The Refugee Sentinel (13 page)

It was a late Monday. The setting sun warmed Li-Mei’s face, adding to her satisfaction of feeling tired after a day of solid progress. She had spent the last ten hours conjugating grammar drills in Korean, her worst language, but had done well.

Jenli’s young night felt clingy and humid. Carrying her reading tablet and Taxi’s leash, Li-Mei headed to the river. Ever since she had discovered the river two years ago, she loved spending time there. She had followed the currents and run upstream, along the bank, until reaching the electricity wall and the Servant guard-tower marking the brink of Jenli. That was it, as far as she could go, but it also meant the river kept going, which made her happy. She had read about rivers starting as fountainheads, growing stronger along the way, and joining the ocean in the end. But the textbooks failed to capture the liquid rush and the sounds and smells, and the force she hadn’t seen anywhere else. She could stare at the rapids for hours, chin planted on the grassy banks, eyes low and as close to the water as possible.

Minutes of sunshine still remained, plenty of time to read and walk. After Korean, she needed a good change-of-pace book: “The Ultimate Guide to Professional Poker” would do. She ran for the river and into the surrounding forest. Taxi ran in front, turning for an occasional glance, to check if she kept up. He was growing strong. She wouldn’t have it otherwise, not on nights like tonight. And, in return, he had become her proud Shiba Inu, the color of cocoa and with a face stretching in a grin whenever she was around.

The forest glowed in a jacket of dimming yellow light. Li-Mei heard the water rumble in the distance and picked up her step, with Taxi happy to oblige. She hummed a song, “Live and Learn,” in rhythm with her running footsteps. “Live and Learn” felt like her middle name these days: first getting a dog, then the Servant cutting her hair, though she had to admit a boy’s cut felt more comfortable. She had read in a meditation book, once, that the best way to deal with change was let go of the past. Maybe she would meditate for the first time tonight… after it got too dark to read.

She had forty pages left in the poker book, bobbing in front of her eyes as she walked. Her nose, planted in the tablet, joined the earlier counsel of her ears and smelled the river drawing near. At last, the water emerged like flowing glass, cutting the Jenli forest from end to end and as far as the eyes could see. Li-Mei let the misty spray greet her face then turned for the hollowed trunk of a Japanese Red Oak she had been using as an observation spot for a while. The departing day squeezed the light out of the air making it almost impossible to read. She focused on the last few sentences, as the white space at the bottom of the page where the chapter ended, beckoned her peripheral vision.

Taxi was out of sight again but guaranteed to reappear soon. The poker chapter clung to its last sentence of life in unison with the dying Monday sun. Her nostrils tickled with the expectation of putting the tablet away, crawling inside the oak’s embrace and meditating while stroking Taxi’s ears. Just a few more steps and she would have Monday beat, like she always did.

She finished the chapter and pressed the tablet’s power down button. Her body went into a free-fall and her ankle exploded with the pain of being turned or broken. She realized she had forgotten to change from sneakers in Jenli to hiking boots for the forest. Left unattended by a brain too busy reading, she must have stepped on a pinecone or the mossy riverbank. Li-Mei lost her balance, her face hit the ground, and she skidded down the slope. Stones, dirt and branches threw punches at her body. Couldn’t be that bad, she thought, she’d plop in the water then swim back to shore; a pity the sneakers would be ruined. Then blinding pain tore up her left foot.

A passerby would have witnessed the six-year-old tumble down the riverbank in a pile of arms and legs and flashing white sneakers. He would have winced, seeing the girl’s foot catch on a tree root jutting out of the ground, like the arthritic fingers of a buried giant. The root refused to let go and, for a moment, the girl’s body hung in mid-air. Then gravity took over and broke Li-Mei’s left leg.

She fell through the humid air then hit the river, frigid despite the month of June. Pain, more consuming than Li-Mei had experienced before, arrested her breathing and hammered at her brain while water rushed into her throat. All she could think of was that somewhere above, Taxi would look for her. And that as much as she’d want to respond to him, she wouldn’t.

Eaton lay on the floor, slaying holographic aliens on his PlayStation portable. On the couch, Natt was relaxing with a fresh glass of scotch. Funny how progress had a way of crushing even the most ambitious. No matter how strong Natt felt, someone stronger, younger and hungrier was bound to come along. His stepson was the future and Natt was thrilled as a parent, but as a man, he was jealous. Eaton, at eight years old, was already smarter than his stepfather and the realization bothered Natt like a stone in the shoe. Of course, he would never admit to it, at a confessional or on his deathbed. He shuddered at the unstoppable force of the kid’s future. What heights would Eaton achieve at twenty? How about thirty? And Natt… He’d drool, head bobbing up and down, in front of a retirement home TV, with his dentures soaking in a mouthwash by his bedside.

Eaton looked up at his stepdad and smiled with his whole face. The sheer presence of this smile assured Natt that everything would end well: Seattle would survive the floods and Defiance Day wouldn’t be as bad as everyone thought. Natt had a hunch other fathers loved their sons with similar intensity, but also knew Eaton was different. Eaton’s math and programming skills were untouched. Last month, he was invited to the ULE Presidential Palace in Mexico City to consult on how humankind could colonize other planets in the Milky Way. Eaton had made it through several rounds for the privilege and crushed at each stage to the point of demoralizing his opponents. Eaton’s method of pulse combustion was both brilliant and simple. While the rest of the field fell over each other researching solar and renewables, he looked to the past, reverse-engineering the twenty-first century NASA shuttles. He replaced their primitive fuel-thrust sequences with nanotech algorithms and their steel engines with quantum alloys. The stunning aircraft, called “The Razgrad,” could, in theory, cover light-years worth of distance at acceptable velocity and unparalleled fuel efficiency. President Sanchez had made time to meet Eaton and commissioned a North Dakota ULE lab of four thousand engineers to translate the boy’s approach into a working prototype.

On the floor next to Natt’s couch, Eaton gave out a high-pitched, “Yes,” his thumbs mashing the controller, tongue sticking out of his mouth. As easy as it was to forget, he was still just eight. Natt put the glass down and scooted on the floor, next to his stepson.

“What have you got here?” On the holographic screen, a busty brunette mauled through space aliens with a plasma machete.

“Oh, Dad… you wouldn’t like Lara Croft,” Eaton shook his head. “I have another two levels until I beat the game. Depending on how bad I suck.” Natt moved closer, until his knee touched Eaton’s, and hugged the boy’s tense body. Why did life have to be this rotten? How could he keep his family alive through Defiance Day? None of them had been earmarked yet, but what if they were?  What if Eaton was? Natt hung his head. He loved the boy, but he loved himself too. Death by Sacrifice was too final a verdict at forty-nine. As airplane safety instructions read, when the oxygen masks fell you helped yourself before helping those next to you. Even if Eaton were earmarked, Natt couldn’t give up life. What else then? He could make a newer version of Eaton: a new son to lessen the sting of the lost original. Assuming everything else failed, of course… And Natt did mean everything. Otherwise, such thoughts would be despicable. Next to Natt, Lara Croft’s hologram completed the second to last level.

The Prius bounced along the high ground route stitched with barricades and detours. This First Hill neighborhood of Seattle was still dry but who knew for how long before it, too, succumbed to the rising waters. Natt twirled a glass of Johnnie Walker between his thumb and forefinger, his other hand on the steering wheel. As he drove, ice cubes chimed against the heavy crystal. The Police Department had given him this set on his twentieth anniversary with the force.

The cop gulped the last of the whiskey then threw the glass against the windshield. Who, the hell, did she think she was? Waltzing around, killing his people and screwing up his town, which Mother Nature had already screwed up plenty. As if he had nothing better to worry about, with the city decomposing at the seams, or Eaton and Chloe growing more distant by the day. His pallid reflection stared at him from the rearview mirror. Screw her. He was the Chief of the Seattle PD after all.

He checked on the Ruger for the fourth time: in place, loaded and ready to spew. Natt went through the motions in his head again: point at her face and pull the trigger. Mopping up afterward would be a nuisance but not new. He would convince the department he had murdered the woman in self-defense and that would be that. Not that it mattered, but if he played it cool he might get a medal out of it too. Natt brushed off broken crystal from the seat.

If his plan was so picture-perfect, then why was he so nervous? He was scared of her, that’s why. He had considered calling for backup but what if she escaped or, worse, surrendered? And what if, after the arrest, his vaunted SPD couldn’t deliver the evidence to keep her locked away? Natt could hear the defense’s arguments, “a terrified Chinese tourist wrongfully accused of being an assassin.” The most she’d get would be a week in county jail, followed by a forced extradition to the China Territory. Then she’d come back and make him pay. No, he couldn’t take the risk. She was too dangerous alive and only he could render her dead.

The Prius’s tires screeched to a stop on the suspension bridge outside of Macrina Bakery. Natt stepped out of the car and didn’t bother to lock it. If he succeeded, the place would be crawling with cops. If he failed, he’d have bigger problems than a stolen Prius. From around the corner he peeked inside the bakery. She was sitting at a table, alone.

“You idiot,” Natt muttered to himself. Had he arrived first, he could have camped in a corner booth with the Ruger tucked under the tablecloth, while munching on a bagel. He could have risen up and shot her in the face when she arrived. Then he would have bought another bagel.

But she had come first. He paused at the door. Don’t hesitate, he thought. Walk in and pull the trigger. He gripped the gun in his pocket, pushed on the door handle and entered the bakery. Li-Mei was the shop’s only customer. Natt waved with an innocuous left hand but she didn’t acknowledge. He walked to the cash register. A semi-asleep teenage girl was leaning on the counter.

“Welcome to Macrina. What may I get you?”

“A medium drip. Black with no room.” Natt looked over his shoulder while fishing for money from his gun-less pocket. She hadn’t moved.

“Would you like a receipt, sir?” In addition to being sleepy, the teenager had a stuffed nose.

“I’m good.” Natt took the coffee, turned around, and headed for the table. Five feet away… He scanned the floor between them. Clear. He would pull the Ruger in another three feet, then she’d be impossible to miss. Impossible not to blow her brains out.

He took a step. The Chinese woman remained as motionless as when he’d entered the bakery. He took a second step. As much as he wanted to hurry, he felt like he was running in a tar pit. The air turned into cotton candy, viscous and sticky. He took a third step. His right hand squeezed the gun. No more steps left. This was it, his moment. In slow motion, his hand left its pocket hideaway. The Ruger, wearing the turtleneck of Natt’s clenched fingers, pointed at Li-Mei.

He functioned in a dream, or was it a nightmare? The Ruger’s muzzle now stared at the space her head had occupied a second earlier. Li-Mei was no longer there. He saw her empty chair bounce off the floor. She dove into him, like a base runner sliding home to beat a high-tag. Her elbows cut into his ankles and the Ruger went off, more by accident than intent. Natt’s knees buckled forward. His face, sucked by gravity and momentum, banged on the ceramic floor tiles and his nose exploded. He felt her climbing on top of him, taking the handcuffs from his pocket and restraining him in his own equipment. She picked up the Ruger, lying in a puddle of spilled coffee, and shoved it in the pocket where the handcuffs used to be. She pulled him to his feet then headed to the door, her entire repertoire performed in silence.

As she passed the cashier, whose fatigue had been wiped clean by the last twenty-five seconds, Li-Mei uttered three words, “Armed robbery attempt.” Then added two more, “You’re welcome.”

The teenager blinked, closed a gaping mouth and clapped twice… with hesitation.

Li-Mei shoved Natt forward, his nose dripping a blotchy trail of liquid crimson. On the bridge-walk outside, she opened the Prius door and he sat in the front passenger seat while seeking approval through constant eye contact. She sat behind the wheel and addressed him for the first time.

“I will kill you in the next five minutes but want to ask a question first. On the off chance you give me a correct answer, I will postpone your death.” She faced forward. “Why haven’t I killed you yet?”

Natt swallowed. Li-Mei turned and spat in his face. He felt her saliva descend down his skin, like a slow glacier from a mountaintop.

“Silence is the wrong answer,” she said.

“You haven’t killed me, Ms. Gao,” his voice shook, “because you haven’t felt like it. And because you’re graceful.”

“Always remember that.” Her eyes were as cold as a Himalayan blizzard. “Attempt what you did in the café again and no answer will spare your life.”

She left the car. Natt exhaled, as her figure dissipated in the misty Seattle morning. Her saliva splashed down on his pants. And made it look like he had wet himself.