Kassy Tayler: Remnants of Tomorrow

“I find it strange that you have a wardrobe full of women’s clothes,” I reply as I rub my hands down the soft velvet of the dress and hope that no one else has worn it since my mother. “It was the only thing in there to my liking,” I add.

He laughs silently, no more than a jerk of his head and a smile. “You probably would have liked the women the other things belonged to even less,” he says.

What a strange comment. Is he one to collect tokens of the women he’s had? Does that mean there’s been a parade of women through the years? And what happens to them once he is done with them? Do they go back to their lives as if nothing has happened, just as my mother tried to do? There was no denying me, yet she never spoke of who my father was to anyone. The fact that I look just like her is the only reason he has to acknowledge me, and that was quite by accident, as he was shocked when he saw me for the first time.

“Just like her, you grow more lovely each time I see you.” He almost sounds wistful.

I want to believe him. For some strange reason I feel the need to have his approval. I do not understand why, since he is the epitome of everything I hate about the dome, but still I cannot help seeking his favor. So I smile at his comment and blush in what I hope is a pretty manner and then immediately feel ridiculous for preening under his attention.

“Please sit,” my father says pleasantly, indicating the chair before his desk. “We have much to discuss.” His tone makes it sound as if we are planning a party and it instantly puts me on the defensive.

I go to the chair and gather up the excess fabric before sitting down. I wonder at the waste. The skirt of the dress I wear would easily clothe two women, possibly three if care were taken. My father looks amused as I try to find a comfortable way to sit.

“Bustles, while attractive, are not very practical,” he says.

“I was just thinking the same thing,” I reply, assuming that he is talking about the back of my dress. I settle into the chair and put my arms on the sides. The last time I sat here I was covered in blood from the filcher I killed when he attempted to rape me. There is more blood on my hands now, more dead by my hand, but like my father’s clean façade, it does not show.

My father steeples his fingers as he sits back in his chair. “Shall we start with why you were in the dome when I graciously allowed you your freedom?”

A lot has happened to me since I last saw my father. “If you are talking about when you had your men escort me to the door, I didn’t leave then.”

“Why ever not? Was not that your heart’s desire?” I did not think him capable of sarcasm, yet it is evident in his voice.

“It still is my heart’s desire,” I reply. “But not just for me. For everyone else who is tired of living under your restrictions.”

“You are not responsible for all the people who may or may not want to leave the dome.” He shakes his head as if I am foolish.

“But that doesn’t stop me from caring about them.” Perhaps I am foolish. I’d rather be foolish than heartless.

“Yours is the route to heartbreak, my dear girl,” he says in a sorry attempt of fatherly advice.

“Why do you care?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” He sighs with impatience, sits back in his chair, and contemplates the papers on his desk as if he is determining which task is more important at the moment, me or the never-ending monotony of his job. He pushes the stack aside and picks up a pen. He turns it in his hand, touching the point and then the top and then the point again to the surface of his desk. He repeats it several times as if the movement hypnotizes him, and he speaks as he watches it. “Why don’t you bring me up to date on what you’ve been up to since I last saw you?”

I don’t want to play these games with my father. I want to know what has happened to my friends. I think he gets some sort of perverse enjoyment out of our battle of wits. Still, I have nothing to lose and everything to gain, so I tell him my story.

“Your men had me in the glass tunnel when we heard the explosion.”

“Your friends blew up the fans,” my father interjects.

I ignore his comment. There is no need to give my father any evidence against my friends. James, Adam, and Alcide blew up the fans. He does not know them nor ever will, if I have my way. “Your men left us. Jon went outside. I stayed in.”

“Jon?”

“The boy who was with me. The one the filchers mistook for Pace.”

“Ah yes. I remember.”

“I made my way back to my friends and went below. I was in our village when your men attacked us with the flamethrowers that caused an explosion in the tunnels.”

“My men attacked you.” He did not phrase it as a question, more as a statement of disbelief. Surely he knew what happened in the tunnels since he was the one who sent the bluecoats after us. I must be holding his interest now, as he puts the pen aside.

“Your men killed us!” My anger explodes out of me, just like the methane in the tunnels. “They came into the tunnels with flamethrowers! How could you not know the dangers such a weapon would cause?” I stop, desperate to get my emotions under control so my father cannot use them against me. “Your men are the ones who caused the destruction to the dome,” I continue. “The holes, the cave-in.”

Shock flares in his eyes but he quickly hides it. “Continue,” he bids me.

I gather myself once again as tears threaten my eyes. “Our village was destroyed by the flood. When the gas exploded some of the tunnels collapsed and the river changed its course, taking everything in its path with it, including part of your streets.” I cannot help the trembling in my voice. “My best friend, Peggy, was killed.”

He arches an eyebrow, his way of expressing sympathy I suppose.

I swipe at my eyes. “After that we just followed the river until it led us out.”

“Out?”

“Outside, by the sea.” How can he not know what is out there? “The dome is built on a cliff that overlooks the Atlantic Ocean.”

“How do you know about the ocean?” Confusion, followed by curiosity, flashes across his face. “How do you know what it is called?”

“Levi told me,” I say. “But Pace knows the names of things also. He told me many things about the outside world before we escaped.”

“Who is Levi?”

I look at him in confusion. “He was with me when we surrendered.”

“So that’s his name,” he says with a sense of satisfaction.

I am still confused. “Where is Levi?”

“He’s in a cell, being just as stubborn as you have been. No one seems to know who he is.”

“That’s because he’s from America.” I watch my father carefully. “No one on the inside would have reason to know him.”

He hides his surprise well. His face doesn’t change a bit, but I watch him carefully and see the flare of surprise in his dark-as-coal eyes.

“That’s a rather outlandish claim, Wren,” my father says evenly. “Do you have anything to substantiate it?”

“Go outside and look at the catwalk. There’s an airship docked there.” I know he would have no way of knowing what an airship is, but the name describes it well. I hope the sound of it intimidates him. This time his surprise is tangible and I press my advantage. “Levi has a family, and they have the ability to remove him by force if necessary.”

“It’s been two weeks and he’s still here.” He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “I think you’ve overestimated your friends.”

“I know you’ve underestimated us all, actually. Levi’s family will do what they must to ensure his safety.” I retort. “I suggest you treat Levi kindly.”