We were both exhausted. Neither of us could
bring ourselves to lay our heads on the carpet, so we decided to
sleep in the dining area. We had no choice but to use the blanket,
though. This place was drafty and neither of us could afford to
fall ill. We made our sleeping area against the wall in the dining
room so we would not be immediately visible to someone who entered.
David was asleep within moments. He slept on his back, with his
hands folded behind his head as a pillow. I am still awake.
It’s not that I’m not tired; I feel exhausted.
Perhaps I’ve reached that point of delirium where I’m too weary to
sleep. In any case, I’m lying here awake. The soft light that
streams through the window falls on David’s face and I watch him
sleep for a moment. He is sleeping soundly; his eyes move beneath
his eyelids and his chest rises and falls as he takes deep breaths.
His face is calm. There is no trace of the panic that he was
feeling earlier tonight as we fled. Though David made the choice to
help me, to come with me, I cannot help but feel responsible for
his involvement in this mess. After all, I had begged him to
investigate my father. He had likewise begged me to leave well
enough alone. I had refused. Now, we’re both fugitives. At some
point, probably sooner rather than later, The Vox will catch us.
Surely we’ll be executed. The Alter will not show mercy. It is my
fear that keeps me from sleeping.
The more I think about it, the more I feel
uneasy about the circumstances of our escape. Yes, I took measures
to help my chances of escape, namely re-sealing the door to my
interrogation room in the hopes that my absence would not be
detected until it was too late. But that effort was rendered futile
when David attacked his guard and we left him unconscious in the
main hallway. Surely someone heard it. Surely someone saw him. And
yet we never saw pursuers. We never heard anyone in the hallway
behind us. We wasted several moments on the roof deciding the best
course of action; even from the air, I never saw anyone in pursuit.
When we landed the transport, we knew that we had to distance
ourselves from it quickly, but we never actually saw anyone giving
chase. There were no other ships in the air. No one yelled for us
to stop. Our escape was just a little too easy.
This line of thought leads me to reflect on my
interrogation with The Alter. He was very angry, and yet he left me
alone. He did not resort to the torturous methods that had been
used on my father. Is it because they didn’t work the first time,
or does he have something else in mind? Why did his questions about
The Cube trigger some kind of vision in me? Perhaps my mind is so
desperate for me to understand something that it has resorted to
waking dreams. My thoughts begin to blur and my eyelids grow heavy.
There is something about my interrogation that was very, very
wrong, but I cannot remember what it was. For now, my body has
decided to sleep, and I can no longer fight it.
When I awake, I notice two things. First, it is
early evening. I slept through the day. Second, David is gone. He
left no note, no sign that he may return. I am simultaneously
crushed and relieved. It was easier for me to deal with the reality
of this situation knowing that someone was here with me. Without
David, I have no one. I am alone in the world. On the other hand,
the burden of my father’s death has not left me. It is a weight
around my neck. It threatens to crush my chest, threatens to stop
me from drawing breath at any moment. I fear that I could not
survive if faced with the realization that David, too, was dead
because of me. I am lonely, but I am glad that he is gone. I can
imagine him living a normal life. At least, more normal than the
one I’ll be leading. I hate to admit it, but my father did what was
best for us; everything was better when we were dead.
Now that I am alone, I need to figure out my
course of action. What to do now? I feel at a loss; David was the
great strategist. He knows how the government works. I only have
basic knowledge of any of that. Perhaps I could try to disappear
again. I could make my way back to my home in Eligo, find my
father’s survivalist research. I could disappear into the
wilderness. No, surely that would not work. Every public transport
station probably has a photograph of me in the ticket office by
now. Not to mention the fact that I have a little money, but
certainly not enough for a transport to Eligo. I couldn’t walk
hundreds of miles on foot without being seen by someone. Even if I
could get there somehow, the house is most certainly under
surveillance. I can never go back. I place my hand in my pocket and
draw out my father’s watch. At least I have something of his. I
flip the cover open and look at the picture of my mother for a
moment. I flip it closed. I will not end up like my father. I will
not hide. I probably couldn’t if I wanted to, but I’m not going to
look over my shoulder for the rest of my life, suspecting everyone
that I meet of being some kind of informant. I don’t know if my
father did what he is accused of. I don’t know if he stole the Cube
shard, but from now on, I’m going to trust him. If he did, he did
it for a good reason. If The Vox is looking for it, that means The
Sententia has given the order. The only way to save my own life is
to have a bargaining chip. I know that they’re looking for The
Cube. I’ll just have to find it first.
Now that I know what I have to do, part of the
weight has been lifted from me. Somehow, I’ll find a way to finish
what my father started. I don’t feel helpless anymore. I feel
uplifted. I feel empowered. I hear a quiet creak as the door to the
apartment is pushed open. I feel terrified.
As silently as I can, I drop into a crouching
position and press myself up against the wall. It’s too late for me
to run to the fire escape. That plan could only work if I had been
watching the window. Why hadn’t I been watching the window? If I
die right now, my father’s death will have been for nothing. I’m
simply not going to let that happen. I’ve got nothing on my side
but the element of surprise. This intruder does not know where I
am. Again, my heart feels that it may pound its way right out of my
chest. I’ll be astonished if I don’t die from a heart attack before
this is all over.
My plan is to wait for this person to walk
through the doorway to the dining area, lunge at his legs, and
knock him to the floor. Beyond that, I’m not sure. Should I make a
break for it? Race madly for the door? I am fairly certain that he
is alone, but that’s not to say that there aren’t more in the
building searching other apartments. I doubt I’d be able to hide. I
probably wouldn’t even make it to the door. My other option is to
fight. If he is a member of The Vox, he is in prime physical
condition. I do not have a weapon, though I notice that part of the
baseboard where I am crouching is no longer attached to the wall;
it has simply been propped up against it. The wood is fairly thick.
I could hit him. The end is sharp where it splintered apart. I
could stab him. When I think this thought, I wonder,
Could
I?
Could I stab a man, gravely injure or maybe kill him? He’s
only following orders, after all. Soldiers don’t choose which
missions they’re sent to complete. For all he knows, I’m a
murderer. I don’t know if I could really hurt him. Then again, who
knows what a person would do to survive?
The floor creaks softly beneath his weight. He
is moving carefully, but this building is very old. I can feel him
approaching my doorway. I am crouched. I am ready to spring forward
to take his legs from beneath him. Just as I see the toe of one of
his boots, I hear him whisper, “Violet?”
David! I allow myself to relax; I lean back
against the wall and slide down to a sitting position. I try to
catch my breath; I try to regain my composure. David sits down
beside me.
“Violet! What’s wrong? Are you all right?”
I cannot speak.
“Violet, talk to me! What’s going on?”
“What’s going on?
What’s going on?
I
thought you were trying to kill me!”
David is confused. “Why would I be trying to
kill you?”
I struggle to explain what now seems to be a
severe overreaction. “I woke up and you were gone. I thought you’d
left me; I didn’t expect you to come back! So when I heard someone
come in, I assumed it was The Vox. I thought they’d found me.”
David looks stricken. Perhaps I’m not going
about this the right way. “Violet, you thought I’d… abandon
you?”
That is what I’d thought, though when he says
it, it seems much more traitorous. “I mean, not
abandon
me.
Just kind of…”
“Leave while you were sleeping and never come
back.”
“… Yes.” I look down at my hands.
David scoots closer and holds my face in both of
his hands. His hands are warm; the skin is rough. He brings his
head very close to mine and looks into my eyes. No one has ever
looked at me the way he does right now. It’s as if nothing has ever
mattered more than what he is about to say.
“I will
never
leave you. Nothing and no
one could ever compel me to remove myself from where you are.”
I don’t know what to say.
I love you?
No,
that’s ridiculous. This is not the time or place for me to go
around proclaiming love for someone. Especially because he’s never
displayed any particular romantic interest in me. Besides, I’m not
even sure if that’s true. Do I love David? I care about him. I want
him around. I want to protect him. For now, these things are
enough. I’m not sure what it would mean for me to love him, or for
him to love me. I decide to change the subject. I smile.
“Well, where did you go?”
David looks a little put out by my abrupt change
of subject. Was he waiting for me to say something else? Maybe not
proclamations of love, but at least a little reciprocation might
have been in order. Well, it’s too late now.
David has regained his footing. He smiles. “I
got food.”
We eat ravenously. Granted, there’s not much
food. David was only able to get his hands on some stale bread, a
little cheese, and some preserved fruit. Still, I’m grateful.
Before we finish it off, David decides that we should save some. We
don’t have much money, so food might be hard to come by. We don’t
know how long we’ll be running.
To pass the time until we’re ready to sleep
again, David tells me stories about his childhood. It’s nice to
hear stories like this since I don’t remember being a child. I love
to hear David speak about his mother. I only wish that I had a
story about mine.
“My mother is a great cook. Sometimes, when I
was young, she would take me with her to the market. She would tell
me to choose three things—any three things. I would walk along
through the stalls, looking at this fruit or that vegetable, trying
to find something that would finally stump her. It never failed—no
matter which three things I chose, she would always make the most
succulent meal. Sometimes, when we had a good harvest and a little
more money, she would make enough to share with the neighbors. Once
I thought I finally had her. Who would’ve thought you could make
anything good with spiny figs, corn, and cross-grain? Everyone
agreed it was the best soup we’d ever eaten. I still don’t know how
she did it. My father always said that it was because my mother had
grown up hungry. When you’re hungry, you can make something out of
almost nothing.”
He smiles at the memory and I laugh, thinking of
David as a child, foiled again.
“What about your father? Is he as much of a
character as your mother?”
David’s smile fades; I wish I hadn’t said
anything. David has never spoken much about his father.
“My father. Yeah, he was a character all right.
My father was assigned to work in agriculture. We grew grain on his
family’s land. But that’s not what he was passionate about. He was
known to be a great seer. People came from many miles to have him
read them. It was illegal for him to take payment, but he did it
anyway. My father was someone who always wanted more than what he
had.”
I’m not sure how to respond to this. It is clear
that David resents his father. I decide not to say anything. David
sighs and says, “Well, it doesn’t matter now anyway. He’s
dead.”
Now I’ve got to say something. “Oh. David, I’m
sorry. Still, it must have been something to have a seer in your
family. My father told me about them once. It must be so
interesting to know someone with that kind of gift.”
David snorts. “Yeah, it sure would be
something.” I’m confused. “Violet, my father wasn’t really a seer.
He was a liar. That was his gift. He was a thief. He was a
charlatan. He tricked good people out of hard-earned money and
goods because he wanted more. He liked the thrill. He liked the
game.
“I watched him do it hundreds, maybe thousands
of times. He could read people’s emotions. He could sense their
intentions. What may have been a slight twitch to someone was a
tell as far as my father was concerned. He could put together
details; the way a person dressed, the way he reacted when my
father mentioned a family member, the desperation in a person’s
eyes, these things all told my father what that person was seeking.
He gave it to them. He pretended to talk to the dead. He pretended
to see the future. He may even do sleight-of-hand or some other
type of illusion to convey some type of supernatural power. Every
single time they believed him, and every single time, they paid
him. When he finally got caught, he got into a lot of trouble. He
died while serving his sentence in the mines.”
On Cerno, when a person gets into trouble with
the law, he does not spend his sentence sitting in a cell. He does
not have access to amenities; he does not get to write letters and
view films and finish his education. Confinement is not his
punishment because confinement is not productive. If the crime is
not serious enough for execution, the law-breaker serves his
sentence by working off his crime. He does hard labor, usually in
the mines. There is no argument, there is no appeal. The Sententia
reviews his case. The Sententia decides how he will repay his debt
to society. Usually, that payment is made with sweat.