Gray Skies (10 page)

There were other problems, too. Some couples struggled to get pregnant; their time to conceive would near an end. There were fewer babies in the Commune, with some stolen, still wearing the swaddling blankets they’d been wrapped in. Declan remembered hearing about one baby being fought over on the infirmary floor after the death of another infant; both couples had tried to claim the surviving child. There were even a few couples that had been exiled from the Commune, banished to live amongst the Outsiders for taking a child that wasn’t theirs.

In the past year, Declan often heard his father and mother talk about problems with the Commune’s population. He’d heard them speak about pregnancies that had ended before their time, leaving couples grief-stricken, and heartbroken. They’d also talked about the shortage of pregnancies, as though there had been some unreachable number that had been set generations before them. There were also new rumors on the tongues of couples to be and couples that were: for the younger generation, the time to have a family would expire more often.

Declan clearly remembered one evening when his mother had been speaking with his father. There had been a problem with a report that she’d developed, and the numbers were showing that the Commune’s population was dropping. She’d talked about the rate of deaths to the number of births being off balance, and the disparity in the numbers wasn’t small, either. There was worry on his mother’s face, and he’d heard something in her voice that he thought might have been fear. The discrepancy was large. She’d said that, within the next couple of decades, there wouldn’t be enough of a younger generation to sustain the Commune. When his father had asked why, she’d only said that she didn’t know.

Declan wiped his face of the worry that crept above his eyes.
You have your mother’s eyes
, his father had once told him. He sighed, knowing that, for the moment, he probably resembled her very much. Sammi didn’t need to know what he’d heard his parents talking about, though. She didn’t need to worry, or feel any more pressure than they could already expect. Instead, he thought of past celebrations: the announcements, and the births.

A birth in the Commune was always celebrated. On a rare occurrence, like the birth of twins, the news reached as far as the end of their region. He hoped that it would be the two of them one day, celebrating, and moving to the floor beneath the couples. Those were the floors occupied by families, with dwellings large enough for four or five, like his family had been once, before his mother and sister had died.

The lower residency floors were for singles, and for couples whose time to have a child had expired. Some of them remained together, living in a dwelling made for one, but most who’d failed to start a family returned to being single. Then, there were the stories of singles who’d found one another, and had children after each of their times, breaking the law. Declan wasn’t sure what happened in those cases, but he knew it wasn’t openly discussed.

Living a lifetime in the same building didn’t hold much in the way of mystery. There were no secrets to be uncovered, and no treasures to seek in an adventure. Like their classroom, he and Sammi knew just about every floor, and every great place to hide and play, except for the executive floors. Those were off limits, and were reserved for only workers with four or more bands on their arms. Declan lifted his chin until his eyes neared the top of their building. Protected by barriers, and guarded at the entrance, he remembered his mother having spent days at a time working up there, secluded.

Declan had wanted to ask her what the executive floors were like; he wanted to know if the rumors were true. Did they have floors made of polished metal, clean of the pitted reminders of what was outside? Did they have private water closets, with smooth, round sinks, and an endless supply of clean, flowing water? Did they have their own farming and food reserves, with meats and cheeses and sweets? But he didn’t think any of the rumors were true. Most days, his mother returned from the executive floors with a weary look, and her eyes were often adrift, deep in thought.

In the year following his mother’s four-band promotion, he had watched her age. Gray hairs appeared from seemingly nowhere, as did fine lines above her brow, and at the corners of her eyes. Some days, she came home from the executive floors with a pensive and concerning expression that stayed, no matter how hard he tried to make her laugh or smile. Though a smile might ebb the concerned look, there was something else, too. She’d started to look upon him and his sister as though she wanted to apologize, or warn them, maybe.

There were the arguments, too. His mother hadn’t just grown distant from him and his sister, but she’d started fighting with their father, the man she’d chosen. A woman only gets to choose once, and the fights scared Declan. Some nights, the fighting was awful enough that he’d wondered if they might break their bond. That sometimes happened, and the man or the woman could choose to be single again. Remembering how it had been, a shiver ran through him. It was the first time since his mother had died that he’d thought of her work on the executive floors.

A chaos of children’s footsteps thundered past him into the yard, pulling him from his thoughts. Squealing and playing, free of tether straps, and of parents guarding over them, the kids ran in circles, kicking off a game of fast-tag. Small hands wrapped around his legs when two more children decided to use him as an obstacle in their chase. He cringed when a hand pushed off from his knee, but he was quick to laugh at the collection of happy feet pattering against the slate floor.

The yard was filled with traders and market sellers, pushing their crafts and wares onto anyone who was willing to swap goods, or make purchases using food vouchers, their form of money. Every worker received a weekly stipend, and most of it went toward food. But, with a little creativity, there could be something left over to purchase other things. Declan’s mom had been masterful at the art of buying and trading. Fond memories warmed him as he imagined her moving from table to table, haggling prices, and making deals.

He recognized some of the folks behind the tables. They came from different floors, and spent part of their days working the yard. At one table, a worker from the engineering floor showed off fluoro-phosphor lamps. A toddler tethered to his father giggled, and clutched his fists at the air, trying to grab the glowing lamp, while the engineer juggled it up and down.

Declan’s rear ached, and, though imaginary, it was a fair reminder of the cycling that he and Sammi would have to do later for being late. The engineering floor was where the energy-cells were maintained with hundreds of cycles lined up, as if waiting to go nowhere. A small screen at the front of the cycling room showed images of their world from before the accident, but it was nothing like the show that Andie had put on for them. When cycling, he watched old biking paths through trees, and across fields, over dirt roads, and odd-looking paved roads, too. The colors in the images were faded with age, and the lighting offered only a dim reminder of what they should look like. Most riders just hopped onto the cycles, kept their heads down, and pedaled until their recharge time was over. He rubbed his backside, and looked elsewhere in the courtyard.

Another table sold fresh vegetables and fruit. Declan sought out the red apples from the table, and his stomach reminded him that he was hungry. The hunger pang had him moving his eyes to the tables that sold protein crackers, bread, and goat milk. Declan’s eyes lifted when he saw the goat cheese: a massive chunk, ready to be served. He could almost smell it from where he stood. A gnawing turn in his belly spurred more hunger pangs, and his mouth watered at the sight. It wasn’t often that cheese was available. He was sure that it would be gone by the End of Gray Skies. If his father had enough food vouchers, he decided that he’d buy some of the cheese, and share it with Sammi later, when they meet back at the theater.

The yard was different today. Declan quickly picked up on the same buzz that had stirred in their classroom earlier. The declaration of the End of Gray Skies had reached a fevered pitch, and everyone had something to buy or trade, or a task to complete before the world changed forever. One of the trading tables had a considerable number of buyers waiting in line. There were no tethered children or mothers, just men. Some were young, but most of them were older. Declan immediately recognized the small bags that were passing over the table. They were selling potato juice, which had been a particular favorite of his father’s ever since his mother and sister had died. Although it was illegal, there was plenty of it available in the yard today.

“They’re planning a celebration,” he mumbled, and the thought of a celebration lifted his spirits even more, as he sought out Sammi from the crowd.

When he found her, he watched a trader jump in front of Sammi, pushing a feeble basket full of sheep-yarn gloves. Her tall red hair bounced and shivered while she negotiated with the trader.

She’s gonna trade
, he thought, knowing her affinity for anything soft that would cover her tender skin.

“I’ll wear it, as long as it’s not scratchy,” she’d said on more than one occasion. As he guessed, Sammi considered the gloves, picking through the pile, before settling on a pair. When the trade was over, she offered a polite nod of her head. Declan looked to the other side of the yard, where she was really headed. Just a few people were waiting for the next carry-cage. If she hurried, she wouldn’t have to wait. The urge to yell out and tell her to rush was trumped when a market seller bumped his arm, shoving a plate of dried lizard tails in front of him, blocking his view.

“Can I offer you some—” the merchant started to say.

“Not now,” Declan snapped, stretching his neck past the man. But immediately, he regretted his tone. He offered a quick apology, and turned his attention back to the old merchant.

“Liz-tails? Good for them young bones,” the market seller wheezed. He was an older, stout man, with straggly hair that hung past his ears, and he grinned, baring a few stray teeth, as he eagerly licked his lips, anxious for an answer. With beady, sunken eyes, the merchant stepped back, sizing him up. When he was done, he pushed the plate up again, winking an eye at him, and puckering his thin, crinkled lips.

“Liz-tails are good for keeping things up those nights after you get chosen,” he exclaimed in a way that whistled some of his words. Declan rested his eyes on the plate of lizard tails, and then smiled at the old man. Considered a fine delicacy, liz-tails weren’t one of his favorite things to eat, but he couldn’t help but wonder if there was any truth to what the old merchant claimed.

“No. No, thank you,” he answered, and pushed the fleshy lizard smell away from his nose. The merchant moved on to greet a passerby, just in time for Declan to see Sammi’s pile of red hair nearly at the carry-cage. Behind him, he heard the attendant of the building’s second carry-cage calling out. This lead to his floor, and he was anxious to get up to his dwelling, and then back to the theater.

The salvaged stainless steel and wood frame was just big enough for a handful of people. While the floor of the carry-cage wobbled once the ropes were taut, they were in the air, and moving to the first floor within a few pulls. The attendant turned to ask Declan for a floor number, but then pushed his chin up when he recognized him.

“Celebrating, today?” he asked, and then licked his lips with a quick swipe of his tongue.

“Isn’t everyone?” Declan answered him. “It is the End of Gray Skies, after all.”

“Right, you are,” he answered with a nod, stabbing his lips with his tongue again. “And in case you were wondering, the carry-cages will be down during the End of Gray Skies, so you’ll have to take the back stairs.”

Declan shrugged a quick thank you, thinking that he wouldn’t need the carry-cages, or the back stairs. He’d be in the theater with Sammi. When they reached his floor, the carry-cage wobbled again, and the ropes above him creaked as he stepped off. The heavy tone of a man’s scream echoed across the floor’s balcony, drawing his eyes up. He cleared the carry-cage, and stopped to listen, uncertain of what he had heard. The clash of wood and metal interrupted the man’s cry as the carry-cage doors closed behind him, and then moved on to the next floor. When the carry-cage lifted above him, he saw the source of the yelling. His heart sank, and his mouth went dry. It was his father, and he wasn’t alone.

Standing outside of their dwelling, his father clutched something against his chest, as four guards from the executive floor held him against the wall. Two of the larger guards pinned his father, while the others pried at his arms.

Declan started running, and his heart leaped to his throat when a guard reached for a battering club. The guards towered over his father; they towered over everyone in the Commune. No one ever chose to be a guard for the executive floors: they were picked. Dressed in their formal black coveralls, with thick belts hanging from their hips, they carried enforcements that only guards were allowed to have; they were an ominous sight. But why would they want his father? His mother was dead; what business did the executive floor have with them?

They’re going to hit him. Knock him down for resisting.
Declan tried to wave, but his father was hidden by the guards poised around him. Declan lifted his feet higher. Pain in his knee yawned awake, but he pushed against it, and quickened his step. He heard his father’s raised voice again, yelling at the guards that they had no right to take what wasn’t theirs. Declan tried to swallow the dryness in his mouth, and say something, but these were the executive floor guards: a single word could demote you to a no-band citizen, or, even worse, have you exiled from the Commune.