Office of Mercy (9781101606100) (12 page)

She wore her regular office clothes: a cream-colored, second-skin shirt fastened into a pair of brown prote-pants. Her hair draped over her shoulders and carried with it the faint smell of shampoo, as if she had just showered that morning. Weaving through the crowd of morningshift workers, she made her way to the doors of the Department of the Exterior and down the white hall to the Office of Mercy. In every way, the day suggested business as usual: the regular crew sat hunched over their keyboards, the coffee machine gurgled on the side table beneath the wallphone, and Natasha's own station appeared orderly and waiting, her audioset neat in its holder and her desk chair tucked in the way she always left it. And yet. Despite all this, the air felt charged, ready to snap with a bolt of energy. She slipped into her seat and logged in, and a moment later, Jeffrey arrived, his eyes on her as he dropped a stack of binders on his desk.

“You look very pretty today,” Jeffrey said.

A tickle of heat came over her flesh. “Thank you.”

His attention stayed on her and she typed commands slowly, drawing up the coordinates for the Crane Tribe. Her fingers felt thick; it took her two tries to get the coordinates right. Jeffrey walked over to stand behind her, his hand on the back of her chair.

“Are you bringing up the W13 shoreline?”

“Yes, here it is.”

“Oh, good, we've had a few disturbances in that area. Why don't you put together a seven-day data chart and we'll look at it together.”

But Natasha was only half listening. While he was speaking, Jeffrey's hand had eased its way from the chair to her shoulder, and then slipped lower, below her arm and to her side. He held her across the narrow curve of her ribs. She stiffened, but the hand did not move.

“Shh,” he whispered. “No one can see. Draw up the visuals.”

Natasha typed the commands, feeling the warmth of his palm through the second-skin of her shirt. Her body tingled under his touch; he wanted her, Jeffrey wanted her. His hand slipped lower and she could feel his need in the sliding, gripping movement of his fingers. The computer screen flashed and her eyes drifted to where the count glowed in the upper-right portion of the screen: 138, the Crane count. What did that number mean? Were the Cranes alive or swept? Jeffrey's hand moved down to cradle her thigh but she couldn't concentrate because she couldn't remember. The number was reminding her of something, something bad. . . .

She tried to hold on but she couldn't. The Office was fading before her eyes and with it the pressure of Jeffrey's hand on her body, the smell of coffee, the clicking of keys. . . .

The world shifted.

Bright and bland to dark with an upward bleeding of color—red.

Red lights skimmed across the marble floor, the emergency lights. Natasha was alone, stepping quickly across the blacked-out Dome, under the watch of a streak of stars. Her clothes had changed. Now she wore a blue silk-skin dress that gathered in tight, horizontal folds over her chest and then fell gracefully down to her ankles. The heels of her shoes clicked determinedly while at the same time she realized her destination: the south-facing doors of the Department of Agriculture, the wing where the Crane Celebration would take place, the wing that she had avoided for weeks.

The doors parted for her, she did not need to touch the reader, and then before her lay the vast Garden, the broad strip of lush grass bordered on each side by giant maple, oak, poplar, and cherry trees. Around the base of the trunks bloomed flowers of every shape and color, though Natasha could barely make them out in the dimness. Here the entire settlement would gather for the Crane Celebration, here they would acknowledge their own success and their own benevolent power, and renew their sense of shared purpose.

Instead of continuing farther down the lawn, Natasha turned through a large archway to her right. Again she had access, only this time it was because someone had left the doors open. The ragged silhouette of this year's wheat crop stretched expansively, black and still in the blue nightlights that replaced the bright, high-energy spectrum of the day. The ceiling hung low overhead, and a spiral staircase in the corner passed through spherical cuts in the ceiling and floor, each of which led to near-identical fields above and below. It was one of America-Five's early feats in agricultural engineering: to stack the crops one on top of the other like reams of paper. Natasha breathed in the cool, sweet air; she ran her hand over the tips of the rough stalks. Then she took off her shoes and started down one of the footpaths, the dirt cool and pleasant and squishy under her feet. She had walked deep into the crop when a rustle of movement came from behind her and before she could turn around, Jeffrey was there, speaking hot words against her neck.

“You couldn't stay away, could you?”

His arms clasped around her middle, and he held her while kissing her neck up to her ear.

“Jeffrey,” she said.

A shiver ran through her and she turned, her front now pressed against his and her arms thrown over his shoulders. She could not see his face in the blue shadow, but his mouth found its way to hers and he kissed her deeply. His hands crept to her waist, running smoothly over the thin, slippery skin of her dress. He grabbed the skirt, bunching it in his fists, and yanked the whole dress up and over her head so that now Natasha stood naked before him. With sudden force he lifted her into his arms, and then they were moving deeper into the high wheat, his mouth never breaking from hers.

“Wait,” said Natasha. She pushed against him. There was something wrong with the way he was holding her. She did not like how it felt. His grip was too tight. “Wait, put me down.”

The room flickered, and the blue deepened to the true dark of a night sky. She was losing her hold on the dream; she was remembering. Then, before she could stop it, the Tribespeople broke through.

Natasha stood among the trees, before a raging fire. The ground pressed coldly under her feet, not the soil of crops but a drier, older, rougher ground; stiff rags and strings of beads draped over her body. She was singing—a song she both knew and did not know—she was singing with the Tribespeople who stood in a ring around the flames, all half-naked and jumbled together and dancing. Natasha felt exhilarated, triumphant. Atop her mess of hair she wore a crown of ivy leaves and red berries; she could smell the rich earth emanating from her own flesh. A man with a wrinkled, leathery face and blackened teeth threw a stream of water from a clay pot onto the fire; a pillar of thick smoke poured toward the sky with a hiss. He looked at Natasha, they all did. They were honoring her, welcoming her.

“Is that her?”

Yes.

“Is that her?”

Yes.

“Is that her?”

They were closing in around her, the circle constricting.

“Is that her?”

Yes, yes, she's come at last—

“Stop!”

Natasha ripped off her helmet without properly ending the simulation. A sharp pain erupted in the front region of her brain and her vision went black. She writhed, not knowing where she was until the harness caught her halfway to the floor; the straps held her there, her body limp and suspended and trembling. She breathed jaggedly, clutching her head while the pain began to subside and her mind began to recover its orientation, her cheeks matted with sweat and tears.

9

O
n the morning of the Crane Celebration, the citizens of America-Five stepped out of the elephant to behold a crystal clear blue sky. The clouds and drizzle of the last several days had suddenly departed, and this abrupt change in the weather only further boosted their spirits. The floor of the Dome was also transformed: around the outer wall, little makeshift stands stood piled with new second-skin clothing, each stand attended by a very proud-looking member of the Office of Biotextiles. Over the course of the day, the citizens were invited to pick out five new items to wear for that night. The new clothing and accessories—all in the earthy colors of yellow, blue, green, and brown—represented (according to tradition, and as the older generations were constantly reminding the Epsilons) the human power the citizens wielded over the unethical forces of the world: their ability to excise, with the snip of a sweep, the evil that nature's laws commanded.

For the first time since the failed mission, people stopped to chat with their friends as they crossed the floor to their respective Departments; they gathered in clumps around the tables of second-skin dresses and shirts and other new things. Their smiles were small, but hopeful; their laughter strained, but genuine. No one spoke now of the bitter ideas that had begun to circulate after a few posts to the intergenerational boards—about the inappropriateness of any celebration given the disastrous situation with the Pines. Such denouncements felt overly self-punitive in the gentle light of day, and overly brutal amid thoughts of newly potted flowers and tables dressed with colored cloths and candles. Anyway, the Mother herself had condescended to publicly address these concerns. In the early morning, she had posted a long and eloquent letter, addressed to all the generations below her, reminding them that the suffering of one group should never negate the happy salvation of another, just as the reverse would always be true.

Of course, as was inevitable in any free human society, there was one group that did not agree: near the Department of the Exterior doors stood a huddle of silent protesters, Raj Radhakrishnan and his team of eccentrics.

Their solemnly held signs said enough about their lunacy:
SWEEPS END NOW
and
THE GREAT EXPANSION IS FOR ALL
and, most inane of any of them,
SAVE THE TRIBES.

Save the Tribes! Isn't that what they were trying to do?

If anything, the protesters' presence, by a simple logic of opposites, only furthered the other citizens' conviction that a Crane Celebration was right and in order.

When Jeffrey entered the Office of Mercy that morning, many people briefly abandoned their cubicles to push forward and shake his hand. For them, the Crane Celebration was a reminder of how much their work mattered both within the settlement and to humanity as a whole. To end suffering. To bring peace to the world. No one said the job would be easy, but at least it was work they could believe in. And someday soon, once they did manage to sweep the Pines, they would be able to look back at these hours of labor and know that they were all in service of a great and necessary end.

At 2030 hours, the hallways began to crowd with people waiting to ride up to the Dome. Natasha and Min-he stood in the middle of the line on level six. Natasha wore a green, textured dress that shimmered with a silvery glow, like high grass tossing about in the wind; and Min-he had picked out a short-skirted outfit with a yellow and brown leopard print design. (Only Min-he, who had a small, compact physique, could have made it look good.) A long, lifelike snake wrapped around Min-he's neck, and its red mouth snapped open and hissed any time a person patted its head—which Min-he convinced many of their unsuspecting hallmates to do. By the time the roommates crossed through the open doors to the Department of Agriculture, the Garden was already swarming with people gasping and admiring its beautiful transformation.

“Oh, Natasha,” Min-he squealed. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

Natasha shook her head, staring around in wonder.

The Garden looked stunning: crepe paper streamers of blue and yellow draped between opposite rows of trees; flowers so bright with color that they seemed ready to burst reached from their beds; and all the trees were trimmed and pruned to perfection. At the back of the room, several rows of white chairs faced a high platform, built for the occasion. On the far wall, behind the platform, towers of colored blooms made a picture of a yellow sun with bright, reaching beams.

Most amazing of all, though, the thing that captured Natasha's attention and would not let go was the two rows of thin, tall torches lining the edge of the Garden's lawn: each erupting at its tip with identical, dancing flames.

As they passed between the first set of torches, Min-he gripped Natasha's arm in fear and excitement. The smell of the burning oil mixed with the strong perfume of the flowers, and the heat of the nearer torch touched the side of Natasha's face, making her shudder and steer Min-he to the center of the lawn. Fire was a great rarity in the settlement, not only because of its inherent danger, but also because of its wasteful consumption of purified breathing air. Natasha had only seen the torches once before, at the party commemorating the three hundredth anniversary of the Storm. She was sure they had not had fire at the Wolf Celebration, the year her generation turned eight, perhaps because that sweep was so small.

The roommates walked together toward the neat rows of white chairs; here, though, Min-he broke off to join a group of other archivists, while Natasha continued to the front, where the members of the Office of Mercy had gathered. She took a seat in the second row, next to Eric. Jeffrey sat on the opposite side of the aisle, directly facing the platform and talking with some Betas. He looked both nervous and resigned, as if being publicly honored by the Alphas was some slightly unpleasant task that he had to go through now and then. Natasha stared. A female Beta was saying something to Jeffrey and he laughed. Natasha quickly looked away, the air catching in her throat. Her hurt was still raw and it made her shaky with jealousy to see him interacting so casually with other people.

Once they had all found their places, a hush fell over the crowd. The first notes of a familiar melody sounded from four Beta violinists, who stood in the shadow of trees. Then the citizens rose as a line of hooded men and women entered through the Department doors, some as upright and sturdy as the Epsilons, others walking on wobbly legs and hanging their weight on Beta escorts. The Alphas. In all, there were forty-one people in the Alpha generation. Not every Alpha had come, though. It looked like only ten or twelve at most. That was expected; most Alphas preferred not to leave the Department of Government. As two men stepped gingerly by, Natasha wondered who among them had read the message that she and Eric had sent. What had they thought? If any of them noticed her and Eric standing together near the aisle, they gave no distinct sign of recognition. Natasha could just make out the ashen skin and deep wrinkles beneath their hoods. Their features were sharp, and their cheeks heavy and sunken. The last two people to pass were a woman and a man: the Mother and Father. The positions were not permanent ones; the Alphas elected their leaders every fourth decade. But for Natasha, as for all the Epsilons, the Mother and Father had been the same two Alphas all her life.

The Alphas arranged themselves in a section of roped-off seats to one side, except for the Mother, whom a Beta man escorted to the podium at the center of the platform. She was the only Alpha who did not wear a hood, and Natasha guessed that the expressive features of her broad, pale face were visible even to those citizens seated in the very last row. The Epsilons had only laid eyes on her eight times before—at Celebrations and on a few special days when she had visited them at school—but Natasha knew her face well. The Mother's real name was Elsie Miller, but as long as she held the highest leadership position in the settlement, everyone called her Mother.

“What pleasure it brings me,” the Mother began, her gaze falling lovingly over the crowd, “to see our children gathered here before us in good health and happy spirits. These have been difficult times for us all, and it is very fortunate that we should have this opportunity to recognize the good in our continued state of peace and vitality, the peace and vitality of our fellow citizens all over the world and—what brings us here tonight—to recognize and celebrate the peacefulness in death of the one hundred and thirty-eight members of the Crane Tribe.”

Here the Mother's voice expanded with the fullness of her compassion and, among the citizens, there was a collective rise of emotion.

“This work is the same work that we began three hundred and five years ago, when the Alphas from every settlement in the world launched the simultaneous sweeps that eliminated from existence fifty-nine billion suffering souls. When, by the power of our own intelligence and will, we prevented what would have been the end of worthwhile human life on earth. This is the work that continued when we realized, with deep regret and agitation, that the Storm, despite its grandness and its power, had failed a scattered population in the northern regions. Failed them by letting them live. Since those first reports, and the sweeps that swiftly followed, we have brought an additional 8,300,019 lives to permanent relief on this continent alone. It is a number that includes this most recent annihilation, which we have gathered to honor tonight.”

She cast a warm look upon those from the Office of Mercy.

“In the second week of June, a Tribe we had never observed before entered from the north into our field. We called this Tribe the Cranes after the sandhill cranes that once populated this area, and for the Tribe's practice of building camps by the water. Our hard workers in the Office of Mercy watched them for many weeks, waiting until the group assembled in one place, until they could confirm the count. . . .”

As the Mother talked on, a feeling of pride now swelled from the citizens, a recognition of their own goodness growing within them all. Only Natasha did not feel this. And as the Mother expounded upon the particulars leading up to the Crane sweep, which every Office of Mercy worker knew already, Natasha's eyes fixed on the orange flame of the torch closest to her. Fire like the fire that the Pines had: hot, dangerous, unbridled energy, and beautiful too, the most beautiful thing in the Garden by far. Did the others feel that way too? Did the Alphas know the beauty in danger, even while they stamped it out of existence? They must.

Looking at the flame, feeling its heat on her eyes, made Natasha remember the children she had seen down in the cave, how the mother had clutched the boy's arm so hard he'd cried out. Mother and mother, she thought, Father and father; the same words but not the same meaning. She remembered the man named Raul. How had he learned of his family's death? Did he see their bodies? Had he put the woman and boy and girl in the ground as people did in the Pre-Storm books? But bodies meant nothing, Natasha knew, once the force that kept the parts connected had gone. Those people no longer existed; those disklike eyes of the boy and girl had gone to nothing, and the world was emptier than it had been before. Natasha took in a sharp gasp of breath, but the Mother had just said something amusing and, in the ripple of laughter that followed, no one noticed Natasha's distress. To end suffering, Natasha's education reminded, but that reminder was weak and pleading, and it paled against the fire and the will to live.

Natasha missed hearing the moment when the Mother called Jeffrey's name. Only the startling burst of applause (not to mention Eric's whistle right near her ear) forced her attention back to the Ceremony.

“. . . for one hundred and thirty-eight lives delivered to peace,” the Mother was saying.

Jeffrey stood on the platform, his face bright pink with embarrassment. He bowed as the Mother lifted over his head the red ribbon that supported his gleaming gold medal of service.

The entire crowd rose to give Jeffrey a standing ovation; the noise grew deafening and chaotic, and Natasha felt like she was going to be sick. From the podium, Jeffrey's eyes met hers and a shadow of unease crossed his face. Only then did Natasha realize that, though she'd managed to stand, she was neither smiling nor applauding for her beloved Jeffrey like everyone else. The heat of the crowd became unbearable; she had to get out of here right away.

The Mother had hardly left the podium before Natasha was pushing to move past Eric.

“What are you doing?” he hissed, purposefully blocking the way with his elbow while he continued to clap.

“I'm tired. I want to go to my sleeproom.”

“But we still have dinner and the party after!” he said, shocked by the mere idea of leaving. “Hey, this isn't about the message, is it?”

“What message?”

“The Alphas. You didn't check?”

“No, what? I was getting ready with Min-he. They wrote back? What did they say?”

“What we expected. They're definitely not going to meet with us. Actually, they're kind of put out. Told us, in the future, to report our problems to Arthur.”

At that moment, both Natasha and Eric realized that the Mother herself had paused in the aisle right near them, and they turned to face her, stunned.

“I hope you enjoyed the ceremony, children,” she said.

Natasha waited for Eric to answer, but in vain. “Yes,” Natasha whispered, at last.

“Good,” said the Mother. “Then perhaps we can put that other nonsense behind us.”

She continued on, the applause still loud around them, while Natasha's face grew hot.

“Well,” Eric said, slowly coming back to life. “I guess we know where they stand.”

Without responding, Natasha ducked past Eric's arm and into the aisle. By now, the rows at the back had begun to empty, and only after some effort did Natasha escape to the open lawn. Volunteer teams were rolling out buffet spreads from the Dome and assembling the tables for dinner. Natasha rushed by them and hit the control for the first door past the trees.