Parched Page 8

  “Tess!” Abel glances up from a news stream he’s watching and quickly lowers the volume with his eyes. His face is gray with exhaustion, but the sight of me inspires a smile that looks genuine. “You’re just in time. You didn’t forget about dinner, did you?”

  I had. But the smell of food cooking makes my stomach rumble loud enough for us to both hear and I realize I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Dinner sounds pretty good right about now. “Course not,” I tell him, before gesturing vaguely in the direction of my room. “I’m just going to . . . wash up.”

  In the darkness, my yellow room looks like it’s painted in black and white and shades of gray. I sink down on the edge of my mattress, grateful for the quiet. It’s hard to believe it’s only been twenty-four hours since I crossed back. I lie back on the bed and let my body settle into the softness. I wish it could pull me under.

  Things aren’t exactly on track. My plan to not see Abel? Fail. Plan to become an Edenite again? Double fail. Plan to reconnect with Izzy? Triple times a million fail.

  Did I overreact with Iz? Was she right, that this is just the way things are? Is Kudzu a real alternative or just a bunch of deluded kids on a one-way street to being banished?

  Kudzu. I stood Ling up today. I picture her confusion, then her anger. The scratch she gave me is still buried under my mattress. I wonder where the dead zone is. Maybe I should check.

  I can tell she’s sent me more than one of those holos because of the sound: a menagerie of beeps and chirrups. When I smooth it open, I’m accosted by half a dozen baby animals. A feather-tailed squirrel races up my arm. An owl swoops around my head while a goofy-looking badger ambles onto my thigh, all talking to me at once.

  “Meet behind the old filtration plant in Lakeside, thirteen-hundred hours.”

  “Where are you? Meet behind the old filtration plant.”

  “Tess, is something wrong?”

  “It’s sixteen-hundred. I’m leaving.”

  And then, delivered from the same adorable blue-and-yellow baby bird Ling first used, the final message: “You’ll regret this.”

  The holos all disappear, leaving me alone in the dark.

  You’ll regret this. Is it a threat? Is Kudzu coming after me? Or does she just mean my own conscience will punish me? Somehow, that prospect feels even worse.

  “Tess!” Abel’s voice floats up from downstairs.

  Ling said this scratch was off-cycle. That means I can use it without being recorded. Even if I never see Kudzu again, I am still curious about Abel and Aevum. I don’t even know what that word means. Magnus is Latin for “great;” the name of ancient kings, powerful dukes, and noble saints of the past. But aevum? I don’t even know if it’s a real word.

  I could enter the streams to find out.

  “Tess?”

  “Just a minute!” I call back.

  The gold scratch glows bright, ready for action. I take a deep breath. Then, in a quiet, clear voice, I open the streams. “Show me aevum.”

  The streams burst into light around me, a dense but lovely web of objects and text and information. The holo of a smiling, neatly presented woman settles in front of me. Her tone is modulated and pleasant. “Aevum, Latin, meaning ‘age’ or ‘everlasting time.’ ” As she speaks, separate bubbles appear to show me the word, spinning out into the meanings that continue to load. I catch unfamiliar words like aeon and aeviternity. “Ancient philosophers believed the aevum was the temporal experience of angels and celestial beings,” the woman continues. “Societies of the past believed that unlike God, who experienced time as infinite, and humankind, who experienced time as finite, the aevum was how angels experienced time and the world.” The woman continues to talk as the streams spin and whirl to show me angels—some rosy-cheeked cherubs who loll languidly, some tortured-looking men with eyes raised to their maker above.

  I’m not used to being in the streams off-cycle. If I’d been on-cycle, I’d already have dozens of people sharing this with me; my friends trying to pull me into a concert or a random party, or strangers wanting to chat about all this weird medieval stuff. Everyone’s avatars would be bouncing and spinning around me—Izzy’s was a purring kitten. Mine was a tiny thunderstorm, complete with lightning and rolling black clouds. Being off-cycle feels a little lonely. But it also feels safe.

  Now original texts scroll before me. Black letters squash together unevenly, primitive in their awkward imperfection. The language is foreign to me, but aevum is helpfully highlighted with a soft glow. I wave my hand over the pages. The woman flickers for a moment, then starts explaining. “Here you see the first mention of the aevum in a treatise written in the thirteenth century by the saint Albertus Magnus—”

  What? I swish my fingers to start it again. But I didn’t mishear. Albertus Magnus.

  “Tess!” Abel’s voice rings out for the third time, shorter and more annoyed.

  “Coming!” I call impatiently.

  Aevum is how angels are supposed to experience the world. According to myth, angels are special, powerful, inhuman. All words that could be applied to artilects.

  I hate to admit it but the idea of Aevum as the code name for an artilect is Abel to a tee. Clever, cerebral, based in the classics. Plus the fact it was created by someone called Magnus, that it came from Magnus, just as the second attempt would inevitably be born from the first. The connection seems inevitable.

  “Tess.” He’s right outside my door. Quick as a flash, I scrunch the scratch into a ball. The aevum stream disappears a split second before Abel sticks his head into my room. “Dinner’s ready.”

  Abel smiles at me from across the table, pulling the napkin from its red-bolt ring and shaking it out over his lap. “So, what did you get up to with Izzadore?”

  “I, ah, got some clothes,” I say. “And dyed my hair.”

  “Ah, yes,” he says, squinting at it. “Very fetching.” I am 100 percent sure he cannot make out any noticeable difference.

  “What about you?” I ask, toying with my fork. “How was your day?” A grimace flares across his face. “Trying.”

  “Hard day at post-education?”

  “Yes,” he agrees. “Hard day at post-education.”

  Or a hard day at Simutech. I eye him, trying to work out if he’s telling the truth.

  “Speaking of education,” he says. “We’ll have to reenroll you for your final year. It’s very important you finish education before deciding on a work choice next year—”

  “I’m not going back!” Back to education? To classes and homework and fresh-faced Edenites with no concept of how the world actually works? The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. Abel frowns in disapproval. “I mean, not right now,” I backtrack. “I need a few weeks to get . . . reacquainted.”

  My uncle looks as if he’s about to disagree, but fortunately, the moment is interrupted by the arrival of Kimiko.

  “Dinner is served,” the fembot announces, carefully placing our meals in front of us. “Wild mushroom risotto with tangled salad greens.”

  Before me is an enormous mound of steaming risotto that smells like butter and garlic. Slices of crumbling golden cheese ooze in the soft, sticky rice. Next to the risotto is a clump of dressed arugula salad, dotted with cut cherry tomatoes and paper-thin slices of cucumber.

  “I can’t believe you remembered,” I mumble, eyes round and mouth watering. Mushroom risotto is my favorite meal, hands down. And what Kimiko has prepared looks like it could be the best I’ve ever tasted.

  “I programmed her myself,” Abel says proudly.

  I pick up my fork, unsure whether to savor every bite in a luxurious slowness or cram as much as I can in my mouth at once.

  “I’m about to turn into an animal right about now,” I warn my uncle.

  He chuckles, pleased. “Go for it.”

  I aim my fork at the rice, about to strike, when I hear something. Distant yelling. I glance up. It’s the news stream Abel was watching. Floating in the lounge room is a holo of a grou
p of Badlanders. They are running as if their lives depend on it. Their faces are strained and terrible. My fork clatters to the table. “Kimiko, turn that up!”

  The sound of the crisp news stream fills the room: “—was attacked today by illegal immigrants from the Badlands. More than thirty outlaws stormed the Northern Bridge border crossing—”

  The Guider’s voice fades in my ears as I stare at dozens of Badlanders racing across the empty bridge toward the white walls of Eden. Bare feet hit the concrete. Some leave stamps of blood. They are being chased by a dozen black-and-silver substitutes, running with inhuman speed. With a sharp charge of fear, I recognize them. “Quicks.”

  Abel nods, face impassive. “Quicks.”

  One of mom’s colleagues in the Innovation department—a bald man with a turned-down mouth whom I referred to as Frog—was working on the design of these new substitutes before I left. I didn’t like Frog and I didn’t like the designs. I’m sure he only showed me the floating schematics to frighten me.

  At six feet tall, with two arms and two legs, they’re the most lifelike of any substitute I’ve ever seen. Unlike Kimiko, who looks cute and helpful, these powerful substitutes are terrifying. Their eyes gleam bloodred. They move like lightning. They are meant for disaster relief—even though there hasn’t been a natural disaster in decades, Eden isn’t immune to house fires or buzzcar crashes. Quicks are supposed to help people, and they do it, as their name suggests, quickly.

  It looks like border patrol also falls into their skill set.

  The Quicks overtake the Badlanders on the bridge. Their metal bodies interlock to form a barrier, an impenetrable fence of black and silver. The Badlanders are at an impasse. Before any of them can begin climbing over the solid wall of Quicks, a dozen Tranquils catch up. The first brings his baton down hard on a man’s leg. A bloody shard of bone sticks through the shin. Another Tranq has his gloved hand around a woman’s throat while she claws at it in horror, choking for breath. My hand clamps over my mouth, stifling a sharp cry. She looks like a younger version of Mileka.

  The voice-over continues impassively. “The outlaws made it approximately halfway across the Northern Bridge before they were detained by Tranquils.”

  Detained? Yeah, right. I wonder how many of the Badlanders were beaten to death by the Tranqs, right there on the bridge. Substitutes can’t kill people. But Tranquils can.

  “Gyan called today’s incident a victory for all Edenites.”

  The stream cuts to a meeting of Guiders. A life-sized holo of Gyan stands at the front in his bright yellow robes. He enunciates every word with perfect diction: the voice of a born leader. “Once again, the Trust has ensured that all Edenites remain safe and secure. We will not stand for attacks by criminals determined to undermine our freedom.”

  I feel sick. Those people on the bridge weren’t criminals or terrorists. They were scared, desperate, and dying.

  Gyan continues, “I know some have already called the Badlanders in question terrorists. That’s open to debate, but I can say that thanks to the swift action of the Tranquils on duty, Edenites can sleep well knowing that these criminals are kept far away from our children and our homes.”

  “Is this attack a consequence of cutting off Moon Lake?” an unseen person calls out.

  “Yes, it appears so,” Gyan answers gravely. “The Trust was hoping for a smooth transition as the Badlands became its own sovereign state, but the Badlanders have let us down. We are exploring ways of dealing with the situation, but please, rest assured that our top priority remains the protection of Eden.”

  “I used to feel sorry for those people.” The stream cuts to a woman standing in Orange Grove Plaza, the large town square in the middle of the Hive, ringed by orange trees that perpetually bear fruit. “But it’s obvious I should be afraid of them.”

  The report switches back to the host. “And that’s the latest on the thwarted terrorist attack. And now, the temperature. We can expect another beautiful day tomorrow—”

  “Switch it off,” I growl to Kimiko.

  Gyan is clever, I’ll give him that. He never said outright that Badlanders were terrorists, but even claiming that others called them that is enough to plant the idea.

  “They’re not taking it lying down,” Abel says. I look up, refocusing. “The Badlanders,” he continues, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “From what I hear about security at the border crossing, they did well to get as far as they did.”

  The words of the man who’d been hit across the face, the day I crossed the border, come back to me: Soon we won’t be asking for your permission! Abel’s right. They’re not taking this lying down. They are fighting.

  But maybe Gyan planned for that. Maybe our clever and calculating leader knew that the Badlanders would have no choice but to act recklessly in the struggle to stay alive. Then the streams can recast them as criminals. But to what end? To justify retaliation? Edenites believe in peace. They’d never support a Trust declaration of war. Would they?

  “Tess.” Abel breaks my reverie. “It’s getting cold.”

  I look down at my food. It’s more than an average Badlander would eat in a week. I push my plate away. “I can’t eat this,” I mumble, feeling sick with shame. The long showers. The soft bed I sleep in. The salons, the boutiques . . .

  Abel eyes me carefully. “It’s already made.”

  “I can’t eat this,” I repeat, louder, more sure.

  “We don’t eat like this every night, Tess,” Abel says gently. “This is a celebration—”

  “Yeah, that I’m lucky enough to get back over the border,” I cry. “You don’t get it, Uncle A. I was out there for a year, I lived like that! I can’t go back to all this like it never happened!” I shoot the chair away from the table, the legs screeching. Hot tears fill my eyes and my voice splinters and cracks. “We have everything and they have nothing—”

  “Hello?”

  My head whips around.

  “Hunter!” my uncle and I say in unison.

  I’m panting. Both hands are balled into fists. I want to kick the wall or throw something across the room.

  “What’s wrong?” Hunter asks, sounding alarmed.

  Abel clears his throat. “Nothing’s wrong. Tess was just exercising her right to an ethical decision, albeit loudly.”

  Hunter’s face works with confusion. “Should I leave?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Abel says. “Kimiko, please clear Tess’s plate. I’ll take it for lunch tomorrow.”

  “Yes, Dr. Rockwood,” Kimiko replies smoothly. She picks up the offending meal and whizzes off in the direction of the kitchen. I fold back down into my chair, which is now a good few feet from the table. My anger is ebbing; in its place, the slow throb of mounting embarrassment. I can’t believe Hunter just witnessed my meltdown.

  Hunter clears his throat uncertainly. “You wanted to go over tomorrow’s lecture, Professor Rockwood?”

  I wipe at my nose and look up to see my uncle watching me.

  “Yes,” he replies faintly. “Yes. Hmm . . . I’m sorry.” He blinks, turning back to Hunter. “What did you say?”

  “The lecture,” Hunter replies patiently.

  “Oh, yes. Yes, the lecture!” Abel rises to his feet. “Go ahead to the study. I’ll just be a moment.”

  As soon as he’s gone, I lift my eyes to my uncle’s. “I ruined dinner.”

  “No,” Abel says, and I’m surprised that he says it kindly. “You actually made it much more interesting.”

  I give him a watery smile. “You’re not going to report me to the Guiders?”

  “Report you? Of course not!” he exclaims. “Tess, you’re my niece. And besides,” he adds, dropping his voice to a stage whisper, “I’m not completely unsympathetic to your point of view.”

  I straighten, stunned. “Really?”

  Abel sits back in his chair, dabbing absentmindedly at his mouth with a napkin. “How was it seeing Izzadore today? Really?”

  I stare at
him, wondering for a few wild seconds if he’d somehow seen me in the salon or at the Animal Gardens, in person or on-cycle. It’s certainly possible, but I don’t think that’s what he means. I think he just knows, somehow, that things are different. “It was . . . not good, actually. Actually, it was pretty bad.” And suddenly I find myself telling him all about it—about the uneasiness with using so much water, how frivolous Izzy seems to me now, even though I still care about her. I leave out Kudzu, obviously, but I tell him everything else. “It just feels like the Trust”—I suck in a big breath, psyching myself up to say the words—“doesn’t care about the Badlands at all. Like they want everyone to starve. And that’s just so horrible and wrong.”

  I eye my uncle. My heart is racing. He could report me for dissent. I pray I haven’t just made a colossal mistake.

  “It is unfair,” Abel says quietly.

  I exhale, sagging with relief. “It was just so hard,” I say. “Being out there and seeing these skinny kids every single day and knowing I couldn’t do anything about it.” My throat tightens. A tear slips down my cheek, and I quickly wipe it away, embarrassed.

  “Well, you were living there,” Abel says thoughtfully. “It’s one thing to have a philosophy. It’s another to have an experience.”

  I nod. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

  “You look tired, Tess,” Abel says. “Why don’t you get some sleep?”

  “Okay.” I take a few steps in the direction of the stairs before turning back to him. The light from the candles flickers around his face, causing deep pools of shadows under his eyes. “And thanks. For everything.”

  Abel smiles back at me, looking wistful and distracted. His eyes shift away for just a second, and even without following his gaze, I know where he’s looking. The red basement door. “No, Tess,” he says, meeting my eyes again. “Thank you.”

  I can’t sleep. The harder I try, the more impossible it becomes. I toss and turn for hours. Deep down I know why. After my conversation with Abel, it’s absurd to think he’s really working with the Trust. I believed him when he said he thought what was happening in the Badlands was wrong. I have to know. I have to see what’s beyond the red door. I have to break into the basement.