Page 4 of A Better World

“I don’t get it. You hate company towns. You said they’re for uptight assholes,” Josie said.

“That’s because I didn’t think we’d ever get invited into one,” she answered. “Now, I think they’re great.”

“What about my team? Our apartment? Why can’tyouget a job, Mom?”

“I tried,” Linda explained. “Most of what I do’s been automated. The work’s either in free clinics, where the pay isn’t enough to support our rent, or with really rich people as a private doctor, and I don’t have those connections, Josie.”

Josie spent the afternoon kicking a soccer ball against the brick-walled back of their building. Feverish—that allergic cough had bloomed into a bronchial infection—Linda cleaned the kitchen, mopped the floor, disregarded the bills piled on the counter. She made a snack for Hip, who had food anxiety bordering on anorexia. He liked lentils and he liked tomatoes and sometimes he picked at brown rice. She left the plate on the table as a hopeful temptation. God bless this kid, he ate every bite, then told her to sit down—take a load off, Mom—just to make things easy.

Hours later, Josie returned through the back door, the bib underher armpits and around her neck sweat-drenched. Russ finished his research. Hip came out from his room. Having arrived from separate places, they all four sat at the supper table. In poker terms, this job, this potential move, was a Big Blind. They had no idea what was coming. But they were rational people. They understood that this chance was their best option.

They caught the BetterWorld private jet at the airfield in Ronkonkoma, then zoomed over the congested tri-state with its patched, sea-broken roads, its kudzu and mold creep. They flew over the Great Lakes, and then the plains of Iowa. The closer they got to Plymouth Valley, the more the country flattened and spread like pulled dough. The land turned brown. Houses were dilapidated. Rusted tractors and combines perched silently along desiccated grain fields.

“Jesus, it’sOzymandiasout here. I had no idea it was so bad. How are they even growing corn and wheat?” Linda asked.

“Wait,” Russell told her.

From a plane’s-eye view, they passed Plymouth Valley’s border wall. A lush oasis emerged. The Omnium River wasn’t the dirty Hudson of her childhood. It was blue. As they descended, she saw solar-powered cars cruising paved roads. Hedges stemmed long driveways that bloomed into outsized houses, all lined in neat rows.

“They’ve got a pipeline to the big aquifer. The Ogallala,” he said. “The corn farms were about ten years from depleting the whole thing, so BetterWorld bought them out. I get the argument against company towns like this, but it’s not really resource-hoarding if everybody else is resource-destroying.”

Upon landing, Russell kissed her quickly, waved to the kids, and joined the search committee to convene with the BetterWorld board of directors for a daylong gauntlet. Zach Greene, one of Jack Lust’s many assistants, introduced himself.

“Color me lucky!” Zach said. Like Jack, he put weight on every syllable, enunciating all his letters. They all talked like this, she would later learn. It was the PV accent. “I’m PV’s resident tour guide and I getto spend the day with you fine people. Whatever you do, please do not think of this like an interview. It’s just for fun!” Then he did prayer hands at them, his fingers bisecting his curlicued goatee. “Please have fun!”

Fun?

Like the one Jack had worn, Zach’s suit was skintight. But instead of black, it was bright yellow and pink, and styled with zippers like a tracksuit. Unlike the Omnium fabric back home, which people tended to toss after a season, his was lined and double stitched.

As they rode in the back of Zach’s giant white SUV, past the airfield and south along the self-sustaining farm and the field of wind turbines, everything seemed extra crisp, like kids’ drawings that have been outlined in metallic.

They passed a park with a wide swath of green ahead of a playground. Colorful maypoles lined its roadside. Grosgrain ribbons hung down, their edges grazing the ground. These encompassed every color, including black.

“You’ve heard of Hollow?” Zach asked.

“A little,” Linda said. The air was so clean that she could feel the swelling in her bronchi and sinuses go down: a literal loosening in her chest and back, a squeak under each cheekbone. It felt so good. “It’s the culture here? There’s not much online.”

“There wouldn’t be anything. You’ve probably already figured out we keep our business private. This place is the repository for BetterWorld R&D. Lots of corporate secrets. We’re a satellite no-fly zone, and we store everything important in analog,” Zach said. “But you have it right. Hollow’s a set of customs based on gratitude. Some outsiders think it’s a religion, but it’s not. We’re secular. We just enjoy tradition. We’ve got four local festivals. You just missed Beltane—that’s what those maypoles are about. It’s terrific fun. Lots of competitions. Lots of winners and losers. The winner becomes the annual Beltane King. It’s been Keith Parson every year for the last fifteen. The man’s a legend. So strong! If you move here, you’ll get to see his crowning in September.”

“I’d love that. We all would, wouldn’t we?”

“Yes!” both kids gamely agreed.

The ride was smooth—no potholes, no jerking electric power from chewed-up converters. When they got to the residential section, she noticed dog shelters punctuating the front lawns of the large, freestanding houses. These had low mansard roofs over rectangular bases.

“Do many people here have pets?” she asked.

“Oh, no,” Zach said. “With the caladrius, we discourage that. They’re lazy guys, but in the spring they tend to hunt in packs. Domesticated animals don’t fare well here.”

“The caladrius is your mascot, right?”

They stopped at a flat, grid-shaped intersection with freshly painted meridian lines. “There’s one!”

Out from one of the shelters, a funny-looking creature appeared. Its plumage fanned like that of a peacock, only its feathers were all white, its neck was stubby, and it had carnivore teeth. It reminded her of a squat vulture.

“They’re real?” Josie asked with an amused laugh. “I heard about them, but I wasn’t sure. But I also didn’t believe in narwhals until someone showed me a picture. I’m still not sure I believe in narwhals.”

“You’re narwhal agnostic,” Hip said.

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