Chapter 22 Hearts at the Divide
Chapter twenty-two
Hearts at the Divide
Clover Hollow, the next day
Nathan’s flat-bottom boat, stacked with crates of berries, sacks of wool, and wheels of cheese, nosed against the dock northwest of Clover Hollow.
The dock attendant signed the manifest, assuring him that the payment in exchange goods—and a few credits per family—would be ready to load when he returned.
He boarded the trolley, one of the few that rattled daily between the docks and inner city.
Nathan took an empty seat, nerves chasing each other through his gut.
He’d worn his best red-checked flannel shirt, untorn jeans, clean boots, and a splash of aftershave, determined to win Soren over to his plan.
As the electric car rumbled along its tracks, past thickets of trees and languid meadows, the metropolis of Clover Hollow spread at the foot of Core Mountain, a hive of concrete and glass, its angular blocks stacked with intent.
The city was laid out in a perfect grid of neighborhoods, each with a school, unity supply house, and Unity House of Worship, factories confined to their zones, research labs to theirs, and centers of commerce nearest the Grand Mall and Unity Hall.
Trolleys glided along the banks of Sinking Creek, while peace officers in yellow jumpsuits and black Kevlar vests patrolled on hovercycles, like giant hornets.
Soren had told him about the pre-war vehicles recharged each night by the mountain’s power source.
Cameras tracked every corner, and Ministry banners fluttered from light poles, their mottos glaring down on citizens in identical gray coats and sharp haircuts.
Even shrubs were trimmed to exact angles.
Every surface scrubbed to gleam. Horses and mules, regulated to outskirt stables.
Even dogs marched leashed, their waste swiftly scooped.
Posted signs read, “This month’s power hours: 6 to 9 a.m., 6 to 11 p.m. Trollies run from 7 a.m. to 9 p.m. 11 p.m. curfew in effect.
” Order reigned—clean lines, watchful eyes, logic as law, joy rationed.
Nathan hopped off the trolley, met by a wash of disapproving glares and practiced indifference.
He smiled, glad to stand out in his bright clothes and unruly hair.
But as he shifted through paved walkways of indistinguishable five-story buildings into the arts district, signs of life sprang up.
A shock of orange in a teen’s mohawk, sunlight shattered through stained glass on a shop window, blooming flowers in place of box hedges, a girl with long, red hair pulled into a high ponytail—even the occasional smile.
Arriving at a building marked with a green shamrock, Nathan descended a few steps, entered through a basement door, and left the clack of the streetcars and hum of turbines behind.
Watercolors, oils, and ink sketches crowded the room’s walls—riotous, overwhelming at a glance.
A young woman on a stool strummed a guitar while other patrons reclined on cushions, reading books from one of many shelves.
A whiff of fresh paint and the clink of mismatched mugs felt like freedom’s breath kissing his senses.
Hernando’s Hideaway was a Bohemian salon, a place where members gathered to talk about music, art, and literature away from the prying eyes of the Ministry.
The proprietor also served a selection of popular beverages.
Since the Oracle’s message constituted an official holiday, students and young workers alike had gathered beforehand.
Hernando’s, frequently the target of raids, had never been proven subversive, nor did they distribute unauthorized pamphlets.
But as a home-away-from-home for nonconformists, it fell under constant scrutiny.
A good-looking young man, shorter and slighter than Nathan, with a boyish face, slick-backed black hair, and soulful brown eyes, slipped through the door.
His lips curved into a brilliant smile, and he hurried to jump onto the stool beside Nathan at the polished oak bar. “You made it,” he breathed in relief.
“Of course I did,” Nathan replied, joy pumping in his chest like pistons. He brushed Soren’s arm—inconspicuously—and returned a bright smile.
Nathan knew nothing about art, music, or poetry except what Soren had shared with him, but he liked the people who hung out here.
They were oddballs, like him and Soren. Still, he remained vigilant.
Any face here could belong to a Cult spy.
Appalachia recognized only one religion.
Dissenters were treated as if they had a mental illness and, if found out, were sent for reprogramming.
“Hey, Hernando,” Soren said, waving down the proprietor. Even Hernando’s subtle mustache was frowned upon in the city. Many farmers in the commune wore full beards. Nathan realized that city folk, strangled by rules, had fewer freedoms than farmers.
“Hi there, Soren,” the tan man, a decade their elder, greeted. “Nathan, right?”
“That’s right,” he answered pleasantly. “I’ll have a peach fizzy on ice.” Glancing at Soren, he added, “Ice only comes in winter back home.” Harmony Ridge was without the luxury of electricity.
“Hit me with a Glow,” he said, his grin spreading wider, lighting his eyes with mischief.
“You know you can’t use a rationing coupon for those,” Hernando huffed, leaning meaty arms on the bar. “Unity credits only.”
“No problem,” he answered and slapped down the credit.
Nathan frowned. “That glow looks wrong. I don’t like you drinking those. What if it makes you sick?”
“No chance,” Hernando dismissed as he prepared the drinks. “The Ministry would never allow them if they were harmful. Just a dusting of radioactive mushrooms to give them the glow. Honey, mint, lemon balm, and carbonated water.”
“Give me beer any day,” Nathan muttered.
“Not before five o’clock,” Hernando reminded him, and set the two drinks on the counter. “I’m not getting fined.”
“Thanks,” Soren said, and sipped his frothy, green Glow. Turning to Nathan, he murmured, “It’s great to see you. We won’t stay here long. So much to do before the speech. And …” He took a bracing sip of his drink. “We need to talk.”
“That’s for sure,” Nathan agreed. “I missed you. I’m tired of missing you. How’s school?”
“Good. I’ve achieved the second-highest GPA in my class for the first two-year science program at The Institute. Bellamy Trask, that dustlink,” he grumbled. “The bane of my existence.”
Nathan laughed, patting Soren’s thigh, his hand lingering an instant longer than casual. Soren wore the same gray wool-blend trousers and charcoal Nehru jacket as most Clover Hollow residents; he just made them look sharp. His fingers sliding away, he offered, “Steel sharpens steel.”
“I guess.” Soren sighed. “Anyway, we’re supposed to choose which specialty field we want—not that we’re guaranteed to get it, but at least we can bubble it in on the form.
I’m waffling between Data Harmonization, like my father, and Developmental Coding, a research field.
You know I torture myself over decisions. ”
“Pick the one you want, not just what your dad tells you,” Nathan advised. He worried Soren might develop a stomach ulcer because of the pressure he was under. He peered at him cautiously. “Did you talk to him about wanting to pursue art?”
“Yeah.” Soren’s expression drooped. “You know it won’t happen. But I can still paint recreationally for my enjoyment.” He threw back the rest of his drink. “Let’s get out of here. Only a few hours before the main event.”
Polishing off his drink, Nathan slid from his stool and touched his palm to the small of Soren’s back.
As soon as he noticed, he dropped his hand.
Back on the street, they zigzagged through a few blocks to the entertainment district, with its theaters, music halls, and sports arenas.
Here could also be found hidden getaways, secret rendezvous rooms, devoid of cameras and prying eyes.
Not as pleasant as a barn, meadow, or pecan grove—but private.
They entered a gaming establishment—dominion, chess, mahjong, not games of chance.
Soren presented his card to the manager, and they were shown to a staircase and handed a key.
Nathan’s body thrummed with expectation.
He forgot about the monochrome colors, the cold edifices, the tang of ozone and metal, Mozart leaking from the black boxes on every corner pole.
For the next few hours, there’d be no looming marriages, no weighty decisions, no foreboding threat from the Core Cult.
It was just Nathan and Soren, carving out a moment of bliss, clutching at a lifetime’s worth of pleasure—while tomorrow dangled by a thread.
Lying in the by-the-hour room, bathed in afterglow, Soren’s body still tingled. He hadn’t felt this relaxed in weeks. Nathan’s musky scent of sweat and woodsmoke clung to Soren, assuring him he was loved. He’d do whatever it took to hold on to this feeling of connection.
Soren rolled toward Nathan, who lay on his back, sheet barely draping his lower half, a blissful smile on his lips, closed eyes aimed at the ceiling. It thrilled him to know he’d carved that look onto Nathan’s weathered face. A stirring within told him this was the time to share his plan.
“Nathan, I have an idea,” he began. “Good news, really. I think it’s the solution to our problem.”
Ecstasy fizzled, sparks in his chest sharpening into worry. Nathan opened his eyes, met Soren’s gaze. A work-rough hand caressed his smooth face.
“I like your ideas,” he answered dreamily. “There’s something I want to talk to you about too, but you go first.”