Train:
The John Everett (Formerly the 556)
Location:
Indian Head Subdivision Line, Saskatchewan, Former Canada 50°24'24.4"N 105°03'03.9"W
Time:
0927, Friday, June 24, 2067
Issuer:
January-50a - Aurora Marshal
Third generation immune
“Just stay quiet and, if you have any questions, ask me or my aide via direct message,” my mother—The Daughter—says, looking me over. “You are a little inexperienced to be sitting in on conferences, but you are bound for leadership and certainly old enough. Your age and stoicism will hide the lack of training.”
“Leadership,” I repeat, lacking enthusiasm, as she turns her attention back to her notes for today’s meeting.
“Yes, leadership,” she agrees, not looking up or even needing to.
I open my mouth to reply, but close it, sighing. In a seemingly rare moment of intelligence, I decide against restarting the same argument for the hundred thousandth—
“Since you still don’t seem to be gravitating towards a role,” she says, beginning into it herself and gaining momentum as she does, “it only makes sense that you follow in your father and my footsteps. You are the next in line to burn at the heart of this train. People look at you and see hope, Aurora.”
“Hope looks a lot like disgust, I guess,” I mutter.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I say through another sigh.
“They are jealous,” she says, ignoring my cue.
I really need to stop blurting things out.
“It is the horrible, horrible truth, but all save anomalies among your peers will be dead by twenty-five or even a decade sooner in some sorry cases.” She grows silent, the moment gaining a solemn poignancy. “God help them; they have more courage than…” She takes a breath. “They see you, someone who is spared this, and want it for themselves. It is not an evil desire. It is natural, in fact.”
“Of course,” I say, tone making it clear I’m not interested in continuing, but I doubt—
“When you’re in your late twenties, all those who see you as something they cannot be will be gone. The people who will take their place will look at you and see you without that taint of jealousy and—”
“I qualified for The Rangers,” I interrupt, cutting her off for once. “…the reserves, I mean.”
She looks over to me, a perplexed expression showing on her face. It is as if I have said something completely absurd, like May will come after September this year or that furies only act out for attention. “That’s good,” she finally manages, not truly enthusiastic or excited.
“I like the idea of operations—of leaving the train occasionally and going out into the world,” I admit, wanting for once—for once—to just talk about what I want without it trying to be steered toward—
She smiles—a winning smile—and I know I’ve made a mistake. “But that’s just the thing, isn’t it? You like the idea of it, but if you knew what it is really like out there, you would have a more reasoned perspective.”
“Well then let me get that perspective!” I fume, flirting with actual anger.
“I have perspective.”
“Yes, I know.”
“It’s out of the question, Rora.” She looks at me, sympathy in her eyes. “You are just too valuable—more valuable than you even realize. …and if you saw the things I have seen, well…”
The words annoy me. Some small restraint in me snaps. “So valuable that you tell the Thes to hold me to a higher standard?” I blurt as annoyance gets the better of me.
I spoke too early. I wanted to look into that a little more—get evidence to—
Oh hell, I’m already in. I might as well see where it goes.
I look into her eyes, pulling her attention to mine as I have seen her do to so many when landing a critical blow. I pause for the slightest bit, enough to let the moment mature, but not spoil. “To… impossible… standards.”
I’m afraid for a moment—that I might be wrong and that she didn’t meddle—but then it pays off. She breaks my stare for a moment, and I know I have her. I wait, letting silence do the work for me, adopting another technique of hers.
“Who told you?”
“You just did.”
She doesn’t reply.
Thinking on it for an instant, I decide to twist the knife further: provide a trap masquerading as a false escape. “I earned a leadership commendation for spotting a downed dry-wood tree and reporting it,” I say, tone suggesting I am moving on—giving her an out.
She leaps on it. “Yes, I recall. I was proud—”
“Funny, I was the only one identified and praised.” I cross my arms. “The bed full of bark the next evening also leads me to believe I wasn’t the only one hoping to be duly recognized for their efforts.”
She sighs. “Okay. That was a mistake.”
I press. “The mistake is having someone slated for leadership parading amongst people who actually work, perusing the community every day like a—a—a tourist. Exposure isn’t enough, mother. I need to work.”
“I… I see your point.”
“I’m not smart like you or dad. I—”
“That is not true.”
“Father—The freaking Coordinator—is a genius and you—”
“I am good with words. Something—”
I open my mouth, but she holds up a finger, the gesture with its motherly powers stopping me before I realize what I’m doing.
“…something… you have just proven is a gift we share. Furthermore…,” she says, trailing off significantly, “I do not believe all of your father’s mind is lost on you, as evidenced by this discussion.” She claps, somehow not making what should be a mocking gesture a genuine show of praise.
“I just…” I flush, unused to such a direct complement. “All I did was figure out how to box you into admitting I was right.”
“You also figured out I was, well…”
“So, you admit it?”
She smirks. “Did that sound like an admission to you?”
“Close to one as I’m going to get,” I reply, also smirking.
The smirk blossoms into a smile, red lips broad and eyes twinkling. “See that… that… is what leadership is all about… but with charm. You have to make people realize that you are right, but often times in such a way as to make them think it is their idea. You—”
“Mother,” I interrupt, not letting her divert the course of the conversation—especially into a lesson. “The others need to see me as someone who works as hard as everyone else does—harder even.” I give her a significant, honest look. “That’s how they see you.”
She glances away; not receiving compliments well is something we share.
“I am not asking to go on operations,” I add, even though that’s exactly what I want—eventually, anyway.
“What are you asking?” she asks, and, to my bewilderment, I see an unmistakable air of pride to her.
“Let me at least hunt—other than that, I can liaise or something,” I say, conceding ground for the sake of an overt compromise. “I know you worry about me—I don’t need to be out in cities and dealing with furies—not yet… but one day I am going to have to… you know that…”
“If you had any idea of the dangers the world out there holds for a pretty young girl with a strong mind.” She sighs. “If only you could pursue something—something safe.”
“Like what?” I ask, knowing this won’t be a hard argument.
“Medicine… perhaps,” she offers, somehow both earnest and halfhearted.
“The Physician is kind of an asshole,” I reply, saying it before I realize what I am saying; I’m not really even sure of that either, but that’s just what I hear all the time.
She crosses her arms, not amused. “He is…,” she says, surprising me by not turning it into an outright lesson in crude language, “difficult.”
“Very diplomatic,” I say, finding myself smiling.
“With that man… I often need to be,” she says, grimacing with a flavor of longsuffering to it; something in the tone tells there’s some kernel of importance in those words.
“I am a good shot, mother,” I say, reordering the discussion. “As it stands, I have scored higher than most of the others in precision marksmanship—at least in simulations.”
“In point of fact,” she says, tone growing very serious and a little proud before being punctuated by a sigh, “given the standards you were held to and the diligent effort you put into overcoming them, you are the fourth best shot on the train, if simulations are honest. I expect you will contend with the best, once you have your own rifle and proper training.”
The information shocks me, pulling me out of the moment. Did she…? I am…?
I look at her, lost for words.
“As the others practice, they get more competent with their weapons. Nevertheless, as they age, the… well… the fury rises.” She pauses. “As I understand it, marksmanship is a discipline for the calm and sharp of mind.”
I just stare at her, absorbing the information—the meaning—but…
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“Beyond that, you follow rules—the proven ones, anyway. When the instructions say to fire between heartbeats, you fire between heartbeats. When they say—”
“You’ve been…” I begin and, the comment surprising me, find I need to blink at tears. “You’ve been keeping track of my…” Attention aside, I realize that that also means she knows how I have been… neglecting other studies.
“…your priorities,” she replies, tactfully completing the thought. “I tried to help you… reorient, let’s say, as well.”
“But you’ve been watching…?”
“Of course,” she says, emotion catching her as well. “Even though the idea of you in the Rangers—and, Fortune, operations—terrifies me… I… I am proud of you,” she admits. She then reaches out a hand and I take it, squeezing. “I see you haven’t forgotten what I taught you about persuasion,” she says, quickly leaving the vulnerable emotional state behind, releasing my hand.
In its place, she gives me a sly look and I grin a little, finding a genuine joy in myself. “When it suits me,” I blurt, a little giddy with the excitement.
“Dear, persuasion always suits you.” She makes a show of putting her tablet down and thinking for a second. “I will speak with The Hunter personally—I will have him administer a test.”
“Really?” I ask, jumping to my feet with excitement. An assessment? Then, a little part of my brain realizes what that means. And… time alone with The Hunter?
She gives me a knowing expression. “I don’t need to have a chaperone—”
“Mom, no!” I say, reassuring her.
Her expression deepens.
I feel my cheeks go red. “All I need is the assessment.”
“You really don’t even need that, but… for the sake of, well, making things official, there are observances…”
“Mom,” I say, leaping on the distraction. She looks at me, warmth in the expression. I feel a wash of appreciation overtake me, no longer focused on The Hunter. “Thank you.”
“Well, yes, it is nothing, of course… Well,” she replies, standing herself now. “Well, it is time we go to today’s conference—I have let the schedule get away from us. We should proceed.”
I grab my tablet and follow her out of my parents’ suite, heading to the operations room one car down. The narrow walkway—a short trip, as my parents’ suite is very near—proves mostly clear and the only person we encounter, a maid, presses against the wall to let us pass.
We don’t bother leaving the train and, switching cars, enter the spacious compartment. The room is the largest on the train, stretching the full length of a standard car, but triple the width. Even having seen the place several times, I still find it impressive. I don’t recall all of the details, but it was something involving “ten folds” and engineering making that possible.
It is the same technology used all around The Everett. A lot of the cars expand when we stop, most notably the recreation, dining, and other activity-heavy cars. Oh, and the deployable solar panels that help between fueling stops are amongst those too, which I guess is kind of critical. Then there’s the watchtowers that get deployed every morning and even the floating pavilion thing that gets brought out when we are near lakes and the weather is good. I don’t really think of it that often, but I guess it’s really all over the place.
I use my tablet to verify my assigned location and see an indicator above one of the wall seats. I put my tablet and water bottle in their holders when Alice, my mother’s aide, gives me a bright smile. She begins to greet me, but I feel someone wrap their arms around me from the side, startling me.
“Rora!” my father exclaims, voice as full of joy as ever. I can’t help but smile, the man—my daddy—always so full of energy. “My, but it’s good to see you! It’s been like three days since you’ve come by! Busy, busy!”
“I have been busy, dad—you’ve been busy!” I reply, shifting in his hug to face him as I grin.
He releases me, putting a hand on each of my shoulders and shaking his head as he examines me—almost head to toe. “Every time I see you…” he mutters, almost to himself. “You just keep growing.”
“We tend to do that, dad,” I reply, smile broadening. “It’s a people thing.”
“I know, I know, I know!” he says, shaking me a little. “It is just you look so much like your mother. It is funny, of course, given how dark my skin and eyes are, but ask The Physician and he could talk for hours on the complexity of genetics—but that’s beside the point!” he says, beaming.
“What was the point?” I ask, dubious, but amused.
“The point, was your mother was the most beautiful thing in the world to me—like the Milky Way on a clear night.” I look past him, seeing my mother sighing, hand over her eyes. “Every day I tried to convince myself to talk to her—she, the loveliest creature in the world and daughter of the man who got this train rolling…”
As he goes on, I’m keenly aware of the room’s attention shifting to him, everyone watching in fascination as he boisterously recounts the early years. He tends to have that effect on people, a magnet for attention. I sneak another glance at my mother, who has gone scarlet with the praise, somehow both amused and embarrassed.
I suddenly become acutely aware that my father has stopped talking and look back at him, met with an expectant look. “What?” I ask.
“I was just saying, beautiful as you are, so I expect every boy on this train of age has his eyes on you.”
It’s my turn to flush.
Looking around, I see everyone smiling and trying to look busy. At least they do me the favor of not making eye contact and—a chuckle catches my ear and I flick my eyes to the source. The Hunter, smirking, peers into my eyes before looking down at his tablet.
I swear my skin catches fire.
Kill me.
“Alright, ladies and gentlemen,” my mother says, getting the room’s attention and saving me further embarrassment. “We should begin.”
“Your mother beckons,” my father whispers in a knowing, appreciative voice, scuttling into his seat.
And begin we do, the shift in attention gradually allowing me to shed my charged embarrassment. With time, it begins to favor a more subdued interest in the novelty of this meeting. There are so many important people here, all discussing the most pressing things of their respective departments.
Topics come and go, presentations are presented, and carefully articulated speeches are offered. I absorb reports on food production and resource levels, find myself fascinated by a briefing on a new car design, and hear about the ongoing search of a missing four-year-old immune girl—the reason for us having stayed in place an extra day. The whole of it begins with a sense of newness that catches me, but soon I recognize just how subdued and repetitive the whole affair is. My interest mellows into something like polite, futilely hopeful endurance.
I check my tablet.
Only an hour and a half has gone by?
How long does these things usually go? I ask Alice over message. *Do, I correct quickly, realizing my mistake.
I watch her check her tablet to entertain myself for all of five seconds, but then she puts it down. Before I can get annoyed, she holds up a finger. I nod.
A minute or so goes by and a presentation being made by The Physician comes to an end—something about the overuse of irreplaceable medical supplies.
She looks at her tablet once more and begins typing.
This one: 2-3 hours, comes the reply, and I try to suppress a groan, realizing that that is probably for the best in this context. I shift the groan into a cough. Also, The Daughter has me avoid distractions during The Physician’s speeches, so apologies, comes as a follow-up. I see her typing again. A moment later, another message appears. No presumption meant, but that probably applies to you too.
He is... “difficult”, I type back.
UNDERSTATEMENT ;)
I grin as I turn my attention back to the proceedings as The Thinker stands, he a close friend of my father, but as old as my grandfather, The Father.
“I have spoken with The General and I have begun to reconsider my stance on establishing a more self-sufficient settlement,” The Thinker says, clearly bracing himself.
What is this?
Several in the room groan and, bit by bit, a din grows.
Excitement, after all?
“Now listen,” The Thinker continues in a placating tone, “he brings up a very good point and we are not talking about diverting this cycle.”
“Then why are we talking about it?” The Physician asks, impatient.
“Because,” The General says, leaning in and talking on his own behalf, “if we don’t now, you will be asking the same question next time.” He pauses. “The idea has strategic prospect.”
The Physician looks at The General, not glaring, but somehow still conveying the effect. “Why don’t you stop aggrandizing? Just,” he says with a little patronizing shooing gesture, “think like a soldier should and focus on keeping the Rangers safe so I don’t have to keep fixing them, yes?”
“What, you hate your job that much?” The Hunter snaps back, somehow making the retort seem lazy. For all the calmness of the words, The Physician looks as though he’s been slapped. I smile, amazed at how effortless—
“Tell us what you mean by ‘strategic prospect?’” my mother asks, remaining neutral while cutting The Physician’s retort before it comes. “Have you new thoughts to bring to the table? In fact, why not explain the idea again—for Aurora’s benefit?”
Everyone looks at me and I sheepishly raise a hand, waving. “I—” I cough, throat suddenly dry. “I would appreciate that, General—sir.”
He nods, grinning as he looks down, seeming to genuinely like what I said. I have always liked The General. His chocolate-colored skin is like my father’s and, unlike all the descendants like me who have diluted traits, still retains its dark richness. Looks aside, he is smart like my father too, if more reserved. I think he’s one of the older ones on The Everett, but it’s harder to tell with dark people.
“Young lady,” he says, returning my wondering mind to reality as he looks back up to me. “When you grandfather—The Father—set this train to rail in the early 40s, one of his goals was to recon potential places to setup more permanent settlements. You might not be aware of this, but trains aren’t the safest long-term option for survival. One sizable earthquake is all it would take to make rails unusable, not to mention if some particularly opportunistic or desperate settlements ever decide that we are worth more as salvage than trading partners. Even now we have to send recon crews ahead with excavators to realign tracks that have shifted since we last traveled here.”
The Physician makes a small scoffing noise.
The General looks at him. “And that isn’t even the end of it.” He pauses. “One used soup can—hell a couple of well-placed bottle caps’ worth of thermite on the line or any of a hundred explosive compounds buried deep enough and the entire train is derailed. Our scouts are good, but no one can really be trained to clear a hundred kilometers of rail in one sweep.”
“It is hard to spot something when no one has ever done it before,” The Physician says, even toned, as he fixes The General with an unamused stare.
The General holds the look and The Physician backs down. The General then looks back to me. “I don’t mean to scare you, Aurora, but rather give context for the rational your grandfather had in his vision. You have, of course, seen the small outposts we have—the farms, The Shop, The Armory, and the dozens of covert geothermal refueling stations among others.”
“Of course,” I reply, not wanting to come under focus for too long—if at all.
“Well, the idea is to find prospective locales where we can begin working toward creating more self-sustaining establishments—places that can act like trains without the risk—”
“—oh, as if a settlement isn’t a prime target for furies or marauders!” The Physician interjects. “At least on a damn train we provide a service that makes us worth not pillaging!”
“If you recall, Physician, I am accustomed to working around furies and marauders?”
The Physician leans forward, livid. “And I, General, am the one who fixes your fuckups—those who survive anyway.”
The room goes still—dangerously still—and no one speaks.
Looking at the mirror on the other side of the car, I see my mother open her mouth to intervene, but The General gives her a look. The General turns back to The Physician. “How many years has it been since you have seen a fury?”
He doesn’t answer.
“How many years has it been since you have put yourself in a position where a fury might even have a chance of seeing you?”
“A-are you calling me a coward?” The Physician asks, shaking with a mixture of rage and… and fear.
“Are you claiming to be anything else?”
A long silence ensues, no one moving.
Slowly, deliberately, my mother stands. The General, seeing this, very deliberately takes his seat, breaking eye contact with The Physician in favor of my mother; The Physician, for his part, still glares at The General. “And I think that will be all for today,” my mother says, her words like razors. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my father put his tablet down. “We are all on the same side,” she continues, the words luring The Physician’s attention over to her. Meanwhile, The General checks his tablet. “Even when it sometimes doesn’t feel like that is the case.”
“Physician,” The General says, surprising everyone in the room.
The Physician slowly turns his attention to The General. As he does, I feel a hand grab mine and I turn to Alice. She, in turn, makes a subtle nod and looks down. I see my father holding my mother’s hand. The sight confuses me, but then…
He’s communicating—doing so with his thumb. He’s giving her his read.
“My words were unduly harsh, and I have made a fool of myself in front of our peers in my deliberate, unprofessional, and underhanded aggression toward you,” he says, no hint of malice in his words. “Will you see fit to forgive me?”
The Physician does not respond.
“In time?” The General adds.
The Physician takes a breath. “In time,” he says, tone one of agreement.
The room remains still, several looking to my mother. My father moves his thumb, shaking his head in negation almost imperceptibly. She holds her tongue.
“And I…,” The Physician says, leaning back and interfolding his fingers. He sighs, and it seems the whole room joins him. “I… apologize as well—the comment about survivors…”
“Forgiven,” The General says, evenly.
“No, not yet—not that easy.” He looks around. “I have wasted everyone’s precious time and ruined this presentation.” He turns back to The General. “Let me pour you some scotch; I’ll hear what you have to say—we all know this was aimed at me, after all.” The Physician then gets out of his seat and leans dramatically over to The General, offering a hand.
The General nods, standing, and takes it, shaking. As he does, the room visibly calms, the end of the uncomfortable thing in sight. The General then looks to my mother, formalities the only thing that remain.
I catch my father’s movement this time, I prepared and expecting it. He nods.
“Let us call this meeting adjourned,” my mother says, everyone relaxing even further.
The General then motions over a shoulder and leaves with The Physician.
As everyone packs their things or begins filing out, my father squeezes my mother’s hand, drawn out and somehow satisfied.
My mother might be the one who can command any room and knows how to articulate almost anything, but my father can read people scary well, despite being the world’s most meandering conversationalist.
I smile.
Leadership.
I think I’m starting to understand now.