Chapter Three
The Sterility Epidemic is the black plague of our times. Luckily, instead of superstitious priests mumbling chants, we have the American Reproduction Knowledge Initiative. Let the churches and morality movements save your souls. The ARK is here to save our species.
—Tiberius “Tibbs” Hoyt
President and CEO of the ARK
January 1, 2058
(i)
Sitting in the backseat with Wren, I listened to the sirens wailing in the distance. If one of the policewomen had scanned Billy’s license plate, they’d find us easy.
I had to get home. I had to touch Mama one more time before we buried her.
If the police did find us, I knew what would happen—Wren had two bullets left. While I was worrying about Mama and those two bullets, Billy, for some odd reason, was worrying about Wren calling him johnson.
“Excuse me, ma’am, my name is Billy Finn.”
Wren had one hand on Anju’s headrest. “Don’t care who you are.” She pointed with her Springfield 9. “There, at that gas station, you and your girlfriend get out. And thanks for the ride.”
Billy was wise enough not to argue. He drove his frictionless car over to the juice plug.
Becca Olson sure had given him a nice present. The Pegasus had an Eggdrop-class Eterna battery so it didn’t need the juice plugs like the Mushus did. Eggdrops could easily get a thousand kilometers without any trouble. I had a little hero-worship for Maggie Jankowski of the GE Corporation, even though she named her batteries after Chinese food. That took a lot of gall after the horrors of the Sino.
We all piled out. Wren got into the driver’s seat, while I tried to figure out a way to say goodbye to Anju and Billy. I wished I was like Wren, ice-cold inside, or Sharlotte, who had a horseshoe for a heart.
Instead, I was all squish and tears. My life in Cleveland was over, and all the emotions finally caught up with me. I ran over and hugged Anju. “I gotta go, Anju, and I prolly ain’t never comin’ back.”
“What? Cavatica, you don’t mean—”
Wren yelled from behind the wheel, “Enough of that girly ’strogen huggin’. We gotta go!”
I cried full-on as I rambled, “Anju, my mama’s dead and the ranch is in trouble, and my sisters both are crazy, and we don’t have no money for tuition for next year. Coming back would be so hard and expensive. I just love you so much.”
Anju held me while she sobbed. “Oh, Cavatica, I’ll write to you about Billy and me. We’re going steady, and it’s all because of you. Your plan worked!”
We hugged, cried buckets, and I worried that Wren might think I was gillian, but another part of me didn’t care ’cause I loved Anju so much. Friends like that were worth more than all of the money Maggie Jankowski and Tibbs Hoyt had put together and gathering interest.
I got in and held Anju’s hand through the passenger’s window until Wren cursed us and drove off.
Wren tsked. “What a display, Cavatica Jeanne Weller. I don’t think I could live with myself after all that.”
I didn’t realize my hands were trembling until I wiped the tears from my face.
Couldn’t believe I was on the run from the cops. Couldn’t believe I’d pinned all my hopes for getting home on Wren. Couldn’t believe I had to go back to the Juniper without a mother there to protect me. Couldn’t believe any of it.
(ii)
I tried to calm myself by focusing on my breath, something I’d learned from Anju. Breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. At the same time, I said a Hail Mary, every phrase either an inhale or an exhale.
Slowly, I got to feeling a little better. Staring out the window also helped. The streets became prettier and richer with every kilometer. Immaculate gardens and pristine flower beds lined perfectly maintained streets. Being from the Juniper, I could appreciate unblemished asphalt, but then they had road crews constantly laying down blacktop.
Everyone was working. Unemployment was close to zero percent due to the low population after the Sino and the Sterility Epidemic. I know it might sound sexist, but with fewer boys we had less crime and less violence. I’d done a research paper on prison populations during the last half of the twentieth century, and the ratio of incarcerated men to women did make one pause. Now, America was closing down women’s prisons. We just didn’t need as many anymore.
Out in the World, America prospered with unlimited energy, a strong economy, flying cars, and sunshine. Pretty much a paradise, and I was Eve, disgraced and exiled back to the Juniper.
Wren drove slowly, so we wouldn’t draw attention to ourselves. Still, it seemed every street had a police cruiser on it. From the window of one cruiser, the flash of a scanner hit the ID chips in our vehicle, but they’d just show a car registered to Billy Finn, an upstanding member of society. If they called him, Billy would cover for me.
Part of me wished the police would find us, but another part knew I had to leave Eden to go home and bury Mama. Her funeral was just three days away. No Ash Wednesday smudges for me.
My lungs felt heavy, and I prayed to God for forgiveness and strength.
We drove past the ARK clinic in Shaker Heights, and like always, guards stood out front to escort people in and keep protestors out. I watched as a teenage boy and his parents swagger up the steps. He wasn’t going in there to test his viability, no, he was going in there to sell.
Some viable boys strutted around like stallions, others, like Billy Finn, were far more bashful. For them, going to an ARK clinic meant humiliation regardless of the paycheck. Everyone knew what they did in the little rooms. I’d have died of embarrassment if I’d been a viable boy.
The ARK, otherwise known as the American Reproduction Knowledge Initiative, was a company run by Tibbs Hoyt, the richest man in the world. The ARK’s business was researching our boy problem and selling Male Product. Since the boy was viable, he and his parents were making a bundle selling what he was lucky enough to have.
So few boys were around. The Sino-American War had decimated whole generations of men, and to make matters worse, at the very height of the casualties, fewer and fewer boys were born until it got to the point that only one out of every ten babies was male. Of those boys, only one in ten was viable, meaning they weren’t sterile. Most people thought it was Chinese bio-warfare gone wrong ’cause it affected the whole world. Religious folk thought it was the wrath of God punishing us for our many sins.
And some blamed the Sterility Epidemic on the Yellowstone Knockout. It made a certain amount of sense—this huge cataclysm created the Juniper and started the Sterility Epidemic all at the same time, but part of me didn’t like how convenient it all seemed.
I glanced over at Wren. She was driving tight-fisted and tight-jawed. “Hey, Cavvy, look up the Amtrak schedule on your computer thingy. I can’t remember when the train to Chicago leaves.”
Hands shaking, I was about to thumb on my slate when I realized the police would be scanning for my MAC address. I had to register my slate with the school to get on their satellite network, and the minute I popped on, the police would use it to track me.
But I could get around that. I had downloaded some pirated Lonely Moon episodes for Anju until the guilt got to me. I went to confession and Father Stein was clear, no more pirating. Still, I had batch files to re-route my connection to servers in Finland, so I started up my slate in safe mode, tweaked some settings, then rebooted and like magic, my connection was re-routed through Helsinki, complete with a phony MAC address.
Right away, there, on my homepage, news alerts, video all about Cleveland and all about us. Roadblocks, street teams sweeping the avenues, and our pictures, both terrible and unflattering. Eyewitness accounts of the gunfight said it was as vicious as the O.K. Corral.
Wren glanced over and smirked. “Nobody even got killed. But yeah, the Yankees would blow this all out of proportion.” Her smirk turned frowny. “This is the wrong car to be in, way too conspicuous. We can’t drive outta town. And even if we could afford it, the airport would be suicide. Train is our only hope. Gotta be in McCook, Nebraska, Friday morning, or we’ll miss the funeral. Sharlotte’ll kill me.” A pause. “Well, she’ll try.”
“Why McCook? Ain’t nothin’ there. We can pick up the thruway rail in Sterling and that will take us to Burlington. That’s what I did when I came home for Christmas a couple years ago. You weren’t around.”
Wren didn’t respond. She just drove, her brow pinched.
On my slate, I found the Capital Limited train bound for Chicago leaving the Amtrak station at 12:58 PM. Even with a long layover in Chicago, we would make it to McCook early Friday morning. If we could get out of Cleveland at all.
Like Wren said, going to the airport would’ve gotten us caught, and regardless, we couldn’t fly into the Juniper. No electricity. We could’ve gotten close though. Back in 2044, I had flown into Omaha and then took a train to Sterling. But that was when we had money.
Wren was dangerous, sure, and I could’ve used the stunner on her and took off on my own, but then I’d never make the funeral on Saturday. I needed Wren, but I couldn’t figure out her plan. If we got into McCook on Friday morning, we still couldn’t get to Burlington in a day. It was a 142 kilometers by the old highways. Even with a fast stage, it was a two-day journey. A full two days driving the horses into a sweat.
“Tell me, Wren. Why McCook? And why Saturday for Mama’s funeral? Why so quick?”
“You’ll see,” was all the answer I got.
We parked in a parking garage downtown next to a Chevy Landspeeder, named after the old Star Wars video. ’Speeders were one of the first frictionless cars to hit the market, thanks to American ingenuity.
I was on my slate, about to message Anju, when Wren stopped me. “Don’t tell them where the car is yet. Not until we’re safe.”
“But Wren—”
Her stare stopped me from saying more.
We had to walk a bit, but we finally made it through the doors of the train station, a tiny place, just a couple of benches, a place for luggage, and the ticket counter. Wren bought our tickets with lots of wrinkled-up money. I didn’t have a dime. I guess I could’ve sold my electric slate ’cause once we hit Buzzkill, Nebraska, my slate would be as useless as a soggy paper plate. The Juniper’s electromagnetic field wiped hard drives clean. It chewed up computers and spit out the parts—only good for the gold in the motherboards.
Still, I couldn’t part with my slate, not right then.
Wren went to the baggage counter with tickets to exchange for luggage. The clerk brought Wren’s old army duffle as well as a brand new backpack. My sister shouldered both bags and turned. That was when the three policewomen came through the front door.
Three women, searching faces, searching for us.
My mouth went open, my feet iced up solid to the floor, but Wren pulled me into the men’s bathroom quick, before they saw us and before I could argue.
All my concerns faded right away when I realized we were trapped. No windows. Only way out was through the police outside.
(iii)
Even though us being in the men’s room wasn’t proper, Wren was smart—not a lot of men to use the men’s room. We hurried to the handicap stall at the very end. My knees hardly held me upright, I was shaking so bad.
“Now for disguises, right quick and in a hurry,” Wren said. “Hopefully it’ll take them girls a bit before they check the men’s room.”
From her army duffle, she took out two pairs of jeans, her jeans, way too small for me. And two frilly blouses, again, her size.
“Wren! I can’t—”
“Shut up.” She threw the jeans at me then pulled little bottles and square containers out of her army duffle and balanced them on the toilet. Lipsticks, rouge, and whatnot. She took off her dress in a big swoop of fabric and dropped it to the floor.
I couldn’t help but notice her lacy underwear and curvy, muscled body. She moved and flexed like a million-dollar racing pony. Not like me. I was built like a draft horse after a week in an ugly pen.
She tugged on the jeans, then the frilly white top, which she only half-buttoned, showing skin, not caring. Her Springfield 9 went into the back of her skin-tight jeans, covered by the blouse.
Wren turned to me. “Put on them clothes. I’ll do up your face. And then we’ll play it like I say.”
Fear jumbled my insides. We had to hurry, but I could guess what her plan was, and I couldn’t do it—not even for a disguise. Not even to make Mama’s funeral.
“You want us to dress like ladies of the night,” I said.
She rolled her eyes. “Ladies of the night? Jesus, am I absconding with Sally Browne Burke?”
“Good word, absconding. Figured you’d be limited to two syllable words.”
Her mouth got small. “We don’t have a choice. This’ll work. Them Yankee cops are looking for a schoolgirl from your fancy Academy, so if we go out there as party girls, it’ll trick ’em. Yankees think everybody from the Juniper is the same. To them, we’re all just party girl harlots, dumb as dirt. Well, we’ll give them what they want, and you won’t have to do anything unseemly. Trust me, I’ll get those jeans on you, even if I have to bloody you to do it.”
“Fine. Just don’t look.”
Through the wall, we heard a stall door slam open. It was the cops, checking the ladies’ room next door. We were running out of time.
“Cavvy, this is not the time for modesty. They’re coming. We have to hurry.”
“Turn around anyhow.”
She did, grumbling, “Hell, this is so stupid, we both got the same parts. And we’re sisters.”
Yeah, sisters, and she’d make fun of every mole just to be mean.
Putting on those jeans was torture, skin-peeling, fat-pinching, embarrassing torture. I got them over my hips, but I couldn’t get them buttoned. The blouse was skintight. Even so, I buttoned it up to my chin.
Wren sighed and started undoing buttons. “For this to work, Cavvy, you gotta show ’em what the Lord gave you, but the Devil wants you to use.”
She really had done those dirty things in Amarillo that Sharlotte had wrote me about. Which made me kind of feel sorry for her—my sister, doing those desperate things ’cause she couldn’t tolerate our family. Sure, the non-viable boys made money that way, but so did girls brought low by our troubled times, and they made a quarter of what the parlor boys made. Sad. All of it so sad and tragic.
Another stall slammed next door in the ladies’ room. Bang.
Wren moved like lightning. She hair sprayed and teased both of our hair until we had halos of frizz, then she painted herself, painted me, and did it quick and good and in a flash. When she powdered my face, the scratches Becca Olson gave me burned, but I hardly felt the pain. Too nervous.
The door to the men’s room opened. Wren and I froze, staring into each other’s eyes. We heard the footsteps on the floor. Then a zipper. Then, I won’t say what we heard, but it wasn’t the police.
The bathroom door creaked opened again. A woman’s voice called in, “Excuse me, is the men’s room clear?”
The guy answered, “No, ma’am.”
The guy would smell the hairspray and know we were girls. Would he tell the police?
The guy washed his hands and left, but we could hear him, “Yes, officer, someone is still in there. They’re almost done I think.”
Good. Gave us a minute. And the guy didn’t mention the hairspray smell.
Wren and I packed up our dresses, hers in her army duffle and mine in the new backpack. But not before I saw what was inside—clothes, brand new, high-quality North Face polypropylene long underwear, Nferno synthetic wool hat and scarf, Secondskin gloves, and a big Mortex parka, brown and sagebrush green.
I zipped up the backpack and asked, “Is all that stuff for me? It must have cost a fortune.”
“Maybe, but I didn’t buy it.”
“Wren, it’s wrong to steal. Eighth commandment. You wanna burn in hell forever?”
Wren hit us both with eye-blistering perfume. “Don’t get scary on me, Princess. What I done already is gonna make me burn, so one more little sin isn’t gonna do much. I’ll deal with hell once I get there. For now, I have a passel of other demons to fight. Might as well start with those cops outside.”
We left the handicap stall and my reflection in the mirror above the sink showed a stranger, mostly harlot, but a little bit pretty, too. I almost looked good, as long as I kept my eyes on my face. Once they wandered over to Wren, I felt like a grease-painted clown. Wren was goddess-hot—any viable boy for kilometers around would kill to be with her but not me.
I had my dignity, chastity, and womanly modesty. Sally Browne Burke said those were more important than beauty. I wanted to believe that was true. Standing next to Wren, though, the words felt hollow.
She examined me. “Good. You’re young, and the young in you will sell this.
Anyone looks at you, you wink and smile like you wanna party, and it’ll shock ’em back. If you gotta talk, twang up your language to show them how country-stupid you are, and they’ll never know how smart you are.”
I was too shook up to appreciate the compliment.
I figured we’d go out to face them right away, but Wren had another surprise for me. She went to the sink and not only brushed her teeth, but flossed them as well.
Instead of asking why the dental hygiene at a time like that, I took the Mortex parka out of the backpack and slipped it on—kept my hands in my pockets, one holding the stunner. If Wren drew her gun, I’d zap her. There’d be no killing if I could help it.
Wren turned, noticed the coat, and nodded. “Good. The coat makes you look like you’re ashamed, and the cops might like that. I’ll do the talking, and you just smile at them like you love them. Can you do that?”
I nodded, though I doubted I could ever do such a thing.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
Wren gave me a long look, her black eyes cool and completely inscrutable. You’d need a gosh darn Rosetta stone to figure out some of the looks she gave me. But just when I thought to give up, I noticed how tired her eyes were, and not just tired, but like she was defeated, deep down in some dark place inside.
I followed Wren out of the bathroom and right into the scorching gaze of the three policewomen, Cleveland’s finest, two with Thor stunners and one lugging a Zeus 2 charge gun.
“There they are,” one said, pointing at us.