There is a stack of Reuben sandwiches in the centre of the conservatory table - dense masses of brown bread, thick slices of flaking pink meat, melted cheese, orange dressing, and sauerkraut. I pick out a sliver of the shredded cabbage and chew. Mmm. Tangy.
It's well-known that no animals are kept in New York, except for the occasional pet. All animal products are made by the same system used to create insulin for diabetic patients - genetically modified bacteria in vats. Carbohydrates too, because there isn’t the room for wheat fields. Fruits and vegetables are the only foods grown in soil here.
I take another bite of my microbe-made sandwich. The dressing is creamy and the way the sauerkraut cuts through the richness of the meat is divine. The dark bread, too, is soft and dense and combined with the mild nuttiness of the cheese . . . then again, it could just be that I haven’t eaten in over twenty-four hours.
Next to me, Leo, in a sleek black suit and tie, dismantles his and pokes the cheese with a fork. The dark circles under his eyes have grown since yesterday. He keeps blinking, twitching, touching his pocket where he keeps his lighter. New York City doesn’t make cigarettes, or even nicotine patches.
“Eat,” I whisper under Dad’s pep-talk. I take a second sandwich.
“It’s fake,” he hisses.
“Doesn’t taste like it.” I swallow the corned beef and smile at him. He sighs, replaces the top slice of bread, nibbles, and then his eyes widen and he inhales the next mouthful. He starts eating so fast I’m concerned he’s going to choke or vomit.
“. . . after the initial wave of guests, we can move into the ballroom and mingle. Keep an eye out for any late arrivals and make sure you speak to everyone tonight,” Dad continues. We nod in unison, our mouths full. Maman has eaten her single sandwich and Dad hasn’t eaten anything. He’s been too busy running us through the long list of names of Villagers who will be attending tonight's shindig and who we should absolutely not be intimidated by because, as the family of Colonel Knight, we are untouchable, but, also, best not to annoy them. The ‘not annoy’ part he directs to Leo.
“No problem,” says Leo through a mouth of Swiss cheese and lettuce. Dad bristles and Maman reaches along the table to place her hand over her husband’s. Her red dress clings to her body like a sleeve and matches the scarlet cummerbund of Dad’s evening dress; the gold of his coat buttons and gleaming diving watch complements her earrings. They look perfect together.
“My men have set up a checkpoint at the drive,” Dad continues. “We have someone on all external exits and more patrolling the perimeter. Shade won’t get through.”
The conservatory grows off the side of the kitchen, a semi-circle of glass, with the lush kitchen garden on one side and external doors that open on to the back lawn. On the other side of the closed door a contingent of cooks and kitchen hands prepare canapes for the ballroom servers and arrangements of meat and salads and bread boards for the buffet in the dining room. The youngest members are often sent out of the kitchen to pluck herbs and edible flowers from the rows of vegetation under the slowly setting sun.
Gingko trees flutter in shades of green and yellow at the edges of the property down to the beach. It promises to be a beautiful evening, cloudless and calm, with Shelter Island as lush as Eden in the sapphire bay. I can imagine the sound of the lapping waves, imagine digging my toes into the white-sanded beach, and resting, weekends at a time, in moneyed tranquillity.
Unfortunately, that will have to wait. First, the party.
It’s not even the threat of Shade that is freaking me out – I have no doubt of Dad’s security measures. The Village has never been successfully attacked by Oikos or the rebels.
No, that’s not what is making my heart pound. Give me a cliff-face to scale, a forest to fight through, a taekwondo champion to pummel – anything but small talk with strangers in a tight dress, hoping my makeup isn’t about to melt off and reveal my patchwork face.
“Will they be inside the house?” asks Maman.
“Some,” says Dad.
“Will they be armed?” asks Leo. I take a third sandwich. Leo is slowing down on his second.
“Of course,” says Dad.
“Oh, right, America, duh,” says Leo. “De-escalation is for the weak and all that.”
Dad’s jaw clenches and I quickly point at the back lawn and say, “Look.”
Twelve pairs of New Yorkers dressed in linen come out on to the lawn from the other side of the house. They set the circular tables in a spiral pattern upon the grass. Twelve more follow with stacks of chairs to pull apart and position around the tables, six apiece. A woman in beige flicks and smooths grey tablecloths over the polished surfaces. A man takes little turquoise globes of glass and little black tripods from a box and sets them in the centres of the tables. More New Yorkers come and string these little turquoise globes between the gingko trees.
“What are they?” Leo asks, frowning at the globes.
“Goo,” says Dad.
“. . . Which is?”
“A nutrient gel full of bioluminescent bacteria. The scientists over in the eco sector – Rhodes’ boys – copied the genes from a species of squid and implanted them into the bacteria.”
Leo looks disturbed. “Why?” he says in distaste.
Dad remains calm. “It is the main form of lighting in the neighbourhoods and sectors.”
“What, they’re not allowed lightbulbs over there?”
Dad’s jaw clenches again. “Goo is a more sustainable alternative. You’ll like it, Lys. It’s like Atlantis at night.” He unclenches enough to smile at me.
“Cool,” I say.
“I’ll wrangle some leave and take you all on a tour. How does that sound?”
“Fun.”
“Did you sleep well?”
I nod, glancing at Maman who gives nothing away. “Yeah, the room’s really nice.”
Leo drops the last quarter of his sandwich on his plate and leans back in his chair. “Am I invited? I want to see the military development sector. Their sustainable weapons must be incredible – what are your bullets made of? Hardened squid ink?”
At that Maman interrupts. “Has everyone had enough? The first guests are about to arrive.”
Dad glances at his watch. “She’s right. Time to go, kids.”
“Allons-y.” Maman claps her hands.
I sigh and finish my sandwich.