World Of Shell And Bone (5 page)

I am early for work once again.

I didn’t sleep last night, not even to doze. After Shale and I completed the procedure, I sipped at some tea and sat in bed, thinking about Mica. The years hadn’t been good to him. I didn’t know if he’d ravaged himself with alcohol and drugs, or if it was mistreatment by his female that led him to look the way he did—like an animal in the street, afraid of turning a corner and finding a hunter with a knife. I wondered how much longer he had.

When the first sun rays poked holes in the black sky, I rose and got dressed. Shale was asleep on the sofa, and didn’t even twitch as I left the house. Even though our laws are meant to give women power, I can’t help but wonder if maybe men didn’t get the better deal out of this after all. Maybe history is repeating itself in spite of our best intentions.

I stop by the washroom, and when I’m at the sink, Naiad comes in. She smiles widely at me before wetting a napkin and dabbing at a spot on her uniform. “Didn’t notice this when I left this morning,” she says.

I allow a small smile in return. I should not be alone with her. Moon is, I’m sure, keeping track of every interaction between Naiad and anyone else.

As I turn to go, she says, “You’re in early today. Any special reason?”

“No. I just rose early.” And then, just to be courteous, I ask, “What about you?”

“It’s my birthday today.” She grins. “My partner and my daughter woke me up early so they could give me presents and sing to me. They’re very sentimental about things like that.”

I know I shouldn’t continue this conversation. It is doing me no good. But I can’t help myself. “How old is your daughter?” I ask.

“Three,” Naiad replies. She grapples in her pocket and pulls out a likeness. “She has my mouth, don’t you think?”

Her daughter is tiny, like her, with a clownish smile and fine hair. “Yes. She looks just like you.”

And then, while Naiad is in mid-sentence, I turn and walk out because I am a craven, fainthearted creature.

I stand outside the building, the gray fog folding me to its breast. I will wait to go in until the whistle blows, so I won’t run into Naiad again.

I should have warned her somehow, without being explicit. They probably wouldn’t have been able to trace it to me. Even if she’d been caught and had told them I’d been traitorous, I could have denied it. It would have been my word against hers. It’s doubtful that they’d ask Moon, since tips are supposed to be anonymous.

I think of Naiad’s daughter, at home, her cheeky smile fading as she’s told her mother won’t be coming home. What will she do?

When the whistle blows, I turn and head back in, my face slightly slick with humidity and grime. I wish the layer was heavier, darker. I wish it would obliterate me.

I try to work, but between avoiding Naiad’s eye and thinking about Mica, I am not very productive.

Should I head upstairs and ask for a voucher? What should I say it’s for? A day trip with Shale? A visit to the war museum?

The vouchers we use to travel are checked by bus drivers, but the ones used for leisure are inspected much less rigorously than the ones used for business. Since vouchers only list last names and Mica’s and mine are the same, it’s not likely that he’ll get caught. And he’s always been wily. He managed to escape his female’s house after all, didn’t he?

When the message beeps on my terminal, I open it without really thinking. My eyes scan the information for a few moments before my brain registers what I am seeing. It is the list I’ve been waiting for, the list of Asylum patients being transported from here to Toronto this evening.

I realize with a start that my mind is blank. I can’t think of the codes, not even one character of either of them. I close my eyes in frustration, and they blaze bright red against the canvas of my mind. O is 09g2, and K is 46t3.

I scan the list, growing weary as I near the bottom. But then I see it. Though I haven’t memorized the code for all the letters in the alphabet, I can tell this person’s initials are O.K. It has to be Onyx Kay. He leaves tonight.

I sit there for a moment, frozen. Why am I doing this now, after all the time I’ve been at BoTA? Is it guilt? Is it to say I did
some
thing? My mind flashes to Shale’s look of disgust at my refusal to help Haumea, to the memory of what happened, or rather didn’t happen, last night in the bedroom.

I don’t know what Haumea plans to do with this information. But if she’s caught—and it’s almost certain that she will be—they will be able to trace the information back to me rather quickly. My neighbor saw me at her door yesterday. And who knows how many neighbors saw her come inside our house after Onyx was taken away? I close my eyes. I see Ceres, holding her pinwheel against the slanting gray daylight, the orange and pink lurid amidst all the washed-out bleakness. No one came to her aid when she was taken. Did people hide behind their doors, refuse to let their Husbands go outside when they heard me crying out for her?

The siren squalls outside like an unhappy child, and my eyes fly open. The Escort van is here again. Everyone stops typing and looks up, their foreheads creased with worry. It is unusual for the Escort van to come to our place of work when there is no one with a zero armband who has exhausted their six attempts. It means a Spark has been watching us. It makes everyone nervous; it makes us feel like animals in a zoo. We have always been animals in a zoo, but on occasions like this, we are forced to look the truth in the eye. We don’t like that. Our existences rely on unquantifiable amounts of denial.

The Escorts march in in their signature triangular formation. I can’t tell if they’re the same ones from before because they all look alike in their white uniforms. I wonder if that is the whole point. And then I look out at the vast sea of green uniforms in my office and wonder if we are dressed the same to make it easier on the Escorts. Depersonalize us. I think of Mica in his blue overalls, just another Husband to be disposed of.

Naiad is watching the Escorts with interest, even as they near her. It is clear she has no idea it is she who is going to be sent to the gas chamber. I feel as though I am floating on the ceiling. When they grab her arms and pull her to her feet, she does not resist. She still looks confused as she is led out the door; she does not utter a single word.

Moon sighs in satisfaction.

“I didn’t think it was going to happen that fast,” Moon mutters, still watching the door out of which Naiad has been taken. “They must be desperate to get people out of the emigration line. She was a good candidate—productive partner, healthy three-year-old daughter. All I told them was I suspected her of being sympathetic to the Rads. They didn’t require evidence.”

I look at her. She knew. She knew about Naiad’s daughter. A mix of anger and revulsion washes over me, so I push my chair back and stand up. “I need the washroom.”

I try to look as though I have a purpose in case a Spark is watching. I walk past the washrooms and head up the stairs. I keep climbing even when the tops of my thighs begin to ache and soon find myself on the sixth floor. The vouchers department.

“How can I help you?” the lady at the front of the room in a maroon skirt suit says.

“I’d like a voucher, please. Long distance to Toronto.”

“Ah.” The lady’s lips have been tattooed maroon to match her uniform. It looks as though she has been drinking blood. “Visiting the museum, are we?”

“Yes.” I think, That was easy.

I walk out two minutes later with the ink still wet on my vouchers. I got two, just to make sure my story added up. I am Matched now, after all.

On my way back to my apartment, I keep my eyes open for Mica, but there is no sign of him. I am glad he’s blended in so well. But then I wonder if the Escorts got him after all. Maybe he’s not hiding, but gone.

Before I realize what I’m doing, I walk past my apartment and knock on Haumea’s. Again, she doesn’t answer. I turn her doorknob, but it is locked, so I take out the master keys every female in the workforce is given. This way, we are not allowed the opportunity to keep too many secrets. I check over my shoulder to make sure no one is looking, but then I decide there’s not much to do if they are. I’m already here.

I walk in, and am hit with the musty smell of a house that hasn’t seen movement in a few days. As I near the living room, I see a small puddle of vomit drying in the center of the floor. Onyx must have got sick when they took him.

“Haumea?” I call, forcing myself to walk past the vomit. “It’s Vika. I’m sorry I opened your door, but I’ve been knocking—”

I almost run into her legs. They are hanging in midair, stiff and swollen. The smell of feces and urine is redolent in the air. Haumea looks down at me from where she’s hung herself, her eyes bulging out, accusing.

My legs buckle as I run from Haumea’s apartment, and I fall in a tangled heap at the door. I pick myself up again and run to my apartment. My key scrabbles fruitlessly in the lock until finally, Shale opens the door, a wary look on his face.

The moment he sees me, he grabs my upper arms. “Are you alright?”

I point toward Haumea’s open door. “Hau—Haumea… she’s… she’s hung herself.” I didn’t think it would be possible to shiver so hard that my jaws clack together instead of forming the words.

Shale’s face pales, but he steps around me and heads for her place. I follow, my entire skin rippling with gooseflesh. Shale stops in Haumea’s bedroom doorway and stares at her body for a long moment. His back is to me, and I cannot see his expression. Wordlessly, he goes to her phone and presses the red button to summon Emergency Services. Speaking softly, he says, “I would like to request an ambulance. Haumea Kay has committed suicide.”

Suicide. The word seems to echo. The murder of oneself.

It’s something I have thought of many times, turned over in my hands like a piece of pretty sea glass. Once, when the world seemed so dark it was a suffocating film of sickness, I took the largest knife in my kitchen and placed it along the skin of my wrist. I sliced over and over again, but the skin would not tear.

I never thought to hang myself. I’m no good at tying knots.

I’m thinking this when the emergency workers tromp past me in their blood red uniforms. I wonder if they made them that color so they wouldn’t have to worry about stains. Water is a scarce resource; we use only enough to get our clothes damp. The emergency workers cut Haumea’s body down and wrap it in a cloth. Placing it on a stretcher, they carry it out. There is nothing else to do, no one else to talk to. Suicides are not investigated as they are the mark of the Défectueux.

Shale and I go back to our apartment.

I sit on the couch, my brain filled with wet cotton. Onyx is gone. Haumea is gone. I did nothing, I refused to help them. I refused to help Naiad, and she’s gone, too. Ceres, gone. I refuse to help people and they are erased forever. I pull the vouchers out of my pocket and stare at them. Mica. At least I can help Mica. Maybe he can save himself yet.

I glance at Shale. “What time is it?”

“Seven. Why?”

I slip the vouchers into my pocket. “I thought Mica said he’d be by today.”

Shale nods. “Perhaps he saw the emergency workers and didn’t want to risk it.”

I remain silent. Perhaps Shale is right. But perhaps Mica is dead.

The next day is Saturday, the day the government has designated the day of rest. I wake up to find that the sun has flung a ray across my face and my cheek is slightly burned. It’s brighter outside than it has been in some time, and almost clear. The light from the window blazes through my corneas straight into my brain. Pain surges deep within my skull.

When I pad out to the living room, I find Shale ironing a pile of my uniforms.

“What time is it?” I rub my eyes in an effort to calm the exquisite ache lurking behind them.

He turns to me and smiles. “Almost noon,” he says.

“Noon! I haven’t slept that long in ages. I wonder if it has to do with this headache.”

“I’ll get you a warm compress.” Shale sets down the iron. “Why don’t you sit?”

While he’s in the kitchen, there’s a knock at the door. It’s my mother, in a plain gray shirt and pants, since it’s Saturday. Her face has a gray tincture to it, too.

“Is everything okay?” I step aside so she can come in, wishing I’d taken the time to splash some water on my face, run a brush through my tangled hair. I wonder if it is Mica. But no—surely she wouldn’t display this level of emotion?

“Have you been listening to the NNB?”

My headache flares at her tone. “No. I just woke up.”

She heads to the radio and turns the knob. The announcer’s clipped voice floods the room.

“…physical testing for emigrants. Repeat, the government has officially announced the beginning of mandatory physical testing for
all
emigrants. Doctors have been notified to administer the test to all adult patients requesting a physical examination for emigration purposes. Please note, if you fail the test, you will not be permitted to emigrate—” My mother twists the knob and the radio falls silent again.

“Physical testing? But why?”

My mother shakes her head and swipes at her mouth with her fingers. Her hand trembles slightly. I am more intrigued by this than the news on the radio. “They haven’t said why. That message is on a loop; there’s no more information. It’s another requirement, another hurdle to help with the rising numbers of those hoping to get away.”

“Well, how rigorous is the testing? Maybe it’s just to weed out any Défectueux who might slip through.”

“They wouldn’t need to do a physical fitness test. They could find that out with a simple physical exam. This is something different.” She looks at me. “Vika… I’m afraid it might be an attempt to keep the older population behind.”

All her life, she’s been the chosen one. The golden girl, the woman who gets pregnant on the first try. And now, she might be left behind because she’s too old. I see the strain in the lines that cup her mouth, the slight tremble of her chin. “You don’t know that, Mother. I’m sure they wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t they?” She goes to the window and looks out. “This process is bottlenecking. It’s what they’ve been warning us of since the start of the emigration laws fifty years ago. China only wants our fittest and most able citizens. I’m neither.”

“But you’re the head of—”

“There are younger women who could be trained for my job. I’m not essential.” She rubs her face and squares her shoulders in an attempt to regain some dignity. “I was wondering if you’d heard anything I hadn’t, but I suppose not. Keep me apprised, would you?”

And she lets herself out.

Shale comes out of the kitchen and hands me the warm compress. I hold it to my head and gesture to the door. “What do you think of this?”

“It’s certainly something new.” He frowns. “I’ve only ever heard of physical fitness testing for men who request to be Maintenance workers.”

“It worries me that they won’t say what it’s for,” I reply, relieved that he doesn’t seem upset. I’m not sure I have the strength to comfort a hysterical Husband at the moment. “But I suppose we’ll find out at our next Match Clinic visit. We could ask the obstetrician.”

“Maybe you’ll be exempt when you get pregnant,” he says. “They’d want the baby in China’s relatively cleaner environment to prevent birth defects.”

“Perhaps.” But I know better than to rely on this nugget of hopeful logic.