FLOOR 21

by Jason Luthor

  I kid. Not really.

  One of the guys from Security mentioned that I’d get a trial before I was Reinforced. Uh, thanks, bud. What’s the point of a trial if everyone knows you’re going to be pronounced guilty anyway? Maybe it makes them feel better about what they do. I dunno.

  All I know is that my hands are like slick oil spills, my voice feels like a dehydrated apple, and my eyes are burning as if someone jammed hot peppers in them. It’s been a long time since I just wanted to be at home with Mom and Dad.

  Recording Thirty-Six

  The courtroom is surprisingly impressive. I watch as this guy takes a seat on an elevated chair in front of me. He looks kinda like a wizard, like, he’s got this white beard that drops down to his chest. I almost laugh at his squirrelish eyebrows—then I remember my life’s on the line. That’s enough to make anyone shut up.

  So we don’t really do trials in the Tower. At least, not on any of the other floors. All crimes are handled by Security, and any serious violation gets a person taken to Reinforcement. You can probably imagine that most people try really, really hard not to do anything that’ll get them taken in. Well, most people try not. Apparently I actively do attempt to get into trouble.

  This is the culmination of a life committed to being a misfit, though, I guess. What is it that people say? Curiosity kills the cat?

  Yeah, well, my nine lives are up.

  There’s a row of Security behind me, this wizard guy in a white suit in front of me, and a couple of older, white-clothed men and women on either side of me. The room’s big enough that I’m not claustrophobic, but small enough that I can make out the pores on their skin. It’s like they wanted to give you enough room to breathe but still make you feel intimidated.

  It works.

  They’re talking among themselves as Mr. Big Shot gets himself comfortable in his chair. For the first time, I notice the sign hanging behind him. It’s this big, brass plaque, lined around its edge with a ring of stars. Inside that ring is a series of towers, and written in a language I don’t understand are the words E Pluribus Unum. Well, that’s pretty mysterious.

  One of the Security guys yanks me up out of the chair. He’s way too strong for me to resist, I mean, he practically lifts me up single-handedly. He looks around to everyone and almost shouts, “All rise for his highest honor, Judge Reaver.”

  Everyone gets up to this, bowing their heads for a second as the old guy in the single chair stands up, bowing to both sides of the room. Then everyone sits down all at once. The Security guy holding me up practically throws me back into the chair. Jerk. I scowl at him as he walks away, but notice that the old guy . . . So, he’s the one I should call judge? . . . the judge looks at me, those wrinkled hands of his running through his beard as he talks.

  “We begin this session on Tower Date 515.14.21. May the Builders smile upon us and this honorable court.”

  “Here, here,” everyone else says in agreement. Not me, though. Obviously.

  “Young woman, you stand before this court accused of some of the most egregious violations possible within the Tower. As of this date, you are charged with a Violation of Movement in the Highest Degree, a Violation of Speech in the Highest Degree, and a Violation of Thought in the Highest Degree. To all these charges listed, what say you?”

  I look around, like . . . are you serious? For real? “Obviously, Your Honor, I plead, ‘I don’t know what the hell is going on.’ I don’t know what these charges mean, so don’t I get at least, like, an explanation?”

  “Ignorantia legis neminem excusat,” the court says all at once, and I just look around, like, do these people rehearse this on their free time? I almost want to laugh. They’re actually serious. So what am I supposed to say?

  I shrug. “Guys, give me at least one break. Something, please. I don’t even know what that means. I’ve lived in the Tower my whole life and never heard whatever that weirdo language is that you’re speaking.”

  The judge stares at me and nods. “Your ignorance betrays your ignorance. To translate, those words mean that ‘ignorance of the law excuses no one.’ You know the essential rules of the Tower. Nobody speaks of Angels. Nobody comes to Floor 1 without invitation. Nobody is allowed to think of resisting the Authority in any concerted effort. Behaviors such as these threaten the stability of the Tower.”

  “Yeah, I get that, but even if I haven’t ever been to a trial, I’ve at least seen some movies. Plus, if you’re not going to tell me the rules about how to do this trial thing, then you’re going to just have to put up with some of my ‘ignorance.’ I mean, is it ignorant to ask whether or not you can even prove I did anything?”

  Reaver seems to be getting a real kick out of watching me squirm, and that jerkface smile of his really bothers me as he says, “That is why we first ask you to plea. Yea guilty, or nay not guilty. There can be no presentation of evidence if you have not yet put in your plea. As for being ignorant of the process of our trials, well, I will guide you.”

  “Oh, well, that’s real comforting. So, I’m supposed to plead yea guilty or nay not guilty?” Duh. What else am I going to plea? “Nay not guilty, for reasons.”

  “So be it. The plea has been entered into our records; may they stand until Tower’s end. Prosecutor Davis, if you please.”

  Another man steps up from out of the seated group. He’s definitely younger, but, still, around his late forties. I notice for the first time something funny about these guys. The judge is the only person here wearing what you could call “normal” clothes. It’s a suit, like the kind that even we have on my floor. The material’s just a lot fancier. This guy, though, Prosecutor Davis, he’s wearing this, I dunno, bodysuit. It fits him really close to his skin. You’d be able to see every outline if not for the fact that he has a kinda jacket over his chest, but everything he’s wearing looks like it’s made out of plastic or something. At least the judge’s clothes look like, you know, they’re made out of cotton. So, for the first time since I came to Floor 1, I put something together in my head. I’ve seen something similar to these outfits before.

  You know. Back on Floor 8. The Angel.

  I shake it out of my head. If there’s something I don’t want to think about right now, it’s that. I’ve got to focus. It’s my neck here, you know, so I really can’t afford to be distracted. Anyway, Prosecutor Davis walks over to the wall by the judge and taps at it. A screen pops to life . . . but where did it come from? It’s like an image just starts showing on the wall. There’s no television or anything required.

  “Your honor,” Davis says, “earlier today, this video was taken from the interior of the junction ventilation shaft leading from Floor 2 onto Floor 1.”

  I’m watching this with them, obviously. I think they must have used some sort of robotic camera, but, whatever. This view comes to a stop by a ledge, then extends and leans over the side. It’s staring down the shaft and right onto that fan blade I busted. In my head I’m laughing because I knew that thing would cause me trouble.

  The judge turns to me, and he’s a stone-cold statue. Guess I prefer that to angry. “What say you to this?” he asks.

  “Pretty much that anyone could have done that.”

  “Hm. I agree.” He turns to the lawyer. “Prosecutor Davis, do you have anything more concrete that could identify this young woman as the person responsible for breaking the fan blade?”

  “Of course, Your Honor,” he says as he taps at the wall again. Now there’s a camera looking down the hall on Floor 4. I recognize what we’re looking at, and it’s not great. “As you can see, less than a minute into this video, the young woman enters this Cleanup closet on hallway 4-5. This is in the early morning.” He taps the corner of the screen, and the video starts running. There’s also a timer in the upper right. As the seconds tick by, yeah, you see me heading down the hall. Because I did. My smirk is obvious because it’s funny seeing myself knocking at the door of the closet. I wait for an answer, but I’m also looking all around
to see if Security’s coming. When nobody does, I disappear inside. “The accused proceeded to enter the closet shortly before Reception. She would not leave that closet until close to evening.” The video seems to fly by, and when it resumes, it’s of me coming out. I look like a hot mess, just doused in sweat. The video pauses as I get close to the camera, and you can see my clothes are pretty much sticking like hot glue to me. “As the court can see, she entered the closet and was gone for several hours. During that time the destruction of the fan near Floor 1 occurred. Before the accused was taken into custody, Security investigated the closet in question, only to find that a ventilation access had been tampered with.”

  The judge nods to all this, like he approves. I’m still confused because I can’t figure out if he’s on my side or not. “Damning evidence indeed, Prosecutor Davis. Accused, do you have any response to this?”

  I shake my head. “So, I’m not really sure what response you want me to give. I mean, you’ve got video of me going into a closet. Great. But, uh, where’s the proof I broke the fan? I mean, maybe I’m not the only one running through those vents. Ever thought of that? Maybe there’s, like, a whole society of vent crawlers going up and down the Tower. Think it might be a good idea to look into that first? Because all I’m saying is that even if I did go in the vents, that doesn’t mean anything. You can’t actually prove that it was me, and maybe you should check some of the other floors to see who else was breaking in through the Cleanup closets.” As I’m saying all this, I patently recognize that my argument isn’t what you would call revolutionary, but hey, I’m just trying to buy myself some time here.

  Still, at least the judge kinda seems to agree. He nods and turns to the prosecutor. “Can we know for sure that there aren’t others also prowling through the vents?”

  “No, Your Honor,” he says.

  “So, she may or may not have been the person that made their way onto Floor 1?”

  “With all due respect, she is our most likely suspect.”

  “Still, likeliness doesn’t necessarily mean guilt, does it?”

  At this point I’m thinking, hey, maybe I was wrong. This dude’s not so bad. He’s no monster. He’s actually kinda, you know, defending me.

  Prosecutor Davis turns away for a second as he says, “The evidence, at this point, leans heavily against her. We have yet to find any other ventilation grates that were removed in this fashion.”

  “Prosecutor, what’s the current population of the Tower?”

  Now the judge has this guy squirming, and Davis pulls at his collar a little. “Well, Your Honor, I don’t know off the top of my head. I believe the last estimate was that we have roughly 15,000 people living on the upper and lower levels combined, and only because so much of the Tower has been converted to living space.”

  “I see. So, despite the sheer size of the Tower and the number of people living here, we know for a fact that the accused was the only person that was active in the vents on the day in question?”

  Now Davis backs off as his face lights up like a cherry. “No, Your Honor. As I said, though, she is the most likely suspect.”

  “You may say so. I will be the final judge of that.” He grunts, turning in his chair slightly. “Do you have anything else to present?”

  “Of course, Your Honor.” Davis taps on the wall again. “I’d like to present to the court some recordings of the defendant. These are the accused’s own words, in her own voice.”

  My curiosity doesn’t exist for more than a split second before my teeth clench together like an impenetrable wall. It’s painful to hear as my voice begins to pour out of the speakers. “But I see someone there, dressed in all white. They’ve got their back to me, and it looks like they’re messing with something in the wall . . . Whatever she’s wearing is skintight, but the worst part is when she suddenly looks up from whatever she’s doing. She’s noticed me. Then she turns.”

  Davis steps away from the judge and over to me. “Would you like me to play for the court your other words?”

  This guy. My teeth dig into my lip for a second before I say to him, “Go ahead, jerk.”

  He just gives me that smug look of his. “If the court would allow me to play some of your other words from this recording?”

  Judge Reaver nods pretty quickly to the offer. He wants to hear this, even if I don’t want to. “Please proceed. It’s in the best interest of this case, after all.”

  Davis’ finger taps at the screen and I cringe as I hear my voice playing again. I remember pretty clearly saying the words that start coming out of the speakers: “I can’t deal with Angels. I can’t. I can’t.”

  That’s all that plays but the prosecutor smiles like a dumb dog as he talks. “Well, it seems that you are, clearly, guilty of talking about Angels. I believe the entire court can determine that on the basis of your own recording. Or are you going to argue that it’s someone else’s voice we are listening to?”

  I’m not sure what bothers me more, that he played my recording back, or that he had my recording in the first place. How were they spying on me? “Okay now, look,” I say. “Sure, I said those things. But I wasn’t talking to anyone. I was recording myself. Those were just my own thoughts. When I was recording it, I thought that I’d go crazy if I didn’t, you know, try and say what I was thinking. I know what happens to people when they talk about Angels. I only recorded what happened because if I didn’t, I was going to end up telling someone. If you’d just seriously stop and think about it, you’d see I was trying to follow the Tower rules.”

  Judge Reaver interrupts me. “Young lady, the rule against speaking of Angels is not a rule against speaking of them to others. The rule against speaking of Angels is a rule against speaking of them, period. There is to be no talk of Angels, at all, in any capacity.”

  “Well, how was I supposed to know that?”

  “Ignorantia legis neminem excusat,” these idiots say all at once again, but I just don’t care anymore.

  When I talk I wrestle with my own voice just so I don’t start shouting. “Are all of you really going to pretend as if everything’s peaches down in the Tower? I mean, you honestly think that I’m the only person getting curious about what happens here on Floor 1, or why we can’t go below Floor 21? Do you think I’m the only person that’s thought about sneaking around to see why we can’t get out of this Tower?”

  Reaver’s eyes carve into mine. “Who else, then?”

  I don’t really get the question at first. “What’s that?”

  “Who else is involved with traveling in the vents? Or with going beyond the bounds of the lower floors?”

  “That . . . you’re missing the point. There’s lots of smart people in the Tower, so I can’t be the only person that’s curious. You know that’s true, I mean, there are people talking about Angels out loud to each other. We all know that. There was a guy on Floor 7 that got taken in by Security for discussing it. He wasn’t even trying to hide it, either; he was just going on and on about it. At least I tried to keep it quiet, and so, yeah, I’d like to think I’m not just another dumb teen just trying to play snitch. What do I have to get out of it?”

  For a second he stares at me through these dark eyes. They’re like bits of coal stuffed into a shaggy white carpet. Nobody says anything while they wait on the judge, and then, finally, he strokes his beard. He does this just one time and then gives me a creepy laugh. “There is no excuse for anyone. Anyone. However, there may be some . . . leniency. Of course, leniency also rests on what other evidence might be presented against you.” He looks back at the prosecutor. “Continue.”

  Davis bows a little. What a suck-up. “Yes, Your Honor,” he says as his cocky trot takes him back to the wall. “The court has already established that the accused talked openly about Angels, and it is highly likely that she used the vents to make her way to Floor 1. If nothing else, she must have used alternative means of getting around to some other parts of the Tower. There would be no other purpose or wa
y of vanishing into a Cleanup closet for hours. Avoiding Security, who nobly battle daily against threats to this Tower, is clearly an act that should be punishable. We know, though, that the worst crime against the Tower is to plot against the Tower. Every member of this respectable court knows that Violation of Thought is the direst criminal charge in our laws. It is so deep a violation because it is defined by the worst type of crime: thinking of resisting the order of the Tower.

  “We know the reason our laws are in place. Without them we would devolve into chaos. The Creep would consume what remains of us as a people. There’s no argument to this. All of us, every single one, are aware of the Hellverses. If we resist the natural order of our society, if we introduce chance into our system, we will lose the war to stem the Creep from inching upon our homes and lives. The only way to survive is to obey the rules of the Tower, as our parents did, and their parents did, and so on for centuries. Anything less, and the Hellverses will come true. As one of the most famous of them says, we will stumble into the Darkness. Isn’t that the key? That if we break the rules we have followed so long that we will return, downward, into the depths of the Tower? Isn’t that the very reason that our people are forbidden to plunge any deeper than Floor 21? Because if we do, ‘the light of the tower will be snuffed out.’ We remain apart from the Darkness by following the rules that the Builders laid out for us. If we break even one, we risk returning to it. And so, the greatest violation that one can commit is to openly risk rebellion. However, followed closely behind that violation is the crime of thinking of rebelling. Why? Because thought leads to action.”

  My fingers dig into the sides of my chair. “What the hell sort of rule is that? You can’t think about questioning Tower Authority or doing better than living in this Tower? This is seriously all we’re ever supposed to know about ourselves? So what, we’re just born on our floors and get told what we’re going to do our whole lives, because that’s what our parents did and that’s what we’re always supposed to do?”