I stride intently toward the city, and he follows me. “By the way, I’d appreciate if you didn’t mock Rey again.”
He cockily arches an eyebrow. “Or …?”
“I’ll make you pay for it.”
His only answer is a skeptical, coy smile.
“Recruitment gives a choice to the hundreds of Nationalist civilians who would otherwise perish due to the consequences of a war their leaders started. Sixty-three percent of the recruits get married to our honorable soldiers, becoming Patriot citizens in the process. By contributing to the Patriot cause, recruits improve their living conditions.”
Extract of Maximillian Kei’s speech for the United Neutral Nations Organization Spring Conference
Chapter 17
“Ouch!” I lick the finger that I’ve just stabbed with the needle. The examination room fills with my siblings’ laughter. They’ve been repeating sexual puns all afternoon, and now they compete to come up with the best stabbing accident joke.
The purpose of my embroidering efforts is worth the age-inappropriate jokes. I’ve been embroidering the bridal sheets for the last authorized wedding before the recruitment. Sara Jenkins, an ex-Comanche, is engaged to a mysterious groom. I struggle to decorate the opening that will allow the husband to enter his bride without “offending her modesty” during the wedding night. The white sheets are a huge deal as they’ll be displayed for the entire town the morning after her wedding night. Starvillers expect there’ll be V-blood staining the sheets.
It’s tedious labor, but at least the Jenkinses will pay me well. I’m not at my best because I’ve been thinking about Aleksey’s proposal. About his mouth on mine. A soft, sweet oppression constricts my chest whenever I think about that kiss. I can only alleviate it by sighing. Sighs and needles aren’t a good combination.
Azzy covers her head with one of the sheets and puts her mouth through the opening, puckering her lips to make her mouth look like a duck beak.
“And they won’t see their bodies while doing it? Imagine if the groom is bigger than this. Poor girl! I can’t believe this is part of her ‘thrust-oh.’”
“It’s called trousseau, Azalea. Troo-soh,” I explain.
“More like true-sore,” says Azzy, tossing the sheet aside and giggling.
Dad enters the room and perches himself on a table for another homeschooling session. He heard our sexual bantering, but he’s used to it.
I look at Olmo, who sits on a stool next to the examination table, suddenly serious. In spite of his mirth—because I’m not sure he understands the jokes—he’s acting differently today. Perhaps it’s because he’s had difficult days lately. He’s been struggling to breathe even with his inhaler. Or maybe it’s because today’s lesson is about medicine, his least favorite subject. Having a disease like fibrosis type-Z is bound to cause distaste for talking about illnesses.
Lessons without our solar e-reader are tedious. To light them up, Dad plays “Guess the Disease.” I like medicine so I’ll participate, although my siblings will beat me for sure.
“The immune system turns against the patient.”
“Lupus!” I say.
Dad nods. “Rigidity of muscles. Body functions slow down.”
“Cataplexy,” says Olmo
“Catalepsy,” Azzy corrects him.
“Inflammation of the bowel … It can be alleviated by a gluten-free diet.”
I hesitate. “Cellist … Celia?”
Dad corrects me. “Celiac.”
The games go on and on several rounds before Olmo interrupts. “Dad, I need to go the washroom. It’s urgent.”
Dad looks concerned. “Are you struggling to breathe again?”
Olmo’s tone is innocently serious. “No, I think I got my period.”
Uh?
Azzy bursts out laughing while Dad blinks. Both twins know perfectly well the mechanics of the female cycle. Olmo tends to be forgetful, but this is ridiculous.
Dad climbs down the table and sits on his cart. “Olmo, men don’t have periods.”
“Uh? The brown spots I got in my underpants … Azzy told me I should get a tampon and …”
Azalea plays innocent. “I never said such a thing.”
Dad checks Olmo’s blood pressure and temperature and asks him several questions about possible bloody discharge. It becomes evident soon that Olmo hasn’t really been spotting his underwear … at least not with blood. Azzy’s messed with his gullibility.
Dad shoots Azzy a we’ll-talk-about-this-later look. “Olmo, diarrhea and periods are very different things.”
Azzy jokes again. “Diarrhea is hereditary; it runs in your jeans.”
My dad sighs. “Don’t listen to her, Olmo. You’ve been eating too much of Mr. Fürst’s food, haven’t you?”
Olmo’s face changes from slightly embarrassed to extremely confused. He opens his mouth to speak and closes it immediately. Olmo’s attitude is unusual. There’s more to this than mere confusion, and I’m suddenly worried about my brother.
Olmo looks at Azzy for a long moment before saying in a detached voice: “When you get your period, would you give me some blood?”
Azzy’s face is priceless, but I can’t find humor in her disgusted expression as I observe Olmo. There’s something wrong with all this talk. “Ew!” shouts Azzy. “You’re crazy.”
Olmo says something that makes my stomach do a summersault. “Blood of a V-girl heals and I’m tired of being sick all the time.”
Olmo never mentions his disease. He’d go to such extremes to avoid it by creating all kind of imaginary worlds that his words make me sink to the floor, suddenly anxious. Not that we press the topic much. It’s an uncomfortable reminder of a cruel reality. The reality that Olmo is living on borrowed time.
I desperately want Azzy to say something sassy that will make us all laugh, but she doesn’t. We always treat Olmo as though he’s healthy, but he’s growing up. He can’t keep reality at bay by making up stories much longer.
For a while, nobody says anything. The only sound comes from Aleksey’s music.
“No, you idiot. The blood of a V-girl doesn’t cure diseases.” There’s bitterness in Azzy’s irritated tone. This isn’t the usual chatter between the twins. There’s certain unspoken misery here, the misery of knowing Olmo can’t fight death magically.
Olmo’s voice is unusually grave. “That’s not what the soldiers told me.”
I gasp. Olmo interacting with soldiers is a terrifying idea.
Dad looks at Olmo tenderly. “They’re superstitious, Olmo. Don’t you think if it were like that I would have already cured you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it has to be the first period. Ow! Don’t slap my head, Azzy! Dad, look at her!”
Dad’s voice is unusually stern. “Azalea, stop it.”
Olmo rocks on his heels. “It’s just ... I want V-blood because … I don’t want to die.”
Nothing breaks the silence this time.
Finally, Dad kindly leads Olmo out of the room, his cart creaking loudly. I know they’ll have a conversation. Azzy follows to spy on them, but I don’t need to know how dad will address death with Olmo. Before today, Olmo has always dismissed every single attempt by my father to explain to him his illness. I know Dad will be honest as usual, but he’ll also inject his explanations with hope.
It’s heartbreaking to realize that Olmo is not only more aware of his illness than I thought. He’s also sicker than I’d had realized.
Perhaps there’s hope for Olmo but we have to be proactive. I’m not for passive optimism. There’s something I can do. I can accept Aleksey’s offer.
I climb the metallic scaffold that leads to Aleksey’s room and nervously knock. He must be around. I heard him playing a tarantella not long ago.
Time goes by, and Aleksey doesn’t answer.
I stop knocking, feeling suddenly unwanted. Is he mad at me? This morning, because of the overwhelming sensation his kissed awoke, I felt the strange compulsion to grab his
hand and hold it as we walked down toward town. But he looked remarkably uncomfortable and retrieved his hand from mine. As soon as we arrived to town he disappeared, leaving me confused. It was a foolish, impulsive gesture. We’re not a couple, and even if we were, soldiers are not famous for their sweetness. Most of them don’t relate to women unless for copulation purposes and in Aleksey’s case, fraternizing with me could ruin his life.
I sit with my back against his door, thinking. Aleksey’s a mature man who has seen the world. He must’ve understood my foolish attempt as a result of my youth and inexperience. If he’s not answering my knocks, there must be a reason other than him being mad. After all, he’s a loner.
Tristan’s silky, accented voice comes from below. “Miss Velez! He’s not there. He’s going to New Vegas on commission and won’t return for some days.”
I scowl. New Vegas is so far away. He could’ve told me. I can’t wait that long. I climb down in a rush and almost trip on my cloak. “Tristan! It is urgent.” Please.
Tristan looks at me kindly. “I’ll tell you where to find him. You have about an hour before he departs.”
I call Poncho and sprint toward the staircase. I don’t turn back not even to look at Tristan when he shouts after me.
“He’s at the canteen.”
Chapter 18
Near the passenger station ruins there’s a two story saloon. The round tables are full of men playing cards, and at the large wooden counter some local girls sit with their legs spread, showing their undies. Or lack thereof. The soldiers won’t come before the curfew because they rarely mingle with the local customers. It smells of alcohol, tobacco, and sweat.
The canteen wasn’t supposed to be this shrine of perdition. Starville volunteers built it to serve the Nat troops in a non-sexual way. Nowadays it’s frequented by soldiers and local males who might not have enough to eat but always spare something for gambling, drinks, and sex.
Women aren’t allowed unless they’re willing to give services. Under my closed cloak, I can pass for an unmarried young man searching for visitant services.
I don’t need to scan the room to know Aleksey must be upstairs. I let Poncho lead the way to the wooden staircase. He sniffs the doors along the mildew-smelling corridor that is lit by torches and stops at one. I hesitate, but before I knock, the door opens.
Three Indian-looking cops stand in the threshold holding drinks. The moment they see me, recognition shows in their faces.
I force myself to sound confident. “I’m looking for Prince Aleksey.”
They exchange looks, and I swear they’re trying to suppress smiles. I turn to leave.
“Don’t go, he’s here,” says the oldest one. When they walk past me, I hear them murmur something like “Fürst Donnerkeil.”
I ignore the myriad of stares I get as well as the fact that all conversation stopped the moment I set foot inside. He’s sitting at a round table. Two Accord cops and a soldier are with him. He’s brooding as usual and scowling, looking at his cards and ignoring everyone.
Aleksey’s eyes can’t hide his surprise and disapproval when he looks up. His face turns a furious red that I know matches his present mood.
His voice is full of contained fury. “What are you doing here?”
Glad to see you, too, Aleksey. “I’d like a word with you before you go.”
For a brief moment, he looks at me like he’s trying to convey a message with his eyes. Then his eyes turn to his cards and his voice comes out curtly. “I’m busy. Go back to the clinic, Miss Velez.”
The cops and soldiers who are with Aleksey chuckle, but their laughter stops when they see Aleksey’s glare.
I force my voice to sound confident and firm. “There’s a problem at the clinic.”
His voice is impatient although his face remains expressionless. “Not now. Go!”
I freeze on the spot, wearing an incredulous look. I feel unwanted and betrayed. We’re not supposed to fraternize, but can’t he at least be politely indifferent? Especially in present company?
It’s then when I look around the room. There are two more round tables where Accord cops sit playing cards, some stealthily stealing glances at me. On an enormous bed in a distant corner, a Patriot visitant straddles a barely dressed cop who looks as though he’s passed out. She wears an orange unitard. Her blue eyes shoot me a brief scornful look. I recognize her; she “visited” Aleksey during our first night at the clinic.
She moves to sit on the bed’s edge with her legs spread open and asks indifferently. “Who’s next?”
The lower part of her garment has an open zipper that reveals her most intimate parts. How many times has this zipper gone up and down tonight? Has Aleksey used this woman today? The thought makes me frown. I thought he was … different.
One of the cops gets up. “My turn.”
“And then you’ll serve General Fürst, Coco,” says the soldier. Coco’s expression becomes hopeful. She’s extremely eager to serve Aleksey.
My nose wrinkles in disgust. Fury and disappointment run through my veins, corroding my thoughts.
Aleksey growls without looking at me. “Are you deaf? Go away!”
In a heartbeat, I’m out of the canteen and running through Starville’s streets with Poncho alongside me.
When I’m passing under the Judges Avenue overpass, I bump into a drunken man who tries to start a fight. I try to avoid him, but he’s persistent. He throws a jab at my face, but I evade him and use his momentum to bring his chest against my elbow making him lose his breath. When I use all my strength to kick his heels, the man tumbles to the ground with a loud thud.
During the fight, my hood’s fallen, and my cloak opened. My long bushy mane is on full display. The man looks at it shocked. “Holy crap! You’re a girl!”
Did he think I was a man? So girls can’t be fighters? Are we only brides, baby carriers, or recruits? Or worse, visitants? I have to suppress the urge to kick his balls and instead keep running until my chest hurts. The ache in my lungs distracts me from other pains.
A monumental hand stops me. Of course, this bastard can catch up to me using minimal effort. Aleksey’s voice isn’t breathy, but furious. “Could you stop that?”
I retrieve my hand forcefully and glare at him fighting to get air into my lungs. “Stop what!?”
“Fraternizing with the enemy in public. In a canteen of all places.”
“I thought you said you didn’t care.”
“I don’t care if it’s me. I won’t risk you. My unit won’t dare to betray us, but there was a soldier in there.”
His enormous hand reaches for my face, but I step back and resume my running.
He trots beside me. “What do you think you were doing there?”
“Your proposal. You told me you’d arrange Olmo’s care in the New Norfolk’s Accord hospital in exchange for—”
He turns to me as though in surprise, his eyes shining. “Yes. As long as Dr. Velez goes with him and both prove their neutrality through a polygraph test.”
I look at him contemptuously. “I came to say yes. You didn’t have to be so rude.”
For a fleeting moment he looks … happy? I must have gotten it wrong because his voice recovers its angry tone. “I had to. Didn’t you notice they were leering at you? Never go to that place again. ”
“Don’t tell me what do.” My voice reflects my anger. “This couldn’t wait. You’ll go to New Vegas soon, which I had to find out by hearsay. When were you going to tell me?”
He’s taken aback at my fury, but his voice is harsh. “Why would I tell you?”
I suppress a gasp. It sounds like who are you to receive any explanations? Turning my back on him I dart toward the clinic staircase.
I manage to go up some of the steps when he grabs my waist and forces me to turn. His voice is kind. “What I meant is that I’m not used to giving explanations. I just received my commission an hour ago. I didn’t think you’d care.”
I’m slightly taller be
cause of the step I’m standing on. My anger is gone, replaced by a sudden shyness. I look down. He’s making me nervous, but I try to sound nonchalant. “Aren’t we both lone wolves and voyeurmates? That’s almost as being friends, and friends tell each other things.”
“Friends.” He seems to savor the word, apparently not finding it to his liking. His thumb on my chin forces me to look up. “Ours has to be a discreet arrangement.”
Electricity washes through me as I stare at his blue eyes. “A secret?”
His voice becomes silkily sexy. “Not exactly. Let’s say we should not be conspicuous around the wrong people.”
His face is getting closer and closer. I gulp. Not two kisses in a day. It’d be too much.
And yet my eyes are starting to close. My lips part.
An uninvited and unwelcome thought overcomes me just when our lips are about to touch. His rudeness at the canteen. The visitant’s beautiful, artificial face. No!
I disengage from his grip and climb up at top speed.
By the time I reach the courtyard, he’s with me again. He looks at me with a hint of puzzlement in his blue eyes.
“You can’t be rude one moment and kiss me the next. Not even if we have to pretend we’re perfect strangers.”
He scowls. “You don’t know how dangerous that place is. I was anxious for you to get away from danger, and you stubbornly stayed. I would have lost it if someone had tried to attack you. I was enraged, worried, and … deeply uncomfortable.”
His usual I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude mismatches his words. “You? Uncomfortable?”
“My unit was killing time, so I had to keep an eye on them. But I don’t frequent the canteen, and I don’t like to use visitants. That you of all people found me there was uncomfortable.”
“That woman ... did you use her services today?” Damn! Now he’ll think I’m jealous.
Aleksey seems genuinely pleased by my question. “No. In fact,” his eyes travel up and down my body in a sensual manner. “I won’t ever require visitants’ services again. I’ve lost interest in the opposite sex.” He tilts up my chin forcing me to look at him. “With one exception.”