The Not Yet

  The Not Yet

  Moira Crone

  This book is dedicated to

  Dr. Anna Lisa Crone, 1946-2009,

  brilliant, engaged, very brave,

  my big sister—always close, even now.

  Eternity is in love with the productions of time.

  —William Blake

  “What are you, one of them, a Bonesnake?” she asked from the stage.

  I was about to say, “I am Malcolm, a Not-Yet, one day I’ll—”

  But just at that moment, another fate rose up and sang to me.

  First and Last

  “Malcolm, I’ve called you in to tell you how things are,” my guardian began in that voice they all had—full of sizzle, like a rattle. His eyes didn’t blink, I noticed. I sat in front of him on a bench with a thick cushion and fat legs, my feet not touching the floor. It was his office in the old Audubon Foundling House, on the Islands of New Orleans. The lit sconces with half shades above our heads were giant fireflies to me. I asked them for help, maybe for strength. Could I be strong? I didn’t know. This was the first time Lazarus had ever summoned me. I was only five, and I was shivering.

  At dawn, the cook Marilee had awakened me with news of this meeting, said I needed to get ready. Instead of breakfast, she had made me drink a tumbler full of something foamy and yellow, which tasted like chalk. Half an hour later, my stomach exploded—fifteen runs to the bucket. She said that got rid of the worms. In the garden she poured kerosene on my head, then, a strange green oil. After, in the sunlight on the banks of the Old River, she combed out my nits. Finally, she led me to a room with a large stainless steel tub on a pedestal. It was a shock: I was used to being hosed down. She scrubbed me with stinky pine soap, washed my hair and rinsed it twice, lifted me out in a fluffy towel. She gave me new clothes which made me very proud: a collarless shirt and thin pants that fell past my knees. She’d sent me down the hall to my guardian’s office, with my head still wet.

  Lazarus noticed my teeth chattering. “I trust your ablutions were not too taxing?”

  I didn’t know how to answer.

  “That Marilee was gentle?” He leaned back, and the slow, thick features of his padded face closed in. He was round-shouldered with a big head, his hands small. I stared at him, failed to speak.

  “She praised you, said you were quite the little stoic, the silent type.” He took a very long pause. My friend Ariel had told me, you always have to wait when you talk to them. They are slow on purpose to drive us crazy. “So, to begin. There are two kinds in this world, the lucky and the unlucky. The lucky have a Trust. If you don’t build one you will have a hard, hard life—and it will end, like—” He tried to snap his fingers, but he couldn’t, his overskin was too slick for that. For some reason he looked surprised. “Do you know what I mean when I say, end? Do you know about the unlucky? What happens to them?”

  You were supposed to say, “The unlucky do the so-long goodbye.” But the rough boys in the play yard chanted, they dribble down the drain. They suck the black. It was the most dirty, awful thing that could happen. “I know,” was the first phrase I uttered. “It will never happen to me.”

  Lazarus was pleased. “Now, we can dream, the wise men say, but we can’t observe eternity, so we shouldn’t say never, but we can say, ‘not for a very long time, a very long—’”

  “Never!” I tossed my head, which somehow I knew he’d like.

  “That’s the spirit. That’s the Promise of the Reveal, which is so far, being kept. We aren’t supposed to tell our counts, but I’ll do it: I’m approaching two hundred—do you realize how long that is?” He smiled, showed bluish teeth. “And this is all you have to know, for now: there are two kinds in this world, those who are certain they will not last, and those with wonderful lives, and every reason to hope for eternity, like me: we are Heirs, or for slang, ‘T’s,’ for Treated. Now, we don’t insult the unfortunates by calling them dirty Low Naturals, or Nats, or Lowns. We use their enclave names. Free Wheelers, Chef Menteurians, Port Gramercerians, and so on. Why add to their misery with cruel epithets?” (I didn’t know what epithets were.) “And those with hope like me are the Treated ones who don’t have to do that dirty awful thing, at least, not any time soon.” (His laugh, a gush.) “We prefer to be called Heirs. The only difference between Nats and Heirs is the Trust. To be an Heir, you must be Treated, and to be Treated, you need a Trust. Money. And it’s best to start building one as soon as you can.” His face widened. “I’ve brought you in to say that you can begin today. The scouts from Celebration Sims picked you out. You have a role already! That’s why we’ve cleaned you up. A marvelous opportunity. Don’t let us down. Most of all, don’t let yourself down!”

  Just outside—footsteps. Lazarus looked up. “Come in.”

  When the door opened, a large man was standing there in a pale green cloud of a suit. He was fair skinned, with a black mustache. I wasn’t sure if he were an Heir or not. I’d only seen a few. But when he came in and squatted down and touched my shoulder, I knew.

  “Malcolm!” this stranger said, his voice deep. “I’m Jeremy. How are you?”

  He was at my level and a little hilarious—besides the mustache, two very thick eyebrows made a big ‘M’ at the top of his face. His dark hair was thick and short. He looked up at Lazarus. “Oh, my, where do you get these gems? So fresh, still wet from his bath. Delightful. Look at the bones, the little pretty lip.” Returning to me, he added, “Ready for adventure?”

  I nodded yes, though I wasn’t sure.

  “You have to speak,” he said.

  “Speak boy—” Lazarus commanded.

  “Yes,” I said, in my normal tone. But I saw they wanted more, so I took a deep breath and shouted, “Yes, adventure.” I was eager to please.

  “Oh my,” Jeremy said, with a grin that straightened his mustache. “Lungs. Very useful.”

  Lazarus finally came out in front of his desk and stood quite close to me. I was thrilled to be so near him. He was a sort of father, in my dreams, though I knew in truth that I was fatherless. He leaned in for a moment, cleared his throat. I was about to get what my mate Ariel had called the Speech.

  “Now, dear boy, so far, you have been very brave. But there is more to endure. At times, the contrast between this place and the world of Heirs will make you consider your life here one of suffering. The things you have to do to add to your Trust may seem very hard. You will struggle. But the good news is you will have years, decades, and centuries, to iron out any wrinkles, to unbend any kinks. We have marvelous therapies for you once you are one of us: intricate, sublime. Implants. Extracts. Reprogramming. Re-description. Everything that happens to you out there can be cured. I’ve done it. You can too. This is all Prologue. This is all just your Prologue!”

  Prologue, I eventually decided, meant you weren’t supposed to live now, so you could live later, when you deserved to.

  “I have it here, hope it’s the right size,” Jeremy said, bringing out a thin silver ring with a figure eight lying on its side in the middle. “This is your Not-Yet collar. Some people say ‘Nyet.’ It’s short for not yet treated. It says you have a chance. So you are ahead of the rabble.” He opened the clamp, put it round my neck, and closed it again. Then he threw back his head so I saw his, a black-greenish line with a squiggle in the middle, digging into his Adam’s apple. “See, the same! When you are twenty, you get a new one, at your Boundarytime. You dedicate, become confirmed. Then you are on your way, just like me!”

  Lazarus hovered a few inches away. “First day on the job!” He stepped back, so Jeremy could take my hand.

  As I was marched off, I distinctly remember wanting Lazarus to hug me.

  And, I already knew how wrong it was to want such things.

 
*

  The last time I went to see my guardian, it was my idea, not his.

  I had worked all my life in the Sims. I was lucky, I had a great Trust, and was getting ready for the Boundarytime, the first ceremony.

  But then I received word my money was “in escrow.” Someone else had first claim on it, a lien. My money. The WELLFI Bank would only answer my queries by saying, “Ask your Trust Executor.”

  I tried contacting Lazarus, over and over—no word. No explanation. I had to go, get an answer.

  I was living and working on the shore of the Sea of Pontchartrain then. Soon as I could, I hitched a ride to Audubon Island with a young fisherman named Serio from Chef Menteur Enclave. He had a single stop to make, in Port Gramercy, and then we were headed across to the New Orleans Islands. Eight hours’ journey, I thought.

  I stood on the prow as we pulled away from the dock, touching my Not-Yet collar. It was now as tarnished and tight as Jeremy’s had been when I first met him. I was planning to get a new one, my last, very soon. There were transgressions I’d confess then, things I’d promise to give up—in fact, in preparation I was fasting, toting up my sins. I tried to tell myself I’d get the answers from Lazarus, that all would be put right.

  I managed until we came to our first stop. There, I was thrown into jail for a single conversation.

  And, almost as soon as they let me go—

  The men came to kill me.

  Part One:

  Serpenthead’s Find

  I

  4:50 AM October 12, 2121

  Port Gramercy Enclave Docks

  Northeast Gulf De-Accessioned Territory, U.A. Protectorate

  “You dead?” the Yeared was yelling that filthy word. That was what I woke to. I opened one eye to see his squat silhouette against the blue broth of the sky.

  “Well, you live. I saved you. Call me Serpenthead, how do you? Saw it all. Port G. trash came after you. Plus one cop—”

  Why was he so loud? I turned my head and saw the puddle of blood, and realized the clanging pain was coming from my ear. He was assuming I’d be deaf.

  “Oh, let me see that. Bullet just grazed you. Lucky,” he said. “Ahhh—I know who you are.” His pitch, rising. “I was behind you in line day before yesterday, at the Customs house? Remember me? You named Malcolm, right?”

  I recalled coming in with Serio, being in the queue at Customs—but—he slid his huge, soft-fingered hand over my features. I was too groggy to protest. I was a Not-Yet, couldn’t he see? How could he touch me, not ask, break that rule? At that, my heart started to pound. I felt my awful news, stored in a part of my brain still aching. The whole world was a wall right next to me, with a crack in it. What caused it?

  “Last night, I was trying to curl up on this tub?” He banged the side of the boat. We rocked. “Then I saw you, then I saw the hooligans coming. Boom. Boom. Want me to speak louder?”

  He was plenty loud already. I brought him into focus. He had on a full tunic, long and dirty, with lots of pockets. His pants were light, and blotchy. Big belly, huge boots. He was stooped, bow-legged, and bald. Jeremy must have told me a million times to avoid such types. But this old man had saved my life—so he claimed.

  “Three inches of water on this deck,” he still yelled. “Rained a while back. Can drown in a teacup—you ever hear that? Isn’t it good I was stealing this place to sleep? You lucky or what? I grabbed you and rolled you to the side. Just as the shot came.” He had a fine generous smile, caramel skin—those that still named race, not enclave, would call him yellow, some would call him Creole. He waved his arms about to show me what had happened. Then, without asking, he touched me again, grabbed me under the arms, dragged me over, and propped me up against the rail of the deck. “I was you, I’d leave this place. They don’t like you. They were yelling. You tell them some dirty thing? You do some dirty thing?”

  I recalled this much: I had been trying to flee and had gotten to the docks, to the boat, but—no way to start it. Oh. I realized I was going to have to talk, no matter how my jaw felt. I got up the courage. “K-KKee,” I managed, without opening my teeth, just my lips. The vibration of the word going through my head was hell.

  “What say?” he said.

  “Kee-ee,” I tried again, in the gullet. I meant I had no key. Because my companion, this boat’s pilot, Serio, had it. He was locked inside a jail, inside the walls of Port Gramercy.

  “I can start anything,” the Yeared said. “You still going? Where?”

  I remembered, just at that moment—the where, not the why. I nodded, and looked at him, with faint hope. “N’orlns.”

  “Outer Orleans Islands or Museum City? Or Sunken Quarter—that’s where I’m headed. You?”

  I nodded, my spirits rising slightly, trying not to rattle anything. I wasn’t going to the Quarter, I steered clear—mixing of strats there. I was headed to Audubon Island. The Foundling House. To see my guardian, Lazarus. Of course. I tried, front teeth touching. “Aubahn.”

  “No problem. Five miles up the Old River from the Quarter. I’ll help you if you promise to drop me off. Just slink on up.” He climbed over me into the little wheelhouse, eyed the dials. I had no idea how to drive the thing. “This engine takes compos fuel? They got that on the Basin side in the Quarter. I know where. Off the ‘Lysiana Canal. There’s enough to get across. Why don’t I start you? Steer this tub for you? You drop me off? We get the fuel cheap cheap so you can go back up to Audubon?”

  I trusted him, though I knew it was wrong to. Couldn’t help it.

  “I’ve got to get to a gig there? You know, I sing? You sing?”

  I said “uh-unh,” for no.

  “Pity. How about this?” Now he was holding up something stringy and beige. Old cooked chicken, it looked like. I hummed “no,” again. I wasn’t eating meat, or much of anything.

  “Oh, tapering off, eh?” he said. “Thin soups, miso, little shredded things? Swearing off the hard stuff, land meats, pastes, fruits of flour?” He smacked his lips. “Can you open at all? Wanna drink?” From one of the many pockets in his tunic, he produced a small vial and a straw, said, “Sip? It’s just GeeTea.”

  I allowed it. I was weak.

  The liquid offered me clarity. When he took out the straw, I formed my first sentence. “Where you from?” The words clanged in my head, after.

  “Convergence is all, I say,” he said. “Coincidence is convergence without the cause. I am who I am. Come behind you other day in line. Took a look. Liked your face.” He touched his own cheek and crossed his upper lip with his index finger then rested on the opposite jaw, formed an “L” with his hand to frame his face. “Serpenthead the Singer.”

  I touched the side of my jowl where the injury was, with trepidation. I found the slot in my ear—gooey, sticky, stinging, but I was okay with pain. High tolerance. Among my gifts.

  Serpenthead reached across to my forehead. “Ringing? Dizzy?” he asked. “Pain killer? Try this in your trap.”

  He offered gum. I couldn’t chew. Jancy gum.

  “Suit yourself.” He shrugged, momentarily dejected, but he recovered. “How about we get this thing started?”

  I watched him climb up and slide under the wheel. He reached in one of his pockets and produced a huge folded knife, multi-armed as a crab. All kinds of implements fanned out of it—screwdrivers, serrated knives, can opener, clippers, and a wriggly flat wire no thicker than a fork’s tine that he slid into the key slot. He tricked the starter to turn over. “Good. Juice,” he said. “Can you get up? Open the throttle?”

  When I moved, I heard a faint roar. Was it from inside my ear or outside, I couldn’t tell. It took my balance. I staggered. I didn’t know what the throttle was. He showed me, explained the dials.

  “Lever other here,” he said, his hand pointing, his head staying down. “Press it up.”

  How did he know where the lever was? I got up and did what he said. The engine, to my amazement, coughed to life. Soon he’d undone the rope that tied
us to the dock, and we chugged out into the open water in the indigo-before-dawn.

  *

  In fifteen minutes, we were far enough away from Port Gramercy to see it whole—it was a line town on the rise between the Old River and the Sea of Pontchartrain, a meandering scarf of twinkling lights, docks, syrup refineries, cranes and sluices for cargo that went to foreign ports, the fugue countries with no Heirs. By six in the morning, the sky had gone from dark blue to candlelight-through-muddy water, to full-blown pink. October, late in the storm season. I finally turned away from the complicated shore, and looked into the cold wind, the open sea. The chill almost distracted me from the ache on the left side of my head. I kept sane with the thought of how close I was to Lazarus, to home, but then I remembered that crack in the wall, that doom was seeping through. What? I could only make out the sense of it, not the fact—it was like the effort of trying to recall the details of a nightmare in the morning. I had almost been killed, a few hours before, apparently—no recollection of that, either, just the bloody ear. It was so awful I resisted to protect myself, perhaps. So many blows at once. I had been in jail, too, but not for long. Exactly why? Had I committed a crime?

  The pain bit down hard. I sat, holding my throbbing skull, next to this huge-headed Serpent who was beginning to sing.

  He cupped his ear, and began, “When the black Kat slithered across the East at dusk—”. Then he asked, “You heard any of the Great Storm songs? Last century songs?”

  I hadn’t.

  Eventually, he went through that whole ballad inventory. He had a beautiful voice. I applauded, despite myself.

  “You know, you will lose your pipes if they make you over, treat you. They all got those awful reptile voices. Really.”

  I shrugged. I’d never thought about the loss before, or even concluded their voices were ugly. They were very low, and airy, and—dry—I considered their sound the sign of the luckiest.