Exodia (7 page)

There were plenty of thirteen year old
boys for Araceli to be interested in. Kassandra remembered how the
feelings had emerged when she was her sister’s age. Except that
Kassandra had to vie for the attention of boys two years older
since there were none her own age. And those older boys didn’t pay
any attention to an undeveloped girl with pimples and, she
remembered now, stinky clothes. That memory she put away. With
difficulty.

“
Don’t worry, Araceli,
you’ll get a bath. And clean clothes. We’ll go to the
monument.”

“
That’s too far!”

“
Unless you’ve got a better
idea. The lake is farther, you know. Do you have any ideas for
transportation?”

Araceli threw another weed. “We should
have horses, like everybody else.”

“
Horses stink,
too.”

* * *

The President of Defense, James
Truslow, took pleasure in learning of young Battista’s
indiscretion. He wished his own son would show a similar
ruthlessness. He was training Jamie to be the kind of man that he
himself was: decisive, assured, cold-blooded, merciless. These were
brutal times, with a dangerous but stable government, and he was in
a position of power almost equal to the Executive President. And he
had plans.

He left his suite of rooms and headed
toward the old conference room, now used as a library or archive,
the only place to study up on old Battista’s experiments. He slowed
as he reached the Executive President’s apartment, ready with a lie
should the old man appear, but the hallway was empty—there was not
even a guard—and he slipped quietly into the conference
room.

He went straight for the ledgers,
journals that held supposedly prophetic information. It was that
information which was the stimulus for the Culling Mandate and
other horrific laws, though Truslow didn’t perceive them as
particularly unjust. He had perused the journals before, but
thought them to be useless. His interest now was in searching for
the names of those gemfries who participated. A year ago Battista
had told him that the documents and the participants had all been
“disposed of.” Truslow had reason to believe differently and with
the younger Battista’s recent criminal conduct things were falling
into place.

He found the stack of ledgers and
pulled out the bottom one. He opened it and began scanning the
information. Names, dates, observers, statements. All very
interesting, but nothing that jumped out at him. He worked his way
up the stack and when he finally reached the top notebook he
mentally crossed his fingers. His luck failed. This ledger was
missing several pages at the front, unevenly torn away. He counted
the ripped stubs with his thumbnail and forefinger and cursed
aloud.

But he quickly regained his malevolent
focus as the first remaining page revealed something unexpected and
he knew precisely what his own next move should be.

He replaced the ledgers and listened at
the door before he opened it and moved out into the hallway. As
there was still no guard he assumed that the Executive President
was in his office on the top floor, five minutes up the stairs. He
took them two at a time.

“
Yes, Truslow, what now?”
The Executive President’s greeting was considerably softer than
usual.

“
There’s a wicked little
invasion in the south that needs a bit more attention than you
anticipated.” Truslow was always careful to make bad news sound
trivial. “We’ve sent another battalion to take care of matters
there. Also I’ve ordered the round-up of those subversives. A
little re-education and we’ll have a few hundred replacements for
those we lost in the eastern battles last month.”

Truslow studied the President’s
movements. The old man was uncharacteristically docile this
morning. His hands were shaking and he was shifting in his seat
from side to side, uncomfortable.

“
Is there something the
matter, sir?” Truslow thought he knew exactly what the matter was
and saw his chance to expedite things. He sat down on the edge of a
wooden chair and wondered if he was about to see a twelve percent
prediction soar to one hundred.

“
There’s been an incident,”
the old man began, gripping the edge of the antique desk, “with my,
uh, grandson. He killed a man.”

“
A Red?”

“
No, worse. A Blue, down in
the slum. I want a trial.”

“
That doesn’t happen.”
Truslow stood back up. He could put himself in jeopardy, but what
he had just learned from the ledger gave him confidence. “Sir, you
have to put out an execution order.”

The old man rose, too. “I know. I’ve
done it already. But my daughter …” He began to cough and clutched
at his heart.

Truslow knew all too well how much
Battista’s daughter meant to him–they were all but married. Truslow
had plans for her, too. She was a sensual beauty, a trophy, a
replacement for the wife he’d just divorced.

Under the Articles of Confederation of
the Ninety States the President of Defense was next in line to act
as leader if the Executive President died. He would certainly be
the logical choice should an election be demanded.

The President of Defense raised his
voice to match his commander, and put all his cards on the table.
Stating loudly and clearly all that he learned from the torn
ledger, Truslow argued until Battista slumped back into his chair.
He was blue in the face. A heart attack, thought Truslow. He
watched Bryer Battista gasp and point, directing him to get
help.

“
No,” Truslow said softly
but with absolute menace. He sat down instead. And waited for
death.

Chapter 5 Tripled Guilt

From the third page of the
Ledger:

The next day he went out and
saw two of them fighting. “Why are you hitting him?” he
asked.

One answered, “Are you going
to kill us, too?”

I WORRY THAT the stink that radiates
from Vinn will never leave my nostrils. I follow him along a path
more rugged than the forest where we parted from Lydia and Barrett
six or seven hours ago. Carter is behind me with my food bag
hoisted on his broad shoulders. He jabbers on about “the kid”,
meaning Barrett, and endless stories about how Ronel’s people take
care of fugitives, punctuated with asides about what they do to
traitors. I hunch to the weight of the money bag which, because I’m
not as smooth as Barrett, makes the occasional jingle as we press
upward.

I worry, too, that I’ll
never see Lydia again. Our goodbye extended with a lengthy
handshake. Not much shaking though
–
our hands stayed still. My fingers,
grasping, tingled to her warmth. Maybe it only lasted a few
seconds, or less than that, but at that moment I felt a connection
to her that slowed down time, stretched out the goodbye long enough
to tie a knot between us. I managed a word or two beyond thank you.
A lot for me. And then she took off after Barrett.

Carter says we are almost to the camp.
We pass a look-out spot where they had spied the solar-bikes. The
bikes, he tells me, have most likely already been re-purposed, and
the bodies buried. He seems detached, almost casual, as he speaks
so dispassionately of my pursuers’ deaths.

Vinn stops, runs a grimy hand through
dirty brown hair, and tells us to take a break while he checks a
side trail. We wait. I would like to sit on my backpack or the
ground at least, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to get back up.
I brace myself against a thick tree trunk instead and listen to
more of Carter’s gruff chatter.

I swear I smell Vinn’s return before I
hear or see him. He has a small furry animal flopping on his back,
dead, gutted, dripping a little blood down his already stained
vest. No wonder he smells of death.

“
Supper, or maybe
breakfast,” he says, obviously proud. I don’t need to ask how Vinn
could be successful so quickly because Carter explains that he had
set a trap early this morning as they headed out. Their camp was
close now. Close by their standards. Another mile.

I expect to find their camp primitive,
but it is actually a string of small cabins along a hidden lake.
Carter tells me how they planted pine trees over the dirt road
entrance many, many years ago. This spot has remained undetected
ever since or at best ignored by the rare spotter plane. My
grandfather has been especially shrewd in accumulating experts in
various fields, aviation being one of them, and though the supply
of usable aircraft is dwindling, the smaller planes still make up a
decent part of his treasury. Airliners, of course, were grounded
before I was born. The spotter planes are used to look for civil
armies. Sometimes innocent crowds have been labeled as such. I’m
ashamed that I’ve ignored what the Executive President has done to
these people.

We enter the first cabin and
Carter starts a fire in the fireplace. I should offer them food
from my second pack, but right away men, women, and children file
into the cabin carrying bowls and trays and pitchers. There are
foods I’ve never seen before, offered with hospitality I didn’t
expect. They sing a shorter version of the song I heard in the
slum
–
same tune,
same strange words
–
and then we feast.

Women glance curiously at me
from time to time. The kids pay no more attention to me than they
do to the adults. The men, also, are a cautious lot and do not
address any questions to me directly. I am
him, he, the Blue
and other vaguely
referenced nouns as they squeeze what information they can from
Carter. Carter, however, speaks as if he has known me from
birth.

It grows late and the conversations ebb
and flow with the same worn-out topics I hear in the capitol, but
they are interspersed with compliments to the various cooks,
gratitude, thanksgiving, things I never hear at home. I’m
comfortable among these people, but though the room grows warmer,
I’m not so comfortable that I can roll my sleeves up and reveal my
indigo colored elbow.

“
Hey, Vinn,” one man says.
His long hair is tied back with a strand of fabric, his sleeves are
rolled up, his tattoo a large red wrinkle until he bends his elbow
and it stretches out smooth. “We managed to get that solar-bike’s
photovoltaic panels to fit.”

“
So you’ll have the pump
working tomorrow?” Vinn asks, scratching at his beard.

“
Yup, and we put the wheels
to good use, too. Stored the rest of the parts in the—” he looks
toward me as if I might be taking notes, then pulls his attention
back and finishes, “—the bridge cave. So if ya want, me and my boy
can escort this one up to David’s.”

I check around the room trying to
figure out who among the twenty or more people crowded into the
cabin is this man’s son. I’ve grown used to Vinn’s smell and
Carter’s constant babble, but getting a chance to travel with a
father and son is unexpectedly appealing.

“
Nah,” Vinn snorts over the
banter that has resumed as people begin to clean up plates. “Carter
and I will see he gets there. Made a promise to Bear and his
girl.”

My stomach clutches at the phrase he
uses. I have to stop thinking of Lydia. I can’t even hope to see
her again.

* * *

I awake stiff and sore. Vinn offers me
the use of their rather modern bathroom, some clean clothes, and a
breakfast that has simmered all night—a stew made from that small
furry creature. We each have a bowlful and then he strains the
broth and ladles it into a container to take on our journey. He
sits back down across from me at the rough wooden table. So far
I’ve let others guide me, hide me, lead me farther away from home,
farther from my guilty deed, away from the lethal punishment that I
deserve. My vocal impotence has allowed me to be a silent lamb,
herded along without protest. But they must expect something from
me. They have killed my pursuers. They have risked discovery. I
can’t be this important.

“
Vinn,” I hesitate, waiting
for my tongue to obey my thoughts. “What do you know about me?” I
see he’s considering his words, too. I add another question while
he thinks, “Why are you all helping me?”

He clears his throat and his facial
expression changes to something that could pass for pity. “We know
you were named Dalton Battista, raised the son of Olivia, grandson
of Bryer, the unelected Executive President who claimed to have
united ninety states and provinces of North America … who set up a
new central government after coordinating the executions of …” He
says more, outlines a history of terror, domination, and more than
twenty civil wars in as many years. All of what he says runs
parallel to the history I’ve learned, yet with only a few alternate
adjectives and verbs he shows me a truth I hardly
suspected.

My mind races along with the
story he tells. I resist certain facts, but others fall into
place
, glow with a tinge of gold that
strengthens their truth
. I asked what he
knew about me, but he is avoiding that question and instead is
teaching me much more about them. They are Reds. They are farmers
and laborers and hard-working people. They hoard guns and help
outcasts and political refugees, but for reasons much clearer to me
now, I see the injustice.