by A. L. Davroe
“So.” Guster breathes. “For now, we assume that the shapes inside each square have relevance.”
“But what relevance?” And then I see it. “Oh…”
He sits up on his elbows. “What?”
“This is a giant math problem. A differential equation.”
He looks back at the quilt, his eyes wide and a little confused. “Okay,” he says slowly. “I don’t get it.”
I smirk at him. “I thought you saw the big picture of everything?”
He rolls his eyes. “Just explain it.”
I get on my hands and knees and point to the four squares in the corner closest to me. “Take these four squares. Each has a different shape inside. Canal Town has a square, this green bit here has a triangle, this blue one has a weird blobbish thing, and this one has one that looks like a dog head.”
Guster chuckles at me, but I ignore him. “Four shapes out of hundreds of random shapes, all with additional pieces taken out of them, further changing their shape. But what if the shapes aren’t what matters at all? What if it’s the space inside the shapes that does?”
Interested, Guster gets on his knees. “You mean, you think each one of these shapes has a different area?”
I nod. “I wasn’t sure at first, but even the squares that have the same shapes inside them have different-sized bits taken out of them. Like this one.” I point at the dog head, which is missing a triangular bit where the dog’s eye should be. “There’s another sort of dog-head shape on the other side; I saw it earlier. It’s the same size, but it has a square, not a triangle, taken out of it. The difference in the two eye shapes taken out of the dog-head shape would change the amount of space the two dog-head shapes take up.”
Guster nods. “I see what you mean. The shapes inside each of the squares represent land mass. So, if we find out the exact size of each of these shapes, we can order them from largest to smallest and assume that the land mass correlates to the particular field that the decoration on the square indicates.”
“Yes. If your onion theory is correct, then the gaming levels with the smallest land mass should be closer to the Central Dominion.” I look down at the quilt, suddenly anxious to get to calculating.
“Stack them one on top of another, just like that stacking rings game we played with as kids.”
“Once the squares are in order, all we’d have to do is match one square with a level we recognize and, using the order, move straight on to the Central Dominion.”
He grins at me. “You’re brilliant.”
Blushing, I look away. “It’s just a theory.”
“A really good one. We’ve already got Canal Town as a point of origin. All we have to do is put them in order.”
I bite my lip. The mind of a criminal. Trickster. “I might have some points in the brain area, but I don’t have the kind of brain power necessary to do these kinds of computations.” I actually feel a little relieved by this. I’m not an evil genius after all.
Brows drawn low, he frowns. “Can’t you write a program to do it?”
I scoff. “Well yeah, that’s easy as trans. But…” I pause and look down at the quilt. “These are tiny squares, and there are hundreds of them; the slightest miscalculation could mess it up. There’s no way that I could memorize the exact size and shape of these and run the computations at home.”
“So write the program and run it here,” Guster suggests.
“With what?” I ask, sweeping my eyes around meaningfully. “Steam power?”
He grins. “No. We just need to find a playing field with high enough technology for you, right?”
I cock my head. “Right. But,” I say, pointedly, “that would mean leaving Canal Town, which means losing our point of origin. How easy is it to retrace your steps through the jump pads?”
The grin fades, telling me the answer. “We’ll figure out something.”
“And we’re going to do it without destroying anything, right?”
Guster gives me a long hard stare. “What did I just say that implied destruction?”
I bite my lip. “Nothing. You didn’t, I just…” Feel like an idiot? I lift a shoulder, uncomfortable with his weighted glower.
“This is a good thing, Elle.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s what evil geniuses are for.”
He glances sideways at me. “That’s what beautiful brainiacs are for. There’s a big difference.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“Intent and conscience. Always look at what you are doing, and ask yourself if you are doing the right thing. Look at who is being affected and who is gaining from your endeavor.”
“So, our infiltration of the Anansi Chamber accomplishes this how?”
“Ever hear of Robin Hood?”
I shake my head.
Guster smiles his insane, wonderful smile. “Inspirational man.”
Unsent Letters to Delia
Dee,
My letters have been short lately and I apologize. I have so much that I’m doing, I keep busy almost all day. I spend most of the time reading Dad’s files. Who would have ever thought history would be so exciting. Meems is having me do all of these awful exercises, and I ache all the time, but I feel stronger and I think I might actually be losing fat without getting liposuction. What a strange concept.
Then, of course, I watch The Broadcast daily. Have you been keeping up on Zane Boyd lately? What do you think of the Gaming Houses? I often wonder if you’ve started playing the game yet. It’s been a few months since I started playing, and I can’t imagine life without Nexis at this point.
Have you made a move on one of your crushes yet? Quentin or Shadow? Perhaps you’ve finally reigned in Bastian. I’ve got Guster, and I couldn’t be happier. Oh Dee, when he kisses me or when he touches me, it’s like magic. It’s like all the things inside of me get up and dance and squirm. And he understands me. He’s so intelligent and compassionate. He sees the big picture in everything. I wonder who he is in Real World. I don’t ask him ever; it’s clear he hates talking about life in Real World. I can’t help hoping he’s not married or in love with another girl out here. It’s entirely possible, right? I don’t know why I care. It’s not like I could be with him out here. I’m not even alive anymore, let alone viable. Still, it’s hard to deal with the idea of sharing the person you love with someone else.
Yours,
Ella
Chapter Twenty-five
Post-American Date: 12/01/231
Longitudinal Timestamp: 11:02 a.m.
Location: Dome 5: Evanescence
Meems places a bowl at my elbow. I don’t take my eyes away from the Wright Brothers until they return to the place called Kitty Hawk in 1908.
I check the digital readout of the clock suspended near the edge of the holo-screen—two more hours. Anxious for something else to distract me, I look to the bowl that Meems has provided me and then at her. “What’s this stuff?”
“I believe the historic term for it is gruel,” Meems says flatly. I can tell she’s a little flustered.
I lean over and sniff it. “It doesn’t smell appetizing.”
She crosses her arms. “I doubt it is. From what I can tell it is what the Disfavored are eating.”
I frown. “Why did you give it to me?”
“Because that is what Tasha gave me to feed you.”
Reaching out, I push it away. “I’m not eating this stuff.”
She lowers her arms in partial exaggeration. “It is all we can give you.”
“What does that mean?”
“The nutrition rationing in Tasha’s system has been altered. This is all that she is allowed to provide to you.”
I stare at Meems for a long horrified minute, then back down at my gruel. There’s maybe six ounces lumped down at the bottom of the stainless steel bowl.
“Who changed it? Katrina?”
“I don’t know.”
Of course it is. Who else would it be? Everyone else thinks I’m dead. But why? “Is she trying to starve me to death?”
Meems doesn’t answer, but her expression seems to say just that.
My fists ball in my lap as anger and frustration fill me. “Circuits, I just wish I understood what is going on.”
“But you cannot.”
A scoff escapes my lips. “No. I can’t.” I shake my head. “I don’t know what to do.” Since Tasha won’t allow me out of the room, and I can’t send messages, I’ve asked Meems to carry notes down to Katrina on a number of occasions. I’ve requested audiences with her. Was denied. Demanded an explanation. Was given nothing. I wanted to move back into my room. She’d already given it to Sadie. I wanted to go outside. She claimed I was too unwell to go out. I asked for a tutor. She wanted to know what good an education would do me now. I begged for a pair of cybernetic legs. I had reasoned that cybernetics are cheaper than the combination of stem cell and nanotechnology necessary to regrow a new pair of legs, so I had thought she’d at least give me that. But she claimed it wasn’t in her power. Which confused me because if she’s a normal court-appointed guardian she should have that power.
I look away from Meems. “If I say anything to her about my food, I’ll be given an excuse.” I knead my forehead. “I wish I could access Dad’s accounts. By rights they should be mine now, right? I bet they’re brimming.” I could have ten new pairs grown for me.
“Most likely,” Meems says slowly. “The Broadcast says that your father’s game is growing in popularity. Lady Cyr has petitioned the installation of more Gaming Houses in the Outer Block.”
I nod. I’ve been keeping up with The Broadcast. Not only is the game incredibly popular within the city, but Zane Boyd’s reports claim it’s revolutionary in the Outer Block, that there have been gang wars over control of the Gaming Houses, riots to gain access to the terminals, and gaming tokens have become the prime form of currency with the Disfavored. From my window, I’ve watched the Disfavored stand for hours just to get through the door of the Gaming House near my residential unit. “What that means is that Dad’s game is banking ten times the sales. The royalties from all these Disfavored gaming installations are going somewhere.”
Meems nods furtively at the floor, not indicating the industrial carpeting but the people who live in the rooms below mine. “I suspect one need not look far.”
I nod. From my window, I’ve seen Katrina and Sadie walking in and out of the house. I’ve seen deliveries and people coming and going. If the steady mutation of my household is any indication, then a large sum of credit is going into Mods and Alts for my new speckled and bedazzled pseudo family members, into expensive food and furniture, into lavish parties, into designer clothing, into the new Chimera pod that drives Sadie off to school every morning. “But does that mean that she’s taking it or being paid off?”
“I do not know the answer. Does it matter?”
I stare at the floor for a long moment. Does it? Whether I knew who was keeping me captive or not, would it change anything? I still can’t escape. I still can’t communicate with the outside world. All it does is give me a person to direct my hate toward. And what good does hating do when you can’t do anything about that, either? It just makes you miserable. “I suppose not.”
I reach out and drag the bowl back toward myself. A thick crust has formed over the stuff, and it has gone cold. Cringing, I take up a spoonful and shove it in my mouth. It’s like mud on my tongue, tasting like what I imagine a Disfavored shanty wall must taste like: smoke, rocks, and anguish. My gag reflex tells me to spit it out, but I force it down. I’m hungry, and if I don’t eat I can’t focus.
I want to finish reading Dad’s files. I want to decode the last puzzle and read his last secret message. I want to figure out why he’s obsessed with spiders. I want to go back into his game and be with Guster. And I definitely don’t want to give Katrina, or whomever she works for, the satisfaction of silently offing me so they can live on my fortune indefinitely.
As I force myself to eat the terrible stuff, Meems watches, her mouth pulled down in displeasure and her eyes scrunched in sympathy. When I finish I drop the spoon into the bowl like I’ve just completed a marathon and push it away from me.
My stomach feels swollen and heavy despite the small amount of food in it, but I turn back to the holo and lose my discomfort in a world of men who dreamed of flying. Men who saw birds soaring and wished to touch the blue of the sky. Men who might have had pet dogs and touched the bark of trees. Men who knew what real air tasted like and felt the sun on their skin. Men who, like me, probably loved running.
Chapter Twenty-six
Post-American Date: 12/12/231
Longitudinal Timestamp: 1:18 p.m.
Location: Free Zone, Tropicana; Nexis
When I manifest into Nexis I collapse in relief. Nadine gives me a strange look. “Um, are you all right?”
I giggle. “Yeah.” I take her hand as she offers it to me, and stand. “I’m just relieved to be here.”
“Yeah,” she says, pulling away and planting her fists on her hips. “I know what you mean.”
I cock my head. As a rule, the people in our group don’t talk much of their outside lives, but Nadine often slips up and alludes to hers. I’ve decided for certain that both she and Gus are Aristocrats, like me. Morden and Opus I’m still not sure about.
I glance around. We’re in a heavily forested area, something that looks and feels like the tropical jungles in Dad’s files. Gus, Morden, and Opus all went to explore, leaving Nadine to supervise my cooking. Though after five months of her teaching me, I’m perfectly fine on my own. I think she just wants an excuse to hang out and have girl time.
“Nadine,” I venture. She doesn’t look up from pulling the feathers off some weird bird-thing she shot yesterday, but she grunts. “What’s it like for you? In Evanescence?”
Her fingers go still, and her blue eyes flash up. For a moment, I think I’ve misstepped, so I start to explain myself. “I mean, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t—”
“It’s all right,” she cuts in. She shrugs a halfhearted smile. “I don’t care.”
“Oh,” I breathe. “I just figured, since we’ve been friends here for so long…it would be nice to know something about each other.” Why am I saying this? It’s not like I’m willing to tell her about me… It’s not like I could ever be friends with her in Real World. Could I tell her I’m a prisoner? Would she save me? Would she even care? Would anyone believe her if she told the authorities?
She rips out a chunk of feathers, and it makes an awful noise. “I’m a Developer. I’m married to a man I hate and I have a five-year-old little boy. That’s about it. It’s boring. Every day I do the same thing. See the same people. Act the same as I did yesterday—which isn’t really me at all. I try to make the same people happy even though I never can.”
I blink at the candid bitterness in her voice. “I thought most Aristocrats were happy.”
A scoff escapes her. “Are you? You think Gus is?” She shakes her head. “Not that he ever talks about himself. But I see it in both of you. You just did it. Same thing I do. You breathe here; it’s a relief being here. We suffocate in that little dome.”
I focus on the fruit. Pineapple, mango, papaya. Some villagers taught us the names, and I found some recipes in Dad’s files that Nadine is helping me with. Lately all I can do is think about food back in Real World, so I’ve been reading a lot of recipes. “Do you think we all hate it?”
After a long moment, her shoulders relax and she sits back from the fire. “No. I don’t. I think there are very few people who even know what unhappiness is. They just follow the crowd, follow the rules, and get what they want. That’s how it goes, right?”
Maybe if you�
�re a normal Custom, but not for me. “I suppose.”
“For the rest of us? Well, we’re just prisoners.”
I blink at her. A bitter part of me wants to tell her she doesn’t know at all what it’s like to be a prisoner, but she looks away and continues speaking. “It’s not like we’re bound or locked up or anything like that. But, when you think about it, living under a dome, being part of our society, it’s a prison in its own right. We can’t escape. Even before we are born, it is decided who and what we will be. We are assessed and corralled into what Central Staffing wants us to be. Our parents decide who we should marry, we have to look and act and be what is expected of us. Sometimes…sometimes I just wish I could climb into a refuse bin and get ejected out into the wasteland, to run away, be one of the Disfavored.”
“Have you ever seen what the Outer Block looks like, Nadine?”
She frowns. “On The Broadcast.”
I shake my head. “Zane only shows us the nicest parts. I wouldn’t want to be out there. They’re sick and hungry and cold. It’s violent and cruel.” I look away, remembering seeing a man beat another to death with a rock the day before yesterday. So much blood in the dry dust.
“Yeah,” she breathes, “but they’re free.”
I have nothing to say to that. Being held prisoner and being treated the way I have makes you think. It makes you wonder what’s worse, makes you consider what you’d sacrifice just to go to sleep knowing that you’d wake up free.
“Let’s not talk about Evanescence here, though, okay?” she says. “I’d rather talk about anything else.”