Back in our wopung, I have Ceres wash up first and sit on one of the cots. I wrap a blanket around her shoulders while I heat up some soup, my mind spinning at the array of colorful jars and sacks of grain. It is still hard to believe we don’t have to worry about food. But how much longer will that be true? How much longer until we are thrust out into the unknown once more as the net closes in?
Our day isn’t over, tired as we are. We have yet to go to a training session, where we’ll be taught the ways of righteous living. I found out today that these sessions are held three times a week. They refused to tell me what all they entailed, however. I feel a swoop of nerves at the unknown. But I can’t afford to let my anxiety show, not when Ceres is already so afraid.
I sit across from her, on my cot, with a bowl of my own. After a few spoonfuls of steaming broth, I speak quietly. “Are you all right?”
She looks up at me, her brilliant golden eyes distant. “Y-yes.” But she says it without feeling.
“Are you scared?”
Her face crumples then, and tears begin to fall. She nods. Setting my bowl down, I go to her cot and pull her into my lap. Some of her hot soup sloshes onto my arm, but I don’t even feel it. “It’s okay.” I stroke her soft hair. “I promise I’m going to keep you safe.”
“M-my f-fits, Vikki...” She trails off, her breath catching in her throat.
I understand what has her so frightened. She was hauled off to the Asylum in New Amana because they said she was defective, unworthy, because she used to have fits. I kiss the top of her head even as anger grips my chest—anger at people who managed to convince her she isn’t good enough. “You haven’t had one since we found each other at the camp,” I remind her. “And you told me you haven’t had one in years. Maybe you’ve grown out of them. Besides, they don’t have Asylums here, Ceres.” I lean in closer. “I’m going to find out where we can go that’s safer,” I whisper. “Okay? That’s what Shale and I are going to do tonight. We won’t be here much longer.” I study her face, wondering how much she understands of the fact that those fugitives were caught. I decide there’s no reason to tell her what exactly it might imply.
She nods. After a few more moments, she sits back up and picks up her spoon again.
After we’re finished with supper, we head out in the cold, our breath like white smoke. The sky is gunmetal streaked with orange, studded with stars. I breathe in the air, marveling at how fresh it is. Can it be our world is truly like this now—brilliant and colorful, clean and clear?
I peek at Ceres, walking slightly behind me, her steps slow and methodical. On impulse, I grab her cold hand in mine. She darts a glance at me, startled. When I grin, a ghost of an answering smile hovers on her lips. There are a million things that could still go wrong. We may be at the beginning of another long, hard journey. But still, at this small sign of my sister’s joy, my heart soars.
◊ ◊ ◊
The night is filled with the steady thrum of conversation. Ahead of us, dozens of New Amanian men and women walk in a loose group toward the iron gate through which we’d entered the compound last night. We file through the gate under the watchful gaze of a short Monitor. Another Monitor stands guard at the entrance of a low, nondescript beige building off to the left, just outside our compound. It is as bland and practical as the small, squat concrete houses we live in. I hadn’t noticed the unlit building last night in the darkness.
We file up to the bored Monitor at the entrance and hand her our IDs. After a cursory glance at them, she looks back up at us without feeling. She may as well have been looking at blocks of cement. “Enter, turn right.” I wonder where her mind is as her mouth repeats the words over and over. Does she have a family in the real world? Did she choose this job to provide for them? “Sit in classroom on floor.”
I do as she says, Ceres clutching the back of my jacket as we enter. The single bulb on the low ceiling illuminates the interior just enough so I can see where I’m going. There is a long, narrow corridor before us, the walls and floors the same drab beige color as the exterior of the building. At the far end of this corridor is an open door. From here, I can see New Amanian men and women seated on a dirty linoleum floor, their legs crossed. Though no one looks especially nervous, they are all completely silent.
My boots squeak on the floor as I walk into the bare room, echoing in the empty space.
The New Amanians on the floor are arranged into rows, and Ceres and I sit side by side. The room is poised, waiting. Every time an immigrant enters I look up, expecting that Shale will be next. But each time I am proven wrong. Trigger enters and, catching my eye, winks quickly before looking away. The stream of people coming in slows to a trickle and then stops. The entire compound is here, except for Shale. I haven't seen him since our talk this afternoon. After I saw how Monitor Ng treated the woman who fainted, after I realized just how cruel they can be, I can’t help but be worried for his safety. I am just starting to worry, wondering where he could be, when he enters.
Shale walks tall and proud, but I see the careful way he holds himself, the slightest wince as he steps forward, and I know his wounds are hurting him. My chest twinges in sympathy. He meets my eye and a hint of a smile lights his face, but it is gone before I can respond.
The only sound is the rustling of clothes as people shift on the hard cement floor and a grumbling sort of droning from the rusty radiator at the front of the room. Its meager heat does not reach me; my limbs are riddled with gooseflesh.
Finally, the Monitor at the door closes it with a final clang. There are now three Monitors in the room with us; a squat, muscular female one I don’t know at the back, and Monitors Wang and Ng, who stand erect at the front of the room. They watch us with a sort of calm alertness, and I wonder what they are looking for. I feel as though I am an exotic animal in a zoo, prone to unpredictable behavior.
After an eternity of quiet, Monitor Wang speaks. His eyes alight on me, Ceres, and Shale, as well as on a few other immigrants who I assume are also new. “You are here because you were betrayed by your nation.” He takes the time to let his gaze linger on us new people, as if he is speaking to each one of us individually. No one moves. “But Great Land welcomes you with open arms. Leaders of Great Land are not cruel like leaders of New Amana. Everyone here comes with a sad story. Yes? Today you share your sad story. Tell Monitors about who you lost in New Amana. Who your government took away. Your son? Your mother?” He folds his hands in front of him and looks at all of us. “Tell us.” He walks forward and bends his knees slightly to touch a slight New Amanian woman on the shoulder. “You. You tell us. Who you lost?”
The woman bends her head to look down into her lap. When she looks up and speaks, her voice is low. I have to strain to hear it. “My...my son.”
Monitor Wang nods slowly, his eyes darkening in sympathy. “How old?”
“Five.”
“Government took him, yes? For being...Défectueux?”
The woman nods. She looks back down into her lap.
“Great Land love children,” Monitor Wang says. “Great Land protect children.” He cups his hands together, as if he is encircling a child within.
Monitor Ng behind him holds up a fist. All the other New Amanians chant, “Glory to the Great Land.”
Monitor Wang walks deeper into the rows of immigrants. He touches a bearded man on the shoulder. “And you. Who you lost?”
“My sister. When we were young. She was sent to an Asylum.”
I glance at Ceres. She’s watching, riveted.
Monitor Wang shakes his head. “In Great Land, no Asylum. Great Land have doctor, nurse, hospital. Not Asylum.”
Behind him, Monitor Ng raises her fist again. I see her watching me, her eyes glassy, unfeeling. This time, I chant, too. “Glory to the Great Land.” She keeps her fist raised, so we keep chanting, our voices raised high, mingling into one.
Monitor Wang walks forward again, faster, as if our chanting is infusing him with energy. He touches people here and there, asking each time who they’ve lost. Some of their voices wobble, some of them are in tears as they recount their stories. Finally, he comes to stand between Ceres and me. He looks down at us, the expression on his face soft but determined. He reaches out and touches Ceres on the shoulder. She flinches, but not as much as I’d expected. Her eyes are pure gold, wide open, mesmerized. “And you, young one? What is your story? Who you lost?”
There is silence as everyone waits for Ceres to answer. My heart hammers hard; a cold sweat prickles at my brow. If she tells him the truth, he will know we are fugitives. Our plan could crumple. Why didn’t I think to practice an appropriate response with Ceres if she was ever asked this question? But why would I even expect that she might be?
“M-my...mother,” she says in a quiet voice. Her eyes flicker over to mine and then back up to Monitor Wang. My heart aches for her. She did lose her mother, but not in the way Monitor Wang believes. Our mother betrayed Ceres. She was the one who had Ceres taken away to the Asylum.
Monitor Wang shakes his head slowly, his expression exaggeratedly sad, as if he is personally distraught over her loss. “Now Great Land is your motherland, Chinese your brother and sister, Monitors your mother and father. Great Land take care of you.”
Behind him, Monitor Ng raises her fist.
◊ ◊ ◊
We continue on this way, with people telling their stories and sobbing. Finally, Monitor Wang threads his way back to the front of the room. Beside him, Monitor Ng smiles, her teeth precise white squares. “You accept customs of Great Land, happiness can be yours.”
Monitor Wang nods, his eyes serious, almost earnest. “Chinese government will choose most diligent New Amanian workers to go live in Hong Kong and Beijing. You can have new life. We will help you.”
“Great Land welcomes you. Accept Great Land as your savior.” Monitor Ng smiles at a woman in the front row. The woman bursts into tears, and Monitor Ng raises her fist.
We all chant, “Glory to the Great Land.”
The muscular Monitor from the back of the room—I still don’t know her name—walks to the front. “Now we sing.”
All three Monitors and we immigrants sing the patriotic song that was blared over the speakers this morning. Just as then, they sing it now in Chinese and English, alternating as they go. I listen to the melody, the lines washing over me.
The Great Land cradles me
The Great Land protects me
Glory to the Great Land
The Great Land carries me.
Service to the Great Land
My life is yours, Mother
Glory to the Great Land
The only land for me.
I glance at Ceres as we enter the third iteration of the song. She is singing along with the English version now, her eyes closed. She believes them, I realize, a pulse beginning to throb in my temple. She actually believes that they want to help her, that they’ll fulfill their promise of giving her a new life. She’s had her share of violence and death, of being told she will never measure up. Now she’s willing to accept with open arms a government that promises happiness. Thick ropes of fear wrap around my heart. Will she want to stay here, at this compound? Will she want to confess everything to these Monitors, whom she seems to believe have her best interests at heart?
Finally, we are released.
“Now you relax,” Monitor Wang says, smiling at us. “Great Land take care of you.”
I wonder what he means by that, but the others seem to know. Everyone stands, several people swiping at their eyes, smiling at each other. I look around at their faces as I wait my turn to file to the door. Their hopeful expressions tell me they are all on the path to righteous living. They want to be chosen to leave these compounds for Beijing or Hong Kong. I know the promise of freedom can be a powerful lure, that people will betray those closest to them in order to prove themselves worthy. I saw it every day in New Amana.
I study Ceres’s face as she waits in line beside me. I remember how she looked with her eyes closed, singing. I remember her staring into Monitor Wang’s eyes, confessing that she’d lost her mother. How much longer before his words are braided inextricably into her conscience? Before she confesses to him where we’ve come from, that we are not who we profess to be?
It is vital that we leave. And I will do whatever it takes to make it happen.