I startle awake some time later, unaware of how long I've been asleep or what time of day it is. My nose prickles with unfamiliar scents—salty, meaty, sweet, all swirling together. It's dark in our corner of the cellar, and I realize that the lantern I had when I laid down has been moved. I scramble up, my mind like cotton, feeling for Ceres. She's not there. Something flutters against my face when I stand, and clutching at it, I swallow a scream. It's a piece of cloth, suspended from the ceiling. It's pulled back and I see Sara, backlit from the lanterns behind her.
"Are you all right?" she asks, peering at me in concern.
"Fine." I take a deep breath, one hand flying automatically to my stomach, as if my subconscious mind wants to make sure the baby's okay. "I just woke up and it was dark. Ceres..."
"She's out in the main area with us. We hung up a curtain so you could sleep unhindered. Looked like you could do with the rest." Sara smiles kindly.
My heart slows down and I let my hand return to my side. "Right. Thank you."
I follow her out to the main area of the cellar, where the others are huddled around a cluster of lanterns, wrapped in wool blankets. Ceres is bordered on one side by Shale and the other by Lucas. I sigh, feeling better seeing for myself that she's fine. Everyone's holding a plate piled with food and my stomach growls audibly . Shale smiles.
"Here." He hands me a plate from a stack. "Breakfast."
I pile my own plate with the food from cans that have been opened—pears and berries and even pancakes that have been made from canned powder—amazed at how much there is of everything. I glance at Shale, the memory of what he said last night still burned in my mind. But it's impossible to talk about that with everyone in earshot. Instead, I glance at the clock on the wall. "Ten a.m. I can’t believe I slept this late.”
"Looks like you needed it." Shale scoots closer to Ceres, leaving a conspicuous spot for me. I sit, even though his seemingly hot and cold behavior confuses me. I think again of his whispered apology. I want to speak to him about it, to ask him exactly what he meant, but there’s no telling when we’ll have a moment to ourselves next.
"Thank you for the food," I say to the lady who'd shown me around last night. "This is very generous."
"It's not me you should thank." She puts a forkful of potatoes into her mouth and chews slowly. "The Rads keep us well-supplied. There's nothing we've asked for that we haven't received since we arrived."
"Do they come often, to check on you?" I want to know when they'll be bringing us Chinese IDs. Surely by now they'll have more information on the ship's docking and what's going on with the search for us, the fugitives, when the Chinese officials saw that we'd jumped ship. I wonder, too, how Captain Jerome has fared. Whether they believed that he wasn't involved.
One of the men who was asleep when we came in last night answers. "Every couple of days," he says. "Whenever they can be sure they aren't being tracked. Another day or two and I’m hoping to be sent to a labor compound. Get out of here, see the sunlight. "
See the sunlight. I know what a potent lure that is when all the sunlight you've seen in your lifetime has been gray or very pale yellow, filtered through a haze of pollution and concrete-colored clouds. In New Amana, sunlight meant being outside, and being outside usually meant being pelted with acid rain or inhaling nuclear fallout that coated your lungs and clogged your throat.
I nod.
“Although,” the man continues, “I’m not looking forward to all the bullshit.” He raises his voice, mocking. “Righteous living.”
It used to be called communism in my grandmother's day, looked down upon by cultures who thought it was far too strict a dogma and revoked too many freedoms. After the Chinese won the War, they began enforcing new laws. They prefer the phrase "righteous living" for their rules and customs now.
From what I have heard, the rules of righteous living are much harsher and much stricter than what the nation was accused of before. New Amanians are only tools for them to use, cheap and disposable labor. But what other option do we have? Trying to eke out a living in a nation on the brink of death? Where each breath is poisoned, and each mouthful of food is smaller than the last?
◊ ◊ ◊
Later on, once the clock on the wall tells us night has fallen outside, I'm helping Sara dress Alexander after his washrag bath when I hear a familiar series of knocks—one-three-one—on the trapdoor to the cellar. Everyone stills; we hold our breath as one. The man opens the trapdoor an inch and then, when he sees who's on the other side, all the way.
A Rad climbs down, a different man than the one who'd brought us here last night. This one is much younger, his face marked faintly with scars. His nose is bulbous on the end, and he rubs it as if he's nervous.
"Good news," he says, a smile erupting on his face and disappearing just as quickly. His eyes jump from one person to the next. "We have IDs for all of you and vans to drive you to your compounds."
"What, tonight?" the man asks, his eyes widening.
"Yes," the young Rad replies. "Now. So take what you came with, but there's no need to take food or water. They have plenty of that where you’re going."
I breathe out in silent relief. We have only been here one night. We are lucky, so lucky. The Rad hands everybody a plastic ID card, and I look down at mine. It has both Chinese and English lettering on it, proudly announcing my new name. I’m not nameless anymore.
Now I'm Kalliope Palmer, twenty six years old. The photograph from my New Amanian ID has been worked carefully into the new one where hers used to be. I wonder what happened to the real Kalliope. The fact that I am holding her ID now means she is dead. It also means she was a faithful New Amanian and abided by the laws as she was expected to. What would she think of her identity being used by someone like me, a fugitive, a Radical, the polar opposite of her? I imagine the ghost of a small, thin woman standing in the corner of the cellar, staring at me with hate in her black eyes, her mouth open in a cold, silent scream.
Ceres jolts me out of my reverie by showing me her ID. She is Daliya Martin, eighteen years old. Shale shows us his—he is Coal Pearson. Sara, Lucas, and Alexander too, are different people. All around us, the other fugitives are doing the same; examining their new IDs and their new names, their eyes bright with hope. I smile at Ceres in what I hope is a reassuring manner. This is the start of a new life.
After I slip the new ID into my pocket, we walk around, tidying up the cellar, folding sheets and blankets, leaving it as clean as it was when we were brought here. For the next people. I silently wish them luck and put one hand to a stone wall, as if I can leave an imprint of my fortune here for them to find.
We file out of the cellar under cover of night. The air is frigid; it hits us like an ice wall. I huddle close to Ceres, wrapping my arms around her bony shoulders. The moon is our beacon. It and the stars throw off enough light so we can easily pick our way through the junkyard to the waiting vans.
“Three vans, three different compounds.” The young Rad consults a slip of paper. “Kalliope, Daliya, and Coal are in van one.” He points to Sara, Alexander, Lucas, and one of the men from the other group next. “You four in van two. And the rest of you in van three.”
Sara and I turn to each other, and an inexplicable sadness grips me at the thought of having to say goodbye. I know it is for the best that we be separated now, our group broken up and made indistinguishable from the host of other immigrants. Still, the bond we’ve forged as a result of having walked through fire together is a strong one. Sara seems to feel the same way—her eyes glimmer with tears as her malformed mouth twists into a smile. "Take care," she says. "Your life is precious now that it counts for two."
“You too.” I lean over and kiss Alexander, who smiles coyly at me. “Be a big boy for your mother, Alexander.”
Beside me, Lucas gathers Ceres into a hug and then, letting go, he caresses Ceres’s cheek with the back of his hand. She closes her eyes. I feel a pang for the death of their budding relationship.
“Time to leave.” The Rad’s voice shatters their moment.
Sara, with one last squeeze of my hand, turns to go.
◊ ◊ ◊
Once again, we are hidden in the false floor of a van. The three of us ride in cramped silence, each lost in his or her own thoughts. As before, Shale is in front of me while Ceres is pressed against my back. I close my eyes, but sleep does not claim me like it did when we last traveled this way.
By the time the young Rad lifts the false floor of the van, my neck is stiff and my knees feel welded into the position I’ve been in for the past hour. Somehow I force myself to stand and stretch, my muscles and joints screaming against the sudden movement. I climb out, relishing the feel of the frigid breeze against my cheeks, and look around. Ceres puts her hand in mine, her eyes wide and curious.
We appear to be in a large bay, with boxes and crates stacked against the walls. There are various machines, the likes of which I have never seen, with prongs and giant wheels and electronic keyboards inside. Every sound here echoes off the concrete floor, as if to assert itself.
"You're in the supply depot," the Rad says, seeing our wonder-struck expressions. "You've been assigned to the agrarian sector, which is a low-security compound. The rules aren’t as stringent as some of the other more high-tech sectors. You'll be assisting the indigenous farmers with their tasks. It's hard work, but the food is fresh and plentiful." He begins to walk toward a door in the back, and we follow him.
The food is fresh and plentiful.
I squeeze Ceres's hand, painful hope wrapping around my heart. It still thrills me to the core, hearing those words, spoken so nonchalantly. For Ceres and me, this means so much. Everyone in New Amana is thin and malnourished, but the children in the Asylums are especially so. Her eyes are much too big for her face, her jaw is tiny for her size, and she is all elbows and knees. I can’t yet know the permanent damage they’ve done to her, but knowing that she won’t have to worry about food ever again—it makes my heart sing.
The Rad opens yet another doorway and we emerge outdoors, the icy nighttime air frosting our skin once more. The moon is elusive tonight. Tall light posts in the distance illuminate orderly rows of one-story bunkers made of concrete the color of dust; they sprout from the frozen ground like teeth. Arranged loosely around them is a short cobblestone wall with an iron gate. In the darkness, and the compound appears deserted.
“This is where I leave you,” the Rad says.
I turn to him, frowning. “Leave us? But who’s to escort us in?”
“Look who we have here! If it isn’t the miracle survivor himself.”
We turn at the jovial voice drifting toward us. A figure approaches in the darkness, squat and sturdy. As he gets closer, I see it’s a man with an easy smile that his crooked brown teeth do not diminish.
Beside me, Shale gasps and steps forward. “Trigger?”
Trigger’s smile grows wider. “Thanks,” he says to the parting Rad. Then he claps his hands on Shale’s upper arms. “You look healthy.”
Shale grins. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Ship brought me a few weeks ago.” He turns to me. “Are you who I think you are?”
Shale clears his throat, and I see a warning pass from between them. I don’t understand it. “This is Vika,” he says softly. Then, looking at me, “Don’t worry. Trigger already knows who you are, which is why I’m using your real name. We can trust Trigger. He and I knew each other back home.”
Trigger—I wonder briefly at his unusual name—takes my hand and gives it several enthusiastic shakes. His palm is warm and calloused, as if he isn’t afraid of hard work. I decide I like him. “Welcome to China. Now let me show you to your luxury accommodations. They used to be military bunkers—called wopung here—and now they’ve been modified to be livable.” He gestures expansively toward the bunkers, the wopung, in the distance. We begin to trek toward them.