The Wars That We Fight

Chapter Seven

(Author's note: For those of you who saw our preview of this chapter: it's now a complete chapter! For those of you who didn't, and have no idea what we're talking about: no worries! We're really glad you're here with us now. For everyone: sorry, this chapter is a little short. This is a stressful time of year for us, but we're pushing hard to have most of the remaining chapters published in the next few days, so if you appreciate what we're doing, please consider voting on this chapter and others, if you liked them too. Also, if you have any thoughts, predictions, or things you loved or hated, please let us know in the comments! Thank you so much for your patience and support!

- E and A)

An assortment of construction vehicles had converged on the former location of the slums, forming an indistinct collage of yellows and greys where faces and homesteads had reigned before. This time of day, however, no work transpired. The machines simply sat empty, statuesque and lonely. They had begun to dig a pit, some hours before, surely the foundation of another hospital. It was wide, though only beginning to become deep, yet it seemed to engulf the very sky, and the clouds that wandered overhead. Audra, too, was lost somewhere in the expanse as she scuttled by towards the wall.

Yet Simone had not replied. Their dialogue was there, almost indistinguishable from all the other scribbles on the face of a fading factory, but there was nothing new.

Audra turned and walked home, weaving her way through the loose dirt and dust which her dragging heels awoke.

***

Intense white light glared down at the top of Gregory's head, and reflected off the spotless floor. The clicks of his shoes echoed in the empty space that embraced him. From each hallway spread another, and another. The resulting spiderweb had entrapped Gregory, and Peg, and every other fly that had fallen victim to the misfortune of ever coming here. A voice rang in the silence behind Gregory. Dr. Tralles had found him, though her feet, nimble as a spider's, had been noiseless as she approached. "She was transferred, you know."

"What?"

"Your friend." Dr. Tralles paused, taking in the deep breath of a woman about to perform an unsavoury task. "I'm sorry. She's in Ward X."

Gregory's muscles relaxed. "Oh, yes. I knew that. I was just trying to find my way there." The doctor was puzzled, her face contorting. "You know, to visit?"

Again, Dr. Tralles frowned, the corners of her mouth sinking into oblivion. "Like I said. I'm sorry. There are no visitors in Ward X. The procedures they have to use in there are too... sensitive. The doctors just don't want to be disturbed, that's all." Her face silenced Gregory's protest, her voice changing to convey what Gregory interpreted as sympathy. "I was just going on break. Do you want a coffee?"

Gregory's vocal chords, unaccustomed to the jarring reality they had just entered, were slow to react. "Umm... thanks, but I think I'll be fine. Could you just point me towards the exit? Thank you."

As they proceeded down the corridor, a fly buzzed near one of the light fixtures.

***

Now he was Tacitus, and Cicero, and Pliny the Younger, and all the rest. The letter, though not written on wax tablets or papyrus, was, Gregory thought, immortal, springing from ancient truths, and unconquerable ideas. Leaving all but the recipient's address blank, Gregory deposited his silent rebellion into a post box, and walked back home, his collar turned up, uselessly protecting the back of his neck from the daggers of rain which slapped against the front of his neck and face.

As he trudged against the onslaught of chemicals diluted in rainwater, he turned over the contents of his letter over in his mind, proud. Would his Sector Councilor read it? Perhaps not. But he had written it, his demands for Peg's—and all Senvalorates'—release from Ward X nestled in beautiful pictures written in the pearly black eloquence of a pen's mighty ink. Censorship, tyranny, oppression. Words he had learned from his history textbook. Words which were now used in application to countries overseas, and condemned, and which were not for describing their government. Except the EDFC did use these terms, and strongly. Then, at the pit within the fruit of his righteous reflections, there was that doubt, half a thought, issued seemingly from the invisible tongue of his father, telling him he was a thankless infant, guilty of his privilege, looking for trouble in a state where problems were minor details within a framework that did make life better. After the War, what was there? Nothing. And didn't everybody have a little something now? Yes. No. Yes. And they earned their place in society didn't they? Hadn't Gregory worked hard for the Zero Exams? Hadn't he deserved everything? And certainly their society was far better off than places like Paris-Spain, or New Brazil, where there was still civil conflict and health epidemics from the nuclear fallout. The government here had provided all of them protection from that much.

***

Audra was by the wall again, but Simone had still not replied. She had gone days like this before, but now it had been more than a week, and still nothing.

Perhaps, like the last remnants of the Senvalorate slums, her lingering presence had dwindled to nothing, making way for little more than an empty dirt pit, a void amidst the barren rock surface of this thing they called the Earth.

Audra departed, attempting to leave her doubts behind in the construction dust coating the Senvalorate streets.

And in time, she returned.

And still nothing.

And again.

Audra imagined a thousand different Simones, lying dead on a roadside, pushed up against a wall and staring down the barrel of a gun, or at a firing squad, or hidden under a mound of dirt in an unmarked grave, or locked in some sterile room in a Senvalorate hospital. Or perhaps alive and bored of Audra's insignificant qualms.

And still nothing.