~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That afternoon, the meeting had broken up, and various groups were socializing together. All of them were on friendly terms with each other, except Tayden, who disappeared from the hall shortly after the meeting. Morgan found her walking around the back gardens of the estate by herself, looking at the immaculate displays. She seemed to be interested in the flowers and various birds that were near the large pond. Morgan watched her and knew she was the only Bent in attendance, and had been ostracized to some extent. He also realized, like Rogef, that she could be a valuable ally or a bitter enemy, depending on how she was involved. There was a danger there that, he knew, made the others reticent to know her.
Morgan came down from the portico and walked out to meet her. Her back was turned toward him, and he could not help but notice the tight black denim pants, worn boots, and loose shirt, a contrast to the business wear of the other women who were there.
“Tayden,” he said when he was within range, “can we talk for a few minutes?”
“Morgan, yes,” she said, turning around. “Sure, what’s on your mind?”
As he came closer, he saw the age, maybe stress around her eyes, despite the youthful body. When he was face to face with her, he realized it was more that she wore little to no makeup. He was not used to seeing women, and some even men, who presented themselves to the public this way; not hiding their age and letting gray grow naturally into their hair. “I hope you are feeling welcome here,” he said.
“Honestly, I’m not. This is a spectacular display of wealth, but I can’t help but consider the origin. What’s my place in all this?” she questioned.
“That’s what I want to talk to you,” he said. “Can you do me a favor and tell me a bit about yourself?”
He led her around the left side of the pond on a well-worn dirt path. “Well, as you might imagine, I grew up in a desert region in the Western Province. We scraped what we could for a living out of the land, but we got by on our own. My family was a proud group. They had spent generations there before boron was discovered deep in the ground, and through some legal tricks we lost the use of the land.”
They continued to walk around the edge of the water. A few ducks paddled out of the cattails as they passed. “Did your family relocate?”
“No. I was in my late teens. I found legal books in an old library and studied what I could on the use of the land, mineral rights and such. I teamed with other like-minded people, and we were able to establish a royalty deal for the inhabitants. It’s a piss-poor amount of money, but it was better than shoving everyone aside.” She said all of this in a quiet, hoarse voice.
This was a story she must have repeated often, and Morgan was impressed. “Did you carry your legal education any further?” he asked.
“I started to, but there were more pressing problems. I didn’t have time to go to college for four, five, six years. How could I take the time when people were being abused? I didn’t have that luxury. We had to learn as we went,” she said. They came around to the bench where, months ago, Parren had sat with Rogef.
“You were an actress for a while, weren’t you?” Morgan asked. He was not sure how many movies she did, but there was enough to raise her profile and give her a voice. He looked at her face and remembered the steady dark eyes and black hair. The hair had streaks of gray in it now, but the narrow, piercing stare was the same.
She sat down and continued. “I capitalized on my looks while I still had them and earned enough to do what I needed to do with my life. You, on the other hand, have a political science degree from Spenser, with a Master’s in communication. You’ve spent the past ten years as a public relations organizer for some of my worst adversaries, Parren in particular, so I don’t totally trust you, despite why we are all here today.” She stretched her hands out on her knees. “However, I’m willing, and I’m interested in talking to you.”
Morgan was not surprised she had done her research on him, but he had to smile at her bluntness. Rogef said they both had similar purposes, but Morgan understood they had diametrically opposed approaches. “Good. I think we can collaborate.”
“Collaboration is good. Now, what can we do together?” she asked.
“I’m sure you’re aware of the two men imprisoned in relation to Rogef’s daughter,” he said.
“Of course. I have serious doubts as to their guilt.”
Morgan was not surprised she would say this. “The one man, Buckman, will be released in about a month. We visited him a short while ago, and I agree his involvement was minimal at best. The other man, I don’t know about.”
“Both of them are victims of the same dysfunctional system, but I think I can help when he’s released,” she said.
She was a step ahead of him, and he wanted to be sure this was handled properly. “Right. Can you arrange to meet him? I can make sure the proper media is there. Any travel difficulties, let me know. We should be able to deal with that as well.”
“Can you be sure? I’ve been kicked out of lesser events,” she said. She laughed. Morgan knew this was a true statement.
“I’ll do the best I can. We have to be sure this is proper. Not a circus,” he said.
“What do you expect when I show up? I always have the best intentions, but my mere presence causes problems with some people,” she said.
“Our goal is to keep this in the public eye,” he said. “We met this man, and he’s basically a laborer. Neither of them had the resources to do this. By the same token, neither of them is in a position to further this cause by themselves.”
“Are you surprised to hear yourself say these things?” she asked.
Morgan had not thought that immediately, but her question was a good one. “I am. Meeting him, and working with Rogef, changed my mind. You know my background, so you can understand how odd this is to me.”
Tayden watched the ducks tip over to feed on the vegetation under the water. “It sounds odd to me, too. I can meet this man when he’s released. If there are news organizations there, I should be able to get in front of them.”
Morgan knew this was only the very beginning. “What then?” he asked.
“I can escort him back to the province,” she said. “I’m sure they put him through the Treatment. I know a group that can work with him to restore whatever memory he has left. How was he when you talked to him?”
“Not too bad,” Morgan said. That was only a month ago, but there was no telling what had happened since. “I’ve never been involved with these types of problems before, but he was still able to put together past events after some effort.”
“It’s a cruel approach to enforcement. It steals away everything a person has in their lives,” she said, turning toward him. “Imagine if you couldn’t remember your parents. Or if you looked at faces and only had a vague idea that you knew them.”
“In their case it was ill-applied,” Morgan said.
Tayden stood up. “No, that’s one thing you’ll learn. Surgical lobotomies were outlawed decades ago, but some imaginative scientists found a way to do the same thing. It’s an invasion of a person’s body, no matter how you look at it. It’s now used as a form of cruelty rather than correction.”
Morgan stood as well, and they started walking back to the estate. “That’s a difficult problem.”
“No, it isn’t,” she interrupted. “You should see some of these people when they come back. They end up being a lifetime burden to their families, the state. Why punish them as well?”
Morgan had wondered when he would see this side of her, and he had gotten there with little effort. “Yes. I have a lot to learn.”
“You do,” she said, laughing again, the combativeness quickly gone. “Let me know exactly when he’ll be released. I’ll meet him there and escort him back home.”
51
“So he’s working with Rogef now, the old bastard,” G
ryman said. Parren had him on the view screen in his office. The rest of the staff was out.
“Please, let us not sink to those terms,” Parren said. Rogef was an unwelcome part of his life now, but he did not like that kind of language.
“Well, how do you want me to address him, then? His intentions are clear. He’s openly a sympathizer,” Gryman said.
Parren knew Gryman was right, but his own sense of propriety made him not want to use vulgar references. “He will be a force to be dealt with. That’s what I want to talk about. How do we counter his actions?”
Gryman put his head down for a second. “I have to ask you a question, very important. You’ve seen all this. You know Morgan visited the man in prison, and I visited the other one. Do you believe them? Do you believe they did it?”
Parren had read the accounts and seen the various analyses, and he knew there were doubts being raised. “Honestly, there are inconsistencies in the story.”
“Give me an answer,” he demanded. “Give me an answer, not from your cautious logical mind but from your gut. You have one, don’t you?”
Parren did not like this tone from an employee. “What are you driving at?”
Gryman raised his hands a moment and put them back on the table. “Fine, I’ll make the assumption you do. If you have doubts, see inconsistencies, how do you think this plays to ordinary people?”
“Do you have doubts?” Parren asked.
“I believe they were involved, but there must have been someone else as well. Neither of these men could have done this alone.”
Parren gave this some thought and wondered how much Gryman knew about what actually happened. Asking outright would be a mistake. “How can we use that information? Do you have anything to support your theory?”
“No. No hard evidence; however, nobody has put effort into finding out anything further,” Gryman said.
“Maybe that should be a next step. This event will be continued in the public conscience. We have to plan a countermove,” Parren said. Gryman could lead investigators down various paths if he chose to.
“But what was the motive? Why would anyone want to kill her? You have to realize this was not a random act. Her profile was too high, and the manner in which this happened was too precise,” Gryman said. He paused for a few moments. “The problem is, this puts you as someone people would suspect.”
“Me?” Parren said. Gryman nodded. “How could anyone suspect me?” He was stunned that such a conclusion could be reached. How could anyone doubt his innocence in any way possible? Parren wondered if Gryman knew he made the original request to have her killed.
“You know how this works,” Gryman said. “Doubt and questions have been raised, and these thoughts are difficult to avert. I wouldn’t be surprised if this was tactic used.”
“But me?” Parren said. “My entire life’s purpose has been to further the advancement of the human race, not fall back into depravity. I’m not some, some, crime boss who hits people. Even the thought of this is offensive.”
“Nobody is above being smeared, not even you. But we have to think about the next tactics.”
“We have to find who really did this,” Parren said. This was an imperative. “If someone else did this, that person has to be found, for both our sakes. I can see how suspicion could be directed at you as well.”
“Very true, but I don’t have the emotional involvement you do,” Gryman said.
“Yes, you do,” Parren said, demanding, his voice again rising. “Your positions are well publicized. Your hatred of the Bent race is well known, as are your actions. It is well known that your writings have advocated a total embargo of all trade with the East and North Provinces. You’ve supported stronger measures to subdivide the races even further.”
“All well-thought out proposals, but that’s a long way from what’s happened,” Gryman said. “I’m proud of what I’ve done, and you have backed these causes as well, both legislatively and financially.”
“Is this a threat of some sort?” Parren asked. He knew everything Gryman said was true, but he thought there was more to this conversation than a simple planning session.
“Honestly, it is, in a way. We both have a threat out there that is going to organize and work against us. You need to face reality: you will be attacked, accused. I don’t think you fully understand the measures people like Rogef will step to.” Gryman let this last statement sink in. “You know his business practices. He has a record of destroying his competitors, making up laws as he goes.”
“The man evolved into a menace,” Parren said quietly. “How do we stop him?”
“There are a number of ways. Let me give it some thought. I’ll be out there in a week. It’s better if we talk in person.” Gryman signed off, and Parren was left to wonder what that really meant. Physical harm was always a possibility, but Celirna was a special case. Rogef was different.
52
Parren had been sitting in the front room of the third floor, overlooking the lake. Celirna had essentially lived on the third floor for a year before she finally moved out. She had set it up as an office space with living quarters. There was still a conference table big enough to seat ten people in the front room, where she often held meetings and entertained guests. The table itself was a work of art. They had a walnut tree on the other side of the lake that needed to come down for the installation of utility lines, and she had agonized over what to do with the massive, stately tree. With the proper arrangements, costing much more time and money than he thought it deserved, she had the tree cut into lumber that was then given to various master craftsmen. Out of this came the conference table and chairs, along with the other pieces of furniture in the room. It was a stunning display, her tastes were always of the highest order, and he was never going to get rid of it.
He sat down at the table and brought up the view screen that was embedded in a compartment in the center. Although most of that last conversation was not recorded, there were many gigabytes of pictures of her in the databases. A few selections later, he had a scrolling display of pictures of her, along with a few of him. He never really liked the way he looked. Each picture was a diary of a small portion of her life. It scrolled chronologically to the latest one they had in the database, a picture of her at a school before heading off to the ship.
The display started over, and he remembered that it was in this room that threats became real, where he realized that his love, attraction, whatever the expression was, for her had brought him to a choice between her and what he believed in. A terrible problem he, despite his genetic tendencies, shamefully had allowed himself to get into. This was made even more apparent when he considered the pains and pride he had taken throughout his life to recognize and castigate these kinds of tendencies in others.
“How could you do this to me?” she had said, looking out the window as snow started to fly around the lake. Her eyes watched as flakes hit the window and slid off. She turned around. “You know what that meant to me. I thought you supported me. You even helped. Was that just a lie, an appeasement? Give me a bunch of money, and I’ll leave you alone. What was it? Talk other donors into doing the same so I would go away?”
Parren had given this much thought, as he had already run through this conversation in his mind many times. “Honestly, yes. In a way.”
“What?” she said. “What?”
“I have given this considerable analysis. When you initially proposed this organization, I did not think it would progress. I thought it was, how did they used to say it. A pipe dream, blue sky.”
Celirna went back to looking out the window. Parren, for his part, thought his reasoning was sound and got up to leave the room. “Sit down. We’re not done talking,” she said.
“What more is there to consider? I proved, and I dare say the legal system is supporting me on this, that you had been dealing with a cartel of sorts. No
t that I’m placing blame upon you; I believe you were unaware of the depths of coercion into which these people were willing to descend.” Parren sat back down at the table and crossed his fingers in front of him. He could hear and see her breathing from over by the window, as her breath left a condensation mark on the cold glass.
“But why, Parren? Why did you proceed against my wishes? You did the investigation in a way that destroyed the organization. We had fifty people employed locally, fifty people who are now out of work. They were doing good deeds. Certainly if you would’ve worked with me we could’ve, I don’t know, figured a way to keep the organization intact.”
Besides hearing her breathing, he could see her crossed arms move up and down with each sentence she spoke. “How can you not see the logic in this? I did not choose the legal path. All I did was bring the matter to public knowledge.”
Celirna turned away from the window and sat across from him at the table. She took the controller and brought up some videos of her visits, along with a promotional ad they had put together. There were malnourished children with pale skin and bony limbs, overcrowded housing, fields of crops that were sparse due to poor farming techniques and an inability to harvest what little there was. Contrasting this were pictures of what her organization had accomplished by simply providing first information and later the equipment. “Look at these people. How could you do this to them? How could you see this kind of suffering and not realize we can fix it? Is your hate for the Bent community that profound?”
“I do not like to see people suffer. You know that. It is so troubling to view such depravation of a person. Of people.”
Her head tilted forward until her brow was resting on her hands. Parren watched her hair fall around her face and wondered what she was going to look like when she finally raised her head. He knew she was emotional. She could come back screaming, crying, or anything in between. Her smile took him by total surprise. “You know, I just recorded that. Here let me play it back, and you tell me how it sounds. I’ll narrate.”
She hit a few buttons and his image from a few seconds before was broadcast on the wall.
“‘I do not like...’”
She stopped the recording and took a laser pointer. “See the eyes, how they widen slightly. A hint of a shoulder shrug as well.”
“‘..to see people suffer. You know that.’”
She stopped it again. “That is not so bad. A very strange little smile. I didn’t see that the first time.” She replayed it slowly, and the reaction was so quick she had to be sure it actually did happen. “Condescension? Patronizing? I don’t know what that is.”
‘“It is so troubling to view such depravation of a person.’”
This final image remained frozen on the wall. “What is that? A four-year-old Bent kid could read through that. Such depravation of a person? Can you make your lies a little less obvious? At least try, Parren. You’re the smartest idiot I’ve ever known.”
Very few times had Parren been so upset that he actually saw red. His vision fuzzed for a second and then came back. He stood up so quickly the chair rolled back several feet. Her face was too far away to actually slap, though the tip of his finger grazed her nose. “How dare you say such things!” he yelled. “You know what I’ve done for this country, this world. Humanity is grateful because of the actions men like me and my ancestors have taken.”
“Are they really? Look at these pictures. Look into the eyes of a five-year-old that has never had three square meals in one day for his whole life. Is that your idea of enlightenment?” They were both standing now, glaring at each other from opposite sides of the table.
“These people have all the opportunity to pull themselves out of whatever retched existence they’ve made. They’re stupid, vile, violent people, why should those like me be held accountable for their lack of ability? What I’ve done, yes, me, a direct bloodline of the Generators, a genetically pure line, I used their guidance. I’ve helped create the greatest advancements, the most prosperous era, the human race has ever recorded in history. Can’t you see that? Can’t you get that through your stupid head?”
“At what cost? People dying, killing each other. At what cost? Half a continent where people live in conditions that were considered depraved a century ago? Is that your idea of progress?”
Parren strode over to the window. Now he was breathing hard. It had been years since he had actually raised his voice, and she had managed to do this in a few short minutes. She had reduced him to name calling. Manipulated. He hated being manipulated, and she had done this so easily. For a few minutes, he dared not speak, since he could not trust what he might say. He waited, calmed down. Like so many others, she had benefited from what he had managed to provide. Maybe that was an approach. “I am a descendant of people who struggled and found a way to make society work. There is not a way to deny this. Look at this, look how we live. We have traveled to stars, we are at peace, medical problems are ancient history. All this because of the belief system we instituted and I have defended for so many years. It works and will continue to work as predicted. You are a beneficiary of so much progress.”
Celirna did not turn to look at him; instead, she flipped to some of the images they had viewed a few minutes ago. “You know what debt is. You know you can only push it back so far before everything eventually crumbles. That’s what you’re doing here. You’re building a debt, a tension that at some point will have to be released. You can either do that wisely or wait until it explodes.”
Parren was amazed at how stubborn she could be. Inflexible to the truth and sense he had come to personify. “I doubt that. After all, they are in control of their own destiny.”
“You know,” she said, getting up from the table, “chaos is real. It’s a fact of the human condition. It never goes away, it just gets put into a different form. That’s all you’ve done. Put it into a different form. You understand I can destroy you very easily. I can see if that chaos is for real.”
“How so?” he asked, stepping back from the window.
“I can reveal myself. You know what I am. How do you think that would play out? Control or chaos?” she said.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Come on, Parren, I know about your tests. You know I’m one of them. I’m a Bent. How would you fare if the world knew the greatest living descendant of the Generators was married to a Bent? Helped her promote normal relations?”
“You can’t be serious. You tell that, your life is over as well. You can’t help anyone once you do that. All this is gone. You’ll never set foot in this house, enjoy these luxuries, again.”
“I’ll move in with my father,” she said, though she was aware of the law as much as he was.
“You know you can’t do that, either,” he said. At that point, he knew she was gone from his life. There was no reconciling. Divorce was rare, but legal separations were known; however, they still caused a stigma for both parties. There was no choice.
Celirna deactivated the screen. It stowed neatly into the center of the table. “I’m leaving, but keep in mind that I will always have the ability to destroy you.” She left the room. Parren went to the other end of the house to put as much distance as he could between them. Three days later, she moved out, while Parren started the proceedings for a legal separation.
Moving onto the ship took her out of his life in more ways than just physical. Parren remembered the relief he felt when he saw the transport lift off, knowing he probably would not see her for another year. After that final discussion, as she was preparing to leave, he realized the threat would always be there, and she could use this as a means of blackmail or extortion if she wanted. That was simply not acceptable to what he was compelled to achieve in life. Parren stood up from the table where they had that last conversation and reflected on how he felt seeing the transport lift into the clouds, ho
ping it would burst into flames. From that image, he realized that was the most consistent solution. This played in his thoughts with absolute clarity until he imagined what his life would be like if the transport crashed, or some other calamity occurred. The conclusion was that this made the problem go away. No more threat, no more blackmail. There really was no other choice. She had to die.
53
Buckman’s belongings were brought to his room. His roommate, a Straight named Brotter with a two-year sentence for embezzlement, was sitting on the other bed. “Good to see you go, pal,” Brotter said.
Buckman laughed. Brotter had an odd sense of humor. “Glad to be leaving. You get the place to yourself.”
“What’re you going to do with yourself once you get back?” Brotter asked.
Buckman was putting his real clothes on. These were the clothes he had been wearing when he came in. The prison had washed and pressed them, and then left them on a shelf for the past year. His body had changed shape in the past year. The shirt was now too big in the shoulders and the pants too tight in the waist. It felt odd, and it reminded him how much he had been forcibly changed in the past year. “I don’t know. See my family again. If I set foot over the border, they’ll bring me back here.”
Brotter lay back on his bed and put his hands behind his head. “Not all that bad here, is it? I mean, they didn’t screw around with my brain cells like they did you. Three meals a day, and you get to sleep all you want. What more does a man need?”
Buckman was not sure. By now, he did not know what to believe. They could have been still applying subtler treatments that he did not know of. “I hear things. They put stuff in the water, maybe.” He sat down on his bed, his small duffel bag of belongings on the floor between his feet.
The joking face of Brotter fell into a frown. “Yeah, I know what you’re saying. I wonder that myself.” He sat up on one elbow and snapped his fingers. “I used to be able to add columns of numbers in my head. A whole page at a time. Now it all runs together. I keep wondering if they took it from me.”
They stared at each other for a few seconds, and then an organizer appeared in the door. “Ready?” the organizer asked.
The two prisoners did not need to say anything more. They had talked enough over the last couple of months to cover it all. At this point, one was free, and one was not. They would never see each other again, and both understood theirs was not a friendship, only a passing acquaintance. Brotter would have a low-level Straight job waiting for him when he was released, and Buckman would have to struggle. They nodded to each other, and Buckman was escorted away.
“Warden wants to talk to you before you go. He thinks you’re special somehow,” the organizer said.
“Does he always talk to prisoners when they leave?” Buckman asked.
“Never.” They walked through the halls and into the administration area of the facility, a part of the complex he normally would never be taken. The organizer knocked on an office door. The door opened from the inside, and Buckman went in.
“Have a seat,” the Warden said, motioning to a small sitting area in the office. “I need to brief you on what’s going to happen once you step off the transport. When you leave my office, you’ll be taking the tramway out of here to a public transfer station. The tram, as you know, runs through the tunnel, now under the snow, and will take about four hours, depending on speed conditions and other traffic. The tram will pass through numerous armed gates, and then you will be back in the public sector. As of now, you are a free man.”
“Thank you,” Buckman found himself saying, though he was not sure why. “I get the feeling that’s not all you wanted to tell me.”
“No,” the Warden said. He clicked on a view screen. “This is what you have waiting for you at the transfer.” As he went from channel to channel, each was talking about his return, his life, Celirna’s life or her father, the man he who had visited months earlier.
“What is going on?” Buckman asked, his mouth dropping open.
“It all started with a well-publicized documentary of her life. To be brief, there was a portion of it that started a controversy. The claim was that you and your partner were innocent bystanders in the crime,” the Warden said.
He had stopped clicking through the channels, and they both watched for a few moments. “What’s going to happen?” he asked again.
“Normally, a prisoner is released at the station through a clearance desk and is given a pass directly to their home, in your case, your Province.” The Warden clicked through a few channels and stopped at one where a dark-haired, familiar-looking woman was being interviewed. “It seems your case has attracted the attention of Tayden, a known agitator. She has agreed, well, rather forcefully requested, to meet you and escort you back.”
Buckman had seen her many times in the news. She was known to Bents as a person who would step into a fray. Even Buckman had watched enough to know she was a constant voice of justice, while he also wondered if she was only looking out for herself. “What do I do now?” Buckman asked.
“I have no idea, other than to say ‘stay clean’ and ‘be careful who you associate with.’ People like her always land in trouble. You’ve been a model prisoner, except for that one incident, but make one mistake or be linked to the wrong people, and you’ll be back,” the Warden said.
“I didn’t ask for this. I don’t understand what this is about,” Buckman said.
“Look,” the Warden said, switching off the viewers, “nothing is fair; I know that. Your treatment was harsh for what was essentially a misdemeanor. You’re simply a hardworking man born on the wrong side of the border. I was given my treatment orders and carried them out as assigned until that man managed to get them changed.”
“He could do that?” Buckman asked.
“Yes. My advice is to keep your head down and live your life. You might already be a target, I don’t know, but don’t take that chance. Let me say this again. Be careful, and don’t make yourself more of a target than you already are.” The Warden fixed his comb-over and stood up. He pressed a button on his desk, and the office door opened.
The organizer escorted Buckman out of the office. They walked out of the administration area to the awaiting tram. For a brief moment, a side door was opened, and a couple of maintenance men entered. A painful bitter wind came howling in, bringing enough snow to sting Buckman’s face and then melt. Throughout the stay, the prisoners were occasionally exposed to the outside for a few minutes to get a sense of the isolation and what would happen if an escape were attempted. They were told they would die of exposure in about ten minutes if they tried to run away. The tram had been waiting for him. Three other passengers besides him and the organizer were making the trip. The other three seemed to know each other and talked about an upcoming vacation when he stepped in. Buckman guessed they were employees of the prison, taking a leave of absence. It would be a quiet four-hour journey for him.
54
Gryman was standing in Parren’s office. They were both watching the release of Buckman through all the various newscasts. Neither one of them wanted to sit down, and they stared at the different screens, each blaring out an analysis, as they waited for his arrival at the train station. One newscast had a pictorial of the transport line Buckman was on from the prison. A small red train moved slowly across the screen as he drew closer. Gryman turned up the sound on an interview with Tayden.
“What the hell is she doing there?” Gryman stated. He could feel his teeth tighten together.
“We’ve been outmaneuvered,” Parren said. “None of this is an accident. My supposition is that the release of the documentary, his discharge, and her appearance were all carefully timed.”
“Why do we even let criminals like that in?” Gryman said in a tight grunt. “Do you know what she’s done? People have died because of her, yet there she is. They’re treating her like a goddam
n celebrity.”
Parren knew very well who she was and had an idea who was behind all this. “Rogef set all this up.” He had no solid proof of this other than the release of the documentary and how everything was so well-timed.
“What do we do about him?” Gryman said. They had been watching for about an hour and knew viewing was widespread to almost everyone.
Parren moved back and stood behind his desk. “I have to ask you a question. You don’t believe these men did it, so who did?”
Gryman turned the sound off from the interview and put the controller back on the table. The room was completely quiet, as Parren always wanted it to be. Gryman turned back to the screens and put his hands on his hips. He turned his head around so he could see Parren. “I don’t know who he was, or who they were, but I hired the best in the business.”
“So you admit it. You had her killed,” Parren said, his voice even and calm.
Gryman was still for several moments. “This is news to you? Remember what I said last time we talked.”
“I remember. You said I was a suspect. Apparently, you did not hire very well.”
Gryman went ahead and turned all the screens off. “What are you saying? I somehow caused this to go wrong? I would advise you to stop this line of reasoning right now. There are enough ways for you to be implicated.”
“Look where we are. We have a man about to be released into the public sector. Despite the convictions, they simply bungled into the situation. Both of them are typical of Bents, barely above mental retardation,” Parren said.
“Pardon me, but I’m not the one here who requested his wife be murdered,” Gryman said.
“How could you possibly think that?” Parren asked.
“Come on, who do you think you’re talking to? You know what she did. Your reaction has been melancholy at best. If this is a threat, you must understand that I know better than to let my name be attached to this. I know all the tricks. I know how to have things done anonymously. I can make a path back to you.”
“That’s impossible. My intentions are always held in the highest regard,” Parren said.
“Your own intelligence will be your downfall,” Gryman said, a sardonic smile sweeping across your face. “You believe you can figure out anything. This leads you to underestimate people. I talked to these two men. They’re decrepit, smelly Bents, but they aren’t stupid. They know what happened down there. The foul-mouthed plumber figured it all out and found a way to tell it to the world before he was sent away. Whether or not these two still remember is up to question.”
Parren remained passive. “A proper analysis of mistakes needs to performed.”
“What is wrong with you?” Gryman said, finally becoming upset. “Did you not hear what I said? They stumbled into this. If that one idiot hadn’t dropped his tools, her body would have been found intact. End of story.”
“But it did happen. That was a contingency that should have been accounted for. Why did your...professionals...leave her on the beam in the first place? That is not a well-thought out plan,” Parren said. “Did you ask for her to be found?”
Gryman looked out the window and thought about the question. The anger he displayed a few seconds before was redirected. “My request was for her to be gone. What they did was too elaborate. They relied on precise timing when they were depending on a couple of miscreant plumbers. They were supposed to be blamed for this. I ran through the timing. One hour later, she would have been engulfed but easy to find, held in place by the beam. The police were led there at precisely the right time, but the two workers pushed her in. A good plan, but too many moving parts.”
“Back to my original request. Do you know who did it?” Parren asked.
“No,” Gryman said. “It’s all done without names or faces.”
“Can these people be found and exposed?” Parren asked.
Gryman shook his head. “You don’t understand how this works. I have no idea who did what. Neither of us knows, and more importantly, we don’t ask questions.”
Parren sat down at his desk and looked out over the lake where he had thrown her trinkets, perfumes, and worthless items. He wondered why he did not destroy these in a more permanent fashion, like he did by burning the files. Maybe, he thought, he wanted to know where she always was, so he could forever keep her under control. “There are dangerous parts of our society. Were these men Bents or Straights?”
“I don’t know. Straights, most likely. They may have been women, for all I know. Suffice it to say, fooling the security system and getting in and out of the hold without evidence took a great deal of skill.” Gryman turned the screens back on for a few seconds before turning them off again. “They had to be highly trained, ex-military, perhaps. I agree we have bred people who are smart assassins. Chosen no doubt at an early age, based on predetermined analysis.”
“These people are dependable, able to execute with skill and cunning?” Parren asked. He answered his own question. “Of course they are. That’s why they were chosen, as you said. As are we. It makes sense. Somewhere they were led astray, though. To, shall we say, freelance their skills.”
“Yes,” Gryman said. “Genetics isn’t as perfect a science as we might be led to believe. Dangerous people still do dangerous things for the right price. Nevertheless, they do serve a purpose. Either way, this is where we are.”
“So,” Parren said, standing up, clearing is throat. “We have these men being released to the public as it were, one now and one in a year, an activist with a history of violence, and one very rich opponent. What do we do now?”
“As we just discussed, there are ways of dealing with these people,” Gryman said.
“No, let’s not go there yet. It’s fear we need to use to our advantage.” Parren turned the screens on again until he came to the right channel. A heated debate was raging on the topic of forced sterilization of people with certain defective attributes.
“I admit,” Gryman said, “it’s a motivator. It’s a strategic advantage. Bents are liable to come across the border in droves. An unending stream of people we can’t stop without a massive use of force. Lives will be lost on both sides.”
“How can we exploit that fear?” Parren asked, rhetorically. “Let’s start with ours, yours and mine. The Generators’ wisdom is guidance. They predicted the future through science and reason. They combined this with the need for religious tendencies and practices of the past and had a solid basis for their studies. People centuries ago forced degenerates to behave by invoking the wrath of God or the gods. We now understand why this is a most basic human inclination. Humans have always created separations and fought to the death to maintain them. Tribal behavior is born in us.”
“It’s survival, really.” Gryman thought about this. “It’s why we’re here, and they are there, living in squalor.”
“I propose we be patient. Let the alarm run the natural course. I have enough allies that I know have the same apprehension as us.”
“You’re proposing we do nothing about this?” Gryman said. “Look how far it has gotten.”
“Exactly. However, I am not saying we do nothing. We continue with our normal efforts. This,” he said, pointing to the people yelling at each other, “this will feed itself. It always has. People have belief in what we do. They live the rewards and will not want to lose that.”
“Very well, under one condition. Neither of us speaks a word about what we did,” Gryman said, putting his coat on.
“Absolutely,” Parren said. Gryman left. Parren watched the screens for a few more minutes before turning them off for the day. The signed copy of the Generators’ Book of Proofs was downstairs in the vault. For a second, he wanted to go down and take a look at this, but most of it he had long ago committed to memory. Marvelous. A single artifact that combined faith and reason by using irrefutable facts. Parren had full confidence these
would win the day in what he had started with her death. This was not the way he imagined it would play out, but as in all things according to the book, people tend to their own natural behaviors. Actions had a way of curving back to an inevitable conclusion, despite efforts to do otherwise. Rogef broke the laws. Celirna was an abnormality that eventually would be noticed, requiring removal. This happened. Her death ignited debate, outrage. Parren had devotion to the predicted outcome of stronger laws, increased separation, and a reinforced human race.
55
The four-hour trip turned out to be closer to five hours. The other passengers on the tram had long since calmed down about their vacation and settled into softly grumbling about the long ride. In contrast, Buckman was enjoying the quiet time and the sensation of a changing landscape. There were brief stretches where the snow would clear, and he could look out over the rolling tundra to mountains dominating the skyline. Eventually the tram started to slow as the first of the buildings making up the transfer station came into view.
One of the passengers had a portable com screen and turned it on. She looked at it for a moment and then elbowed her companion. “Look at this,” she said. The two people turned and looked at Buckman.
“You have a welcoming party,” the man said, handing the screen to him.
Buckman was confused by he was seeing. Crowds of people were standing around the station. Media cameras were everywhere, and microphones were being shoved into people’s faces. Then they flashed his image on the screen. “What is this?” he asked, not really expecting an answer.
“You really don’t know, do you?” the woman said.
“He’s going to find out soon enough,” the man said, laughing. They both turned back away from Buckman.
Buckman had a specific electronic pass that would only allow him to board certain trains to get to his home territory. His plan was to walk to the next boarding zone and wait, not get something to eat or even visit the bathroom. He wanted to get home. This thought evaporated when the door opened, and he walked out of the boarding tube.
People surrounded him. Cameras were pointed at him, and questions came from all directions. Even if he wanted to answer them, the throng was too overwhelming to comprehend. A woman dressed in black came through, shoving people out of the way. She looked familiar. “You’re with me. Come on, let’s go,” she yelled into his ear.
Buckman recognized her from what the warden said. She had grabbed his arm and was dragging him through the crowd that was still desperately vying for his attention. As she was driving them on, he caught a glimpse of a broadcast screen and himself several seconds before. It was an odd, nightmarish feeling.
They came to a security station, where an officer opened a door and closed it behind them. The noise was suddenly shut out. She took a few deep breaths. “I’m Tayden,” she said, addressing him but still walking.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“We have about five minutes before we need to go back out and start walking to your next train connection.” Buckman began to remember seeing her in news broadcasts. Years before, she had been an entertainer, but since then she was continually involved in protests and causes.
“Why do all these people want to talk to me? I know what happened. I mean that she was a Bent. Her father came and visited me,” he said as they hurried through the station and into a back hallway. Tayden moved like she had planned this escape through passageways away from the crowds. She stopped before a door.
“You probably don’t know how your case has ignited a controversy. Her revelation as a Bent brought others forward. There are politicians and other people shaking in their shoes, thinking that there is some big plan for us to take over, that we’ve somehow planted people into all sorts of places to start an invasion,” she said. She talked fast, using her hands to make her points.
“She wasn’t the only one? But how? What do they want out of me?” he asked. As they were talking, he could hear a commotion starting on the other side of the door. The passage went on for a distance, but she was intending to go out into the crowd here.
“No, it’s widespread. People from all over have come forward. Rogef is the most prominent, but he certainly is not the only one. Where you come in is the popular belief your conviction was wrong. Neither of you had anything to do with her murder. You were set up. The evil behind this event and many other, similar events has finally been exposed,” she said, placing her hand on the door.
“Wait.” Buckman was not sure what to do once they went through. After a year of having every moment of his life under control, stepping out into this madness confused him. For a moment, he wanted to go back to that control, where he knew everyone around him, when he would eat, and when he would sleep. What was he going to do with a thousand people screaming at him?
“I’ll do all the talking. You and Charles caused a serious break in the society. This is a defining instant. Right now, you and I are right in the center of it. Years from now, us stepping out through this door will have become iconic.” Buckman looked at her shoulder getting ready to push the door open and noticed the door panels needed painting. She shoved the door open, and they were engulfed.
They stood there for moment, and then Tayden led them over to a bench, where she stepped up and began to answer questions. People closed in so tightly that he had to stand on the bench as well.
Tayden talked for a few moments about his incarceration. “An injustice, he was locked away and given inhumane sophisticated brainwashing techniques reserved for the worst offenders.” She continued to speak over the chatter in a strong, emotive voice. Hundreds of microphones pointed in their direction. One man leaned so far forward he fell over into the bench, hitting the side of his head. He crawled underneath, and held the microphone up on a pole behind them. “1.3% of Straight pregnancies are aborted due to a diagnosis of the baby being a Bent. Another .4% are carried to term, and the child is given up. It is estimated that a small fraction of that, maybe .01%, are born, and remain hidden in Straight society. That’s around fifty to one hundred thousand people that we know of, probably more.” She continued to recite numbers and facts. Those listening to her began to quiet down as she continued. Their faces were all turned towards her as she gestured with her hands. Sometimes she pointed to individuals to make her case, her lean frame and open jacket in motion as she did so. Buckman realized she had done this many times, and he remembered that look. He had seen this before in the news, and when he looked at her now, he instantly recognized her pose. Forward, slightly over the crowd, the black jacket coming up as she gestured with her arms, exposing her tight denim pants and black shirt several buttons open at the neck. This went on for several more minutes.
“We have a train to catch,” she said in his ear, quickly pulling him off the bench and plowing through those around them. Even in what looked like a hasty retreat, everyone followed, and she kept talking about past wrongs, years of history rewritten, and how Buckman was living proof of all these facts.
Buckman knew the train they needed to board and was doing his best to see which concourse to follow. Tayden kept leading them through the center part of the station and appeared to be taking them on a long, circuitous route. “We’re back here,” he tried to say as they kept walking.
Tayden was in an extended conversation with one of the reporters and had not noticed what he said. Buckman started pulling her back towards the concourse they passed, but it was no good. She seemed determined to continue through the thickest mob of people. Buckman let go of her arm and tried to stop, but there were so many people around him he was urged forward. After a few moments, enough people had gotten between them he had lost sight of her and tried to edge his way out.
“Where are you going?” Somehow she had spotted him and had hold of his shoulder.
“My train is back there,” he said pointing towards the concourse. She looked around to where he
was pointing and took in the situation.
“Oh,” she said before heading off in that direction and jumping back into the conversation she was having. Buckman caught small portions of what she was saying. There were comments on working conditions, children’s education, food supply, and health care. Tayden seemed to have an entire collection of facts and statistics ready in her memory. Buckman was not sure if the numbers were correct, but he generally agreed that what she said was true. All these things were problems and had been for years. Reforms came and went, but nothing changed.
Buckman hoped that, as they went down the narrow concourse, the crowd would thin out and they would get some breathing room. Such was not the case. The entire group squeezed together until they were hemmed in on all sides, and nobody was moving. They stayed like this for several minutes, inching along as best as they could, until he heard a security force ordering the crowd to break up. Buckman saw a megaphone being held up over the crowd, coming towards them. The person holding the big speaker was directing people out of the way, and he heard the familiar buzz of a stun stick. The small contingent of security people reached them about five minutes later.
At first, his reaction was to mentally prepare himself for the shock that the stick spat out. Instead, one man got behind them and three were in front, as they buzzed and pushed their way through the crowd. Eventually, after another thirty minutes of inching through the corridor, they made it to the train.
The two of them boarded. A train employee was waiting for them. “We had to hold the train an hour for you, thank you very much.” Since they boarded in the back, they were escorted through a few of the higher-priced lounges, where Tayden’s appearance raised comments. Buckman heard various words mumbled, “tramp, murderer.” He thought all the comments were directed at her when he heard one woman clearly say, “that dimwitted plumber.”
The train started moving as they were being shown to their seats. Both of them sat down, and Buckman said, “How do you stand that?”
“What, the comments? Or the crowd?” she said as she pulled out a small com and scanned through various broadcasts of their trip through the station.
“Either one.”
Tayden turned to him, her face flushed, a big smile across her mouth. She pushed a few clumps of sweat-soaked hair back from her forehead. “I live for this. Everyone on this train knows who I am and what I’m capable of. Those people in the back? I’ve lived and achieved ten times more in my life than they can dream of.”
Buckman was exhausted, while this all seemed to be energizing for her. He could think of nothing more to say. “I guess.”
“Look, those people making those remarks, it’s all jealousy, avarice. They’ve lived a programmed life, where every moment has been predetermined. They see me and you, and we’ve been places. Done things.”
“Sometimes I wish I’d done a little less,” he said, adjusting the seat as the train accelerated out of the station. He checked the schedule screen on the back of the seat in front of him and saw they would be in the same car all the way to the border. They would have to stop in several more stations, but eventually they would be hooked up to a train that would take him home. The ride was going to take almost ten hours, and though he wanted to badly see his family, after the last hour all he wanted was quiet. He had been locked up in almost total silence for a year, and now everything was noise.
“Don’t ever think you haven’t done anything,” she said as she finished reading an article on the com. She put it away and switched on the screen in front of her. “You have no idea what you’ve done and what you’re capable of.”
“But it was an accident,” he said. “Neither of us was supposed to be there.”
“Yes, but it has become an opportunity. This happens all the time. There’s no such thing as luck. An event happens to a person, and they either become involved, or they don’t. Opportunities present themselves all the time. It’s up to the person to recognize this and do something with it,” she said.
Buckman listened to her continue on citing examples in her life and others. He had to admit, the woman could talk and make most anything sound interesting. However, even she began to wind down as the train, elevated above the track on a magnetic cushion, hummed along. There was the occasional rocking from a fluctuation in the current, or maybe a wind gust, but it was mostly smooth. The lights in the car dimmed since it was still the middle of the night, and everyone else settled down as well. The darkened car, for the first time since he left the prison, made him feel safe to be alone with his thoughts. “Have you heard from Charles?” he asked.
Tayden thought about this question long enough that Buckman almost repeated it. “The news is not as good. He’s got about a year left. He was sent to a maximum security facility.” She looked at him. “I’ve visited those places. You may not want to hear this, but he probably won’t recognize you when he gets out. It’s that bad.”
Buckman saw the seriousness in her eyes and felt she was holding back on what they really did to him. His own treatment was bad and had done enough damage. “He’s a good man,” he said. Tayden agreed.
He settled back in his seat and thought back to the day they boarded Bertie, kicking the strut before walking up the ramp. Many nights over the past months, he had asked himself if he would trade places with Charles. This thought often woke him up as he wrestled with the answer. Charles was there because of what he knew and had told him that night in the storage area. The man had figured out what happened and took his moment in the public eye to tell the world about it. Buckman knew he would see Charles again, but Tayden made him wonder if this would be more upsetting than it was worth. Prison made people bitter—what was left of them, anyway. The question that had woken him up so many times had been finally answered after one of the more intense reeducation sessions. Charles was like a brother, but no, he would not change places. Maybe that was the point of the sessions, to turn him against his supposed accomplice. He could never be sure. He still woke up at night thinking about it, but now the question had gone from would he change places to why not. The answer to that always led to thinking of himself as a coward. He simply could not have faced any further treatment.
The train reached the final transfer. Many people had come on and off, but this time, the car was headed to the border. Most of the occupants were Bents going home, as evidenced by the muddy boots and coarse clothing they were wearing. Buckman had not been in this kind of atmosphere for over a year, and it felt good. The people gathered around him had faces that all looked familiar to him, even though he did not know a single one. Within a few minutes, a song broke out and stories were being passed around. A bottle of whiskey appeared, even though alcohol was not allowed.
Buckman settled back and closed his eyes as the constant chatter and laughter went on all around him. Then it stopped. A brown-uniformed woman was standing next to him. “Identity, please,” she said.
At first, he thought this was a dream or a cruel practical joke. This was the same woman he had run into all those months ago. This was the same train line, so he realized he should not be surprised. Buckman continued to stare at the woman with the drab coverall uniform and severely retained hair.
“Identity, please,” she repeated, holding out her hand.
Tayden nudged him into reality, and he handed over the temporary stick they had given him at the prison. “I’m not shocked. They’ve been watching you ever since we got on,” Tayden said.
The woman inserted the stick into the reader and read whatever the screen deemed important for her to know. She pocketed the stick. “Follow me, please,” she said.
Buckman stayed in place. She stood slightly to the side. “Follow me, please,” she repeated. Her lips were a tight, straight line across her face. Buckman could see the muscles twitch slightly at the corners of her eyes.
He stood up and followed her back to the same office, or at
least it looked like the same office, he had been in before. Terrial. That was her name. The plaque on the wall spelled this out for him. Security Officer, 3rd class, Terrial. The office was exactly as he remembered: small, with white metal walls and barely enough room for two chairs. They sat down, again his knees almost touching the side of her chair. Her hair, if possible, looked even tighter, to the point of looking to inflict pain if she managed a facial expression.
Terrial plugged the stick into the larger reader on her tiny desk. This time, only one paragraph of information came up, along with a few other pieces of data. “What is your destination?”
Buckman could not believe he was going through this very same thing. “It’s on the screen.”
“Answer the question.” This time she did not reach for the stunner.
Buckman had just spent the last year with every minute planned and controlled. Organizers followed him everywhere and questioned everything he did. This wore him down as it did all the other prisoners. Most Bents he had met coming out of prison were bewildered by the outside world, and for several months, their eyes darted around as he spoke to them. Many were permanently changed, and only time would tell if he was. When he was living with Brotter, Buckman realized a strange thing. Each prisoner, Straight or Bent, was equal to the other. He had never lived in a situation like that, and he had to go to prison to experience it. Equality was not a familiar living condition for anybody outside of those walls. And now, this woman was asking him a simple question, and he had to believe that there was a place in her thoughts that wanted to know more about him. He knew he was her equal and that she was aware of this, though she could not come out and say it.
“Terrial, why do you ask me that?” he asked.
“Answer or you will be reported,” she said, only she still did not reach for the stunner. Instead, she slowly looked at him. She had brown, mud-colored eyes, with a desperately minimal amount of makeup on her face. However, her age was apparent. She had worked in the back of that train for decades.
“You saw my face earlier, didn’t you?” Buckman asked. Of course she had. He was all over the place. She probably knew he would be on her train.
Terrial turned her attention back to the screen. “Yes. Now, can you answer my question?”
“Home. I’m finally going home.”
Terrial entered the information. “For what purpose?”
“How long have you been in this job?” Buckman asked.
Terrial blinked a few times, and if he were to guess, this was one of the few times a passenger had taken an interest in her. “Can you, please tell me,” she said. “Thirty-two years.”
She still appeared to be reading the screen. She squinted a moment in an expression that could only be described as emotion. Good or bad, he could not tell, but it was honest. “On this same transport line?” he asked.
“Yes, mostly. I work a few others when they need a substitute, but this one mainly.”
“I live in Eastern Province. Potato Creek, to be exact. I had been working on a salvage ship servicing a deep space transport. I spent the last year in prison for a crime I didn’t commit, as you probably already know.” Terrial entered in a few more pieces of data. “He had her murdered because she was like me.”
She stopped what she was doing and placed her hands in her lap. “I understand.”
“Do you?” he asked.
Again, she blinked a few times. The gentle hum of the transport was more apparent in her tiny office located in the back. Buckman knew she had spent many years sitting in that chair just listening to it, in an area no bigger than his prison cell.
“Do you work in space?” she asked.
“I do. Well, I did,” he said.
Her mouth worked a few times. Then she asked, “What’s it like?”
For the next half hour, he told her every detail of what he did traveling and working in low orbit. He talked about how he hauled trash and cleaned up huge messes. The times he had to spacewalk to make repairs fascinated her most. She asked a few questions, but she was otherwise content to listen to every word he said.
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About the Author
David George Howard's writing background is a little unusual, but not unheard of. He graduated from the University of Michigan with a B.S. in Mechanical Engineering, after which his career path took him to the US Navy and Raytheon, working on bomb racks and missile launchers for F-18s. From there, he went on to work for Rolls-Royce on the Osprey V-22 and Boeing 787 engines. After a couple of decades in the Aerospace field, he finally acknowledged his love of stories and writing by returning to school to learn the craft. In 2010 he received an M.A. in English from Indiana University in Indianapolis, writing his thesis on redemption and personal relationships in Hard-Boiled detective fiction.
April 26, 2014
Contact information
https://artfulscribbler.wordpress.com/
https://scholarworks.iupui.edu/handle/1805/2189
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