The Line (9 page)

“I know all that from your school assignments, Mom.” Rachel stared at Vivian. She felt like she was looking at an impostor. Could this possibly be the same person who constantly talked about the injustices the government imposed on people? This person, who had just scuttled out of town like a sheep when she saw it in action? Rachel couldn’t quite believe that they had
run away
, like
cowards
, from the scene in Bensen. She didn’t think of herself as a coward. She had never thought of Vivian as one before either.

Vivian shook her head. “Rachel, you only know what the government wants you to know.”

“I know what
you
teach me, Mom. You’re the one who makes the assignments.”

“And where do you think I get the reading materials I assign?” Vivian said. “I’ve got nothing but official texts to work with. The only thing you’ve read that hasn’t been a sanitized government version of the facts is the Bill of Rights, Rachel. The
old
one. And the official—”

“The official story isn’t necessarily the true story.” Rachel rolled her eyes. “I know. You’ve made me write so many essays about how the government is corrupt that I could probably get arrested just for that. I know that the government lies. I
know
.” Rachel shrugged. “But guess what, Mom? It doesn’t seem like it matters that I know that.
Justice
. You always talk about it, but we just watched EOs practically beat a woman and we skulked away. How’s that for justice?” Rachel turned her head and looked out the window at the trees.

Vivian sighed, exasperated. “Do you even know how EOs came to be, Rachel?” Her daughter didn’t look at her. “Well, do you?”

“The Michaels execution.” Rachel finally looked back at Vivian. She spoke mechanically, reciting the lesson by rote. “After the execution, the police couldn’t control the protesters, so the government formed the Enforcement Department. The EOs were given special training and more power than the police. They had to have more power so they could effectively restore order.”

“Well, that’s the official version,” said Vivian. She looked down at her hands, still gripping the steering wheel. “Do you know,” she said, without raising her eyes, “why Michaels was executed, Rachel? Why so many people protested that they had to form a special force to control them?”

“He committed treason.” Rachel looked at her mother, frowning, remembering the details of the history assignment. “He was a news writer, made accusations about government officials in his column, and wouldn’t reveal his sources. He was jailed for refusing to name them. The government claimed the accusations he made were a threat to national security. But some people thought the death penalty wasn’t merited. We studied that—the fact that the government was killing a man for speaking out against them. And about how so many of the people who protested when they executed Michaels were Identified and locked up. So?” Rachel leaned forward to peer at her mother’s face. Vivian was still staring at her hands.

“Mom?” Rachel waited a moment. “Mom?”

Vivian finally met Rachel’s gaze. “Michaels was one of the first collaborators. Many of those people who protested were too. They were the beginning. And now the collaborators have members everywhere.”

Vivian reached for Rachel’s hand, held it in her own, stroking it. “Your father,” she whispered, “was a member. So was I.”

Rachel stared at her mother’s face. “You were . . .” She stuttered to silence. She knew what collaborators were, sort of. People who fought the wrongs of the government, people who led shadowy, hidden lives, doing illegal things in the name of freedom. Vivian’s homeschool lessons had always emphasized that the government reports calling collaborators “criminals” and “threats to society” were nothing more than political dogma. She called the collaborators “revolutionaries.”

“We were collaborators.” Vivian held her hand tighter. “Your father didn’t go fight in that war because he believed in the cause. He went because he was sent. The government was on to us, and they sent your father to serve in that war as a punishment. It was an easy way to get rid of him. You and I moved to The Property because we had to, after he was gone.”

“I don’t understand, Mom.” Rachel was bewildered. “You told me Dad was a successful architect. You said we had a good life. Why would the two of you have been collaborators?”

“I’m going to explain it, Rachel. So you
will
understand.” Vivian turned in her seat so she was facing Rachel. She said nothing for a few moments, gathering her thoughts.

Rachel watched different expressions flicker across Vivian’s face, but she was unfamiliar with every one of them. She felt as though she had just stepped off a curb where none was expected; that odd, fleeting sense of weightlessness when one’s foot encounters a void instead of solid ground.

Finally, Vivian spoke.

“We did have a good life. It made us perfect recruits for the collaboration. In college we had spotless backgrounds, the prospect of good jobs, and we could move through society without rousing suspicion. But we also had reasons to hate that society, Rachel. Reasons like your father’s childhood friend Alex. Your father told me so many stories about him. He said Alex was bright and promising, full of hope. He painted watercolors, and he wrote poetry—wonderful poetry, according to Daniel.”

Rachel shook her head. “What does Dad’s childhood friend have to do with being collaborators?”

“It’s what happened to him, Rachel. Alex was a factory worker’s son. He was denied the chance to explore his talents, to go to college like Daniel, to ever earn more than enough to survive, simply because his father didn’t have the money to secure an admission. He took the general population exams and easily qualified, but there were more secured admissions than openings. You’ll be taking those exams soon enough, Rachel. And no matter how well you do on them, you wouldn’t get into any college at all if I didn’t have certain . . . savings . . . set aside.”

“You mean the tuition creds?”

“No.” Vivian shook her head. “That will only cover
tuition
. People need a lot more than that to get into college. I have some extra savings I brought with us when we came here. Your father and I . . . we had some black-market gold. I plan to use it to get you a secured admission. Otherwise, you would be in exactly the same position your dad’s friend Alex was.”

Vivian was silent for so long that Rachel wondered if she was going to continue. When she did, her voice was much softer.

“It used to be that if you were smart and hardworking, you could go to college no matter who you were, Rachel. At least you had a chance. But things like secured admissions to college became routine a long time ago, before your father and I were even born. It became normal to have to buy your way into college. If you don’t have the creds or the connections, your choices in life are limited. Most people just accept their lot, because there really isn’t anything they can do about it.

“But your father’s friend Alex was crushed. He couldn’t accept what happened to him; he wanted more. He was young and a dreamer, and he thought he would die if he couldn’t live his dreams. Who knows, perhaps he would have. Perhaps he would have wasted away in the factory, if he was lucky enough to get a position there, dreams drying up one by one. Perhaps his mind would have slowly filled with the deadly gray of assembly work, year after year.” A tear escaped the corner of Vivian’s eye. She hastily wiped it away.

“Alex didn’t wait to see what would happen. When Daniel left for college, Alex hung himself. His father found him when he returned from a shift at the factory—a limp, lifeless body in place of his laughing, handsome son.

“Daniel never forgot it, nor did he forgive himself. His admission to college had nothing to do with Alex being denied, at least not directly. Daniel’s admission had been secured by his father, your grandfather, when he was still a toddler. But he always blamed himself anyway. He said he was a part of the system. He said he might as well have killed Alex himself.”

By the time Vivian finished recounting Alex’s story, Rachel was weeping. Not just for Alex, though his story broke her heart. She was weeping for her father. She would never hear his stories or be able to talk to him about things. He would have known
exactly
what to do about the corder. He would have
never
slunk away from the Identification. Rachel loved Vivian. But at that moment she missed having a dad more than she ever had before.

“You okay?” Vivian handed Rachel a tissue.

Rachel nodded. “I’m okay. I guess I can’t understand why people would let things like that happen.” Rachel didn’t want to tell her mom the real reasons she was crying.

“Oh, Rachel. Look at what they let happen now. So many people believe the propaganda the government distributes. You know how it is—you see the streamer coverage on the issues. It’s the party line all the way. ‘The Identification System is necessary for the safety of the people; all prisoners are justly incarcerated. Random taxes and all of the other government regulations are fair.’ The costly licenses for marriage, restrictions on childbearing slanted in favor of those lucky enough to be rich or connected, Labor Pool sentences for those who can’t prove Gainful Employment status. All of those things are accepted as requisite components of a healthy, working social system.” Vivian smiled at Rachel. “At least by most people.”

“But not Dad?” Rachel was still absorbing the thought that her own father—and her
mother
—were once collaborators. Vivian had always taught her to view the government with suspicion, but Rachel couldn’t imagine her taking the kind of chances that collaborators must.

“Not your dad.” Vivian swiped at her cheeks, wiping away a fresh round of tears. “Your dad knew better, Rachel, because of Alex. And he was brave. Most people are too afraid to protest, so they simply go along.” She nodded to herself, remembering things, things that Rachel couldn’t guess at.

“Your father and I couldn’t just go along. We had to try to change things. In college we learned about the collaborators. There was a secret meeting, and we went.” Vivian shook her head. “We trained. We studied. When it was time, we moved to Ganivar, set up house, played the happy, successful young couple. And collaborated.

“You should have seen how it was in Ganivar, Rachel. People were so afraid—their fear turned them into monsters. If a friend or colleague was Identified during lunch and hauled away, well, the thing to do was simply order dessert and change the subject. People looked the other way when their neighbor disappeared into the back of an Enforcement vehicle. They didn’t want to know where that ride ended.

“We tried to be careful. But we weren’t careful enough. Someone reported Daniel to the Ganivar Council. He was sent to war soon after.”

She looked into Rachel’s eyes, her gaze intense. “That’s why I couldn’t let you interfere with the Identification today. That’s why we’ve spent our lives hidden away on The Property. What if those EOs had scanned your genid, Rachel? You would have come up as Daniel Quillen’s daughter. There’s a big red flag next to your name just because he was your father. There was never any proof I was a collaborator, but they might think I would be happy to name names if they had my daughter to dangle in front of me as bait.” Vivian took Rachel’s hand. “I can’t let anything happen to you, Rachel. You’re all I have left.”

Rachel was silent for a long while. “Monsters,” she murmured.

“What did you say?” Vivian reached up and stroked Rachel’s hair.

“Monsters,” Rachel replied. “You said people turned into monsters because they were so afraid.”

“They did.” Vivian nodded. “They still do.”

Rachel shrugged her mother’s hand away from her hair and turned toward the passenger window.

“After today,” she said, “I don’t see how we’re any different from them.”

 

BACK AT THE guesthouse, Vivian pulled the afghan closer around her. Rachel had gone to the greenhouse to check on her orchid seedlings. It was late, but Rachel needed some time alone to think about what she had learned today, so Vivian had let her go. She hoped she had done the right thing in telling her about their involvement in the collaboration. It didn’t feel like there was much choice; she had to make Rachel understand the danger.

Vivian wondered if she should have told Rachel
everything
. She had considered it, but Rachel was still so young. And Daniel probably
was
dead, no matter what he had hinted at all those years ago. Vivian hated to think it, but she knew in her heart that any other possibility was slim. Giving Rachel false hope wouldn’t serve any purpose. As for today, Vivian didn’t see what good it would do to tell Rachel more about the Identification than she already knew.

She tried to drift off to sleep, but her mind kept wandering toward the past. Toward Daniel. To those days in Ganivar, when Rachel was just a baby and Vivian was a frightened young wife hoping that her husband would return from the war.

 

 

THEY SENT THE death notice long after Vivian already knew he was gone. She had not received a netcomm for nearly a month, though she checked their account every day. The last vocall, three weeks before, had been odd. Daniel’s voice was forced; though he was trying to convey a tone of casual cheer, it rang false. Their streamer was equipped to receive video, but there was no feed from his end, so Vivian couldn’t see his face.

“They’re sending a group of us across the border tomorrow to reconnoiter a camp that’s supposed to be nearby. At the Line.”

“Across the border? Where?” she asked, even though she knew it was pointless. Daniel wasn’t allowed to be too specific about where he was or what he was doing. “
What
camp?”

“Think.” Daniel was silent after uttering that single word. She’d missed something; he was trying to tell her that. Vivian forced herself to concentrate, though she felt like screaming instead.
The Line
. He’d said “the Line.” The most controversial section of the National Border Defense System. North, somewhere north of Bensen. Where the Others . . . oh!