arbitrate (daynight) (21 page)

Tristan and I happily excused ourselves from
that
conversation. “We’ve got a party coming up. Here are the details.” I handed Tristan a document to read. It covered, in excruciating detail, the many deceptions of the SCI. The Arbiters were emphatic that we gloss over the details of Heart and the Crossover Center, instead, telling them that their memories had been tampered with (true) and that the SCI exploited this (true). To give too much detail would cause them trauma. I had
caused
such trauma previously when I gave Bri and Tristan details of their previous lives on Earth.
 

The document encouraged Second Chancers to spread the word and “defect through Exile” to join thousands of other like-afflicted citizens in the Exiler Nation. Not a message that a couple expecting a baby wanted to hear.

“I’m not sure we’ll be able to attend your party.” Tristan seemed to be very unhappy we had involved him in this matter. “Bri needs her rest. The baby has to come first.” I heard him loud and clear.

“Tristan, speak for yourself,” Bri said, jabbing him in the ribs. I think she was done with Bailey’s “questions” about pregnancy. “You are so ridiculously overprotective. When do we
ever
turn down a party invitation?”

Tristan ran his hand across his throat to shut her up. “Sorry babe, the timing on this one is bad. We won’t be able to get away.”

Bri pouted and then leaned down to speak to her protruding belly. “Pea Pod, there you go again ruining all my fun. How’d you like it if I kept
you
from going to a party? I think I’m going to have to withhold ice cream from you when you are born as punishment.” Pea Pod? She was thinking of feeding the kid ice cream at birth? Where was Social Services when you needed them?

“I completely understand. Feel free to tell your close friends about it though. We’d love the opportunity to get to know more people here in Fish City.”

Tristan leaned back with his arms across his chest. “Most of our close friends were back in Garden City, and we haven’t seen them since a spectacular Cleaving ceremony we attended last summer. You should have been there. Cutest couple ever—next to us, of course—Kira and Ethan. They were so happy together. Now
that
was some party. But we’d be happy to pass the word along to some of our new friends here about yours.” He twisted the knife in deeper, cruel smirk on his face the entire time. What he didn’t know—and I did—was that Kira and Ethan were separated shortly after their Cleaving, and that half of the couple I’d seen was anything but happy.

“Cindy, dear, we better run and leave Bri to rest. I’m sure they have dinner plans and then want to get to bed. It’s nearly morn.”

Bailey winked at me and then turned to me and said, “Bri, thank you for the low-down on the whole pregnancy thing. It has been absolutely illuminating. I have a great mental picture now of what it’s like. And good luck on your birth. I think you’ll need it.” Once again, she held her arms wide and then slowly squeezed them together.

Bri held her finger up like a gun and pulled the “trigger” at Bailey. “Hopefully, we’ll see you again soon. And yes, we’re very excited to meet our baby. Maybe the two of you will get lucky soon and have one of your own.” Bri gave a huge open-mouthed grin at the look on my face. Little did she know that
she
could be the first to deliver one of
my
own.

I was glad Kira wasn’t here to see her former best friend pregnant. My mind reverted to the dreaded night of the flash flood—where Kira and I had discussed our lab babies or “labies” theory. Shortly thereafter, I’d chosen to leave her to go find my father. And Ethan had taken up right where I left off. Even though Kira had come back to me—she was fiercely loyal—I know that night was the turning point of our relationship. I put my cause ahead of her and continued to do so. It was no wonder she fell for him.

Our tour continued over the next week, and we, thankfully, didn’t run into any more of our friends from Garden City—all of whom carried Kira’s (and my or Ethan’s) children. Seeing Bri and Tristan was difficult enough. Physical reminders of my time with Kira in Garden City were brutal and unwanted. I could travel through portals but couldn’t go back in time and change my decisions. I lived night to night, pushing the cause with Bailey and Doc, restlessly sleeping at day and desperately hoping it was enough to sustain me. It wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

At the end of our tour, I returned to find a note from Vienna waiting for me at the camp.

“Blake,

I thought I should inform you that Kira is no longer under the safe protection of the SCI. After numerous attempts were made on her life—likely by Militant Exilers—she and Jackson Christo have disappeared and are presumed to be on the run. I am most concerned for Kira, given the delicate condition she is in. As you know, she is carrying your child. If you hear anything as to their whereabouts, please report back to me immediately.
 

Fondly,

Your Mother.”

Kira and Jax were on the run? Where would they go?
 

They’d seek refuge with the Arbiters.

It might be time for Bailey and I to pay another visit to Heart.

Present

While the Exiler camp
outside Garden City is somewhat orderly and peaceful, the same can’t be said about the other Exiler camps. The camps are seas of orange: orange jumpsuits, orange backpacks, and orange tents. The inhabitants are angry for being promised a “better life” by leaving the cities. They’re starving due to the limited supply drops from the SCI. The campsites are filthy. Lack of water will do that. Civilizations—from ancient times—have amassed around water sources for a reason. The SCI built their cities around all the major water sources and supplemented them with their elaborate water collection facilities and desalinization plants. But the Exilers? They have nothing.

Well, that’s not exactly true. They have sickness that spreads through the camps like wildfire. They have ugly fights over the scarce resources. And their lives are ruled by the heat—to the point that I see how the small ocean cave where my mother birthed my sister, with a steady breeze and spray from the waves, was a luxury. Imagine being forced to shield yourself from the sun during the day in a tent that
increases
the temperature instead of decreasing it.

People have started to dig into the ground under the tents to get a respite from the heat. But with more than ten thousand in each camp and high temperatures, the work has been slow. Some camps have dug wells, but the output is limited. The water practically evaporates as it hits the surface air.
 

We’ve noticed that quality of the camp captains really varies. They’re each in charge of fifty people. Some allow the chaos and fighting. Others will dish out “justice” far worse than the SCI. None seem capable enough to lead their charges away from the camp and keep them alive in the process.

I can feel death at their non-existent doors. If Brad doesn’t kill them, the heat or conditions will.

What have we done?
 

How will I answer for this?

What I
don’t
see at the camps are any of Kira and my friends from Garden City. Not a single couple or their?—our?—babies. Their absence is jarring and odd.

There are things I can’t un-see or un-know and desperately want to as I walk the camps, rifle in hand, face masked to keep from catching something. How many times do I have to turn my head the other way, wipe my tears? Seeing the children suffer is the worst. Their uncovered skin frying under the blazing sun. Hunger so severe that they are willing to gnaw on skinned, half-cooked rats or dig bugs from the ground and pop them like candy. There was a time I felt that desperation, ate whatever I could find.

At the Mid-West Continent Camp, we help go after a seventeen-year-old boy who left camp at day, following his trail to the nearest city. We get there too late and watch as he flings himself onto the Eco barrier to end his suffering.
 

We meet a fourteen-year-old girl at the North West Continent Camp, robbed of her rations, raped and left for dead. Her last words are gratitude for her pending “escape” from life.
 

The North East Continent Camp has a mother who suffocated her infant son to keep him from floundering in desolate conditions, her breasts barren of milk to feed him. I watch her rock the baby’s three-day old corpse, tears burning her face as the camp doctor tries to pry the baby from her and give him a proper burial.

We arrive at the Mid-East Continent Camp shortly after a hole collapsed. We help dig out the dead—a family of four. The daughters were four and six and remind me of my sister Leila at the same age.

The worst of the worst is at our last stop—the hottest and grungiest of the bunch—the South East Continent Camp. A hungry mob had beaten the driver of a horse and wagon supply transport to death, so as to kill the horse and eat the meat. Their act created a short-term boon in food, but prevented new supplies from getting to the camp. We didn’t see the event happen, but the horse carcass remains, an ugly reminder of it. No one has the energy or strength to haul it out of the camp.

To add insult to starvation and injury, a meager supply drop arrives from the SCI. In it, there is an ominous message.

“WE HAVE CAPTURED SEVERAL PIRATING CREWS, WHICH ARE IN STRICT VIOLATION OF THE TEMPORARY PEACE AGREEMENT BETWEEN THE SCI-CONTROLLED THERAN CITIES AND THE EXILERS. BECAUSE OF THESE VIOLATIONS, ALL SUPPLY DROPS TO EXILER CAMPS WILL CEASE, AND THE PEACE AGREEMENT IS NULL AND VOID.”

Jax, Joshua, Bailey, Adam, and I stand in the camp at the med-tent. No one speaks. Even Adam and Bailey backed off the extreme public displays of affection after seeing the camp conditions. We listen to the Camp Commander as he gives us the breakdown of camp deaths in the last week. One-hundred forty. Illness, heat exhaustion, dehydration, murder, infection from injury, and suicide. The latest supplies won’t even last a week. Gads help them.

I lean over to Jax and whisper harshly. “I can’t fix this. Can you?”

“Neither a man nor a crowd nor a nation can be trusted to act humanely or to think sanely under the influence of a great fear.”

—Bertrand Russell
 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Kira

I must know it’s not real on some level, but my panicked brain, racing heart, excruciating pain, and shallow breathing disagree.
I’m strapped to a hard, reclining board, seated at the head of a conveyor belt. My feet are chained to stirrups, my knees bent, legs spread apart. My hands have been cuffed above my head.

A nurse urges me to push and push and push and push and push, in a never-ending cycle. As each baby makes its jarring entry into the world, the nurse cuts the cord and sends it down the conveyor belt, assembly line style. I can scarcely take a breath between contractions. I’m hyperventilating and so lightheaded that I can’t think straight. Boy. Boy. Girl. Boy. Girl. Girl. Girl. Boy. Boy. Girl. Boy. Boy. Girl. Boy. Girl. Girl. Girl. I lose count. They leave me so fast that I can’t take in their features to determine who each baby’s father is.
 

Along the assembly line, the babies are placed in Moses baskets. Essential supplies are added to an adjacent bundle, such as diapers, clothes, and bottles. At the end of the belt is an orderly line of smiling couples awaiting their precious packages. When each couple reaches the front of the line, one grabs the baby in the basket, the other grabs the bundle, and then they board one of dozens of trams going to destinations unknown.

I scream, “He’s mine. She’s mine. You can’t have them,” between grunts and pushes. I strain against my restraints, blood pooling around my wrists and ankles.

A woman with bright-green eyes approaches and says, “Hush, child. At least they are alive. If you behave, you can keep the last couple babies. If you can’t, I’m afraid we’ll take those too. If you’re really bad…we will kill them all.”

My screams turn to sobs.

There is no comfort. No absolution. No glorious scent of vanilla to distract me.

The daymare finally recedes, and I wake up in a pool of my own sweat on the floor, curled in a fetal position, tears soaking my face. I can feel the bruises forming on my body from thrashing around and falling out of bed. The coppery, sickening smell of blood is in the air from hitting my head on the nightstand. The clock reads 1330 hours. Middle of the day. I’ll never get back to sleep now. Despite my best efforts of trying not to think about it,…the stark fact is I will never see the dozens of my babies Brad and Vienna Darcton implanted in my friends.

This is the first time I’ve had this particular day terror, but I expect it won’t be the last. It has staying power. If Jax had been here…would I have blissfully returned to sleep without remembering? I’d give anything to erase the memory.
Why has he forsaken me?
How many days have I struggled through on my own, the day terrors worse than ever? A week? Two? More?
No wonder I’ve had to see my therapist nightly
. I know Jax is busy. I know the Exilers are facing extinction, and the Arbiters are trying to intervene, trying to save them. I’m a horribly selfish person—because right now, I only want him to save
me
.
 

The only person I can turn to is my therapist, but that’s not the same as having friends and loved ones who are invested in you. I have no friends anymore and don’t know where my family is. The fathers of my children? Ethan is not speaking to me—for not telling him about Evvie. And Blake’s focusing all his energy on helping my absent savior, Jax.

I pull myself up and lumber into the bathroom, stripping myself of my daygown on the way. The shower feels soothing to my aching muscles but stings the cuts as the water peels the blood from my skin.
The pain is real. The dream was not. Unfortunately, reality is worse.

When I step out of the shower, I look at my dripping wet form in the mirror. I’m shocked to see how many bruises and cuts I have. It looks like someone tried to beat me to death. Despite my startlingly awful outward appearance, I know the truth. What’s inside…the mental bruising and scarring…hurts so much more.