and dragged down her gaze.
“Well.” He glanced at the wristwatch. “Our time is up.”
As she stood, she glanced at the clock. The big hand was on the seven and the little hand was on the six. The cat grinned at her, crouching as if to spring, distorting the face of the clock in its belly.
“Thank you for coming,” he said. “It’s a big day for you, Merit. Try to schedule a nap. Do you want a lift back to the JCP? I can request an auto.”
“I’d rather walk.”
“I’m glad you’re taking some exercise. It wasn’t so long ago that you refused to move at all, and now look at you. Though you’re still far too thin. But I’m sure the commissary privileges will change that.”
He walked her to the door. “Good luck tomorrow. I’m excited for you. And you know it’s exciting for me, too. I take a father’s pride in your progress.” The blank shield tilted and his lips puckered. “Is something wrong? Does it bother you when I say that?”