Broken Mirror (41 page)

Each second oozed along at a snail’s pace. Finally, after what felt like an hour, Maria called them to eat.

The Morales family jumped into action. Dishes were transported to the dining table, drinks retrieved from the second chiller in the basement, and seats pushed in and out so each family member could take their place. A complicated ballet of roast turkey parts unfolded. Many greens including kale, broccoli, and green beans moved across the table, along with potatoes and rice. All the dishes were generously spiced with dried
chili de arbol
,
epazote
, and cumin. Lime garnishes were squeezed and mashed onto plates and mole sauce sloshed freely over the servings. The diners moaned with pleasure. Maria beamed.

“So good,” Elena moaned.

Victor controlled the urge to inhale the food all at once by methodically trying moderate bites of each dish individually and combining them to test the flavor combinations in his mouth. Meanwhile, his stomach had developed supercharged suction powers: he couldn’t keep his mouth full; every bit was instantly sucked down his gullet.

Maria poured everyone a glass full of maroon liquid that at first Victor thought was wine, but when he sipped it, he discovered it was lightly carbonated and sweet, tasting like anise. He took another bite of food, and the flavors danced on his tongue, swirling and lingering. The drink accented the tastes of the food perfectly. He lifted his glass and chugged half of it down.

Julia pushed a few forkfuls around. She said, “It’s good, but it’s not truly Mexican.”

“What did you do to this food,
mi corazón
?” Hector asked.

“My secret,” Maria said, and rested her chin on the backs of her hands. “Mustard seed, curry powder, and cinnamon. Not too much. Some secret sauce. You like it?”

“Mamá,
delicioso
, super!” Elena said. “Mm-mmm.” She had already inhaled most of her first helping, and paused for a drink of the wine-colored liquid.

“So Victor, how long will you stay in Amarillo?” Hector asked.

Victor took a bite of the green beans, tasting earth, chlorophyll, and umami. The browned parts added a smoky aftertaste. Crystals of curry powder and salt tingled on his tongue. The moment extended, the flavor developed and changed, becoming oily and bitter, the flesh of the green beans roiled in his mouth. He swallowed and closed his eyes. The tastes intensified, waves of soil and sprouts and spices
—

“Victor!”

Elena was shaking him.

He opened his eyes. Everyone was staring at him. Elena looked concerned. Her parents, confused and embarrassed.

Julia reproached him with a disdainful look and said, “Such obscene sounds are not welcome in my house.”

“What happened?” he asked. It had just been a moment. The food had tasted better than any in his life. Everything else had faded away.

Elena leaned over and whispered, “You were moaning for, like, twenty seconds.”

“The flavors . . . It’s because I haven’t taken my . . .” This wasn’t the right time to discuss it. Not in front of her parents.

Elena whispered, “No, I’m feeling it too. Like when I was on
—
like before. Supercharged senses.”

“You did?” He took a drink. The aniseed splashed his tongue, and again he was on a roiling journey of sensation. “Maria, what is this?”

“It’s Pump. You like it?” She smiled tentatively.

“But where did you get it?” he asked.

“The
mercado
. Everyone’s drinking Pump now. ‘Tastemaker. Pump makes dinner an occasion.’ The ads are everywhere.”

“This wasn’t here when I was here,” Elena said. She held up the glass, took a sniff, grimaced. She took a small sip while Victor watched. She nodded. “Mmm. My tastebuds are
stim
ulated.”

Stims. An amount so small no one drinking it would suspect. “This is sold legally?” he asked.

Maria said, “What do you mean ‘legally’? Of course. Pump is everywhere. They’ve been giving out samples for free at the market for the past few weeks. Drives the Puros crazy.”

“I wonder why,” Victor deadpanned.

Julia gave him an angry look. She hadn’t touched her drink at all. She moved it to one side.

“It’s just a drink,” Maria said. “It’s not even alcoholic, so I don’t know why they care. Too much sugar I guess.” She sighed. “They don’t want anyone to enjoy themselves.”

Elena was silent, but Victor could tell she was having trouble staying quiet. Illegal stims like Aura were only the tip of the iceberg. The R.O.T. was being flooded with a product mimicking MRS physiology. Victor wondered what Ozie would have to say about it. He’d call him tomorrow after food and rest.

Victor helped himself to a few more slabs of turkey and turned to Elena’s fa. “Hector, you worked with my granfa for a long time, right?”

“A dozen years. Maybe longer.”

“We were so sorry to hear about Jefferson’s passing,” Maria said. “I wish we could have come to the funeral.”

“And he helped you?” Victor asked Hector. “After the thing with the unions, he got you a job here in Amarillo?”

“That’s right,” Hector said, looking warily at Victor.

“He trusted you, so I’m going to trust you as well. I plan to visit the Lone Star Kennel in the morning. I need to know if it’s safe.”

Hector looked down and scraped together the few last remaining bits of food on his plate.

“Is it safe?” Victor repeated. “I saw a bunch of Corps out front.”

Hector stiffened.

Victor concentrated on taking purposeful bites of his turkey. He let the remaining Pump in his glass go untouched.

“Papá?” Elena asked with a look of concern on her face.

Hector raised his head, and Victor saw fear swirling around his eyes like thick, black smoke. “They arrived today. I overheard
—
The kennel was always jointly held by Mason and Jefferson. When Jefferson died . . . I heard there was a lawsuit, but I didn’t want to make it my business. The court ruled in favor of Mason yesterday. The Corps showed up today.”

“So they’re working for Mason?” Victor asked.

“Who knows? The Corps are in charge now. That’s all that matters. And no, I don’t think it’s safe for you there. Or for anyone. You should stay away.”

Victor slumped and put down his fork. How was he going to get past a flock of Corps to search the kennel for the XSCT compound?

Maria said, “There’s no sense in wasting your trip out here. You should stay longer. It’s so nice to see you.” She watched her daughter’s reaction.

Elena smiled, shyly, “We were hoping to stay here. At least for tonight.”

“This isn’t a hotel,” Julia said. She was glaring at Victor. “You’re trouble, and I want no part of it.”

The other three Morales family members froze.

The spit in Victor’s mouth dried up. What had he done to upset her?

Julia said, “We’ve had enough of you upstart Eastmores. You ought to go back to working the plantations where you belong.”

Elena and Maria began speaking at once.

Victor cut them off. “I’ve been hated for a lot of things. This crosses the line. I’m not ashamed of my skin,” he said, staring at Julia. The room fell silent. Not just the voices, but the clink of silverware and the sounds of chewing and gulping
—
all of them ceased.

Julia raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. This set Victor’s blood boiling. He opened his mouth to yell, but Elena kicked him under the table.

She leaned over and whispered, “Deep breaths. Don’t let her rattle you.”

The anger faded, crowded out by a fondness and a connection to Elena that was deeper than family. He picked up a turkey drumstick, found a succulent bite, and ate, working hard at ignoring everything else around him. He said, “I thought all the racists had moved to Florida.”

Elena put her hand on his forearm, a molten brand frying his skin. He jerked away and sent a glass tumbling off the table. It landed with a soft thump on the rug.

“Well done, young sir,” Julia said mockingly.

Victor flinched. “All you’ve done since I got here is berate me. I’ve had enough.”

Julia turned to her son and said coolly, “I won’t be spoken to like this in my own house.”

“Then treat me with respect!” Victor said.

The other family members were shocked, but Victor thought they all agreed with him, at least a bit. Julia, however, looked at him from underneath condescending eyelids; her mouth twisted in contempt. “I won’t have you staying in my house.”

“Mamá!” Hector complained.

“Please, Julia, don’t be like that,” Maria begged.

Elena lifted her hands above the table. “Everyone just calm down.”

“No,” Victor said. He was tired of people. All he wanted was to sleep. “I’d rather go.”

“No!” Elena hissed. “You can’t. It’s not safe.”

Hector and Maria looked at each other questioningly.

“I’ll be fine,” Victor said. Turning to Hector and Maria, he said, “Excuse me.” He ignored Julia completely.

Elena followed him to the front door and said, “Victor, don’t leave.”

“I’ll just set the car on autopilot to drive me around all night. That should be safe enough.”

“If Lucky and Bandit are following us, what’s to stop them from grabbing you on the road?”

“My cool head under pressure.”

Elena’s eyes bugged out. Then she laughed, but it soon turned into a groan. “If you go, I’m coming with you.”

Victor sighed. His mind was shutting down. He leaned on the wall for support. “I can’t stay awake any longer.” He rested his head against the wall for a moment. His brain matter had collected at the bottom of his skull and solidified.

Elena bounced on her tiptoes. “I’ll grab some blankets.”

Victor dozed while he waited for her to return, aware that indistinct shapes lurked nearby, ready to come alive in his dreams.

She kissed him lightly on the cheek when she returned. “Let’s go. Don’t worry,” Elena said. “In the morning we’ll find the Puros, and they’ll help us
—
you’ll see.”

We were wary of the twin dangers of imperialism and fascism. Our experiences in Asia and the spread of Teutonic ambitions in Europe highlighted the need to choose a different path. In a way, the South got its wish to destroy the Yankee’s Union, a half century after the war ended, and by then racism, landed elites, and agrarian economies had been banished to history.

The Repartition reshaped every facet of American government. A mishmash of states and territories were reforged into nine strong nations accountable for the good of their people. The American Union represented a renewed promise of cooperation without coercion and with liberty for all.

It was a ridiculous dream, a farce from the beginning, and proof that unilateral disarmament, when faced with a superior foe, amounts to suicide. Strength, patience, and cunning win in the contest of nations.

—Robbie Eastmore’s
Register of Resonant Earth Discrepancies

After driving throughout the night, rolling through darkened neighborhoods, and skirting the deserted downtown, the car took Victor and Elena to the outskirts of Amarillo, where, as the sun rose, they entered a residential neighborhood with closely packed houses. A sign read “Paradise Gardens,” though there wasn’t much idyllic about the run-down houses and unkempt yards. The car pulled up to a house destroyed by fire on a lot cluttered with debris.

Elena stared through the window. “That was it, where my Puro pod lived.” She put a hand to her forehead and lowered her head.

Victor was pretty sure she was crying.

He looked at the abandoned, fire-gutted house. The blaze had consumed most of the roof and upper story. Charred black pits of ash dotted the dirt yard where flaming insulation and drywall must have rained down. The nearest building, a sprawling ranch-style home, appeared untouched.

Victor leaned back, feeling strangely numb. The scene should have upset him
—
the house’s wreckage was far too similar to what he’d seen in Carmichael
—
but he felt something close to serenity. He should have been bothered that he couldn’t search the kennel yesterday and that the promise of help from the Puros today wasn’t panning out. Instead he felt empty. Perhaps he was becoming inured to setbacks. It no longer seemed strange when something didn’t go his way. It seemed normal. The universe had a plan for him, and although the plan wasn’t clear, it didn’t appear to require his cooperation and it sure as shocks didn’t care what he wanted.

That didn’t mean he would give up. He would keep fighting even if the spirit wasn’t in him. So what if they couldn’t find the Puros? He and Elena would figure out a way to get inside the kennel. At this point, he didn’t care how dangerous it was. He only wanted to find the truth.

Elena turned toward Victor and said, “Can we go look? I want to see if there was anyone inside.”

“Wouldn’t the bodies have been taken away?”

“Maybe, maybe not. They’re Puros. R.O.T. policy toward them falls somewhere between harassment and eradication.” She banged the dashboard. “I’m sure those drug-pushing bastard Corps didn’t think twice about burning this place down.”

Victor had had enough of her wallowing. They should
do
something. “You don’t know it was them.”

She glared at him. “Call it a hunch. You’re familiar with those.”

“Do you know anywhere else the Puros might be? Assuming there’s any left . . .” Victor stopped himself. There was no reason to paint a worst-case scenario for her.

Elena wiped her tears with her thumbs. “We can try the main square. They usually set up a produce market there. The police shut them down all the time, but they always go back.”

Victor drank a fumewort tincture and followed it up with a bitter grass. The chemical heat burning his throat didn’t bother him anymore. In fact, he welcomed it. “Let’s go see. And if they’re not there, we’ll think of something else.”

She programmed the destination into the car’s system. It drove slowly, while Victor peered around, watching his mirrors to check if they were being followed. Cars passed them by. A few fretful pedestrians rushed across the wide streets, daring to cross mid-block, perhaps afraid to be seen waiting at intersections.