You Never Listen

A cry, cut off.

I stare at Resident Neilson, the man pausing mid-answer to look about dramatically.

“The cats, they are going, like, crazy this time of year—”

I raise a hand. I give him a moment to think—a move I learned from my superior—and slowly inhale before asking the question. “Are you harboring insurrectionists?”

“No, no, of course not! I have been a loyal man, a lawful man…” He takes on an air of anger, though I’ve done this job long enough to see the fear. Hell, to smell it. “How dare you imply that my family would do such a thing?”

I glance behind me and find the eyes of my boss. Yuri cocks an eyebrow and makes a small gesture. “Go.”

We flow past Nielson and into his home, his protestations abruptly ended as he’s forcefully taken from his home.

His home.

This still bothers me. Even after all the years it’s hard to shake the feeling of…rape, I guess, is the best word. A forceful entry into something intimate. To glimpsing all the small things that make up someone’s day, someone’s personal life.

Though, as Yuri would say, it always feels wrong until you make it right.

The kitchen is sparse and neat and the living room matches the orderliness. As if it’s barely used. I wave an arm and men flow up the stairs and into the living quarters. I stop in the center of the house and wait—another trick I’ve learned—and I am not disappointed.

Resident Nielson approaches, somewhat disheveled, a hand held to his ribs. “I told you, I do not…”

A thud. Somewhere closer. I look around and, after doing this for as long as I have, it’s not easy to figure it out.

“Kitchen island. We do it quiet. Masks on.”

“No! There isn’t—”

A punch to the stomach and one of my men goes to remove Nielson and I hold up a hand. “Gag him. Let him watch.”

The men examine the island in quiet, hand signals and points and the latch is soon found. I pull my own mask down as Yuri looms over my shoulder, watching, his own pistol out and draped over my shoulder in approval.

“Now.”

The island is silently swung out and to the side, revealing the hidden stairs beneath. I go first, dropping down to the fourth step and flicking my light on as I round the corner.

Click.

Always, always, it’s an image. A photograph like they used to take a long, long time ago. A sudden flash of light and just the scene, over-illuminated and too exposed. Too saturated. Too everything. Not something that would be called art, heck, not something anyone would be proud of, but something so extremely candid that it made you look again. Made you want to know more about what was going on.

Except here. Always.

A woman, leaning against the wall, eyes shut but a face sheeted with tears, jaw set, holding her hand over her baby’s mouth. The child’s eyes are closed, the face flushed a brilliant red that offsets the whiteness of the woman’s hand. A man is in a crouch, his own face contorted with all the emotions of the helpless, other shadows behind him and…

Click.

The picture taken, put away in an album I never open, and time resumes. The woman’s eyes open and her hand disappears from the baby’s mouth, a keen escaping her as she fulfills the dual-horror of being caught as well as killing her child.

My men are good. Trained by me under Yuri’s tutelage. Subdue all with whatever is required. Not that this lot puts up a fight. They know it’s over. No one even begs, or pleads, or makes excuses.

For which I’m thankful.

“The Imperial Standard blankets all and all are sheltered. The charges are this: conspiring insurrection, withholding resources, evading purposeful contribution and—”

The baby cries.

“And?” Yuri prompts.

“And...and a child conceived out of the system and without permission.”

They are rounded up after that. The only fight coming from the mother as she clings to her now screaming child. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Don’t! She’s alive!”

They are separated and escorted out and it only feels like a minute before I’m alone in what appears to be an empty wine cellar. Just myself and a squalling child on the concrete floor. The onesie stained and the feet cut off to make room for her growth.

“This is new.”

The baby cries and I remember to put my pistol away. I aim the light somewhere else and see too much of the time spent here and then I just turn it off.

“What do I do with you?”

“Dispose of it.”

I can’t hide my surprise and Yuri chuckles. He was always so quiet. Too quiet.

“You never listen. I swear…” His tone loses its congeniality. “It is illegal. Not a part of the system. A threat to it.”

“It’s a child.”

“One that will need things. That will require nourishment.” He carefully places a hand on my shoulder. “There is not enough water for all. This is greed. This is betrayal. See it for what it is.”

He leaves, stomping sarcastically to let me know that he’s gone.

“I…”

It can’t understand you.

At least the others do. Or so I hope. Understand why we must enforce these rules. I’ve had my fair share of conspirers in the dark. A few illicit pregnancies, though those are usually dopers who don’t want the child. Never was one delivered.

I don’t know how to pick it up. I fumble with the head and then decide to lift it under the armpits, bringing it to my chest until I remember what I have to do. I hold it out in front of me and make my way up the steps to what is now an empty house. A home no longer.

An evening fading fast to nightfall. The smell of cut grass and lilac and ordinariness.

If only you simply smelled the world.

My cruiser sits alone, washed up on a cul-de-sac of closed shutters and locked doors. I root around in the trunk, finding a towel and a duffel bag. I make what might be a nest, I suppose, for a kitten and place it on the floor of the passenger seat.

“In you go.”

The fading light reveals the child to be a girl. Big brown eyes and curly hair with a bow, frayed on both sides. The zipper to her onesie has split at the top, the run revealing a large, heart-shaped locket on her chest.

I usually avoid looking at the personal items of those that I deal with. Only affixes the pictures more firmly in my memory. But I’m already pulling it out. The catch is worn and it flips open without me touching the button. Her parents—hard to recognize without faces stained by fear—smile out.

“I’m going to take this,” I say, sliding it carefully up and over her neck. “If they had loved you they wouldn’t have done this. Wouldn’t have made me do this. It’s…”

It doesn’t matter.

I get into the battered cruiser and we drive. She thrashes and rolls in the duffel and emits a cry every so often, a pause after as if waiting for a response, and that is worse than her wailing. I drive faster, speeding past the industrial quadrant and into the heart of Founding, weaving around other cars as I rush to get to the closed district. To the station. The clinic. The doctors.

The crematorium.

“The doctors can do it. It’s their job. They’ll…” I pound the wheel. “God damn your parents!”

The crying stops and it’s quiet. Too quiet. And this hurts. I’m used to the silence of strangers as I pass. Used to the averted eyes and lowered voices. The fear. But that’s not something a child should know.

When we come to a stop we are in front of my building. My home. A place that, should one such as I break into with his men, would be hard-pressed to find something that resembles a personality. A lonely place with a few medals, a few written accolades, and some books. A table that sits bare. A chair that creaks. A picture of the ocean that might be the only thing someone with an imagination might pull from.

“It isn’t fair,” I say, not knowing who I’m speaking to. I pull at the towel, hoping for a response. Then I reach in and poke her, gently. I want her to smile, at least. Or laugh. I want her to tell me it’s okay. But a small hand just comes out and grips my finger. Tightly.

“Damn. Dammit dammit dammit.”

It’s a long drive to the station. A long drive where I alternate between going too fast and too slow and shaking fingers punch the code to get into the Punitive Building.

It’s quiet. Thankfully. Polished halls that are dark, only the click of my boots and the breathing of the now sleeping baby to disrupt the silence.

“I was told to dispose of you. How, well, that wasn’t said,” I mutter to myself, reassuring myself with the lies.

Easy enough to bring up the files from today. To find her parents, using the locket to double-check the black and white photos posted. Easy enough to change their states from pending to discharged. Easy enough to alter the time stamps and one last thing—

Click.

“Dear me. I had a hunch.”

Always so quiet. Too quiet.

Yuri’s gun finds its way into my ribs, pushing deep, as he slides my own from the holster.

“I saw you go soft back there. I saw it. Even in the dark.”

“This isn’t the right way. There has to be—”

“You are lost. I’ve seen it before.” He heaves a sigh. “If we don’t hold strong then we will crumble. We will fall. Too many and we die. Too unordered and we die. The chaos almost consumed us before. We cannot grow soft again. I will not allow it.” A click as he slides the hammer back. I can’t see him but I can feel the shake of his head. “You should have heard me. You could have run. You never listen.”

“You’re wrong. All I do is listen. Listen to what I’m told. Do what I’m ordered.” I slowly turn to face him, arms out wide. “I’ve always just nodded, or shook my head, or did what others wanted. Waiting out the pain. Knowing the world was wrong but expecting there were better ones handling it. I just sat on the side and I’ve never spoken up. Maybe that’s the problem. I only listened.”

He listens to my last words with his same deadpan stare, unmoved. “If only you had iron. I’m sorry.” He takes a step back and raises the gun slowly, centering on my forehead. “Goodbye.”

A crash behind him as a silhouette runs forward out of the darkness. He isn’t able to rotate in time to stop the falling of the disciplinary baton. One hit that barely stuns him, but then a rain of blows wielded by a hand that’s equal parts desperate and righteous.

“That’s enough,” I say, then forced to say it louder. “That’s enough!”

The child’s mother slowly lowers her hand, breathing heavy. We stare down at the body, both not quite sure what has fully transpired this day.

It’s only wrong until you make it right.

“I still don’t understand why you released me.”

“For her.”

“But why?”

I spread my hands. “The greater good doesn’t mean it’s good. I don’t know. Take her and go. No one will look for you.”

She pulls her child out of the duffel and shuffles away and I stare at the locket. Still mine and I guess it always will be.

“We have to try.”