Another Force Read online

  He was good looking, but he had zero ambition. He walked through the market each Tuesday doing nothing, except occasionally picking a fight. Emily did not admire him or his cavalier attitude. She wanted someone with more solidity, more depth, and more drive than she had ever seen from Joniver.

  She knew he was interested in her, but he had never so much as asked her to go anywhere or do anything. She did not tolerate a coward. The words of her aunt rang a continuous warning to her: “Don’t be reckless with your love, Emily.” Emily determined not to be, and Joniver was the definition of reckless. Emily had lost too much already, and she would waste neither time nor energy on guys like these two.

  Emily’s mind hurled her back to the night she lost her dad. She cried for a long time after finding him. She could see her little hands tugging on his damn shirt with all her might. He didn’t move. He just lay there, splayed out like a raggedy doll with flesh. Her Aunt Naomi knelt beside her and picked her up, “Shhh...there, there. Come with me and it’ll be all right. I love you. Come on, hold on tight. Shhh...”

  Emily always remembered those words because it was all right, and her aunt did love her. She had made it all right.

  Emily found in her Aunt Naomi the mother and father she never had. In some ways she could not have had a better thing happen to her; she grew up with her aunt in a loving environment insulated from many of the worries and challenges others her age had to face.

  She also was free of the company “Kid Kamps,” which turned out kids who were, Emily thought, more than a little weird.

  Emily looked around and despite the problems everywhere she turned, she saw possibilities. She knew things were going to be better soon. “I just know it, Aunt Naomi,” she said. “Things can’t stay like this forever. I just know it! I can feel it.”

  Her aunt would smile and give her a gentle hug. “All right,” she would say, “come on, hold me tight!”

  ***

  Joniver trekked home from the market that afternoon, walking through the cluttered streets of broken down cars and strewn trash. The building he lived in with his grandmother had once been a remarkable structure. Although they did not live in the wealthy district, their neighborhood had never endured a terrorist incident, nor had it been any part of the street fights, which had been so common almost a century earlier. Not so much as even a barracks or supply depot had been built here.

  Dodging the effects of the war was both advantageous and unfortunate. It meant the original construction had gone largely unaltered through all the fighting accompanying the World Revolution, but it also meant there had been little reason to pour any resources into maintenance of the structure. So there it stood, with its peeling plaster and broken glass windows.

  Olinar always told Joniver the building had a lean to it. “Like the Leaning Pizza Tower in Italy before they bombed it.”

  Because Joniver read more than company propaganda, he knew Olinar’s identification of the Tower of Pisa, was not only incorrect, it was laughable. Still, he said nothing, letting Olinar enjoy his joke.

  The building did lean slightly forward toward the street, which the cracking brickwork and creaking interior metal stairway only accented for anyone who cared to notice. But Joniver liked the building very much, and even more so he liked the people who occupied the other apartments alongside him and his grandmother.

  Joniver enjoyed being with most of the building’s tenants, the only exception was a man on the sixth floor who cursed loudly at odd hours of the night.

  The guy was just goofy, Joniver thought, as he remembered the evening he came out and poured some kind of orange mixture through the middle of the winding stairwell. The slurry fell all the way to the first floor, staining handrails as it fell. The stuff sat, congealing on the floor for a day and a half, until Ms. Huddleston from the second floor took a mop and bucket to the mess.

  Not everyone had a mop and bucket, Joniver thought.

  Joniver smiled, thinking of Ms. Huddleston. She always had a good word for him, and she always had something baked for him at Christmas. Joniver knew she did it for everyone, but she always told Joniver it was just for him. She made everyone feel special.

  Joniver thought, I wonder where she gets the money to-

  “Joniver! Joniver!”

  Joniver heard his grandmother calling him. He had just turned the corner and headed toward his building. Joniver heard that at one time, the building had been called Peachtree Towers, but he did not know why. He had never seen peach trees anywhere in, or around, the structure, nor had he heard of there ever being any.

  “Joniver!” he heard his grandmother yell through a window in the third floor. She had removed an improvised window insert to peek her head outside.

  “Young man, I need you up here and I mean now!” she said in an angry tone. Then she broke out in a big smile and girlish chuckle.

  Joniver smiled at her and yelled back, “Coming Nana!”

  Neither Joniver, nor his grandmother, had anyway to know it, but grandmothers have never changed. They were now as they always had been, filled with a little mischief and a lot of love for their grandkids. Joniver’s Nana was no different. Her name was Ruth, and she loved her grandson with a love of indescribable warmth and boundless depth. She always encouraged him, prodded him when necessary, disciplined him as needed, and hugged him as much as he would allow. Joniver was blessed with a truly remarkable grandmother, and although he failed to tell her often enough, he knew it, too.

  He opened the steel plate door to the building, and the massive piece of metal swung outward in a slow arc, creaking its protest on the rusted hinges. He did not even bother looking at the elevator, as it was rarely in service, and sprinted up six flights of stairs to the third floor and his flat. He and his grandmother occupied apartment 3C, just to the right after touching foot on the third floor landing.

  Joniver turned, wiped his feet on the mat Nana kept outside the door, and turned the knob to go in. Just as he did so, he noticed another door close down the hall. Someone else had been on the floor. Someone Joniver had not noticed. But now, as the far door closed, he realized he saw Emily go inside. He also knew she had been looking his way.

  Familiar feelings of light-headedness and weakness took charge of his body, as the smell of lilacs took charge of his mind. His blood rushed, and every cell in his skin rippled with pure emotion.

  Maybe Olinar’s right after all, he told himself.

  He refocused on the door knob in his hand and pushed past the threshold into his flat. His grandmother stood waiting, and they hugged and she kissed his cheek.

  “How was your day? Did you get anything at market? How is Olinar’s father?”

  “Nana! Can I get the first question answered before you shoot out 423 more?” He smiled, and headed to wash up. A mouthwatering dinner called out and Joniver was ready to eat.

  “I didn’t think it was 423,” Nana said.

  Their apartment was small, and Joniver was across the great room in three strides. Nana always told Joniver how blessed they were to have such a wonderful place to live; they each had their own bedroom and they had enough space in the great room to cook and sit down for dinner.

  “Nana, our flat seems just like everyone else’s,” Joniver said.

  “No,” Nana would say, “it’s ours!” Joniver would just laugh and hug his Nana. “You’re right, Nana! It’s ours!”

  A single light fixture of three LED bulbs hung from the center of the room and tonight, candles purchased from the market bathed the room with warmth. Shadows danced on the walls like invisible entertainers, inviting Nana and Joniver to relax and enjoy the evening show.

  In the case of the candles used tonight, purchased was not the correct description, Joniver noted. He stole them the week before at market. No matter, the vendor he lifted them from was a worthless fellow. As Olinar said, “He’s a waste of skin.”

  Nana’s wonderful cooking filled the room with the delicious aroma of steaming cabbage and pinto b
eans. She had also set out some freshly made cornbread. Although he did not know why, Joniver and his grandmother ate better than most families in the neighborhood.

  He did not think about this tonight, however, because tonight he was starved. Smelling the food and seeing the warmth, he realized just how famished he was and looked at the food with eager, hungry eyes. He sat and filled his plate, obeying the anxious anticipation of his taste buds.

  “Joniver,” said his grandmother, “we pray first. You know that!”

  “Oh, yes, Nana,” he replied. “We pray first. You go ahead.”

  His tone was not mocking, but it was not serious either. Joniver did not get the whole praying thing. If there was something or someone worth praying to, he - or she, or it - had done a pretty lousy job of giving people in this neighborhood the proper incentive to pray. Why Nana insisted on it was beyond him, but he loved her, and so he always agreed without protest.

  He grabbed the corner off a cornbread square, and brought it to his mouth as his grandmother mouthed words that she ritualistically said prior to each meal. Joniver tasted the warmth and goodness of what his Nana had made, and felt nothing could be better. He didn’t care about her prayer or why she prayed, this stuff was good.

  The world is as it should be, he thought.

  Chapter 2

  Jacob jolted from his sleep, his head throbbing with pain. He sprang up in his bunk peering through the ghostly moonlight of the early morning hours. He was certain he had made a sound of some kind as he woke, but as he gazed at his bunk mates, no one in the barracks stirred. Using only the bluish yellow moonlight, Jacob inspected the forms of each of his 24 company-mates sleeping in neat rows. He studied each humped form, looking for any sign of interrupted slumber.

  He detected no activity of any kind. Only the dust particles provided any movement, dancing in the moonbeams like a great company in a choreographed musical.

  It’s too quiet, even for this time of night, Jacob told himself.

  There usually was noise somewhere in the camp. He listened, but he heard nothing, save the faint closing of car doors far off in the distance.

  He let out a slow uneven, but silent sigh, relieved at his good fortune. His eyes continued to survey the room.

  This is critical, he thought. He could not, would not, show the weakness of having a nightmare, especially here. Guardsman Applicants did not have nightmares.

  “I do not have nightmares,” he said in a soft whisper.

  He looked again around the room, searching from floor to ceiling, inspecting every corner of the room and each bunk.

  He then looked down to his sweat stained undershirt and underwear. His light gray T-shirt was stained so dark with sweat, the black block lettering, Property of Defense Ministry, could scarcely be read. The stains on his briefs suggested an embarrassment unwanted by any man.

  He decided to change and get back in bed before anyone noticed. He could not afford the negative marks he might, would, he thought, receive if this was known. He was fighting to get his score into the Top Tier of all applicants - of all time, and small things were what stood between him and his objective.

  “I cannot allow anything to dominate me or prevent my move into the Top Tier,” he whispered. This was a rare feat, and he was so close. He wanted it badly. Nothing now stood in his way, and he would not allow the nocturnal events of his imagination to be an obstacle either.

  Nightmares are silly and childish, he thought, and everyone knows it

  Jacob was the most gifted of all the applicants here. He was stronger, faster, more intelligent and better in a crisis than any of them. He knew it and his instructors as well as peers knew it. They saw it every day.

  He routinely ran the obstacle course in faster and faster times, setting record after record. His ability to look at strategic plans and decipher, not only the most important part but the critical part, was nothing less than impressive. Jacob had all the necessary tools. He was on the track in life he wanted and there was nothing in his way.

  A nightmare will not defeat me, he thought. I can control my thoughts and therefore my dreams. Everyone knows this.

  He repeated the mantra, attempting to convince an unseen and unheard detractor, but there were none. There were none here, nor in the camp. Jacob’s only detractors were the ones he brought with him, and these he always kept close at hand, ready at a moment’s notice to roam free in the wasteland of his consciousness.

  Why do I have the nightmares? Nightmares indicate weakness. Everyone knows this. I should not be having nightmares; other people have nightmares, not me and not now.

  He shook his head and dismissed all thoughts of the past few minutes. Had it been minutes or hours?

  He wasn’t sure.

  None of this mattered, it would not happen again, he thought. I can’t remember what the nightmare was about, but it felt familiar somehow, he thought.

  I couldn’t break free? Or was it something…

  He shook his head repeatedly, as if to shake out the images and thoughts of the recent events that were unfolded in his subconscious.

  He swung his long, taunt legs around and flattened both of his bare feet on the cold hard concrete surface of the barracks floor. The sudden burst of coolness on the soles of his feet was energizing. He stood and went to the washroom, a sheen of sweat glistened on his upper arms and shoulders. His body glowed in the last fading rods of moonlight, which cut through the fabric of the night sky and into the barracks. Morning was overtaking them.

  Daytime would soon be the master.

  This is the way the world works, and everyone knows it, Jacob told himself.

  He walked through the moonbeams, unconcerned with anything other than what had just happened. He looked at the glint of moonlight in the sheen of sweat on his arms, and saw he was covered in sweat from head to toe.

  He growled in anger and wanted nothing more than to get this filth washed off and disappear for a few moments more of sleep. In a cosmic, nocturnal arm wrestle, the moon was losing the battle with the approaching day, and Jacob’s opportunity would soon be lost.

  He flipped the water valve, which delivered an 18-second spurt of fluid. After a three-second delay, the water drizzled into his hands.

  He splashed himself in the face and neck, and held his hand on the back of his neck for several seconds. He wanted more water, but restrictions prevented any additional discharge at this hour.

  “Damn it!”

  Water was in short supply. Jacob did not understand why it was in short supply. There were a lot of people to be sure, but as he traveled for training and patrols, he saw vast lakes and reservoirs full of water. He had seen huge processing centers and purification plants that could handle millions of gallons of water per day.

  Millions! Where is all the damn water going? He gazed off in the distance, as if trying to solve the water shortage while standing in his briefs in the dark.

  When he was in need of a drink or a bath, he naturally thought more about the water shortage. Everyone knew it was wrong to even entertain such thoughts, but it just did not make sense!

  “None of it makes sense and it’s wrong,” he said.

  Wait, it’s wrong?

  Wrong, who says it’s wrong, he thought. If anything, it is just a reallocation; things aren’t right or wrong, they just are. Everyone knows this.

  Jacob reminded himself of his duty and the urgency of his current situation. He was an applicant for the Guardsmen. He helped people. He kept them from hurting themselves and others, and if everyone was allowed to use the water they wanted, when and where they wanted, they would use too much, or worse yet, use it wrongly.

  Yes, wrongly, that would be wrong. That is what wrong is.

  Allowing people to use water in whatever way they choose is wrong, because that hurts other people, so it has to be controlled.

  Everyone knows this.

  I know this.

  He looked at himself in the mirror.

  I am fine.r />
  Everything is ok.

  Change shirts and go back to bed.

  With those three sentences in his mind, Jacob shut down. He changed his underwear and headed back to his bed.

  Don’t dream you fucking idiot, he thought. Don’t have nightmares. You don’t have nightmares.

  He smiled as he padded back to his bunk. He sounded like a Master Sargent talking to a new recruit.

  Sleep came in minutes, and he had no more nightmares - at least not that night.

  ***

  Gathered in a tall, round, all-glass enclosed office building, on a street not far from where Jacob trained, two well-dressed men and one equally smart-looking woman met in secret.

  Meeting in secret was not unusual; secret meetings were held among company officials everywhere, all the time. This group however, sat around a large polished marble table. This group gathered regularly, at least monthly. This group’s meetings were never a matter of record, and no minutes ever were kept. Yet, the fate of all world dealings were decided and regulated by what this group said and did in this very room. This was the way society had been handled for decades, and this group believed it was the only reason civilization still existed.

  No one knew who these three people were, and in fact, they knew not one another. They referred to one another with the title of Regent followed by a color. The colors were always the same regardless of the participants. Of the three now in the room, the Regent called Blue had been attending the longest, and the others believed he had been mentored by the original Regent Council, although they would never have discussed this with each other or with anyone else. Doing so would undoubtedly have forfeited their lives. And who would have taken their lives? This was a passing thought, but it was something else they did not, and would not, discuss.

  Blue looked across the elegant table as he rocked forward on his elbows, exposing just enough of his cuffed white shirt and gold stud cufflinks. He was not an old man in appearance, but it was impossible to judge the age of any of the Regents by appearance. Appearance could be shifted. Blue’s had been, but only he knew it.