Flash Point

by Nancy Kress

  Real. Oh, the bastards! But Mark had said—

  Think twice.

  Cautiously, staying as far away as possible from the spider on the floor, Amy took her cell phone from her pocket. She approached the tree. So did the third spider; evidently the tree had something in it or on it that attracted spiders. Amy got within a few feet of the branches, took careful aim, and tossed her cell phone at the puppy. If she knocked it free, she could dart in and grab it before the spiders change course. But she didn’t think she’d have to.

  The cell phone went right through the puppy.

  Amy retrieved her phone from where it had hit the floor and went back to the door. She could just imagine the stupid voting choices for this scenario: Who rescued the puppy? Who just stood and screamed? Who stomped on the spiders? That would be one or more of the boys, whoever was wearing boots and didn’t have arachnophobia. Not Violet or Waverly in their high heels.

  All at once the whole thing bored Amy. These stupid scenarios, these endless fake choices . . . She was sick of Who–You. One more scenario after this and her season’s contract was done. With any luck, the show would then be canceled. The ratings had been sagging steadily.

  She waited for the door to open, watching the real spiders climb the real tree toward the fake dog.

  * * *

  Gran was awake and alert. Not, however, her usual self.

  Amy had turned on the noon news, which was full of excited men and women debating the passage of the Emergency Economic Restructure Act. But Gran merely waved her hand—such a thin hand, blue-lined and brown-dotted as a road map—at the television. “Turn it off.”

  “Off?”

  “Yes. Come here, Carolyn.”

  Carolyn. Her mother’s name.

  Startled and disturbed, Amy took the chair next to the hospital bed. Gran’s eyes seemed too bright, too big, in their sunken sockets. But she smiled broadly, and her voice sounded strong. “Remember when you were three, Carolyn? We took you to the zoo, along with the neighbor girl, Elizabeth. And somehow Elizabeth just slipped away from your father. Just skipped off when he took his eyes off her. We both rushed around frantically, me carrying you, and you kept saying with such satisfaction, ‘Maybe the lions ate her. Maybe the tigers ate her.’ It turns out you didn’t like Elizabeth.”

  Amy’s hand tightened on her grandmother’s. It had been Kaylie that had said that at the zoo, when Amy got lost.

  “And remember when you painted your sister’s Barbie doll green and said it was an alien? You even gave it some unpronounceable name, like the ones in those dreadful alien-invasion movies.”

  Amy had never had a Barbie doll. Maybe her mother had, or maybe Gran was wandering even farther back in time to her own childhood. For the next hour Gran told stories that jumbled Carolyn, Kaylie, Amy, and some other names—Eddie, Christy—that Amy vaguely remembered as being cousins of either her mother or grandmother. Maybe. The stories grew more animated and more chaotic, and Gran’s hand tightened on Amy’s, until abruptly she fell asleep.

  “Nurse!” Amy rain into the hall. “Something’s wrong!”

  The nurse came in, examined Gran, listened to Amy’s rushed account. Then she said gently, “You have to expect this, my dear, with this sort of illness. But she’s not in any pain, and you say she didn’t seem distressed.”

  “No, she seemed happy to talk like that!”

  “She probably is. But I’m going to ask the doctor for something to make sure she sleeps right after dinner and on through the night, to conserve her strength a bit. She might wake again this afternoon, though, if you want to stay.”

  Amy stayed. At the 3:00 meeting the cardiologist, case worker, and Indian doctor decided that Gran should stay for now in the hospital. Gran did wake, to tell a few more stories with the same animated relish, the same confusion of time and people. She seemed perfectly content. After she had her sleeping pill, Amy took a cab to the hotel.

  She was glad that Gran seemed to feel such pleasure. She was also glad there was no chance that Gran would see the “special edition” tonight of Who–You. Whatever stupid thing it was that Myra had put together about the riots and the hotel fire, at least Gran wouldn’t have to go through it again.

  Twenty-nine

  SATURDAY

  THEY GATHERED IN Cai’s room to watch the show: Cai, Kaylie, Tommy, Rafe, Violet, Amy, even Waverly. The good thing was that even though the old camaraderie was gone, so was the extreme awkwardness of the morning in the van. The reason was the spider scenario, in which all of them had realized that the spiders were real and the puppy was not. Nearly everyone had thrown something at the hologram.

  “Let Myra make ‘voting choices’ out of that!” Rafe said. He wouldn’t look directly at Amy, but otherwise he seemed himself. “I threw my watch at the fake dog.”

  “My cell,” Waverly said.

  “Me too,” Amy said.

  “My shoe.” Violet.

  “My boot,” Cai said. “I was hoping to knock it into my arms. Tommy, what did you throw?”

  “Nothing,” Tommy said. “Did you see those spiders? Beauties!”

  They all stared at him. Tommy rushed on, his words tumbling over themselves. “Theraphosidae. I don’t remember the other word right now. They make silk for their burrows, and they can climb trees, and the girls make two thousand eggs in a baby sac! And they’ve been around at least sixteen million years. That’s a very long time!”

  Cai managed to speak first. “It really is. Tommy, how do you happen to know so much about spiders?”

  “Sam let me have a book. With pictures. And there were spiders in the Insitution, although not Theraphosidae. I always want one for a pet, but they cost a very lot.”

  “Tommy,” Violet said, “weren’t you afraid of the spiders?”

  “Oh, no. They were defanged. I looked real close. Anyway, a Theraphosida bite won’t really hurt you, no more than a wasp.”

  Violet laughed and shook her head. Amy held out her hand. “Why have I got this red itch? It didn’t bite me, you’re right about that.”

  “That kind of spider throws little tiny hairs at you if you threaten it. See, I’ve got itching too. It will go away by tomorrow.”

  Tommy burbled on, bouncing up and down on the edge of Cai’s bed, while Amy tried to sort out her thoughts. Mentally challenged, but he had learned all this about something he genuinely cared about. “The Institution.” Was that why Tommy was on a show he obviously hated—because his uncle had told him that was the only way out of some badly run and spider-infested institution? Tommy had refused to tell Amy about his uncle when she’d asked him before, but in his present excitement he’d let it slip. Did Myra know? What could be done about it?

  “Sshhhh,” Kaylie finally said, “the show’s starting.” She flicked the remote to turn up the sound, then snuggled close to Cai. Evidently she had reconsidered dumping him. For now, anyway.

  The atonal, vaguely menacing music came up under the show’s title but the usual emcees were absent, replaced by an older man with moussed hair, expensive suit, and the solemn look of someone being sworn in to office. None of the Lab Rats had ever seen him before. He intoned, “Any tragedy produces heroes, cowards, bystanders, and innocent victims. The recent riots in our city are no exception. Some people behaved with that outstanding and glorious concern for others that we call heroism, even at the risk of their own lives. This show has always been dedicated to the examination of human behavior—”

  Violet snorted.

  “—including what the great statesman Benjamin Disraeli called the legacy of heroes: ‘The memory of a great name and the inheritance of a great example.’”

  “Oh, sure,” Rafe said. “Us and Ben Disraeli, best buddies.”

  “Our producers deliberated long and hard about what you are about to see,” the announcer continued. “We decided—”

  “Like he’s part of the production team,” Cai said.

  “—after much soul-searching, to air this episode of
Who Knows People, Baby—You? We do so not to trivialize what happened at the Fairwood Hotel, but to illuminate it. And perhaps along the way, we can all learn something from what happened, and from the heroes it produced. TLN is fortunate to have had cameras positioned to capture the stirring acts of courage, determination, and love that you are about to witness. To begin, tonight you must make your voting choices within the next five minutes, before the—”

  Amy gasped, “They’re going to vote on people’s deaths?”

  Rafe said, “As long as it isn’t one of ours. Although that might have made an even better show.”

  Waverly leaned forward, staring at the television. Abruptly Violet rose and stalked out of the room. Amy said, “Violet—” but Violet kept going, her long black hair swinging behind her.

  Tommy said, “What’s wrong with Violet?”

  Cai said, “We’ll ask later, Tommy. We need to see this.”

  None of others so much as twitched in their seats, although Amy felt her stomach tighten until it hurt. This show was so ghoulish, so outrageous, so insensitive. . . . And she would be a part of it.

  Two lists flashed on the screen, one with the faces and names of the six Lab Rats, one with voting choices topped with a large red WHO:

  Tried to save someone else—and succeeded!

  Tried to save someone else—and was rescued instead!

  Escaped the building easily!

  Escaped the building with difficulty!

  Was never in any danger!

  Amy said, “I cannot believe they’re doing this. Turning violence and death into off-track betting.”

  Rafe said, “There’ll be a huge backlash.”

  Cai said, “But by that time they’ll have the ratings.”

  Rafe held up his tablet. “I think they already do, according to the blogosphere, anyway.”

  “Sshhh,” Waverly said.

  Five minutes of the voting grid, intercut with exterior shots of the hotel at various hours of the day and night. The normal street traffic, the arriving guests, the unloading of luggage somehow ratcheted up the tension: None of these people knew what would happen to them this night.

  The man’s deep voice said, “Voting is now over,” and the screen exploded into sound and motion. Protestors thronged the streets, shouting and waving placards. Cars were overturned and set on fire. Cops clubbed protestors and released canisters of tear gas, which sent a bunch of people fleeing inside the hotel. Amy had seen this footage before on various news channels, but she couldn’t look away. A woman was clubbed by a policeman, fell, and was hauled away in cuffs. Someone near her pulled out a gun and shot the cop.

  Rafe said quietly, “That was what really did it. That changed the protest into a blood battle. The start of what could have been a real revolution.”

  I was still asleep upstairs, Amy thought. If Gran hadn’t called out over and over—

  The picture changed to low-resolution, black-and-white images inside the hotel. Rafe said, “Security-camera film—I wonder what those copies cost Myra?” No one answered. The film showed people pouring out of their rooms, jamming the elevators and stairwells. The security tapes had no sound, but TLN had supplied a soundtrack of screams, shouts, alarms. Fires broke out, although it was impossible to say who had set them.

  The picture, still black-and-white, changed to what Amy recognized as the first-floor bar, although she had never gone inside it. Gunfire and shouts sounded in the lobby and everyone looked startled—evidently this film had been shot before the previous segment. A sudden enlargement zoomed in on one table of three.

  Kaylie said, “There I am!”

  “In the bar?” Amy blurted. Like that mattered now!

  Kaylie gave her sister a tolerant look. “Everybody has fake ID, sis.”

  “I don’t,” Tommy said, but probably he didn’t need it. He and Cai looked older than they were. Or maybe Kaylie had bribed the bartender, or Myra had for better footage over time, or—who knew? Nothing was as it seemed.

  Tommy said, “I didn’t like that restaurant.”

  “Well,” Kaylie retorted, “you didn’t have to come with us.”

  Cai said, shockingly, “Shut up, Kaylie.” Kaylie looked startled.

  The camera pulled back for a long shot as protestors poured into the bar. People started screaming. But these protestors, evidently the milder Times Be Tough Man group, just waved everybody out. That led to a stampede across the lobby, which reminded Amy sickeningly of the anti-Pylon protests. But she didn’t see anyone trampled.

  Again the image zoomed in on Cai, Kaylie, and Tommy. Cai held Kaylie’s arm, and he and Tommy formed a bulwark around her. The three of them made for a side corridor off the lobby, leading to the gift shop and rest rooms. A fire door marked DO NOT OPEN: ALARM WILL SOUND gave them access to an alley, and if an alarm sounded, it became part of the manufactured soundtrack.

  Amy thought: Escaped the building easily. Immediately she hated herself.

  The picture switched to Rafe. He, too, was outside the building, but he was fighting his way toward it. Small and quick, he ducked through the screaming crowd, until he joined a group of rioters armed with bats and guns and was swept into the lobby.

  Kaylie said, “You’re going inside!”

  So Rafe had not told anyone else what had happened that night. Apparently, neither had Waverly. This would all be new to Kaylie, to Cai, to Tommy. Amy hoped that her sister would shut up now. Amy had no hope that Cai, despite his one reprimand to Kaylie, could actually make her stay quiet. Cai didn’t have that much strength of personality.

  Rafe fought his way across the lobby. The elevators had stopped working and stood open. The soundtrack softened long enough to hear the elevators’ computerized voice say, “The elevators are inoperative during a fire. Use the stairs—”

  Rafe did. He darted into a stairwell and began climbing. Several floors up, a group of protestors flung themselves into the stairwell from above. One of them pointed a gun at Rafe.

  The picture changed to Waverly’s bedroom. She leapt out of bed, dressed in a silk nightgown that showed off her beautiful breasts and tiny waist.

  She said bitterly, “They told us there would be no filming inside our bedrooms.”

  “Surprise,” Cai said, and Amy realized it might be the first sarcastic thing she had ever heard him say.

  Waverly yanked a satin robe over her nightgown and dashed to the door. In the hallway she pounded on all six Lab Rats’ doors, yelling, “Get up! Fire! Get up get up get up!”

  She might dislike us all, Amy thought, but she didn’t think only of herself. But, then, Amy had already learned that Waverly was more complex than she had first believed.

  None of the doors opened—where was Violet?

  On-screen, smoke drifted down the hallway—just wisps, but a sprinkler came on in dramatic close-up. Waverly went back into her room. The camera switched to Amy, getting drenched in bed by another sprinkler. Gray smoke poured from vents. Gran called, “Amy! Amy!”

  So the wiring in the bedroom had had sound, too. Amy thought of all that Myra must have heard, all that Amy had believed was private.

  The on-screen Amy rushed into Gran’s room, which was much less smoky. Gran cried, “It’s a fire! Get out!”

  “I—”

  “Didn’t you hear the alarm? Get out!” Gran lay collapsed sideways on the bed and on top of the duvet as if she’d tried to get up and could not.

  It was terrible to relive all this, knowing what was coming, unable to change any of it. Rafe glanced over at her, but Amy kept her gaze on the television.

  On-screen, Amy cried, “I’m not leaving you!” and rushed to the window. “It’s not just a fire. Those are protestors, and SWAT teams. I think the anti-Pylon people have seized the building.”

  “And set it on fire?”

  “I don’t know. Most people seem to be out. How long ago did the alarm start?”

  “About ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. I tried . . . I tried to . . .” Gran
’s face crumpled.

  “I know you did,” Amy said. She ran into the main room of the suite and put her hand at the bottom of the door, then slowly opened it. “Hey! Anybody here!”

  Waverly’s door opened. Now she wore combat boots with her satin robe. “I just woke up, I took two sleeping pills, I don’t usually but yesterday—There’s a fire!”

  “And I think the building’s been taken by protestors. We have to get out.” Both of them left the hallway, and the camera image switched.

  Waverly said, “Protestors? Then come on!”

  “I can’t leave my grandmother here!”

  Amy darted into the bedroom. Gran said, “I told you to leave. Don’t worry about me. Don’t you think I know how close I am already to the end? Amy, do as I say!”

  Amy tried to lift Gran, who screamed in pain. “I’m sorry, Gran, I’m sorry! But I have to carry you—”

  “You can’t. The elevators won’t work in a fire, either. I told you to go and I meant it.”

  “No!”

  Amy turned. Waverly pushed a room-service cart into the bedroom, laden with dishes of half-eaten food: steak, salad, juice. Waverly sent it all crashing to the floor. “I didn’t feel like seeing anybody for dinner last night. Come on, let’s get her onto this. . . . Come on!”

  The two girls lifted Gran on top of the service cart, and the camera image shifted to Violet.

  It was again a black-and-white security-camera image. Violet, dressed in a hotel terry-cloth robe with a towel wrapped around her head, emerged into a corridor. A close-up of the door behind her showed its sign: LADIES’ SAUNA. Sweat filmed Violet’s face. She looked wildly around her, then pulled her cell from her robe pocket.

  Amy had an inane thought: Did steam and high temperatures hurt cell phones? Why would Violet have hers in the sauna?

  As she listened to her phone, Violet’s mouth made a round wet O. She ran down the corridor.

  Rafe frowned. He said to no one in particular, “She’s going the wrong way. Into the fighting.”

  Violet pushed through a set of double doors and into a group of rioters. One had a blowtorch.