Chapter 13

I’m wedged on the recliner between Jaela and Rosalin. Jacobo has waved off the nightly mod screen entertainment in favor of finishing his Horticulture course work. I want to tell him not to bother, he’s already in Education, but then I’d have to explain about the allotments and I’m not sure I want to tell the twins I’ve been tampering with the city’s network. I’d have a lot of questions to answer and a lot of explaining to do.

The heroine of the medical drama is trying to decide whether to pursue a career in the medical unit or start a family with her husband. She wants children but knows they’ll have to wait until a license is granted and that can take years.

“Go with the career!” I want to tell her. She can always apply for the license and work until it’s granted. But tele-drama plots never seem to follow a logical set of rules. I guess that wouldn’t make good mod screen viewing.

The show wraps and someone turns the lights up in the rec room. That’s the signal for everyone to start his or her evening wash up, but the screen is still on and the daily news bulletin starts. I don’t think any of us want to leave so we stay on the recliner, watching.

“Government reports riot activity is now contained in all sectors of Osiris.” A serious, dark skinned woman says. She’s sitting behind a wood paneled desk. A view of Square One is displayed in the background and we can see ranks of city guards lined up, their black helmets gleaming in the perimeter light. They have air guns strapped to their backs and tear gas canisters looped around their belts. Both weapons are designed to disable, not harm Osiris citizens. I’ve never been hit by an air gun but I’ve seen the way the force of air punches into people. It looks harmful to me.

“A terrorists cell was uprooted by elite guards today. Three of the five men have pled guilty and were sentenced to exile tomorrow at 4pm. The two remaining men are being held by Government for further questioning about terrorist activity.”

The background image dissolves and a view of the wall replaces it. The camera zooms in on a portion of the grey metal expanse and we see the sealed portion of the wall, the purging area. Two guards are standing beside it. They’re staring straight ahead as if they don’t know they are being broadcast across Osiris, either that or they don’t care.

“In other news, the Gallatin family has been granted a license for their first child.”

A shot of a man and woman who look to be in their forties, fills the screen. An unseen reporter is holding a microphone between them. The woman is crying, the man beaming.

“We’re just so excited,” he says into the microphone.

“Yes!” The woman exclaims. “We’re so happy! We’ve waited so long to have a baby. We were so patient and now it’s finally time. We have a name picked out already!”

“Uhk,” Jaela says at the screen. “Pathetic isn’t it? All gooey over a baby.”

“I wish someone was that gooey over me,” Rosalin says.

“No one wants an orphan,” I say. “We’re tainted.”

Rosalin and Jaela look at me.
“What? It’s true. No one wants used goods. They want a fresh, homemade baby that no one else has loved before them.”

Jaela raises an eyebrow and then turns back to the screen. Rosalin takes my hand and squeezes it. She knows how I feel. She feels the same way I do. Everyone in TWOC feels the same way. We lost our parents, and lost the right to a family at the same time. The best we have is each other.

“Preparations for the crowning ceremony are underway,” the announcer continues. “The Conservationist party says it will be a momentous occasion for all Osirians. Government warns citizens that space will be limited in the Square and only ticket holders will be allowed access. But for every one else, you can join us here for a live broadcast of the event. Mark you calendars for October first.”

The announcer signs off with a cheery goodbye and the screen goes blank.

“Ok girls, time for bed.” Ms. Hiller is standing by the door, her hand on the access panel. She still looks like she’s going to burst into tears. Maybe the riot news upset her. “You’ve seen enough news for the night, enough tele-drama too.”

We get up and file out of the room.

“Good night Miss Hiller,” Rosalin says and I mumble the same. Jaela seems too preoccupied to answer.

“Night J,” I say as we come to a split in the corridor.

She waves once and turns away.

“What’s gotten into her?” I ask Rosalin when we get to our room. “She’s been grumpy all day.”

“I heard her and Jacobo fighting this morning. He doesn’t want to share with her when they graduate. He wants to live with Mattias.”

“What? Why?”

“He said she was too bossy and controlling.”

“Well she kind of is,” I say. “But that’s no reason not to live with her.”

“I was thinking we could ask her to live with us,” Rosalin says. “Maybe we can get an apartment with three rooms, something close to the boys so we could see Jacobo after training.”

“Still hoping Rose?” I ask and nudge her with my elbow.

“Oh just stop,” she says with a faint smile. “We both know it’s not going any where.”

I shrug and consider Rosalin’s comment. There aren’t many three-bedroom apartments in the city. One bedroom for a couple, the other for their child. No one is allowed a second kid, so there’s no reason to have more than two bedrooms. I think of the abandoned building Cenric is using for his studio and wonder how many people could fit in that space. Everyone in Osiris could live in three bedroom apartments, if they fixed the condemned sections of the city.

“I guess we can request it and see what’s available,” I say. “Worst case, you and I can share a room and Jaela can take the second. It’ll be tight quarters but that’s probably better than her sharing with someone she doesn’t know.”

Rosalin smiles.

“But we’ll have to do something about your snoring.”

She slaps me and I dance away laughing.

It’s 3:42pm the next day and I’m standing at the edge of a crowd, trying to get a view of the exile doors. I’ve done a quick estimation in my head and there are at least six hundred people crammed into the plaza. At five foot four I don’t have much of a chance at seeing anything. I try weaving my way through the crowd but it’s slow going and no one wants to give way.

“My dad is up front,” I tell a tall man and he shifts to let me by. I smile and use the same excuse as I make my way to the cordoned line. When I get through, I have a clear view of the wall. A phalanx of guards is ranged around the door, standing stiffly, riles in hand.

There’s a restless murmuring from the crowd as we wait for the condemned to be brought for their exile. I survey the people around me. They look weary but curious. They’ve asked for special dispensation to leave their allotments. I think they’re expecting a show. It reminds me of the beheadings and executions from revolutionary France and I wonder if anyone here even knows what France is – or was.

I’m scanning the crowd when I catch sight of the dark haired stranger. He’s seventy feet away and a few people back from the front. He’s glaring at the guards like he wants to strangle one of them. What’s he doing here? And why do I keep seeing him in unusual places?

I leave my spot and start wading through the crowd.

“Sorry, excuse me,” I say as I try to avoid stepping on people’s toes. One woman elbows me as I push past and hisses, “Don’t you know it’s rude to cut in?”

I want to retort but that will waste time. It’s easier to ignore her and keep going. I check my watch - 3:58. An expectant hush falls over the crowd and the guards stand taller. The flash of blue and red lights falls over the crowd and I hear the whirr of an electric van pulling up. I stand on tiptoe to see over the shoulder of a man but I’m now too far back. The crowd leans in eagerly, almost desperate to see the terrorists. I shove my way past the last few people and I’m standing next to the stranger. He’s staring straight ahead and doesn’t see me.

“We meet again,” I whisper to him and he jerks in surprise.

“What are you doing here?” He hisses at me, his head lowered so the people around us won’t notice. He shouldn’t worry, they’re all too intent on the exile ceremony.

“I assume the same reason you’re here,” I say. “To see the exile.”

“Don’t make a scene,” he says and grabs my hand. He pulls me close to his side, his fingers wrapped firmly around mine. The length of his body feels hot, even through my shirt.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

He shushes me without looking down. He’s focused on the van that’s now parked beside the purging doors. I can feel the crowd empty it’s lungs in expectation as a guard approaches the back of the van and pulls open the rear door. Three men climb out, one after another, blinking in the light, swiveling their heads in confusion. Their hands are handcuffed behind their backs and they look more than a little afraid. Their skin is pale and their hair hangs in lanky knots around their faces. I’ve never seen men with long hair before and wonder at the strange fashion choice.

“Traitor!” someone shouts from the crowd and the chant is picked up and echoed around the plaza. I feel the tension rise and the stranger squeezes my hand tighter.

The three men are led across the plaza, a guard holding each of them by their right elbow and guiding them closer to the purging doors.

I expect someone to make an announcement, to comment on the proceedings like they do on the live broadcast but the guards are silent as they move across the plaza, as they work to open the airlocks. The men have been present in the plaza for only forty-five seconds and they’re already standing in front of the purging doors.

The crowd falls silent, waiting for the final moment, wanting to catch every detail as the doors are opened and the men are prodded through.

One of the guards pushes against an access panel and the doors slide open, revealing a metal lined room, the size of a large elevator. Its dimly lit and ominous looking, like the maw of some giant steel monster.

“I don’t want to die!” the shorter man shouts and breaks away from the guard holding his arm. He sprints towards the cordon and the crowd gasps. The people around us push to see the commotion. A guard lunges after him and slams the butt of his rifle into the man’s head. He loses his balance but doesn’t go down entirely. I don’t know how he’s still conscious after such a violent blow. He staggers into the crowd and a woman shrieks. People start to move in the opposite direction and I feel dangerously trapped amongst the tightly packed bodies.

“Don’t let him get away!” a woman shouts from behind us and I’m shoved violently in the back. The stranger grabs my shoulders and pulls me tight against his front, using his arms to shield me from the crowd. I remember the night of the riot and a flush starts to build in my face. The heat is baking off him and I feel my own temperature start to rise. I shake myself a little and crane to see what’s happening.

The prisoner hasn’t gone far. The crowd is pushing him back to the cordon line and the guard wades in, grabs his arm and hauls him back into the plaza. He throws the man to the ground and kicks him in the side. The man grunts in pain and then lies still on the pavement.

The other two men stand motionless, watching their companion with dark eyes and downturned mouths. They don’t struggle against their captors, they don’t cry or scream. They look defeated, resigned to their fate.

The crowd recovers from the disturbance and watches more eagerly for the exile. They have suffered at the hands of these men and are ready for their retribution. They smell metaphorical blood.

The guards prod the two standing men into the portal and the third is dragged in after them. I watch as one man bends down to speak to his prone companion but it’s hard to tell what he’s saying from a distance. The third man stares resolutely at the crowd, almost defiant, now that he’s standing on the other side of the wall. I see him square his shoulders as if preparing for a confrontation.

I feel the stranger lift his hand and when I glance up, I see he has crossed his index and middle finger, his thumb holding down his pinkie and fourth. He drops his hand a second later and I wonder if I’m mistaken.

A hush falls over the crowd as a guard depresses the access panel and the doors start sliding shut. The men on the other side are silent, their expressions stiff. They disappear from view as the doors click shut. We hear a light whoosh from the wall, the airlock releasing on the other side, and the exile is officially over. I’m a little disappointed. The entire procedure took four minutes and twenty-three seconds and was entirely anti-climactic, even with the attempted escape. I expected more pomp and ceremony when sending a citizen, multiple citizens to their deaths.

Instead of staying to watch the guards assemble for their departure, the stranger spins me around and pushes me through the crowd. The first few feet are difficult to negotiate, no one is ready to leave yet, but as we get closer to the back the crowd thins and we can more easily weave our way through. When we’re clear of the gathering, he takes my hand again and drags me down 3rd Avenue, back towards the city center and away from the crowd. He’s walking so fast I have to run to keep up. He maintains a tight grip on my hand and I start to feel like a naughty child being pulled along by her father.

“Stop,” I gasp, out of breath.

He tugs me around a corner, looks both ways to see if we’re being followed and when he sees that we’re not, leads me up a set of stairs and into a buildings entryway. He pushes me against the wall and holds me there by my shoulders.

“You need to stop following me,” he says. He’s bending slightly so he can look me in the eye.

“I’m not following you,” I say. “You’re following me!”

He shakes his head once and depresses his lips like he’s angry. Why would he be angry with me? “You’re not listening to me,” he says. “You can’t be seen near me. You need to stay away.”

“Then why do you keep following me?” I’m exasperated. “What do you want? Who are you? Are you one of them?”

“You’re better off not knowing,” he says. He ducks his head around the entrance wall and scans the street. He’s agitated.

“Why are you spying on me? Do you know my parents? Are they still alive?” I ask.

He turns back to me, his brow furrowed with worry. He ignores my questions.

“Listen to me,” he says. “You’re not safe here, but it’s not time. There are things that need to happen. You need to be careful. Don’t do anything to draw attention to yourself. “

“What does that mean?” A stab of worry runs through me. “Careful of what? Who are you?”

He shakes his head again. “I’ve already told you too much. Don’t try to follow me. Just wait.” He studies me for a moment. “Promise me, you won’t follow.”

“Tell me your name and I’ll promise.”

He hesitates for a moment. “Harlow.”

“Harlow what?”

“Just Harlow. You don’t need a last name.”

“Well, my name is Arela.”
“I know who you are,” he says with a slight smile. His eyes light up and the seriousness drops from his face. I find myself smiling back before I realize I should actually be afraid of this man and his cryptic message.

“Why do you keep following me?”

“You shouldn’t even know my name. Go back to TWOC, stay close to your friends. Don’t go anywhere alone.”

“But-“

He lets go of me and ducks out of the entranceway. He lopes back the way we came and slips around the corner and out of sight. I consider following him but I know he’ll lose me in minutes even if I try.

Next Chapter: Chapter 14