His tongue snakes out, licking his blubbery lips. “The only problem was we didn’t anticipate them being so…” He sighs, heavily, spittle spraying off his lips. “We sent them out there to eventually go extinct, to die on their own terms in their own time, in a way that didn’t upset the bleeding hearts or religious right. But we didn’t know how resilient these duskers would be. Ultimately, they’re plucky at heart, resourceful survivors, and that’s what they’ve done. Survive. Actually, over the centuries, they’ve done more than survive. They’ve thrived. They’ve perpetuated their own species. Like a pack of rats. Built up a whole metropolis, developed their own technology. To the extent that now all we can do is keep an eye on them, and stay completely out of sight. Those duskers catch a whiff of us, they get the slightest inkling, and they’ll be crossing the desert to devour us, come hell or sunlight.”
Krugman stares down at the tumbler. He sets it down, picks up the whisky bottle, and drinks straight out of it. His eyes flush watery and bloodshot. “And that, my ladies and gentlemen, is why we’re here. Why the Mission is here. To be the watchful eyes of humanity. An outpost to keep a lookout for duskers. Because these duskers are frisky as a pack of dogs in heat, let me tell you. Now, centuries later, there’re close to five million of them, if our estimations are anywhere near accurate. And so we keep watch over them. Make sure they aren’t developing technology that would enable them to traverse the desert.” He sniffs. “You should be happy to know that after centuries of observation, it appears the duskers don’t have the slightest inclination to stray. They really do hate the sunlight.”
I glance over at Sissy. Like me, she’s shocked, barely able to register this deluge of information. Her mouth slack, her skin pale, she turns her head. Our eyes meet like arms reaching out, clasping.
I speak, my voice wrung out. “Tell me how Elder Joseph fits into all this.”
Krugman pauses for a long time. I think he’s going to end the meeting; he’s tottering with indecision. Then he speaks, softly, as to himself. “He was a brilliant scientist, one of the keenest minds I’ve ever worked with. Young, brash, prodigious. We enjoyed a level of simpatico, he and I, in the early years.”
“The early years?” I say.
“Before he…” Krugman shakes his head. “Before he went off the deep end. Although even back then, there were signs of his instability. He worked obsessively in his laboratory, with a dedication that bordered on obsession. He came to believe that a cure could be derived for duskers. Some kind of curative concoction that would reverse—yes, reverse—the mutations in the dusker genetic code sequence. Something he called the Origin.” Krugman’s eyes flash toward us for a second. “But the Scientist needed to better understand the physiology of the duskers, had to collect samples. And so he arrived at a conclusion that proved to be his eventual undoing: that he needed to go into the duskers’ metropolis.
“It was a ludicrous notion, of course, and I think deep down he knew it. For years, he stalled, trying to find some other way to concoct the Origin. But in the end, he realized there was no other option. He needed to venture into the duskers’ metropolis. And not alone. He’d have to collect a ton of samples; he’d have to take a team in with him. Sounds crazy, sounds like no one would sign up for it. But he had a way with words, and a charisma that dripped and oozed. He played on their religious sentiment, arguing that it was our spiritual duty to do this. That it was all for the good of the duskers’ souls. Before long, he convinced a group of about thirty—thirty!—to go with him. Across the desert and into the hornets’ nest.”
“When?”
“What, two, three decades ago? They snuck into the dusker city, intending to stay for a couple of weeks at most. But they severely underestimated the … tenacity of the duskers. The unimaginable happened. Or the utterly predictable, depends how you see it, I suppose. Our people got separated, then devoured within days, if not hours. Communication lines were completely compromised, transportation channels destroyed. They were pushed into hiding and when food resources ran out, they were left with only one option: infiltrate and merge into society, pretend to be a dusker. And years, decades passed, without a word from them. Frankly, we thought they were all dead.
“And then, a few years ago, Elder Joseph came back. Like a phantom made flesh and blood again. Walked right out of those woods, through the gates, and into the Mission. A miracle dropped from the skies. Or a curse. Because he was a broken man, eyes wild, given to fanciful notions. He insisted on staying here at the outpost, on continuing his research in the laboratory. He declined every offer to be honorably discharged and returned to the Civilization.”
Sissy’s head cocks right at this. “Wait,” she says. “What do you mean?”
Krugman is puzzled. “He wanted to stay. What option—”
“No, no,” Sissy says, shaking her head. “The part about returning to civilization.”
“Well,” Krugman says, confused, “this isn’t the Civilization. The Mission is just an outpost, like I said. Haven’t you been listening? There’s a whole wide world out there, ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine-nine percent of the rest of the globe, filled with our people, our cities, our civilization. We’ve had to rebuild ever since the dusker uprising, and we’re not anywhere close to our pre-dusker days, but we’re slowly getting there.”
Sissy and I stand dumbfounded.
“What did you think was out there?” he asks. His face is brittle with bewilderment, his glassy eyes probing us.
“I thought the earth was filled with peop—with duskers,” I say. “I didn’t think there were many of us left, perhaps only a scattering in isolated pockets.” In fact, until three weeks ago, I’d thought I was the last of our kind. Until, that is, I encountered the group in the Dome. Until Ashley June revealed herself. Until the Director disclosed—perhaps inadvertently—the existence of hundreds more like us imprisoned like cattle at the Ruler’s Palace.
Krugman stares wide-eyed at us. “Come here,” he says, beckoning with his arm. Whisky spills out of the bottle. “Come to the window. Let me show you something.”
He jabs the window. “Over there,” he says, “in the distance. Just off the ridgeline, there where the land drops into the deep ravine.”
We see it. A double-leaf bascule bridge, the two lifted halves standing sky-high and upright like sentries posted on opposite sides of the deep ravine. “About once a fortnight,” Krugman says, “our supplies arrive. By train. Food, furniture, crops, medicine. That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it? It all comes by train. We lower the halves of the bridge. The train crosses. We unload it at the station. Then we send the train back, takes about four days each way. A little shorter on the way back to the Civilization on account of the steep descent from the mountain. The train positively flies down. And it’s all self-automated. Quite a marvel how simple it is: push a few buttons, and away it goes, the bridge lowering, the train disappearing down the mountain. Doors remain locked until they reach the destination points, be it here or the Civilization. Usually, we send the train back with a list of any supply needs beyond the usual requirements. And, on special occasions, the train leaves here with a passenger. Or two.”
Sissy and I turn to look at him.
He nods, a dull glint in his eyes. “For those who have served well, those who have been commendable in their service of the Mission, a reward awaits them in the form of an honorable discharge. For the select few, they get to ride the train back to the Civilization, where they will be opulently compensated with a government stipend to last them for the rest of their lives. But it has to be earned.”
“With Merit Marks,” I say, realizing.
Krugman, with an expression of mild surprise and faint respect, nods. “You don’t miss much. Yes, Merit Marks. Earn five Merit Marks, and you’ve earned your ticket back to the Civilization. Mind you, it usually takes at least a decade of service.”
“How do you get one of these Merit Marks?” I ask.
“Oh, many are the ways, I suppose. Unflinching adherence to the bylaws, love for the eldership and citizenry of the Mission, giving birth to a healthy child. Demonstrated diligence to daily duties over a decade of service. That sort of thing.”
“And what about a Demerit Designation?” I ask. “How do you get one of those?”
The room falls quiet. “Ah, yes. Demerit Designations. Quite simply, disobedience to the bylaws will earn you a Demerit Designation. Or two. Depends on the level of transgression. But come now, that is not what we’re about here at the Mission. We’d much rather focus on the positives, the Merit Marks—”
“Let me guess,” I say, recalling the girls with brandings and tattoos on their left and right arms. “One Demerit Designation subtracts against the total Merit Marks. One branding scar nullifies one smiley face. Makes it that much more difficult to get to five.”
And what happens when you get to five Demerit Designations?
I’m thinking to ask when Krugman interrupts my thoughts.
“Subtraction, I suppose, yes. But we here at the Mission prefer to see it as
addition by subtraction
. Keeps enthusiasm up, morale up, incentivizes the citizenry.” Krugman smiles, puts his hands on my shoulders, squeezes reassuringly. “I can see what this is about. You’re worried about”—he flicks his chin at Sissy—“your girl here. About her many transgressions. Look, don’t worry. We’re not going to hold it against her. In fact, don’t even worry about Demerit Designations or Merit Marks. You’ve all been fast-tracked. You’re not going to have to wait: not a decade, not a year, not a month or a fortnight, even. See, a train is scheduled to arrive here later tonight. It’ll take us several hours to unload the supplies. And then, if all goes well, all six of you will embark the train late tomorrow and journey to the Civilization. To your well-deserved oasis.”
Sissy puts her fingers on the window, presses her palm against it. She shakes her head. “Sorry, this is all coming at us so fast.”
“I understand.”
For a minute, we stare at the bridge, trying to digest all this paradigm-shattering information. “Why have you decided to fast-track us?” Sissy asks.
Krugman laughs, shoots a knowing glance at the other elders. “As if I have a say in it!” He opens a drawer in his desk, takes out an envelope, a thick royal red wax seal broken across the opening. He slips out a single piece of paper with embossed letterhead and hands it to me. “A letter from the headquarters in the Civilization. Go ahead, read it for her.”
I don’t bother to correct Krugman’s misassumption that Sissy is illiterate. Instead, I unfold the paper, stare at the cursive handwriting. Sissy leans in to read.
The Civilization has recently received credible intelligence that a group of six young people, ranging between the ages of five and seventeen, have escaped from dusker imprisonment. Our agents have informed us that they are likely headed toward the Mission. Should they reach said destination, they are to be treated with the utmost care and hospitality. They are to board the very next train and be brought back to the Civilization. It is imperative that they return with “the Origin.”
Yours, the Civilization.
“We received that letter only a few weeks ago,” Krugman says. “That’s why we weren’t completely astonished when you appeared at our doorstep. We were expecting you, see.”
Sissy flips the paper over. It’s blank. She looks up at Krugman. “So we’ll be getting on this train tomorrow,” Sissy says, her voice edged with suspicion. “And you were going to tell us this, when?”
Krugman laughs, a cough of mirth. But inside that explosion of sound, I detect his irritation. “Why, when young Gene recovered. That’s when. We weren’t about to get your hopes up only to be forced to dash them if he wasn’t well enough to make the journey. Remember, he was barely hanging on just a couple of nights ago. But look now,” he says, looking at me, “he’s the very picture of health and vitality, isn’t he? So, you’ll be leaving us tomorrow with both our blessings and, no doubt, the fondest of memories.”
For a minute, the only sound is the
tick-tock tick-tock
of the grandfather clock.
“What about the Scientist?” I say. “Why wasn’t he sent back to the Civilization? You’d think he would have received the same treatment as us. Why wasn’t he fast-tracked?”
The air tenses. In the window’s reflection, I see Krugman’s henchmen—silent this whole time—stiffen. Krugman says, “The simple answer is: we never received a directive from the Civilization.”
“And the long answer is?” Sissy says.
Krugman laughs loudly, a guffaw. “The long answer is: it’s complicated.”
“Then give us the long answer,” I say. “Tell us everything. Tell us why he committed suicide.”
Krugman sniffs with irritation. “You have to understand something. When Elder Joseph returned, he wasn’t altogether in his right mind. He proved to be … uncooperative.”
“How so?”
“He clammed up. Refused to talk about his life among the duskers. No one had ever lived in the dusker metropolis and lived to tell the tale. He was there for over two decades; he should have been a storehouse of information. But he refused to talk about his time there. And very oddly, when it came time for him to return to the Civilization by train, he refused to go. Outright refused, locked himself in this lab, in fact. When pressed, all he would say was he had to wait for the Origin.”
“And what did he say about the Origin? Didn’t you think to ask?”
Krugman smiles ambiguously. “Of course we did. He only said that it was a cure. That in the years living with the duskers, he’d been able to gain daily access to laboratories and top-secret scientific documents. Posed as a janitor at the highest-security building in the metropolis, apparently. Anyway, with access to all that information and equipment, he’d been able to concoct a formula. For the Origin. The cure that would reverse the genetic effects on the duskers, completely retransform duskers back to humanity.”
“Reverse the effects?” I say.
“That’s what Elder Joseph said. If he’s to be believed.”
“This cure, the Origin,” Sissy whispers, just as overwhelmed as I am. “He didn’t have it on him, then?”