“All clear through Ninth Street,” the walkie in her hand crackled.
We did this for a few more blocks. Mr. Y tarzanned over to the next building and gave us a shout out; then we crept around the block. It didn’t really take long. The old man was fast. However, I couldn’t bear it anymore. At the next block, I bolted out of the car, Winter on my heels. Jao honked in exasperation—or to warn Mr. Yamada. Winter and I ran the remaining blocks, hugging the shadows, until we got to the old Twinkie Factory.
It didn’t matter.
We were too late. Everyone was gone. I tried Velvet again. I got the same weird not-available message that I’d gotten when I called Micah weeks ago. This was A Very Bad Thing. Catastrophic even.
Mr. Yamada caught up to us, but he didn’t say a word. He just laid a hand on Winter’s shoulder and pointed us into the warehouse. Jao followed.
Inside, the lights were flashing, the instruments were still on stage, and the floor was littered with plastic cups, purses. Tables were overturned.
“I wonder if anybody got out before Green Zone showed up?” Winter broke the eerie silence.
Then a noise came from under the stage. Jao went to investigate and pulled a curly-headed kid out from under the boards. A girl crawled out after him. She looked remarkably like the Nora girl from that newscast.
“Micah!” Winter ran to him. They tackle-hugged each other, exchanged a few words, and then he walked over to me. Winter and Nora, I couldn’t help noticing, stared awkwardly at each other for a few seconds before following him.
“Velvet said to give you this.” Micah handed me a black disk. “It ran for at least an hour, whatever that means.”
He explained that when the cops came, Velvet shoved the disk into his hands and pushed him and Nora under the stage. “TFC can’t know what we’ve done yet,” she’d said. When he protested, she told him that he and Nora didn’t need another stint in Detention.
Micah held out his hand and Nora took it. “Velvet said it was her turn this time,” Micah whispered.
The universe quivered.
I tried calling Velvet again. Same damn message.
I sank to the curb outside the warehouse and buried my face in my hands.
I never should have involved her in this.
“She chose to help,” Winter whispered as she settled on the curb next to me.
“Dude, Velvet doesn’t do anything that Velvet doesn’t want to do,” Micah said from behind us.
“Book of Velvet,” he and Winter said in unison.
It didn’t make me feel any better.
46.0
THE REVOLUTION WILL BE CO-OPTED
WINTER
Mom chopped chicken for the yakitori while Dad and Grandfather watched the news. It had taken a whole lot of explaining (as well as tears, anger, and apologies) to bring everyone to this happy domestic scene. But here we were, even if we were all holding our breaths.
I handed Mom more bamboo skewers.
“Win-chan!” Grandfather yelled from the living room.
The skewers hit the floor. This is it, I thought. Velvet and Meme Girl had cracked before being brain-bleached. And now Green Zone was coming for us, despite all of Uncle Ichiro’s added security.
The hummingbirds flittered.
Grandfather leaned into the kitchen, his mobile pressed to his ear. “Turn on the news now,” he said to the person on the other end. To me, he said, “You’ve got to see this.”
Mom and I followed him back into the living room.
Meme Girl was on the news. She sat behind the desk in her shiny suit, with her polished hair and a plastered-on smile, just like the old days.
News guy introduced her. “Coming up next: Action News welcomes back our own Rebecca Starr with a new show, The MemeCast.”
No way.
Rebecca smiled and jumped right into her ’cast.
“Good evening, citizens. I know you’re surprised to see me back. As some of you may know I was doing an ‘independent’ ’cast. Evidently my ratings were exceptional among the youth demographic.
“Meme Girl, you may be thinking, why would they want you back considering what you’ve been saying? Well, citizens, a wise man once said: sometimes the corporations will sell you the rope to hang them with—if it makes them enough money.
“So let’s you and I be that rope.”
Her smile said trust me, but her eyes said don’t.
“I Will Buy You a New Life” by the Multinationals played as she cut to a commercial.
47.0
VOTE MIGNON
AIDEN
The doorbell rang, and I pulled myself out of my depressed coach-potato stupor long enough to answer it. Security be damned. A blonde girl in a plaid skirt, sneakers, and a Vote Mignon for Congress T-shirt stood there smiling at me.
I stared at her slack-jawed.
“Hi, I’m Anne Marie and I’d like to talk to you about voting for a great candidate.”
It was her. “Velvet?”
She looked startled. “Do I know you?”
“It’s me, Aiden,” I said lamely. I knew there wasn’t any point. I’d been erased from her mind, and they’d probably planted some memory about being a politically active prep.
Then I noticed the TFC endorsement on her T-shirt. Mignon was the guy who wanted to make the rest of the country as “safe” as Hamilton. This was the guy behind the mandatory ID program—and the chip. And here was Velvet supporting him.
And she didn’t remember me. At all.
48.0
NO ELEGANT SOLUTION
AIDEN
In my dreams, I saw Velvet being dragged away by the black vans. I heard her cry for help. I saw Velvet’s blank stare at my door. I saw Meme Girl bought and sold on the big screen.
And it was all my fault.
So here I stood staring at my reflection in this glossy door at TFC #23 in downtown Hamilton in the US of A.
I hardly recognized myself, but that wasn’t so terrible.
My hand was on the door handle, ready.
I could forget the whole thing.
The universe was silent.
No, I can’t do that to Velvet. Or Winter. Or Dad. Or me.
I stuffed my hand back into my pocket and headed toward work.
Besides, Winter and I had a plan.
It involved a certain transmitter (in a certain Scooby Doo lunch box), an underground network, a few strategically placed reflectors, and a radio tower or two.
It was a kludge, but sometimes there’s no elegant solution.
12:43 AM. SOMEWHERE IN THE CITY OF HAMILTON…
Meme Boy, here. You’re listening to the real MemeCast, citizens. Version 2.0. A few friends may be helping out with ’casts from time to time. Just think of us as little voices (inside your head or out) trying to tell you something you may not want to hear.
But don’t trust us, either. There’s a plague of memes out there, all trying to get inside your head.
The only voice you should really listen to is your own.
Enough of the cryptic stuff. For now.
This next song is for a girl I used to know. She’s forgotten me, and more important, she’s forgotten herself. But she hasn’t been forgotten. This is from a new band that calls itself the Minor Bird. Here’s “Anything Girl.”
The Forgetting Curve (Memento Nora) Page 13