The Freedom Race, page 12
While the other females gathered round to comfort both her and Marcie, something caught Ji-ji’s eye. Her Crimson Motherglory had rolled off the lid of the coffin and been trampled by the seedlings. Lua wouldn’t even have a rose to comfort her in the dark.
With a flourish of phony concern, Petrus presented Aunt Marcie with a mam-of-the-seedmate harvesting basket. The black ribbon snaked around it made Ji-ji think of seizure ribbons.
Vincent Fratt, Petrus’ clerical assistant, recited a list of the contents like it was a regular grocery list: fruit, a large fry pan, a bag of seedchips valued at ten rebel dollars, a pair of sunglasses, hand lotion, a can of roasted peanuts, a stick of deodorant, genuine fluoride toothpaste, and a screen viewer. In addition to the basket, Fratt informed Marcie she would get electricity in her cabin next year or the year after, and a reception box too, to reward her for her “sacrifice to the Territories.” The grieving mam would be able to watch the propaganda programs piped in through the Grubby Pipe from the Father-City of Armistice. Ji-ji hoped Marcie would spit in Fratt’s face. She didn’t.
After Petrus and Fratt moved off, Silapu turned to Ji-ji and muttered, “And that crap is supposed to compensate for the loss of her Last&Only. Absolute evil.”
Soon afterward, Silapu and Ji-ji climbed into the mourning wagon along with four other seeds from various parts of the planting. Ji-ji spied Matty Longsby in the distance. He was sitting astride his horse, staring at them. She pretended she hadn’t seen him.
A short time later, Ji-ji was alone in the cabin at last. Her mam, still railing about the hideous mam-of-the-seedmate basket, had set off for her shift at the textile factory. Ji-ji had thirty minutes before she had to leave for Cropmaster Hall to prepare Lotter’s lunch. She stuffed a wooden wedge under the door so no one could enter and retrieved the note from her pocket. Her heart beat fiercely in her chest. Let him be okay.… Let him be okay.…
Tiro’s sprawling handwriting took up two full pages. She had never received a letter as long as this from him before.
Dear Ji-ji—excuse all the mistakes in this note. I was never great at writing. Not bad for a juvi but nothing like you. And I dont have ackcess to an American Heritij H. dictionary like you either. Scared you will see how often I mess up when it comes to spelling and grammer and hold it against me!
I know this day is hell for you. Lua was good and you were a good friend to her. Real good. I hope that comforts you some. Wish I could be there but Coach B wont let up. You know how he is. I’m trying out this new move from the crow’s nest. I come came up with it myself. Hoping it will seal the deal if I make it to the final.
You dont have to worry. I mean it. I’m OK. Well OK could be streching it, but I’m not crazy or anything so don’t get it in your head to be going any place you shouldnt be going if you see what I mean cos I’m OK. I really am.
Funniest thing happened Ji. I kind of saw him. Uncle Dreg. I was so mad after what happened. Thats why I couldnt look at you. Couldnt speak either. But then I was sitting on the porch that night and I looked up and there was all these stars. Like thousands! And it made me think of what Uncle Dreg used to tell us. Those old stories he brought over from the Cradle. And then its like I fell asleep and then woke up and he was there in the sky. Like the night was a storycloth and he was flying across it and just stopped for a second to say hi before he takes off again.
Bet your dam sure I’m crazy now but I swear to god Ji if you could see it you would be crazy too. Happy crazy. And the old man was smiling and nodding and I thought he was pointing to the stars only he wasnt. He was pointing to the dark parts. The midnight in between. You see, he says all joyfull, I told you. Heads of midnight. And then I understood how he ment it was us seeds reaching for the stars. Does that sound corny? Guess it does. But corny can be truer than anything sometimes. Right?
And even tho I cant honistly say I know exactly what he ment by that and even tho it could be I made the hole thing up cos I was pretty messed up that night it made me feel like I was right to keep on flying in the coop after Amadee got tractor pulled, and right to hold on to you too even tho there are times when I think your mams right and I’m too messed up for you Ji but I hope thats not the way it turns out. Bet there should be about a hundred comas in that last sentence but I’ve looked it over and it beats me where I should plug them in. Seems to me punctuation and spelling too is a way to keep us seeds from writing things down for posteritty and thinking out loud on paper. A way to keep us quite. But dont worry Ji. I aim to get real good at both so I can keep up with you in Dream City and not show you up. (Feel Free to mark up this note and show me the corrections later. I wont be off-ended.)
Anyhow I’m kinda scared to send this now in case it proves I’m a ignorant nut job like your mam says. But I guess I’ll send it anyway so you dont worry the way you always worry about me and about everything in this world cos thats how your made.
We can do this Ji. I know it. Keep to the curfew and dont do nothing wreckless. Just imagine Ji. Were almost there. Heads of midnight flying through the dark. Free.—T
Tiro was okay! Ji-ji felt like leaping for joy.
She got down on her hands and knees and, with difficulty, retrieved An Abbreviated History of These Disunited States from under her bed. She folded up Tiro’s note and slipped it into the book, inside a chapter called “Promises Kept”—one of her favorites cos it described the old U.S. before Trifurcation, when it split into three self-governing entities. That chapter always made Ji-ji wonder if people knew how good they had it back then. Tiro’s note would be safe there with the other coverts she’d lashed to the underside of the bed frame. Her books would outrage the steaders, of course, who would rail against the “sedition-fomenting texts.” If her mam discovered them, she’d freak out as well, especially if she found out Ji-ji had hidden something even more seditious under her bed.
A not-to-scale map she’d drawn lay hidden inside The Tempest, next to the page at the end where the wizard Prospero pleads with the audience to set him Free. She treasured the map because it brought the planting down to size—with its fry-fence, corny wagon-wheel layout, forbidden paths, and pridefulness. Each time she added something to the map it felt like she had power over the planting—like she’d humbled it simply by consigning it to paper. Risky drawing something like that, but sometimes you had to do the stuff they said you couldn’t just to prove to yourself you could. The map said, “A seed named Ji-ji Jubilation squeezed your entire sorryass planting onto a scrap of paper. Planting 437 looks downright pathetic cos that’s exactly what it is.”
Ji-ji wasn’t the only one engaging in risky business. Zaini had taken a real risk too. If she’d been searched and Tiro’s note found, she would have gotten a public lashing; so would Tiro. Worse, probably, given the contents. Yet that was what Ji-ji loved about them both—the fact that they would risk exposure cos they knew how much it mattered. Uncle Dreg might have been the wizard in the family, but Zaini was the one who sensed what others needed and found a way to get it to them. With her steady hands, Zaini steered Tiro away from despair and toward joy again.
When Ji-ji first set eyes on Tiro, she’d just turned six and Tiro was seven and a half. They’d been at the Seed Symbol Ceremony. Tiro had introduced himself with the words “Hi. I’m Tiro. When I grow up I’m gonna fly.” And Ji-ji had replied, “Hi, I’m Jellybean. I’m scared of heights but I’m a fast runner an’ I can spell already—a-l-r-e-a-d-y.” Tiro had burst out laughing, and Ji-ji had known she would want to hear that laugh for as long as she lived.
At the Seed Symbol Ceremony, seedlings sewed seed symbols onto their shirts and blouses. If they failed to attach their symbols within five minutes, they had to start all over again. Ji-ji had been the quickest seedling in the Gathering Place that day; Tiro had been the slowest. It wasn’t that he couldn’t do it. He had purposely screwed up—made his stitches a mile long and as crooked as a broken finger. The last time the overseers had made him redo it, he’d attached the symbol to his shirt sleeve. When the seers had ordered him to put his shirt on so everyone could see how badly he’d screwed up, Tiro had slipped it on and thrust his arm dramatically over his heart. “See!” he’d exclaimed. “It is in the right place!” All the seedlings had laughed and a star had been born. Tiro would have been whipped raw for impudence if Uncle Dreg hadn’t interceded on his behalf.
Ji-ji had been coming up on thirteen when Silapu convinced Lotter to delay seedmating her. Lotter knew she was a good cook, and after nonstop pleas from Silapu, he had her inducted as a kitchen-seed. It took her only a few months to be named to the chief’s position, following the seedbirthing death of her predecessor, Harriett Herringseedmate.
Ji-j knew she was lucky. Being chief kitchen-seed was tons better than being seedmated. But knowing she wouldn’t have access to education at the planting legacy school for seeds anymore sent her on a downward spiral. She started doing crazy things, taking risks whenever she could. Silapu got scared because Ji-ji wasn’t scared enough. Training for the Freedom Race saved her life. Ji-ji began to run—a mile or two at first, then greater and greater distances. She discovered how freaky fast she was and realized how hard she could push her body without fear of it letting her down. And now, for the first time since Lua’s seedbirthing, Ji-ji felt at peace. Every sign seemed to be pointing in the right direction. Tiro believed Uncle Dreg was still watching over him. He would be okay. She decided to do the sensible thing and heed his warning. She would not attempt to visit the flying coop tomorrow. She would let Silapu know that Tiro had persuaded her not to do it—prove to her mam that Tiro could be sensible when he wanted. As soon as Lotter lifted the restrictions on inter-homestead movement, she would visit the flying coop. In the meantime, she would have his words to comfort her.
A sudden, searing pain between Ji-ji’s shoulder blades flung her onto her bed. After several seconds of unbearable spasms, the pain lessened. A few minutes later it all but disappeared.
Ji-ji tried not to panic. She stood up gingerly. Her back was still tender. She resolved to consult with Coach Billy. He knew all about sports injuries. “Don’t let this be happening,” she prayed, to anyone who might be listening. “Give me as much pain as you like after I get to the city. Just hold off till then, okay?”
Careful not to irritate her back, she changed from her pray-day outfit into her kitchen-seed uniform—a bulky striped skirt, a dun-colored blouse, and a dark brown apron with her name and CHIEF KITCHEN-SEED embroidered on the pocket. She set off for work.
During the long jog to Cropmaster Hall she kept repeating to herself, “You are not in pain and your back is fine. You are not in pain and your back is fine.…”
All she had to do now was make herself believe it.
9 THE FLYING COOP
Ji-ji set out before dawn from Lotter’s seed quarters on Homestead 1 to Brine’s quarters, directly south on Homestead 12. She tore along the permissible paths and cut across fields she had permission to traverse. The past few years of desperately needed, steady seasonal rain had ended the latest drought. Though she suspected the mild weather wouldn’t last, she’d take it as a good sign.
Ji-ji wasn’t surprised that she and her mam still resided in their cabin on Homestead 1, in spite of the fact that Lotter was serving as cropmaster. His seeds would likely remain there for weeks while the father-men squabbled over the tricky issue of homestead reassignment. In theory, the so-called Homestead Shuffle that took place after a cropmaster died enabled every father-man to move up into the homestead above his own; in practice, it wasn’t that simple. Lotter could do whatever he wanted—reassign the majority of his seeds, or relocate them onto seed quarters he could construct near his residence. He could keep his homestead, or he could cede it to another father-man for a fat bestowal fee. Herring had surrendered his homestead after he was formally appointed as cropmaster. But Lotter, who never relinquished control of anything easily, had so far opted to retain Homestead 1, which was why the route Ji-ji was taking to the flying coop this morning was the same one she always took.
She had a lot to be thankful for. Mam was still sober and acting like a mother, and the paralyzing grief Ji-ji had felt over the loss of Lua and Uncle Dreg had morphed into an unshakable determination to succeed for their sakes. Yesterday, newly appointed Security Chief Williams’ curt announcement about “the restoration of inter-homestead movement” had played over the loudspeakers. With inter-homestead movement no longer restricted, the Ratification Ceremony scheduled for tomorrow night would go ahead. To Ji-ji’s relief, her back had almost healed. Not a single twinge in a week. After nearly three weeks, the longest time they had been apart in years, she and Tiro would see each other again this morning. She would have a chance to speak with him before Ratification—remind him not to do anything reckless. She had other things to tell him too.
Silapu had lobbied hard for Ji-ji’s ratification and had even put in a good word for Tiro, under a dark cloud as the blood relative of a traitor. Apparently, Herring had let the planting drift into debt. The tithes payable to Armistice to secure the Territories were six months in arrears. You didn’t mess with the Territorial Council, whose members dished out crippling fines to tardy plantings. Lotter had to find extra money fast. Though the recompense for runner reps paled in comparison to what competitors’ home plantings received for fly-boys, the compensation for Ji-ji, particularly if she made it all the way to the city, would offset some of the debt. In light of this auspicious new development, Silapu said she was almost certain Ji-ji would be ratified. The planting trial records Ji-ji had smashed appeared to have made an impression on Lotter after all. Apart from Sloppy—Ji-ji’s fellow kitchen-seed who’d crossed the finish line a few minutes behind her in the trials—no other female seed could come close to Ji-ji’s time or match her endurance. As for Tiro, Silapu figured his chances had improved to, maybe, fifty-fifty. Not good, but considerably better than what they were before. Lotter was a pragmatist, and multiple payments would accrue to the planting at every stage of Tiro’s ascent. The stars were in alignment at last.
Ji-ji poured cold water on her own excitement. She would jinx herself if she wasn’t careful. Remember Mam’s warning, Ji-ji thought. If you’re gazing too far into the future you fall on your ass in the present. The day after the Ratification Ceremony, she and Tiro—it had to be both of them—would be transported to the Salem Outpost, where the first leg of the race would commence. Before then, she and her dozen full-time kitchen-seeds, along with a slew of helper seeds, would prepare the greatest feast of the season. If she served an unappetizing dish to the head table, or failed to take into account the dietary preferences of a VIP guest of honor, or—worse still—offended the taste buds of Planting Taster Lemmaging, she’d be toast.…
Ji-ji shivered—more with nervousness than with the chill. She’d come down from her high. Overconfidence was a seed’s worst enemy. She had to keep it in check.
She reached the small bridge spanning the rock-lined drainage trench Coach B and his fly-boys had dug to reroute rain- and floodwater. Water pooled so badly in Brine’s low-lying homestead that Tiro joked it would be easier to travel to the flying coop by ferry. Brine refused to spend a seedchip on maintenance, complaining that flying incited sedition by encouraging seeds “to de-rung themselves from their natural position on God’s Great Ladder.” The rusty old coop had been losing its battle with the elements ever since Brine had been granted fathership rights to Homestead 12.
Although females were not permitted to fly in the coop, that didn’t prevent Ji-ji from falling in love with flight the first time she’d set foot there as a seedling. The dilapidated coop didn’t look like much from the outside. A grimy canvas tent that had been repeatedly patched and mended covered its metal skeleton; a smell of mold, sweat, and gas fumes from the ancient generators permeated the space. Yet seeds and steaders alike flocked to the battles held there four times a year, spectators shelling out the hefty sum of seven seedchips each for tickets. The funds enabled Coach Billy and his Serverseed assistant Pheebs to make repairs and purchase fuel from the general store to feed the gas-guzzling generators. But each year, the father-men debated whether it was worth the upkeep, especially given the fact that no fly-boy from the 437th had made it to the finals for years. According to Marcus Shadowbrookseed, whose gossip was invariably accurate due to Old Shadowy’s tendency to confide in him when she was high as a kite, Williams, Brine, and others lobbied for the coop to be demolished; Lotter was indifferent—no surprise there; and the other nine father-men, along with Diviner Shadowbrook, usually voted in favor of keeping it. Every seed knew privileges could be snatched away without notice, which was why the fly-boys lived in constant fear that they would wake up one morning to discover their one source of elevation demolished.
Ji-ji pulled back the frayed canvas flap that served as a door to the coop and stepped inside. As usual, a reverence she never felt at the planting pray center—or anywhere else, for that matter—filled her. Coach B’s hollers and the creak of rusty equipment filled the cavernous space. Though one of the repurposed generators chugged away outside as usual, only a handful of lights were on. Almost immediately after he took over as acting cropmaster, Lotter had issued an order mandating frugality, which explained why it wasn’t much brighter inside the tent than it was outside. No one had seen her yet. She paused to take it all in. This place meant so much to her.
