The Line (6 page)

It hadn’t been easy since they lost Daniel. Not that it was exactly easy before that, always looking over their shoulders, always worried that the Ganivar Council would catch on to them. Wondering if a neighbor, or a vendor, or perhaps Julie, Rachel’s babysitter, would suspect them and make a report. To look at Julie’s sweet teenage face when she came to watch Rachel—she was the same age then that Rachel was now—and wonder if it concealed treachery. To know that Julie, an innocent child, had the power to have them all taken away, if she ever put two and two together. And most horrible of all, to know without a doubt that Julie would think she was doing the right thing, that she would feel
good
about turning them in to the Council.

When Daniel got the Call to Serve notice, Vivian knew from the look on his face as he read it that he would go. She wanted to run, try for Unifolle, try to start over. But Daniel said they would be caught. She remembered their arguments about it.

“We’d be safe in Unifolle, Daniel. The Council has no power there. They couldn’t touch us.”

“If we made it there, Viv. And how would we Cross?”

“We could go to Peter, ask him to let us use the key. You know he would.” Vivian knew no such thing; the key wasn’t much more than a rumor, a slip of the tongue one night during a dinner they’d had with their friends Peter and Jolie Hill. Their
only
friends really, and fellow collaborators. If it existed, the key would be protected the same way Daniel and Vivian would protect the maps they had been entrusted with; if Peter actually had it, he wouldn’t admit it, even to friends.

“That’s not something we should even be talking about.” Daniel’s eyes, his beautiful brown eyes, had met Vivian’s, and she knew the look. He was serious. No matter what she said, he would not be moved. “Our other options are nonexistent. It’s not just the Council we’re dealing with; it’s the whole government. You know as well as I do that they monitor the borders. And how would we even get permission to go on a trip? If they hadn’t flagged our profiles before, you know they have now. Barry may not have made a report, but he certainly said something to someone. Why else would they have turned down my travel request?”

Daniel had filed a request for a day trip two weeks before, ostensibly to meet with Peter Hill about a project. Daniel often made travel requests as part of his job at Riser and Associates, an architectural firm in Ganivar. Peter, who was also an architect, lived in nearby Bensen, and they sometimes used the subterfuge of work to meet about collaboration matters. This latest request, however, had been denied by the Council, the first time that had happened. Daniel was certain that his boss, Barry Riser, was suspicious of him and had tipped off someone on the Council. They knew no formal report had been made, because if it had, they would have already been picked up. Barry had the kind of connections that would allow him to drop a comment at a cocktail party instead of making a formal report. That way, if his suspicions were unfounded, Daniel would never know Riser had doubted him, and if they were correct, Riser could avoid the negative publicity of having his business associated with a collaborator. Daniel and Vivian could be dealt with quietly, without the streamer coverage many exposures received. That was how it worked.

While the Council covertly investigated a suspected individual, travel requests and any other unusual activities—large cred transfers or withdrawals, vacation requests, or personal leave requests—would be prohibited. Daniel and Vivian had been waiting for something to happen ever since his travel request was denied. They got up every morning and tried to go through the motions of a normal life, wondering if today was the day they would be Identified. But they hadn’t expected the Call to Serve.

 

 

A TEAR SLID down Vivian’s cheek, and she wiped it away quickly before Rachel noticed. Oh, Rachel. She would have loved Daniel so. They would have had so many good times; they were so alike. But Rachel didn’t even remember her own father. She would never know how brave he had been, how brave they had
both
been, because Vivian could never tell her. Her hands tightened into fists every time she thought of how much she and Rachel had lost when Daniel was sent over the Line.

She wasn’t so brave now. She had a better idea of what she could lose. So she was hiding. Trying to keep Rachel safe. Every time she had to go to Bensen for supplies, she felt like a fugitive, wondering if Peter still lived there, wondering if he might spot her on the street. The Property had been her only chance to get Rachel out of Ganivar though. She was careful, and she tried to be sure that Rachel was careful. So far, they were safe.

Vivian couldn’t help wondering how long that would last.

R
ACHEL HOOKED UP the last of the hoses in the east section of the greenhouse and set the misting timer, wishing for at least the hundredth time that they could replace the worn-out set moldering on the storage shelf and have enough hoses for the whole place. She knew Ms. Moore must not have enough spare creds to do it, but it didn’t stop her from wishing.

She was almost done for the day. Vivian had made the Bensen supply run without her today; there had been too much to do in the greenhouse for Rachel to go along as she usually did. As soon as she finished feeding the two-year-old phals, Rachel planned to go home and start dinner for herself and Vivian. Then she had to study for a history exam. Her mom had let her know that working in the greenhouse was not to interfere with her studying and so far it hadn’t. She worked hard to make sure it didn’t.

She hadn’t made any headway at ferreting out Ms. Moore’s secret. Her leg still kept her out of the greenhouse most days, and on the few occasions she had made an appearance, she was all business. Whenever Rachel tried to start a conversation about something other than orchids, Ms. Moore simply gave her an odd look and started talking about fertilizers. Rachel didn’t see how she could discover anything shocking about Ms. Moore if she couldn’t even get her to talk about the weather.

Though she wasn’t making progress with Ms. Moore, Rachel was learning a lot in the greenhouse. She was getting a feel for the orchids, and every time she found the beginning of a flower spike peeking out from beneath the leaves of a plant she felt happy. She was making things grow, helping things to blossom. It was the first time she had ever felt this excited about something. At least about something that was real.

Not all the results of her tending were so successful. She had lost her first batch of seedlings two days before. She had been sad ever since, and apprehensive too, of what Ms. Moore would think. Ms. Moore probably never lost seedlings. Rachel had disposed of the potting medium and sterilized the trays as soon as she knew for certain the seedlings would not survive, but she could still see the blackened mess in her head, little sprigs of new hope melted into slimy death. She couldn’t figure out what had caused it. She had looked through the notes Ms. Moore had given her, and she thought she had followed every step correctly. But she must have done something wrong, or the baby orchids wouldn’t have died.

Jonathan appeared at the greenhouse door as she fed the last of the phals.

“Ms. Moore wants you up at the main house,” he said gravely. He examined the floor, carefully avoiding Rachel’s eyes.

“Oh.” Rachel was speechless for a moment. Ms. Moore never called her to the main house. She thought about it for a moment. “She knows about the seedlings, doesn’t she?” Jonathan began to reply, but she put her hand on his arm before he could speak. “It’s all right, Jonathan, I know you had to tell her. Don’t feel bad. It’s my fault.” Rachel smiled what she hoped was a convincing smile. “Is she in the parlor?”

“Yes.” Jonathan looked like he might say something more, but he reached for the plant food instead. “You’d better run along. She’s expecting you. I’ll close up.”

Rachel thanked him and set off toward the main house, head down. She felt tears welling up as she trudged along and fought them back. She was going to miss working with the orchids. And her mom would be disappointed in her. Almost worse was the fact that
Ms. Moore
was disappointed in her. At least she had worked long enough to pay off the broken greenhouse pane.

Far too quickly, Rachel reached the front entrance to the house. It was grand; unlike anything she had seen in Bensen, where the houses were mostly small, one-story boxes. The apartment buildings were taller, but they were even plainer. The only bits of personality were the things one could glimpse through the different windows sometimes. Someone’s houseplant, or the arm of a red chair.

Ms. Moore’s house had a huge, covered front porch, held up by carved columns. There were two chairs arranged around a small table, though Rachel had never seen anyone sit in them. The front door was twice as tall as a man and wide enough to accommodate three people abreast easily. She pushed the black button to the right of the door and heard the chimes within, then the click of the intercom.

“Yes?” Ms. Moore’s voice sounded hollow through the speaker next to the button.

Rachel cleared her throat, her mouth suddenly dry. “It’s me, Ms. Moore. Rachel.”

“Yes, Rachel,” came the reply. “I’ve been expecting you. Come into the parlor, won’t you?” The intercom clicked off.

Rachel opened the door and stepped into the large entryway. The tile floor gleamed, smoothed to an icy sheen from years of hand waxing. On a small table, a deep blue glass vase held a spray of creamy dendrobium blossoms. Rachel could smell the faint lemony scent of the special polish Ms. Moore had her mom use on the woodwork. Through the wide doorway that opened onto the parlor, she could see Ms. Moore seated in one of the matched set of chairs that flanked the fireplace. The chairs were large and looked soft, though Rachel had never sat in one of them. They reminded her of friendly sentries, keeping watch over the opening of a cave.

The first time Rachel had seen the fireplace, she had hardly believed it. It was a real one, not an image broadcast from a streamer screen. Sometimes in the winter Ms. Moore actually used it, burning old chair legs and other odd scraps of wood that Jonathan scavenged from various sources. Rachel was pretty sure Ms. Moore was breaking some conservation law when she did that. She wondered why Ms. Moore would do it, even though the risk of being caught way out here was slim. When she asked her mom, Vivian had shrugged and said that Ms. Moore probably liked the way it looked.

“But she could have the same thing if she installed an extra streamer and set it to one of the ambiance broadcasts. They aren’t that expensive. And she could even choose different stuff, if she got tired of the Fire broadcast. She could choose Mountain Vistas, or the Living Seas. Why doesn’t she just do that?” Rachel thought the fireplace was strange; when there was no fire burning, which was almost always, it was just a big empty box. Rachel thought it was ugly.

“But a streamer doesn’t get hot, Rachel. You can’t feel it. You can’t smell the wood smoke. It’s not . . . real.” Vivian smiled and shook her head. “I know it seems weird. But she must remember having real fires from when she was a child. It’s a comfort thing, like me wearing Dad’s old socks, or you still wanting a bedtime story once in a while.”

Rachel didn’t think Ms. Moore seemed like the type to indulge in comfort things.

“Come in, child.” Ms. Moore looked much more like herself; better than she had looked since the accident. Her color was back, and her face gave away nothing of what she might be thinking. She motioned toward the sofa facing her. “Sit down. I want to talk with you.”

Rachel perched on the sofa, a much more formal piece of furniture than the sentry chairs, not designed for snuggling or naps like the couch in the guesthouse. The fabric was a scratchy tweed, and the seat felt as hard as the floor. For a long moment neither of them said anything. Rachel swallowed, and cast her eyes around the room as if there might be a friendlier version of Ms. Moore hiding in a corner somewhere. Her gaze fell on the mantel; there, next to a tiny glass box, was the digim that her mother had mentioned. Rachel had not seen it many times; at the employee dinners they generally went straight to the dining room on the opposite side of the entryway. The day of Ms. Moore’s accident, Rachel hadn’t had time to look at it closely.

The digim was in a silver frame. It was an old-fashioned, static 3-D digim, no animation or audio, so it revealed nothing of the subject besides his appearance. The man in it was young, about how old her father looked in the digims at home in the portfolio. He had dark hair that was long enough to curl around his face. He was smiling, a smile that looked like the beginning of a soft laugh. His eyes were the bluest eyes Rachel had ever seen on a human being. Vivian had blue eyes, but they were a soft blue, like the sky in the morning. This man’s eyes were blue like the vase in the entry, lapis blue. Rachel knew he wasn’t Ms. Moore’s husband, because Ms. Moore said she had never been married when Vivian asked. Who could he be?

“Rachel, would you mind?” Ms. Moore’s voice broke the silence and Rachel’s contemplation of the mystery digim. “I had your mother fix us some kalitea before she left for Bensen, but I’m afraid my leg is being troublesome today.”

Rachel noticed the cups and saucers on the table between them for the first time. “Oh, yes, Ms. Moore. I can do that.” Rachel stood to pour kalitea for each of them, holding her breath as she handled the delicate teapot. She sat back down on the edge of the hard sofa cushion, holding her cup while it cooled. “Thank you, Ms. Moore. For the kalitea, I mean.”

“You are very welcome, Rachel.” Ms. Moore took a sip from her cup. “I wanted to ask you—”

“I understand, Ms. Moore,” Rachel blurted. She couldn’t keep it in any longer. “I know that I messed up. I still don’t know what happened, I’ve thought and thought, and I sterilized everything like the notes said, and I watered just so much, not too much, but they still died. I am so sorry. And I understand why you wouldn’t want me working anymore. I have paid off the window though, so at least there’s that, and I truly am so sorry.”