by H. A. Swain
“Where do people get all this kudzu?”
“The Hinterlands, I think. At least that’s what I hear.”
“God.” I shake my head and nearly laugh. “It’s pathetic how much I don’t know.”
“You’ll learn,” he says.
* * *
I pull into the parking lot next to the dumpy building. “You think it’s safe?”
Basil looks up and down the empty road. “I don’t think anybody’s following us if that’s what you mean.”
“What makes you think we can get a pass here?”
“Anything’s for sale out here if you have enough money,” he says as he dismounts the bike.
* * *
“Well good morning! You two sure are early birds today,” a woman chirps at us. She’s tall and concave like a human question mark hunched over the counter across from a large screen playing the end of a game show where people compete against virtual versions of themselves for better jobs. She stubs out what I assume is her kudzar and straightens herself up as we approach. “What can I get for you?”
The smoke from her kudzar makes me dizzy. I walk to the back where the air is more clear and check out the racks of kudzar packs next to a darkened doorway, while Basils heads up to the counter.
“I want to get through the toll,” Basil tells her. “But my mom must have forgotten to replenish our autopay. Can I buy a pass from you?”
She narrows her eyes at him. Her skin has a grayish pallor like the ashes in the little bowl by her elbow. “You see that sign out there?” she points to BIOFUEL AND KUDZARS blinking through the dawn. “Doesn’t say anything about toll passes, now does it?”
Basil shoves his good hand in his pocket and pulls out a few bills. “Yeah, I just thought maybe…” He lays the bills on the counter.
On the screen, a newsfeed starts up. The sound is low, but I see a reporter surrounded by people standing in front of the prison where the Analogs are being held. “Hey look,” I say. Basil turns. “Do you mind if we listen?”
The woman shrugs and commands the sound up.
“… hundreds of people outside the South Loop prison where Ana Gignot and her followers are being held,” the reporter says. The camera pans over men and women, old and young, many with signs that say, FREE ANA! More people stream down the road toward the gathering crowd. I beam at Basil, amazed by what I’m seeing, but his face betrays no emotion. Behind me, a short barrel-chested man lurks in the darkened doorway.
The woman leans against the counter again and studies Basil over folded fingers. “Why you going in the Loops?” she asks. “You joining that protest?”
“Don’t know anything about it,” says Basil. Then he peers at her. “Do you?”
“I know they’re a bunch of idiots,” she says, shaking her head. “Gonna get themselves arrested.”
Basil fumes silently, then he takes out another bill. “Do you have a pass or not?”
From where I’m standing, I can see that the man in the doorway is holding an old clunky Gizmo. The blue light from the screen illuminates his hardened face so that he looks as if he’s made of stone.
“What happened to your arm?” the woman asks Basil.
Without missing a beat, he says, “Spilled my bike and tore it up on some gravel.”
“Looks bad,” she says. “You need a doctor?”
“That’s where we’re headed right now,” I say. “So we really need to get through the toll.”
“An Inner Loop doc, huh?” The woman straightens up. “You got insurance?”
“Of course…” I start to say, but Basil flashes me a look.
“Can you help us or not?” Basil asks, his patience wearing thin.
“For the right price.” The woman lights up another kudzar, lazily waving the match until the fire goes out. “Pico? You come out here a minute?” The man steps through the door and I shrink back.
Basil looks wary. “How much?” he asks the man.
Instead of answering, the man says, “That your bike out there?” Then he crosses his arms. He’s still holding the Gizmo but now the screen faces me. I see a picture of a motorbike with the word STOLEN stamped across the bottom in red.
My chest tightens and my stomach drops. “Um, Basil.” I hurry toward the front. “Let’s just get the pass and go, okay?”
“What kind of bike is it?” the man asks, jerking his thumb toward the front window. In the parking lot, a beat-up yellow car, a lot like the transport we took last night, pulls up to a fuel pump next to the bike.
“Let’s just go, okay,” I hiss, bullying Basil backward.
“Where’d you get that bike, huh?” Pico walks toward the door. Through the glass, I see that someone has gotten out of the car and tethered it to a pump with a long hose.
“What are you on to, Pico?” the woman asks.
He hands her his ancient Gizmo. “Look-a here, Iris. Somebody stole this bike. Insurance company sent out a bulletin.”
The woman rummages through a drawer beneath the counter and pulls out a pair of cock-eyed glasses. “There a reward?”
Basil squeezes my arm tightly and we shuffle toward the exit. “That’s my bike,” he says. “Had it since I was fifteen.”
“You got your ownership certificate?” She looks at us over the top of her glasses with a little smirk playing at the corners of her mouth.
“We don’t have to show you anything,” says Basil.
The man steps around the big metal display racks of kudzars and blocks the door. His face cracks into a crooked smile, like a fault line after an earthquake. “You hear that, Iris. He thinks we got no jurisdiction.”
The woman guffaws then coughs and wheezes. “Oh dear, did we forget to add our side business to our sign?” Iris feigns regret. “It should read, ‘Biofuel, Kudzars, Toll Passes, and Insurance Investigators.’”
“’Less you got a certificate of ownership from an insurance company, you’ll have to stay here while we make a call,” Pico says.
Basil gets close to the man’s face. They’re about the same height, but Pico is twice as wide, all bulk and muscle. “You can’t hold us here against our will.”
“Sure I can,” Pico says without the slightest flinch. “That bike matches the description on the insurance company bulletin, and you can’t prove you own it. Then as a private security agent for the insurance company, I got jurisdiction to detain you until the proper authorities arrive to sort things out.”
Basil rests one fist on his hip and keeps his gaze locked on Pico. “How much they pay you?”
At this, Pico chuckles deep in his throat. “Well, there’s my commission from the insurance company if that turns out to be the stolen bike. And you’ll probably need a lawyer. Then you’re going to have to pay the rightful owner for loss of property if you’re found guilty. If you can cover all that, then we might be able to work something out.”
Basil’s head droops forward.
Outside I see the person remove the hose from her car then walk toward the door, pulling bills out of her pocket. As she nears the building, I recognize her shock of choppy red hair. “Basil!” I say, pointing. Both he and Pico look through the window, and I see a chance. I drop my shoulder and run with all my might straight at Pico. I catch him by surprise and plow him back into the kudzar rack. He stumbles and flails into the collapsing shelves as I scream, “Run!”
Pico reaches up and catches a hold of my wrist. Basil charges up beside me and wallops him square across the jaw with his good arm, but Pico doesn’t let go of me so I squirm around and kick him between the legs as hard as I can. He goes down like a fallen statue, and Basil and I flee out the door while Iris shrieks behind us.
“Betta! Betta!” Basil yells at the red-haired woman who turns and runs when we come screaming out at her. “Betta, help!”
I run after him as fast as I can but I step into a rut in the concrete and feel my ankle twist, right then left, sending a searing pain up my leg as I fall on all fours. Tiny pebbles of concre
te lodge into my hands and knees. “She doesn’t recognize us!” I scream at Basil as I struggle to get up, but my leg isn’t working right.
Iris lurches outside, shouting obscenities at us.
“Betta, it’s Eli!” Basil shouts and lunges for the back door of the car. He catches hold of the handle with his good arm just as Betta puts the car in gear. “Arol’s brother, Eli!” Basil shouts as the car half drags him, but then it skids to a stop. Basil swings the door open and runs back for me. He scoops me up under the armpits and stuffs me in the backseat then slams the door behind us, screeching, “Go!” just as Pico limps into the parking lot. Betta jams the car in gear, leaving Pico and Iris howling and shaking their fists in the dust cloud we’ve left behind.
* * *
“How do you know my name?” Betta yells over the roar of the engine. “How do you know Arol and Eli?”
I writhe on the seat, clutching my ankle, which has quickly begun to swell. In the rearview mirror I see the trepidation in her eyes, but there’s something else there, too. Something like hope.
Basil leans forward. “You picked us up outside the Inner Loop EA and dropped us at the Spalon last night. You gave us a bottle of Synthamil.” He reaches in his pocket. “We used this to get us through the toll. Then I tried to pay you, but you wouldn’t take it.”
Betta’s face softens. She looks over her shoulder. “But how…”
“We altered our appearance,” he explains. “At the Spalon.”
“I saw you on the news,” she says. “But I didn’t tell nobody. That the girl?”
“That’s her.” He motions to me, then he notices that I’m in pain. “You okay? Did you break it?”
I try to breath and stay calm but tears sting my eyes. “Probably just a sprain,” I say, but I think I might pass out because it hurts so bad.
“Loosen your shoe and put your leg up.” He gently lifts my foot onto the seat in front of me and tugs at the laces, which helps immediately.
In the front, Betta’s shoulders shake and she begins to wheeze. “Holy hell!” she says and I realize that she’s laughing. “You little bugger! You’re really sticking it to those One World jerks, aren’t you?”
Basil looks down, half embarrassed and half proud. “I didn’t think it would get this crazy so fast,” he admits.
She glances at me. “He really kidnap you?”
“No!” I say, breathing easier as the pain begins to subside. “Not at all. I wanted to go with him.”
She nods, not needing any other explanation. “Yeah, that didn’t make much sense the way you two were snuggling up in my backseat last night,” she teases, and my cheeks grow warm.
Basil looks at me and grins.
“Eli, huh?” I say, as the waves of pain recede.
He laughs. “Not such an exciting name.”
“It’s a fine name,” I tell him and pat his thigh. “But I think I’ll just call you Basil.”
“Ana gave me that name.”
“Then it’s good enough for me.”
He leans toward Betta again. “We need to go back to the Inner Loops.”
I look at him. “We do?”
“Now you need a doctor,” he says, nodding at my throbbing ankle.
“No, you do,” I say.
“You two are a sorry lot, aren’t you?” Betta says with a sad laugh. “I’d like to help you, you know I would, but I can’t.”
We look at each other. “Why?”
“Haven’t you seen a screen lately?” she asks.
“Only for a minute in the fuel stop,” he tells her. “We don’t have Gizmos.” Without thinking, I put my hand on my pouch to make sure my sleeping device is still cloaked and tucked away. It is.
“The tollgates aren’t working,” Betta tells us. “The news is all over the place. First time they shut them down since…” In the mirror I see her eyes flick to Basil. “Anyway, some kind of protest started at the prison where they’re holding Ana and her followers.”
“You know about Ana, too?” I ask, suddenly sitting up, which is a terrible idea because it sends a shooting pain through my leg. I settle back and take a few deep breaths.
“Of course I do!” she says. “I don’t live under a rock. Every time you get on a screen, a message pops up that says, ‘Free Ana!’ and tells you to go to the prison if you care about personal liberty.”
I squeeze Basil’s arm. “This is amazing!” Then I pepper Betta with questions. “How many people are there? What’s One World’s response? Have the protesters made any demands?”
Betta looks over her shoulder, annoyed. “I don’t know. See for yourself.” She tosses over an old beat-up Gizmo, and I yelp with delight.
“What are you doing?” Basil asks, reaching for it.
“Just checking the news.” I elbow him away and scan headlines to confirm everything Betta’s saying, which is the only thing that could take my mind off my ankle.
While Betta and Basil hypothesize about how all of this is happening, I hunch over the screen and quickly crack the operating system, so I can turn off the locator and find a VPN. There are several out here so I can easily hop on the Dynasaur chat. I search the logs for AnonyGal, sure that she’s the one who’s taken charge, but I can’t find her anywhere. I go back to the original call to action I posted yesterday, which seems like weeks ago. There is a huge response. Dynasaurs are riled up. They’ve honed a message and called on programmers to release bots so they can take over the most heavily trafficked One World sites.
“It’s amazing!” I can’t contain my smile. “We have to find a way back so we can join them!”
“Won’t be easy,” says Betta. “I think One World’s afraid people are going to start flooding in from the Outer Loop to start a riot.” She and Basil lock eyes, then both look away quickly. “I can drop you outside the tolls, but you’ll have to find another way in. Things are shut tighter than Ahimsa DuBoise’s butthole.”
“Hah!” I crow from shock, then I giggle uncontrollably. “I’ve never heard anyone insult Ahimsa like that.”
“People insult her all the time,” says Basil.
“Not where I’m from.” I try not to snort from laughing so hard, but I can’t help it. “At least, not so accurately.”
“You know her?” Basil asks.
“Unfortunately, I do,” I admit, which kills my amusement. “And I’m sure she’s furious.” I remember how she scowled at me from the screen in my family’s living room, telling my mother to commit me to rehab and demanding that I give up info about Basil. Serves her right that people are pushing back. She needs to know that she can’t just lock up anybody she wants. I hunch over the Gizmo and post a message from HectorProtector, courtesy of Betta the driver.
Calling all Dynasaurs and Analogs! You’ve got One World running scared. The tolls are shut to keep the Inner Loop secure from the riffraff of the Outer Loop, but don’t let that stop you! If you are in the Outer Loop go to the tolls. Bang on the gates. Demand to be let in! If you are in the Inner Loop, join the masses. Don’t stop until Ana is free!
I add the Svaldbard symbol at the end then reset the operating system and hand Betta back her Gizmo. I sit back and smile at the thought of Ahimsa having to admit that she’s been wrong. In fact, I wish I could see that moment myself. I look out the window at the wall separating us from what’s happening inside. “Maybe we could climb over,” I suggest.
“I doubt it,” Basil says, pointing to my leg and his arm.
“First, you both need a doctor,” says Betta. “Even I can see that.”
“What are we going to do?” I ask.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I know where to go.”
* * *
Something gnaws at me from inside, creating a perfectly round opening from the bottom of my ribs to the top of my hip bones. When I bend over I can see straight through a gaping hole in my gut to the hard and dusty ground beneath my feet. I need to fill up this wormhole that was my belly to stop myself from draining away. I lo
ok around for something to put in there. Something solid. I pick up bloody, tattered clothing. A filthy knit bag the color of my grandmother’s hair. A shoe. I try to stuff them inside that space, but everything falls through and lands behind me in a puff of dust. I find my Gizmo. I uncloak it. Then it begins to expand. I try to force it in the hole in my gut, but it’s grown too big. Something bubbles up from the emptiness into my mouth. I catch it with my tongue. Hold it tight between my teeth. The taste is bitter and I moan.
“You alright?” someone says.
I open my eyes and find myself slumped back on a bed, my arms and legs akimbo as if I’ve fallen from the sky. To my left and right and across from me are rows of examination tables like the ones Papa Peter had in his office when I was little. They are filled with people, some bloody and bandaged, others laboring for breath, a few curled on their sides crying. IV bags drip, monitors beep. From somewhere far away a person screams in pain. My stomach churns and I feel faint. I’ve never seen this many people sick and hurt. I wonder if there was some kind of natural disaster.
“You were groaning,” the man next to me says.
I shake my head and push up on my elbows, trying to focus on what he’s saying. The side of his face is swollen and discolored, and he holds his ribs when he moves.
“What happened?” I ask, mostly to myself but the man answers.
“Don’t know about you, but I got jumped. Goddamn geophags. Somebody’s got to do something about them. Roaming the streets like wild animals.” He winces as he shifts his weight.
A woman in a crisp blue uniform walks by whistling, but she stops when she sees me sitting up. “You’re awake!” She’s tall and solid with broad shoulders. Her hair is pulled back in hundreds of tiny braids gathered at the nape of her neck. She has skin as dark as Papa Peter’s. Suddenly I miss him terribly.
“Where am I?” I ask, still cloudy-headed.
“Clinic,” she says and waves her Gizmo slowly over me to check my vitals. “Hmmm.” She studies her screen. “Not had any nutrition lately?” I stare at her dumbly because I can’t clear the fog in my mind. She grabs a bottle of light yellow baseline Synthamil from a shelf behind me. “Drink this,” she commands. Without hesitation, I gulp it greedily, not even stopping for a breath, which makes her laugh. “You want more?”