The Society Read online

  Chapter 13: The Rescue Mission

  “The day the Society was born was the day the world was renewed. Hunger, war, disease, crime...all these became a thing of the past.”

  “I’m pretty hungry right now,” I mutter at the screen, but Teacher either doesn’t hear me or pretends not to.

  “All the things which lead humans to strife were removed, creating a harmonious and joyful lifestyle.”

  “If humans without reasons to fight don’t have conflict, then why are Mo and Jo always arguing?”

  “Alyss…” Teacher’s voice is longsuffering, if a computer is capable of such an emotion.

  “What? I mean, we have plenty of food, clean clothes, our own beds...we don’t have any of these things you say drive humans to make war, but the girls still fight.”

  “That’s because humans are inherently competitive and desire conflict.”

  I sit back in my chair until it is poised on two feet. “I don’t. I don’t see the point in arguing.” I fail to see the irony in arguing with her to tell her I don’t like to argue.

  “And when you join the Society as an HA, you will be surrounded by those who are of a like-minded opinion.”

  “So what’s different?”

  Teacher pauses. “What do you mean?”

  I sigh. She never gets it. “What’s different about the HAs? You always say ‘you’re still you,’ but it sounds like we’ll be pretty different.”

  “As I have already explained…”

  I groan and let the other two legs of my chair hit the floor. Her circular arguments infuriate me. “Ugh. Whatever.”

  “Alyss, that is not how you are supposed to address me.”

  I might as well pretend to be contrite, unless I want a visit to the office of the Headmistress. “Sorry, Teacher.”

  “When one is in the Society, there is no reason for strife. The Society is a peaceful community. We have no war, no death, no pain. I would think that is desirable to one who claims to dislike conflict.”

  “I just wish you’d tell me how you do it. What changes to make it that way.”

  “All will be understood when you are embedded, Alyss. The Society stands for peace. The rest will be revealed in the proper time.”

  I poke the end of my stylus at the desktop and sigh. “Fine.”

  They claim to be peaceful, but the threat of Reprogramming constantly hangs over our heads. That doesn’t seem very peaceful to me. Or is this all just part of my flawed, teenaged, hormonal logic like the Headmistress once told me?

  Or is the Society hiding something? I guess I’ll just have to wait until the Process to find out, because they obviously don’t intend to tell me.

  ***

  The sound of a footfall on gravel breaks me out of my memories and I look over to find El walking next to me. “Alyss, I’m sorry.”

  “Do you know what they told me?” my voice comes out angry, and cracks on the last syllable. I reach up to dash the tears from my eyes.

  Confusion flits across his face. “Who?”

  “The Society.” I step over one of the train-track ties. “All I ever heard was how humans are the warlike ones. Humans desire conflict. Humans fight. But when someone’s embedded, they won’t fight anymore, because the Society is peaceful.” I stop walking and spin to face him. “They just bombed the only place I’ve ever found peace. Why? What have we done to them? What logic could compel this? And how could you and your people work with an HA who could just as easily be on their side as ours?”

  El’s arms are piled high with the meal packs, and my sudden halt makes him stop walking, which causes two of the packages to fall. I bend down to pick them up, wincing as a rock digs into my tender feet.

  “The Society lies, Alyss. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

  “Then how do you know this HA isn’t lying?”

  His dark eyes regard me steadily. “We don’t. Not for sure.” He resumes walking, and I take large steps to catch up with him.

  “Then how can you work with him?”

  El sighs. “He doesn’t know where we are. We never tell him our plans. He understands.”

  “Does he?” I don’t bother to suppress the sarcasm in my voice.

  “We do what we have to do to survive. He hasn’t betrayed us yet.”

  “Maybe he just did.”

  El stops, and turns to face me, which causes more meal packs to drop. “Alyss, listen to me.” His voice rises in volume and deepens in pitch. When people start to look at us, he lowers it to a near-whisper. “I don’t know what happened, or who’s at fault. I don’t know the why or the how. All I know is that I have friends who are either dead beneath tons of concrete, or are waiting, alone and afraid, for a rescue which may never come. All I know is that mothers have lost their babies, I don’t know where my dad is, I’m pretty sure my head is going to split open, and one of my ribs is probably broken. You aren’t the only one in pain. You aren’t the only one confused. Do you want an apology? I’m sorry I waited to tell you. You were fragile, and the last thing I wanted to do was hurt you more than the Society already had. I’m sorry I cared enough about you to try and avoid hurting you. Is that what you want? Fine. I’m sorry. Now can we go work on fixing what can be fixed, before our mission changes from rescue to dragging our dead friends out of our ruined home?” His eyes blaze at me, and I am taken aback by the vehemence in his tone, the way the fervent words issue from his lips in a near hiss. There is no easy grin here, no making jokes out of tough situations.

  I see his pain, and I am flooded with guilt for my own self-indulgence. Without a word, I crouch and pick up the other meal packets he’s dropped. He’s already walking toward the tunnel mouth, and I try to avoid the gaze of the people who stare at me. As soon as I’ve gathered up the rest of the packages, I fix my gaze on the circle of light ahead of me and follow in El’s wake.

  ***

  Nighttime finds me, along with a group of the least-wounded rebels, on our way back toward the ruins of the old hospital. I carry a shovel, and many of the others have been issued similar instruments. On my shoulders is a backpack with a flashlight, bottles of water, and two packs of food. We’ve been instructed not to go into the ruins alone, but given supplies in case we’re able to reach anyone who’s still alive.

  As my feet carry me toward the ruins, which loom black against the deep blue of the sky, I wish for nothing more than to turn around and go back. David stood in front of us and talked to us about what we might find. Now visions of mangled heads and broken bodies dance in front of me, and we haven’t even begun to dig.

  For once, El isn’t nearby. I know I’ve angered him, and this knowledge makes my stomach ache. That moment we shared amidst the smoke and ash was intense. Even the thought of it fills me with that same unfamiliar heat and tingling. I don’t know what it means. All I know is I’ve never felt this way about another person, and despite only knowing him a week, I feel as if something is missing when he’s not nearby.

  All around me, the land is silent except for the scuff of shoes on the ground and the whisper of hushed conversations. The wind has died, and the chill of approaching winter bites at my nose. It makes the shovel handle feel like ice. Someone found me a sweater and some pants which are fuzzy and warm on the inside. They fill me with guilt as I think of all the people who could be buried in the rubble which looms before us, scared and freezing.

  We know this job is doubly dangerous at night, but we have no choice. Even now, we’re taking a risk. We don’t know how the Society found us, or how they sensed our presence. If they’re using infrared sensors, night won’t protect us. But we hope, even if our hope is fragile, that night will hide us from searching eyes.

  If they are searching. I couldn’t help hearing the whispers in the tunnel as we waited for dark to fall. Once the bombing stopped, all was silent outside. There were no searching drones overhead, no vehicles rumbling in to search for survivors to finish off. No HAs showed up with weapons to make sure we were all de
ad. It’s as if they were satisfied with the destruction of our home, and had no need to finish the job.

  I have no idea what it all means, but once we arrive at the edge of the rubble, there is no time for thought. David has led us around to what was once the entrance to the infirmary. He says, and now that I’m not on a gurney I can see, that the infirmary is a single-story wing which sticks out from the rest of the building. If anyone is left alive, this is the most likely spot.

  Another fact we all know, but nobody mentions, is that this section is closer to the storerooms, and more likely to yield items which will be badly needed in the coming days.

  A large rectangle of black punctuates the side of the building which looms in the gathering dark. We are only allowed to have the light from lanterns on our helmets, which we are to turn off the instant we hear any sound of approaching Society vehicles or drones.

  When the others reach up, almost as one, to flick their headlamps on, I do the same. I pull the little switch and blink in the increased light as people sigh and murmur all around me. Already we can see the amount of work which awaits us. The outer half of the infirmary is free, but the inner is collapsed, which means we’ll be starting our work beneath a ceiling and roof that could collapse at any moment.

  The building shudders, and I take an involuntary step back.

  “Come on.” El steps up beside me, his face grim and set.

  “What if it falls?”

  There is no emotion on his face as he turns to look at me and half blinds me with his headlamp. “What if it doesn’t? What if there are people in there who need our help?”

  I swallow the lump in my throat and step forward to follow the quiet crowd. My skin crawls as we pass beneath the doorway, and I lift my head to let the light from the lamp play over the twisted metal beams of the ceiling. Starlight shines through gaps in the roof, and the gentlest of breezes eases through the opening to touch my face.

  Someone passes me a block of concrete. My shovel hanging on my arm, I give the rock to someone behind me, then barely have time to drop the shovel before another hunk of rough-edged concrete is shoved into my arms.

  By the time a quarter-hour has passed, my arms are raw and sweat drips into my eyes. My back aches with each movement, and I’m panting with the effort. Just when I’m almost desperate enough to ask for a break, someone ahead of me cries out. Everyone rushes forward until David’s booming voice and waving arms order us back. Someone is crying.

  My stomach sinks. Those aren’t the sounds of a person who is rejoined with a loved one...those wordless wails are the vocalizations of mourning. My suspicion proves correct as two people emerge from the dusty crowd with a limp body held between them.

  He’s just a teenager. I gasp as my breath catches in my throat, and fight the clench of nausea in my stomach. Even if I might have once recognized him, it would be impossible now. The only identifying mark still visible on his mangled body is a tattoo. The black tree stands out stark against the dust-covered skin.

  “Keep working!” David’s voice falls dead as if he’s spoken inside a soundproofed room. The echoes of shiny floors and pristine walls are gone, replaced with a dampening layer of dust and soot.

  My determination renewed, I step forward and take the next block which is handed to me. I settle into something akin to a trance. Take the block. Twist. Pass it back. Turn front. Take another piece. Twist again. Breathe. Hand that concrete off, then turn for another one.

  I don’t know how much time passes. The pain in my limbs settles into a sort of numbness. My breath makes my chest hurt, but I am too exhausted to cough. My stomach grumbles with hunger and the buzz of dizziness descends upon me. My mouth is so dry that all I can taste is blood and concrete dust.

  A block is handed to me, and I watch with an odd sort of detachment as it goes tumbling from my hands. I stare at it as it lays on the floor, wondering what happened. Then the floor itself rises to meet me, and the impact of my knees on rubble-strewn concrete jars my entire body. I feel nothing more than bemusement as I kneel there, then the floor comes even closer as I fall onto my hands.

  “Hey. Alyss. Alyss? Are you okay?”

  I force my head up and blink blearily at the voice, but I can’t make my eyes focus. “El?”

  “Alyss, what happened?”

  Lowering my head, I shake it slowly, then immediately regret that action when the buzzing in my ears increases. “I...I…”

  Hands grasp me under the arms and someone is lifting me. I watch as the floor moves further away, then slides beneath me. Are they carrying me?

  The pain is almost enough to break through my detachment as I’m dropped on my butt and my back hits a wall. My helmet thuds on the brick, which does nothing to quell the ringing in my ears. I turn my head from one side to each other, so weak that the motion feels like a baby bird begging for food.

  A figure crouches in front of me, and holds out an object. I try to grab it, but it seems to move, and my hands can’t catch it.

  “Okay, hey. I’ll do it.” The figure and the object move closer and off to one side. The object finally comes into focus. It’s the rim of a water bottle. The figure holds it up to my lips and cold water slides into my mouth. I cough and splutter as some of it enters my throat, then lean back, too weak and dizzy to keep my eyes open. “Come on, Alyss. You’ve got to drink something.” Drop by drop, water continues falling past my lips, and this time I manage to swallow it before it chokes me.

  Gradually the dizziness clears and I’m able to open my eyes. El’s concerned face wavers in front of me. His head is lit from the side, and my eyes flick over to find he’s set our helmets on the ground stacked on each other with the lamps pointing toward us. “What happened?” My voice cracks, and I grimace when the motion splits my lip and causes it to bleed.

  El reaches up with a semi-clean piece of cloth and dabs at the crack. I see it come away spotted with blood before it disappears from my sight. “You collapsed. Alyss, I told you. Without the implants, we don’t know how you’re feeling. You have to tell us.”

  “I’m sorry. I just wanted…” I cough, and El drips more water in my mouth. When it’s gone, I make another attempt at speech. “I wanted to help. I didn’t know...don’t know what happened.”

  “You’re dehydrated and probably not used to this kind of work,” El caps the water bottle and sits back on his heels. “You’ve been injured, suffered smoke inhalation...you have to be careful how far you push yourself.”

  “I...I didn’t know.” As I say the words, I realize their truth. I’ve never had to push myself before. Enduring a couple of hours with a grumbling stomach was nothing compared to this. Having to wait five minutes until a school hour was up so I could get a drink...it was a slight inconvenience, nothing more. I had never been pushed to my limits, or even allowed to find them. I realize how little knowledge I have of my own body and its capabilities because of the way I’ve grown up.

  El sighs. “Just sit here for a while. I’ll come back and check on you.” His head swivels when someone in the crowd lets out an exclamation and others take up the cry. “Sounds like they found someone.” He jumps to his feet and picks up his helmet, leaving the water bottle on the ground next to me. “I gotta go.” He spares me one last glance. “I’ll be back. Just stay here, okay?”

  I nod, but he’s already gone. Even if I wanted to disobey him, I’m far too weak to do so. My arms shake just from the weight of lifting the water bottle to my mouth. I feel like there isn’t enough oxygen in the air, and my heart beats at several times its normal rate.

  As I struggle to hold my head up well enough to watch the people struggling in the rubble, I slip into a sort of waking dream. Only this isn’t a dream, but a memory.

  ***

  “What are you doing?”

  I don’t look up from the sheet of paper laid on the table. My pencils are lined up on the right side, and my left hand adds feathery strokes to the white surface.

  “What does it look like
I’m doing?”

  From my peripheral vision I can see Linea shrug. “What are you drawing, then?”

  I don’t answer. I knew I shouldn’t have started this picture. It will only hurt her because it will remind her of what she’s lost. Sighing, I sit up and move my hands so my friend can see the sketch taking shape.

  Linea reaches out and touches the picture. “You’ve captured her perfectly.”

  “You’re not upset?” I study her face for any sign of distress, but all I see is the resigned numbness she always bears these days.

  “No. Why would I be?” But a waver in her voice betrays her. She isn’t as indifferent as she wants me to think.

  I fold the sketchbook cover over the paper and clasp my hands on top of the tan surface. “What did you think about the history lesson today?” School. This should be a safe topic, right?