Broken Read online

  Broken barged in and collapsed on the bed. She was asleep before she hit the pillow.

  "This one’s hers," Michael said, unnecessarily.

  "Ah, um, yes. I see! Good night, B! We’ll call you for dinner." He closed the door quietly. "Let me show you to your room, Mike. Is Mike all right, can I call you Mike?"

  Michael shrugged. "Sure." He hated the nickname, but figured he ought to put up with it out of politeness. He was an uninvited guest, after all, and a fugitive, no less.

  "I had this house built in 2096, when I came back from Sydney," he said, gesturing at various bits of odd statuary and architectural flourishes. "I loved the Räton style so much, I had to build an homage to it. Doesn’t it make more sense than our own fractured way of living? Four to a house, maybe five? And that includes children! Ha! So lonely." He sighed. "We had children here before the government took them away. I miss them so. Having your little Ian here will be wonderful for us, even for a only few days."

  He turned the corner and led Michael into a newer wing of the house. "When we had children, we had to expand the house," he explained. "They’re all gone…but we’re keeping their rooms just the way they were, just in case. You never know! Right?"

  "Right," Michael said.

  "Right," repeated Andrew emphatically. "Here. It’s a bit lonely back here, but Monica will be next door to you. Knock on the wall if you need anything. All right? I’ll let you get settled."

  "Hey," said Michael. "Where will Ian be?"

  "Jane will take care of him. She’s really good with babies. If that’s okay, of course." A shadow passed across his jovial features. "It would be very good for her to have him for a while. Something she needs. Unless you wanted him back right away?"

  "No, that’s fine," Michael assured him. A vacation from baby poop! That he could live with.

  "All right. Dinner in an hour. You’ll be able to smell it." Andrew left Michael alone in the small, rectangular room. He hadn’t really been alone in days.

  There was a bed next to a large window, which overlooked a neglected garden and an empty pool. Some children’s toys were scattered here and there in the courtyard. What was it Andrew said? The government had apparently taken the children who had lived here away. Michael wondered why. Had the adults done something, committed some crime…? Or was it because of the unusual living arrangements? Could be either.

  There was no mirror in the room. He thanked whatever gods tormented him that they’d spared him that, at least. His own room, back home, had featured a full-length mirror attached to the wall opposite his bed. He covered it up whenever he could, but the covering never stayed up for long. He often woke up and instantly saw ten different versions of his own demise. Getting ready for school after that usually seemed moot.

  He heard voices in the hallway nearby. One was Andrew. The other he didn’t recognize. The voices stopped. The door of the room next to his shut, and fast-paced Räton-inspired pop music bled through the walls. This wasn’t the scary hardcore music the Black Bands and their buddies listened to—this was softer, more lilting and much more peaceful. Virtually nobody admitted listening to it anymore.

  That had to be Monica. Michael wondered what the rest of this rhi would be like. What kind of people defied society and lived like Rätons these days? Strange ones, he decided. Or ones with a death wish.

  —Fire.

  —Fire. Fire.

  He shuddered, picturing the room in flames. How long? How much time…? Could they be saved? Would it even happen?

  The music from next door stopped. A knock on his door followed. A girl, not too much older than him, stood in the hallway. She had dyed black hair, freckles, green eyes, and a sort of lopsided smile. She wore nothing but shades of purple.

  "I’m Monica," she said. "Nice to meet you. Andrew said you were staying with us."

  "Yeah," he said, smiling. "Nice, uh, to meet you." He tried to push fire out of his mind. Control, control!

  "Can I come in?"

  "Um, sure." He let her pass into “his” room.

  "Oh, how weird!" she exclaimed. "This room was so different when John lived here. He had all these shelves over there, they were so neat."

  "Who was John?" asked Michael.

  Monica's expression turned sour. "One of us. A rhin. He left last year, after the election. He said he couldn’t stay in the Confederation anymore, so he went to Räta. We haven’t heard from him in a while, but he got there safe. I still kind of miss him. He was nuts, but he had a good sense of humor."

  He may have been wise, Michael thought. Once a man who vowed that anyone who followed Räton culture was a traitor was elected president of the Confederation…well, life could get complicated. He wondered why the rest hadn’t gone with him.

  Monica sat on the bed. "Lyddie is cooking tonight. Have you met her?" Michael nodded. "She can be demanding, but she’s okay, really. Don’t let her get to you. Hey, I’m glad you’re letting Jane take care of the baby. That’s going to be really good for her."

  "Andrew said that, too," Michael said. "How come? What happened?"

  Deep sadness shadowed Monica's cherubic face. "Our kids. Jane bore all three of them. Lyddie isn’t fertile, and Janeane and I don’t want to get pregnant. Jane’s been really depressed ever since they were taken."

  "Ah," said Michael. That made sense. Time to change the subject. "So. Uh. How long have you been here?"

  "Only eighteen months or so. I’m the youngest. It’s a nice setup, don’t you think? We used to have so many more people. All the rooms were full when I joined. It’s kind of sad, but at least there’s lots of room now. I was the only one left in the back hallway since they took Violet and John left. Fred used to say he’d move back here with me…but he never did. Too lazy. You’ll meet Fred tomorrow morning; he works a late shift."

  "Why’d you decide to join a, uh, rhi, if you don’t mind my asking?"

  Monica smiled crookedly again. "Andrew was a professor of mine at City College. After he got laid off, I felt bad for him, so I came out here to visit. I fell in love with it. I’d always loved his lectures about Räton culture…Anyway, they let me stay a few days, then offered me a place in the family a little later.”

  Monica continued: “I’ve always been glad they took me in… even now, when things aren’t so good." She flopped over and lay on the bed. "Andrew’s been so sad lately. Maybe having new people around will cheer him up."

  "Maybe," Michael said. Monica was acting like they were planning to stay. He didn't dissuade her.

  "So how did you come here? Kind of a strange place to end up."

  "Broken knew Jane from before, I guess."

  Monica sat up, interested. "No way! Really? No one knows anything about Jane, especially what she used to do. Is ‘Broken’ the one Andrew calls ‘B’?"

  "Yes. I’m not sure why."

  "Oh, he likes to give people nicknames. You’ll see. So, got any stories about Jane from before? What did she do? What was she like?"

  Michael shrugged. "No idea. I didn’t know her; Broken did. She doesn’t talk much about the past, either."

  "Is she really a bum? Lyddie said she was."

  "She is," Michael confirmed. "But she wasn’t, once."

  * * *

  Dinner came, and the entire rhi, plus Michael, crowded into the kitchen to eat. "Rätons don’t have a separate room for dining," explained Andrew, though Michael hadn’t asked. "That’s why the house doesn’t have one. In fact, they often eat alone. But we like to be together at dinner, so we are."

  "Ah," said Michael. The food looked edible, at any rate. Whatever it was Lydia was slathering onto their plates, it sure had lots of sauce.

  "Is your, ah, friend joining us?" Andrew asked.

  "Couldn’t wake her. She’ll be out for leftovers," Michael said, helping himself to a roll.

  "Well, then. Everyone, this is Mike. He and his friend B are going to be joining us for awhile. They have a baby that Jane is taking care of." He beamed proudly. "Mike
is a political dissident. An anti-Reformist artist."

  There were grunts of assent all around the table.

  "Mike, you’ve met Lyddie, Jane, and my Lyasti—that’s Monica." Each one of them nodded in turn.

  "My nickname means 'little student,’ " Monica explained to him.

  —Fire…

  "Let me introduce Shawn, who’s on your left." Shawn nodded. He was of medium height, with sandy bro

  wn hair and a surly expression. He was probably in his thirties, Michael guessed.

  —Fire…!

  "Over here is Janeane. "

  "Hello." Janeane said. She was a tiny, dark-skinned woman with a smooth, shaved head and bright, expressive eyes. Michael couldn't look away from them.

  —Waves lapped against the shore. The sea rose and fell in the distance. The tide came in and went out. The world turned, and everything was quiet, calm, peaceful...

  —Endless sea.

  —Peace…

  What? Michael blinked, clearing his vision.

  The corners of Janeane's mouth quirked up as she studied him through half-lidded eyes. He resolved to look into her a little more closely.

  "Fred isn’t here. He works a night shift; he’s a security guard down at the electronics outlet. But he’s a nice guy, he’ll stop in and say hi before he goes to bed." Andrew beamed again. "Let me just say how wonderful it is to have new people in the house, our rhizhandi. It is especially joyous for me to have a baby here, even if it is only temporary."

  "Agreed," murmured Janeane. Her voice was soft, rich and low. Michael immediately hoped she’d speak again.

  "Hear, hear," Monica added, glancing at Jane. Ian was bouncing and gurgling on her lap. Jane smiled down at him and made little nonsense noises. Michael noticed that she hadn’t eaten a bite during the meal.

  He felt an overwhelming urge to leap up on the table and beg them to leave the house any way they could, as fast as they could. He wanted desperately to tell them about fire and the approaching mob. But why would they believe him? Only Broken seemed to believe him when he talked about his visions. Cassandra.

  Shawn didn’t say anything to Michael throughout the meal, which was just as well. Michael got the impression that Shawn didn’t like him much. Janeane chatted idly with everyone as they ate, and asked Michael a string of questions about where he was from, what he had done to be on the run, how he got started as an artist, and on and on. Michael made up a number of stories he hoped he could remember later. He tried to keep it as simple as possible.

  He could hear Joe’s voice: Complicated lies never hold up. Joe had always been full of practical advice.

  Lydia seemed more interested in Andrew’s day than in Michael, Broken, or Ian. It turned out that Andrew worked in a store in Queens, selling jewelry. So much for the professor. His day hadn’t gone well, and Lydia spent some time comforting him. Meanwhile, Monica and Janeane talked about Janeane’s job at the Colonization Authority, which had a processing station in Newark. She was, from what little Michael could tell, a bureaucrat of some minor importance. Monica was apparently unemployed, as were Lydia and Jane. He had no idea what Shawn did.

  During the meal, Michael did his best to keep the distressing images of fire out of his mind. He focused on Janeane, just because her possibilities were so impossibly calm.

  He had never met anyone who had nothing of sorrow in their future. Just an endless ocean…bobbing peacefully…then nothing. All her paths led there—in fact, they started there, too. It was as if she had no paths at all...or Michael simply couldn’t read her. But that was impossible. He had never met anyone who was unreadable.

  When dinner ended, he retreated to his room, remembering to thank Lydia for the meal before he went. He lay down on his bed and found himself dozing off.

  —Fire…

  —The house burned around them. He could hear Andrew shouting, panicked, as he searched for Lydia. Shawn banged on a door, only to find it barred shut from outside. The mob chanted, only barely audible over the roar of the flames. Monica sat on the floor with Jane in her arms as they waited for death. "My fault!" Jane wailed.

  —Janeane floated on the ocean, far, far away…

  Far away…

  Bob up and down, the water cool and refreshing…

  A brilliant blue sky… no clouds, no worries… far away… her family was dying. But Janeane was safe. Janeane would always be safe. She carried them in her heart, though she couldn't carry them with her. She carried them safe to shore.

  A knock on the door. Michael sprang awake. The house still stood.

  "Michael?" It was Janeane. Of course. He opened the door and let her in. "Well. I like what you’ve done with the place," she said.

  "I haven’t done anything," Michael protested.

  "That’s what I like. Mind if I sit?"

  "Go ahead."

  She pulled the chair away from the beat-up desk, and sat down in it. The beauty and peace of her possibilities overwhelmed Michael. Janeane smiled lightly, her soft features blending into the endless sea of her future…

  "You were staring at me during dinner," she said, her voice like shimmering, sun-soaked water. "Kind of like you’re staring at me now."

  "Oh? Uh." Michael shook his head. "Sorry. It isn’t what you think." Or was it? She was beautiful. He hadn’t ever met a woman he found really beautiful, not in this way.

  "It isn’t? That’s too bad. Although you’re a little young. How old are you?"

  "F-fourteen," he stammered, forgetting to lie.

  "Thought so. Andrew said you were older." Her grin sparkled against her dark cheek. "So what’s your story?"

  "I…" he began. "I… uh… I’m an artist…"

  She laughed. It was the most remarkable sound he’d ever heard, the sound of crashing waves and delicate windchimes in the ocean breeze. "Sure you are. Tell me true. Where are you, a bum, and a baby who doesn’t belong to either of you going? Why are you on the run from the bully boys?"

  He leveled his gaze at her. "Janeane… tell me about the sea."

  "You first," she admonished him lightly.

  Flustered, he looked at the floor. "You won’t believe it. But…"

  "Yes?" She waited expectantly, like a goddess perched on the throne of eternity.

  "I see people’s futures. Things that could possibly happen to them."

  She arched an eyebrow. "A fortune teller?"

  "No!" he laughed. "Well, not really. What I see is real."

  Janeane shrugged. "My aunt Clara was a fortune teller. She saw all kinds of stuff. Some of it came true, some of it almost came true. You know? Are you like her? Special?" The word dripped with meaning.

  Michael nodded. He was sweating. Time seemed to be slowing to a crawl all around him. He thought of lies and evasions, but none of them made it to his lips. "Yes. Like that."

  "So what did you see, fortune teller? Or would you rather I call you ‘prophet?'"

  He reddened. "I… uh. Ian. The baby. I saw something about him."

  "Where’d he come from?"

  "A woman—his mother—she gave him to me. In a subway station. She just handed him to me." He took a deep breath. "I’d been... waiting for him. He’s also, um. Special. But in a different way."

  "What happened to his mom?" Janeane asked.

  "Train got her." Janeane arched that eyebrow again, but said nothing. "He…he could be either a great man of peace, bringing everyone together…leading billions to freedom. Or…he could be a terrible monster."

  "And you want to make him into a saint." Janeane said softly. The sea swirled all around her.

  "No," Michael said. "I’m taking him off planet, to Valen. Someone else will do the rest. I just have to get him there."

  He was telling her everything. She could tell anyone; she could turn him in, destroy him. But somehow he wasn’t afraid.

  "What’s on Valen?"

  "Someone who will make him into a saint," Michael said. "I don’t know any more than that."

 
; "And Jane’s friend?"

  "I need her. She...she was in every vision of success. I don’t know why…not really."

  They regarded one another for a long moment.

  "So, the sea," Janeane said smoothly, voice like a rushing wave. "The sea...I’ve always seen the ocean. I love the ocean."

  "That’s all I see for you. Everyone else has death, fear, hope, despair…horrible things. Wonderful things. It’s…so strong, sometimes. But you!" Michael desperately wanted to take one of her slender hands in his. "You are so calm. Nothing but the ocean. Peace. It’s beautiful."

  She smiled knowingly.

  "I could look at you all day! You’re so beautiful!" Michael said, feeling a dam threaten to break inside him. "It— I—"

  He regained his control. "Sorry."

  She planted a cool kiss on his forehead. He almost fainted, but looked up into her deep brown eyes instead. Miles and miles of calm, placid sea reflected back at him. She placed a single finger on his heart. "When you need me, I’ll be here."

  She let herself out of the room. Michael shuddered. He was drenched in his own sweat.

  The tide ebbed; the ocean receded. He felt cold and alone.

  Doubt started to creep in. Who would she tell? Who was listening? Joe had always told him to play his cards close to his chest. Don't reveal what you don't absolutely have to, never ever tell someone the truth of what you are and what you can do. Now he’d all but given his entire hand to a woman he’d only just met.

  He collapsed on his bed. There was nothing for it, now. He rummaged in his pack and held the mirror up to his face.

  —Terror, death, fire, victory.

  Janeane would not betray him. Not that he could see. He breathed a sigh of relief, and went to find Broken.

  [CHAPTER 8]

  Broken opened the door at the knock. Her silver hair was disheveled, and she tasted nothing but beer in her mouth. It was kind of the previous occupant of the roo to hide alcohol everywhere.