Traitor Page 2

  “Inventory is weekly. There are 412 residents in my building, and I have to account for every towel, apple, roll of toilet paper, and toothbrush that passes through the doors. If I’m off…” He motions toward the screen. “There’s an RP-7 waiting for me. Here, I’ll show you that one.”

  I squint at the small text after he pulls up a screen from a long list of entries. It must be his responsibility to type these explanations, and the current query details the loss of the two hand towels that cleaned up an injury, referenced in RP-38C-145. He had official acknowledgement of the issue from a document called TA-69873. My brain already hurts.

  “What’s RP-38C-145? TA-69873?”

  “RP-38C is an injury report; 145 is the specific reference number for the incident that caused the disappearance of two hand towels. TA-69873 proves I filed all my paperwork on time and keeps me from having my ass handed to me when I fill out the RP-7 at the end of the month.”

  “Geez. What on earth happened to warrant all of this?”

  “Bloody nose.”

  I freeze. “All of this for a bloody nose?”

  “Yup. Floor 8, room 14. Resident bumped into a door jam. You should see the paperwork required just to get an RP-38C.”

  “I don’t want to know. You must spend all day doing paperwork,” I mutter.

  “Yes, basically.”

  “Is that how this mess happened?”

  A flash strikes in his eyes before they fade into apathy. “It’s a lot to maintain.” Cryptic. Practiced, like everything else he shares.

  I let out a breath. “What do the other building supervisors do without their own administrative assistants?”

  My innocent question makes him more uncomfortable. Ego, maybe? If so, it’s the first I’ve seen from him.

  “Well, unlike me, they’re gifted administrators. Mostly civilian recruits with business backgrounds. They live for this stuff.”

  My eyes flick to his leg.

  “Lucky me, right?” he jokes, but I don’t believe his humor. Men like this aren’t okay with tapping out RP-7s. Not when this conversation feels as forced as his smile.

  “At least you survived whatever happened.” As though I know how to comfort a young amputee. His expression assures me I did a crappy job, but he deflects me yet again.

  “Well, hey. I have this killer RP-7 to finish, so why don’t you get back to making sense of the dump.”

  Over the course of the morning three of my piles transform into twenty-two folders. I’m itching to move them to the metal cabinets against the wall, but we’re still a day away from that reward. It’s a sweet distraction, therapy for the fresh wounds still weeping at the explosion of my world. Hours disappear amidst a gentle silence I haven’t experienced since they brought me here two days ago. I can finally breathe through the weight of my loss, war, because this office is different. I try to credit the familiarity of my task, but that’s a half-truth. It’s the mystery behind the desk, the soothing presence that’s turned this room into a sanctuary. Kaleb concentrates on his stream of reports, and I fall into the task of analyzing him—them. Okay, so maybe habit sends my eyes toward his desk well beyond normal awareness. My interest in his furrowed brow competes with my focus on the documents, but I’ve never done well with unanswered questions. I wonder if he’s hungry from not eating breakfast. I wonder about the metal in his boot. I wonder what kind of man offers compassion through the pain of war.

  Full-time sorting finally steals my attention for an intent survey of the papers passing through my fingers. But my eager plunge into this new world chills at my first observation: Kaleb’s enslavement to inventories. Food consumption, toiletries, wardrobe pieces, even the contents of the game-filled wall unit in our rooms is documented with relentless accuracy. RP-7 shows up frequently, and I picture the corresponding explanations somewhere in that database, my enigmatic boss hammering them into the keyboard.

  Inventories are just the beginning. Countless memos chastise the building supervisors and make me cringe at the memory of Kaleb’s welcome speech. The “chopping block” means that on March 19 they were scolded for allowing residents to be out of their rooms after curfew. On April 5 they were too liberal with the toothpaste ration. July 27 they were warned in no uncertain terms that “The League” better not result in any disruption or they would be held responsible. I squint at the note scribbled on that one.

  “It’s your ass, kid. Hope it’s worth it. –D.”

  My glance finds Kaleb engrossed in his work, and I swallow a reaction to the evidence in my hand. Other reprimands target him directly. A building supervisor reported Kaleb to a commanding officer for interfering with her discipline of one of her residents. The summons calls him to face the charges at a nonjudicial punishment hearing. Another document accuses him of not having the proper TA for his RP-7, his second warning, and yet another charges him with questioning the instructions of a commanding officer after a fight on the common grounds. Oh, and finally the forewarned letter of reprimand for an incident related to “The League.” This one looks scary with its bold typeface and red stamps. He clearly has a contentious relationship with rules.

  I watch him squint at his screen again, struck by how hard it must be to go from trained warrior at the peak of physical prowess to slave of the RP-7. He can’t be more than twenty-five and appears capable of leveling a bear while modeling for a government ad. Yet, it’s paperwork they chose for this paragon of human perfection. Inventories and lights-out enforcement. Because of his injury, I guess? I only care because I have to know how many more of these specific reprimands I’ll find in the remaining piles. Filing. That’s my concern.

  “You should get down to the dining hall for lunch. I don’t want you to be late.” Kaleb’s deep voice consumes the silence. Another strong reaction I have to pretend away as I force my legs to straighten. A swift stretch covers my wince and the effect he has on my bloodstream.

  “What about you?”

  I’m skeptical of his promise that he’ll “grab something soon,” especially when he doesn’t look up from his screen. I move toward the door, and yes, suppress the twinge of disappointment that my supervisor isn’t coming with me.

  Kaleb is rubbing the back of his neck when I return and tosses a greeting with a lazy adjustment in his chair.

  “How was lunch?”

  “Did you eat too?” seems like a safe response.

  His shrug tells me no. His point toward the screen confirms it. “End of the month.”

  I nod as if I understand, but mostly I’m grateful his attention is back on the screen.

  The truth is lunch was a disaster. After several meals in the crowded dining hall, I knew to expect bland food and the sea of strangers that would’ve drowned me if my roommate Vi hadn’t flagged me down. “You, you’re with me,” she’d insisted seconds after our introduction that first day. We hadn’t even exchanged names when she decided I was going to occupy the top bunk of her room. The other two women would have to take the second bedroom. With one decisive finger, she displayed a strength I could admire. And fear, because apparently that blaze also had the power to wither our budding friendship on day two.

  “You’re working for the building supervisor?” Her scowl hits me hard. I don’t understand why her assignment to the greenhouse is less controversial.

  “Yes. I’m going to be his administrative assistant.” Our table quiets. Her tone, my defense, forks stall over nutrient-packed mush. My voice lowers beneath the attention. “It takes a lot to run this place, so I will be helping with paperwork and things like that.”

  Vi’s knuckles whiten around her tray. “Seriously? They’re making you do their work? Those bastards!”

  “It’s not like that. I’m enjoying it. And Lance Corporal Novelli seems great.”

  Her lips press into a hiss. “Great? He’s one of them.”

  “One of what? Y
ou don’t even know him. He gave me his own breakfast this morning.”

  “So what?”

  “So he’s clearly not a monster.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “He’s not.” I hear it in the silence that follows. The weakness of my testimony outside that basement office. Outside the vacuum of open sobs and startling empathy. How do you explain a smile that changes rules?

  “You can’t be gullible, Andie. It’ll burn you.”

  “Yeah, and what good comes from assuming the worst about people?”

  “Wow. I guess you’re not what I thought.” That bombshell drops as she leaves me alone to pick at my food and watch her find a new table. A permanent one by the look of resentment on her face.

  That was lunch.

  As the afternoon wears on, I work in determined silence, glowering at my files as much as reading them this time. Our argument replays in a loop of hypocrisy. Deep down, I know her fear of Kaleb’s uniform isn’t targeted. She can’t possibly know him. I’m the one who made it personal because… I suck in a breath with a quick survey of that lonely coffee cup.

  Shortly before dismissal time, I sense Kaleb’s curiosity and brave a look. The air thins as his eyes meet mine. Crap, I hope his attention doesn’t always have this effect on me.

  “Anything you want to talk about?”

  “What do you mean?” I don’t even believe my lame deflection.

  “I mean, this morning you were Miss Enthusiasm, excited about all things RP-7 and inventory-related. Then you came back from lunch looking like you’d shove those poor reports through a paper shredder.”

  “May I?”

  A mock wince. “You don’t want to know what would happen if I lost one of those pages. What’s going on?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing, just an argument with one of my roommates.”

  “Oh yeah? You just met.”

  “Well, apparently that’s enough time for Vi to make judgments about everyone.”

  He considers my words, his mind seeping from those expressive eyes. I like the fact that he thinks before he speaks.

  “Well, I’m good at judging people too, and in my opinion, if she’s been critical of you, she’s not very good at it.”

  I return his smile. “Thank you, Doctor.” And my shoulders relax with his confident stare.

  “Seriously, though. What you’re going through is normal. You’ve all been introduced to a jarring life change and given no time to adjust. The first few weeks are stressful for everyone. You will feel like you’re at odds, even with yourself at times. Things will settle down, though. Whatever you two fought about will resolve itself once the stress eases and you acclimate to your new lives.”

  It’s a nice speech. I wonder if it’d be the same if he knew our battle was over him. Either way I ask the other, more important question that’s been weighing on me since the moment they forced us off the truck.

  “Kaleb?”

  “What is it?”

  I pull at a thread on my sleeve. “My mother and I were separated when we came here. Do you know where she is?”

  There’s no surprise in his concern. Just a tempered strength that settles and unnerves me at the same time. “She would have been taken to one of the senior buildings. I’m sure she’s fine, but she’d be in a facility more suited for her age range.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He sighs. “Please just trust me that she’s okay. She’s in a building similar to yours, being treated similarly to you. She’d have roommates, a work assignment, curfews, and three meals a day. Just like you.”

  I bite my lip. It’s an answer, I suppose, and more than I’ll probably get from anyone else. Still, there’s a hopelessness in his explanation. A warning that it’s the kind of distance that can’t be measured. I force away the cramp in my stomach. It’s not Kaleb’s fault this war has forced questions like this. I add “the location of my mother” to my list of future facts.

  “I like the tabs. It’s a nice touch.” Kaleb’s smile is a greeting that’s hard to ignore. By the third day, it draws my automatic grin. By the fourth, it invigorates the path to his office. Today he looks tired. Or maybe my anticipation judges too harshly.

  “Thank you. They’re color-coordinated.”

  “I noticed that. Orange for reports, green for correspondence, blue for inventories. Then sub-categorized with a number system.” He smirks at my confusion. He’s supposed to be disorganized, and yet I don’t think I’ve done a single thing to this office that he hasn’t noticed.

  “I’ve been wondering about something. Shouldn’t most of these documents be in your computer system?”

  “They are, but our network is frequently attacked. We keep paper backups in case we lose everything. It’s happened before.”

  I approach with a stack of documents. “What are these handwritten codes? I’ve seen similar ones on almost everything.”

  His gaze shifts before a shrug. “I like to tag them with my own system.”

  I stare at the scrawl. He numbers everything with a complex code he developed, then tosses them on a pile to be buried? He cuts off more of my confusion by engaging his screen, and I concentrate on his desk instead. The metal table overflows with paper and folders, and yet, no food wrappers or empty coffee cups. Writing utensils are coiled in a holder, office supplies tucked in a strict line along the back edge of the desk. There are no personal artifacts. I’ve even watched him wipe his screen with a cloth each night as we prepare to leave. Nothing about his desk makes sense.

  I have a hundred questions, but he hasn’t invited any that don’t include file folders. I pull one from the stack.

  “This entire clump was July bathroom inventories.”

  Green embers stall my breath. Shoot straight to my bloodstream. “Yeah?”

  I nod because I have a point. “The thing is, they were all together when I got to them. I didn’t sort these.”

  His attention is less amused this time. “I guess you saved some time.”

  “Isn’t that strange?”

  “Maybe I was bored one day and started sorting them.”

  “Maybe you weren’t always this disorganized.”

  Our eyes lock again, and I regret my boldness. I’ve come to crave his smile.

  “What are you implying?”

  “Nothing,” I say quickly. It was a lie then, but not now. “I’m sorry. I’ll get back to work.”

  I feel the blaze of his stare as I return to my folders. It’s the strangest thing, this mix of warmth and distance. Like there’s an embrace he’s locked away. Like he knows he can’t be the person he is.

  “Do you have any family?” I ask. The question should have been an improvement over the awkward silence. And yet…

  “No.”

  “None?” I clench my eyes shut. “I mean, sorry. I lost my father when I was younger.”

  “That must have been hard.”

  There’s the hug again, begging for release before he tucks it behind chiseled resolve.

  “It was hard, but we learned to make the best of it. Do you know how many ways you can make toast?”

  A hint of light escapes him this time. It’s breathtaking. “Hmm… I don’t think so. I’m listening.”

  I return his smile. “Okay, well breakfast toast is jam or cinnamon sugar when you can get cinnamon. Lunch toast is cheese, and dinner toast is eggs. For variety you can change the cheese and style of eggs.”

  “What about tomatoes?”

  “What about them?”

  “Just wondering if they go on lunch toast or dinner toast.”

  “Wow, I don’t know.” I tap my chin. “Big tomato fan, huh?”

  “My mother used to grow them.”

  I expect armor to guard this revelation, but instead I get another glimpse of the person I
’m dying to know.

  “They’re not easy to grow in 12,” I say.

  “I’d imagine not. They’re not easy to grow in most regions.”

  “My mom and I tried to grow mint in our apartment window once.”

  “Yeah? How did that go?”

  “Good, until we found out it was catnip.”

  God, his laugh stops time. “Do I want to know how you discovered that?”

  “Tea. Seriously awful tea.”

  He’s still shaking his head when he says, “We should get to work.”

  It’s sweet that he thinks I could focus on filing right now. “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Your family. What happened to them?”

  “Dead.”

  “Oh.”

  “We should work,” he repeats gently.

  “Mom. Mom!” I crush the letter in my hand and race toward the kitchen. My excitement fades. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, sweetheart,” she says through a sad smile. “What’s that you have?”

  “An approval notice. My request went through.”

  Her cheeks lift slightly. “You’ll be transferred to an office tech track?”

  “I start training next week!”

  “That’s great. I’m so happy for you.”

  “For us. I’ll earn twice as much. We won’t have to worry all the time anymore.”

  Her relief is evident in the pressure of her embrace. “You’re going to make a great office tech.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, sweetheart. Your dinner is on the table.”

  I glance over to find one plate. One slice of bread shielded by one fried egg.

  “You’re not eating?”

  “I ate at the school today.”

  “Yeah, but that’s just lunch.”