Page 33

AMITY

I can’t stop smiling, and I decide it’s because I got to swim after missing so many days. It’s not so bad up here, I think happily as I look far into the distance at the still white-capped mountains.

When I pull open the door to the house I’m hit by the strong smell of paint.

The windows are wide open but the fumes are still strong inside.

Ren is up on a ladder, a few splatters of paint on their overalls, vigorously rolling lime green paint onto the living room walls.

The paintings and posters have been taken down and they’re piled everywhere.

“Hi, Ren,” I say faintly, trying not to breathe too deeply. Ren should probably be wearing a mask or something but instead they seem to be in the middle of shouting a violent story into the next room.

“Basically, everyone in the Midwest gets killed by robots, but not by killer robots, more like locked in their houses and not allowed to leave. ”

I blink. I’m pretty sure that’s not what happened in the Midwest.

“I don’t see what killer robots have to say about human systems of justice and imprisonment,” an unfamiliar male voice shouts back from the kitchen.

I haven’t moved. I’m watching the green paint spread on the wall as Ren wrestles with the roller, continuing the discussion.

“The robots are meant to represent our own inability to effect positive change and free will in our own lives. And they’re scary robots, which makes it exciting!”

A man walks through the door. “Come on, that’s a cheap trick. You need to show humans choosing their own destiny, to show the imagined limitations the proto-communist system places around the individual.”

I’m guessing this is Eli. He turns from the green paint to me.

“You must be Ami. I’m Eli,” he says.

“Hi,” I say.

Ren scoffs. “You’d make a terrible storyteller.”

Rather than talk to me more, Eli whirls on Ren.

“Revolution is all about storytelling. It’s an integral part of what we do. You can’t convince people to act until they believe a story that shows them why it’s necessary.”

“And how’s that going?” Ren asks sardonically, climbing down to dip the roller.

Eli looks uncomfortable. “We’re still beta testing. Anyway, our story is better than a bunch of human-starving robots. Sounds boring.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” Ren says a little smugly. “Wait till you read it and then tell me it’s boring. ”

They must be talking about a story Ren’s writing. I remember they told me they write stories with, and I quote, “lots of violence.”

“Eli,” a voice comes from the kitchen. “Let them work. Can you help me with the vegetables?”

I follow Eli into the kitchen, coughing a little from the fumes. The windows are open in here too. With the fan blowing, it’s easier to breathe.

Moira—Ren’s friend? Girlfriend?—is at the kitchen counter, but she’s not chopping the pile of little carrots in front of her. She’s got a sketchbook open and she’s staring at the page.

“Here I am,” Eli grumbles as Moira doesn’t look up. “Are we working or not?”

“Oh, yeah.” Moira jumps a little. “Sorry, trying to finish this design for the mural.” She shoves the sketchbook aside and assigns Eli asparagus and asks if I can work on shelling peas.

I take the peas and a second bowl over to the table and figure out how to pry them open.

Out pop the peas, one, two, three, four. It’s surprisingly satisfying.

“I just think they could write something that would help the people see the need to band together and create a new system of shared power,” Eli grumbles to Moira.

From Moira’s face, this tension between Eli and Ren is not new.

“They’re selling out to fulfill the bloodlust of the masses without a sense of higher purpose. ”

“ And their writing keeps food on this table,” Moira points out. “Heaven knows, more than my art or Qilan’s translations. And the revolution’s not a big money maker,” she adds gently.

“Our future together is more important than our comfort now.” Eli waves a stick of asparagus around in the air. “And where are you coming from?” he asks, turning to me.

Moira sighs.

“I was at the Forge. I have a friend there.” I wonder to myself who I’m talking about. Zeph? Vale? “And yeah,” I add as Eli opens his mouth, presumably to tell me how bad and dangerous the Forge is, “I know how bad and dangerous they are.”

Eli settles a little, deflated. Now he stares at me curiously, cocking his head. “This is your first time out of the PS, right?”

“Yeah,” I agree.

“Eli,” Moira mutters. “Asparagus.”

He turns back to washing and breaking the ends off the asparagus but continues, “I’ve never been there.”

“And be glad you haven’t,” Ren shouts from the other room.

Eli shakes his head. “I don’t agree with everything they’ve done, but at least they’ve set up a system with an eye to universal.”

“Because they deport everyone who disagrees with them!” Ren pipes up again.

“Is forcible relocation the only way to establish a society without conflict?” Eli muses. “Or do you need to plan for some amount of conflict inherent in our imperfect biology, and build a system able to withstand the naturally occurring aggressive impulses?”

“Now you sound like Vale,” I tell him. “With that biology stuff.”

Eli thinks about that .

“Less philosophizing, more chopping,” Moira directs again.

“Listen to my girlfriend,” Ren shouts from the other room. A little harried now, Eli continues breaking the ends off the asparagus while Moira dumps a bag of dried pasta into bubbling water.

“Putting the pasta in,” she calls to Ren.

“Okay, I’ll be there in a minute,” Ren says back. They’re so domestic, it’s sweet.

“Is Qilan here? Should I call her?” I ask.

“No, she’s down at the Dena’ina library, she won’t be back until later. Just us tonight.”

I pry open the last few pods, waiting to see if Eli’s got more to say about the Peaceful Society or the Forge, but he’s quiet now, staring thoughtfully at the asparagus as he finishes up and then works on grating cheese.

We end up eating out on the front porch, which has a few pieces of dumpy furniture shoved into the corners, since the table was covered with pictures and knickknacks from the living room.

The meal, bowls of pasta with vegetables and sauce and cheese, is delicious. It’s sweet to hear Moira quietly thanking Ren for painting and Eli chiming in.

“Oh, you know, I need something to do with my hands when I’m not writing. How’s the mural shaping up?” Ren asks.

It turns out Moira’s working on the design for a mural she’s going to paint at the market. “They’re not paying me exactly.” She’s embarrassed. “But they’ll buy the paint for it. ”

“It’s a good gig,” Ren says. “Moira was chosen from a dozen painters to do it.”

I smile at the pride in Ren’s voice.

“I can’t wait to see it,” I tell them.

“Oh, you’ll probably get to help,” Eli chuckles. “When Moira’s working on a big project we all end up covered in paint.”

Moira is affronted. “You like helping! You say manual labor is the religion of the righteous worker.”

They both laugh. “That’s the only reason I help,” Ren jokes.

“Not true.” Moira digs her elbow into Ren’s side.

“Okay, that and the paint fumes,” Ren says, taking a deep breath.

I cringe. “You should wear a mask in there.”

“Thank you!” Moira says to me loudly and Ren looks a little guilty.

We sit out after dinner while the sun is still bright, even as it gradually sinks in the sky. The nights don’t get fully dark here, just sort of twilight-y, so it’s still pretty light out when I start to yawn.

I’m thinking of heading inside when I feel the others fall quiet rapidly and stiffen. There’s someone approaching, peeling off from the street and coming up the walk, wearing dark camo like the men at the Forge with a hat pulled low over his eyes.

I tense. Glancing around, the man pulls the hat off and glances up at the porch, directly at me. He’s got red hair and pale skin with freckles, even more freckles than I do. It’s Zeph.