My hair is dull and greasy. I haven't washed it all week, but I know I'll have to leave the apartment today. I've been holding back some of my water rations exactly for this purpose. I have to be careful not to waste a drop, so I plug the sink and fill it halfway from the ration bottle, then add a few drops of shamp-con. It foams, a million tiny bubbles stripping the grease from my hair. This is as close as I will ever come to feeling like a rich girl.
My hair is long and flame-red, which is unusual. “Gingers” have been almost extinct for a hundred years. Everyone thinks I get my color out of a box, but how could I afford that? My red is real. I like that it makes me different, but keeping it long requires a lot more work than the short cut my Mom wants to give me. She doesn't like me to stand out, says it's dangerous. Individuality attracts the wrong kind of attention. Not just from men, but the government.
“I'm not a terrorist,” I tell her. “All I want is this one thing.”
“Wanting one thing leads to wanting more,” Mom insists. “You have to be satisfied with what you've got.” Then she reminds me that my dispensation is running out in ten days. It's the exemption that keeps me from having to work because my parents need me at home to take care of them. They're both disabled. Me not being here will be hard on them, but my paycheck will have to make up for it.
Part of me wants to go to work. All my friends are already in the factories. They have been since they turned thirteen and graduated Worker Education. We don't see each other much anymore. Mandatory seven-day, twelve-hour shifts with only one state holiday off a month doesn't leave them time for fun.
Two of my friends are already married. They signed up for the factory marriage lottery, just like my parents. It's not required, but life's easier when both husband and wife work at the same factory.
I will never join the lottery. If I meet my husband through the workplace, that's fine, but I don't want my marriage to be random, forced to be with someone by chance. Still, the law says a Drone must marry by eighteen and produce a child by twenty-one, so I can't stay single forever.
My birthday is in ten days. Ten days until I'm sixteen and I start my job on the line at Foodtronix, the factory I will work in 'til the day I die—or the day I'm too disabled to do my job. Mom says the manager will make me cut my hair, and once I'm free of the one childish thing that sets me apart, I'll start to think like everyone else.
“There's safety in conformity,” Mom says. “Your father and I only want what's best for you. We want you to fit in, to be normal.”
But that's not entirely true. Once, when Mom was visiting the neighbor down the hall, Dad told me he loved my red hair. That everyone should have something for themselves, and he was glad I had something. When I asked him what he had that was special, he said he had me. I still remember that. I'll always remember that.
Mom knocks on the bathroom door. “Vikka? Honey, how much longer are you going to be? Breakfast is almost ready.”
“Just a minute.” I don't want to come out. I know what's waiting for me—not just at the breakfast table, but in the world outside. It frightens me so much my hands grip the edge of the sink until my knuckles turn white.
Staring into the mirror, I see the tired girl with the heart-shaped face and haunted green eyes. She is weak, crushed by the weight of her life. I tell her to be strong. The girl smiles—just a little—and some of the terror leaves her eyes.
“You can do this,” I whisper. “You can do anything.”
I change into my rags, a threadbare olive-green jumpsuit that's anything but flattering. “Rags” are what Drones call their government-issued uniforms: color-coded jumpsuits that tell which corporation you belong to. We get a new pair every year, but they aren't made well and start to fall apart after six months. My jumpsuit is nine months old and already frayed at the knees and elbows. I can't wait to replace it.
When I come out of the bathroom, Mom and Dad are at the kitchen table, looking miserable. I can tell they've been arguing about the oxygen bill.
“It'll be OK,” I say automatically. “Right, Mom?”
“Yes, everything will be fine.” Mom smiles, but it's strained, and I can tell she's only agreeing to keep Dad calm.
Ever since Dad was injured in the terrorist bombing at his factory four years ago, he's been depressed. He's blind, and missing all his limbs. The doctors said we should euthanize him. “It would be cheaper and more humane,” they argued, but I cried so hard, I convinced Dad to live. Sometimes, Dad wishes he was dead, that he regrets being a burden to us. But he's not a burden. He's my dad.
Mom sets a bowl of sim-soup in front of him, placing a straw to his lips. It's not really soup, just water with a nutrient packet added. And it's imitation “beef,” the same flavor we have every day. I hate it. There's a picture of something called a cow on the package, but they're haven't been any cows since long before I was born. All the animals are dead.
Hands shaking, Mom places another bowl in front of me.
“Aren't you having any?” I ask.
Her stomach growls. “That's the last packet,” she says. “You need your strength today.”
I push the bowl toward her. “No, you have it. I'm not hungry. I should get this over with.”
“Vikka,” Mom says, “You don't have to do this! This isn't what we raised you for.”
“I know, but there's no choice. We all know that.”
I stand and kiss Dad's wrinkled cheek. His ash-gray beard scratches my lips. He's thirty-five, an old man approaching the end of his life. In five years, his genetic code will unravel and he'll be dead like every Drone who reaches forty. The corporations call death our “expiration date,” and justify it by saying anyone older is a drain on society. But of course, those rules don't apply to them.
I hug him and say, “I love you, Dad.”
He whispers, “Love you too.“
I kiss Mom, ruffling her close-cropped brown hair. There is more gray in it today, or maybe I haven't noticed 'til now. She's two years younger than Dad, but her body is already breaking down. It barely fills her rags anymore, and I worry she's determined to join him in death.
I head for the door. “I'll be back with the money as soon as I can.“
Mom rolls after me in her wheelchair, the stumps of her knees sticking out from under her blanket. “Vikka, wait! Don't do this. Let me go.”
“No,” I say. “You've done enough already. You can't go again.”
Mom hugs my waist tight, telling me to be careful, how brave I am, and how proud she is to have a daughter willing to sacrifice for her family. “Don't let them talk you into doing too much,” she says. “Just enough to pay the bill, OK?”
I don't answer.
“Please,” Mom begs. “We don't need anything else. You'll start your job soon. We'll have more money then, plus you can get in the factory's marriage lottery. Adding a husband's income to yours will go a long way toward—”
I cut her off by telling her what she wants to hear. “Don't worry, I know what to do.”
“Just what we need,” Mom reminds me. “Don't be a hero. No good ever comes of it.”
I pull my hair into a pony tail and slip on my breather—the oxygen mask required for travel. I check the tank. Half-full. Enough for an hour. I strap the tank on and turn to leave.
“Vikka,” Mom says, “thank you for doing this. I love you.”
“I know,” I say. “I love you too.” We hug again, and she isn't the only one reluctant to let go. I don't want to leave, but I have to.
DRONE Preview — Chapter 2: EVERYONE CONTRIBUTES
When I step out of the apartment airlock into the hallway, I'm greeted by graffiti on the walls, the same filthy garbage strewn everywhere. Thanks to the breather, I don't have to smell it.
I walk to the turbolift and hit the button, but it's broken again. That means I have to climb the service ladder. It's six floors to the lobby, and I almost slip when a loose rung pulls free. I watch it sail
down the dimly-lit shaft, clattering off the walls.
When I get to the bottom, I discover the body of Widow Kenjins, crumpled and bent in her blue jumpsuit. She must have slipped. I check for a pulse. There's none.
I know I'm the first to find her because her oxygen tank and breather are still here. I unhook the tank and use my multi-tool to siphon her air to mine. I wrap the now-empty tank in her jacket and take it with me. The jacket won't bring much, but the tank is worth a lot on the black market. Maybe enough that I won't have to go through with my plan.
I exit the Liv-Rite Apartments onto McAuliffe Circle and head toward Armstrong Avenue, avoiding the open sewer and potholes. There are a lot of disabled on the Dronetown streets: people missing limbs, hobbling on crutches, or using wheelchairs.
I look above the plasticrete skyline to the encircling Dome. The gray roof is impossible to see through. It always is, but I keep hoping someday I'll see the sun, the clouds, or some kind of weather. Anything but the everyday normal of cold, crisp nothing.
As I step onto Armstrong, I notice a new holoboard has been installed over the intersection. The 3-D image of a stern man's face instructs everyone to “WORK HARD AND OBEY,” then switches to a smiling woman saying, “EVERYONE CONTRIBUTES, EVERYONE LIVES.” The man and woman are of indeterminate age, at least as old as my parents, but healthier, more youthful looking. It is hard to tell how old the wealthy really are, since they don't die off at forty. They just go on forever, living off us like vampires.
A boy on an expensive white jetbike swoops by, the only person on the street not wearing rags. The Elite wear whatever they want, and he's wearing expensive black synth-leather. It's a riding suit with white racing stripes. I wonder what he's doing in this part of Alpha City. His kind don't normally come to Dronetown. I can't tell what he looks like under his helmet, but when he slows, I can tell he's looking at me.
I get self-conscious, not just because he's a guy, but because he's rich, an air-hog. The Elite live on Mansion Row, in the tall part of the Dome with the most “sky.” They're the families of the moguls and their corporate officers, the people who run Alpha City. Their air isn't rationed, nor are they limited to the one child per family policy of the government. The Elite don't care about trash like me. I've even heard stories about gangs of them snatching Drones for their parties, then dumping them in the gutter when they're done.
“What are you looking at?” I demand. The breather makes my voice harsh and modulated.
The guy revs his engine and speeds off. I'm relieved, but part of me wishes he'd given me a ride. It's another five blocks to the closest Trade-Mart, and every minute I save is more air to breathe.
Back in the Before Times, there were no domes. Air was free. The sun always shone, and there were real cows to eat. Everyone was happy. But there were too many people, and that ruined everything. Resources got scarce. Even the air became polluted. That led to wars, and whole countries fell apart. Governments couldn't be trusted. They started killing their own people.
The earth was dying.
The big, multinational companies banded together to form the New World Plutonomy, and the CEOs of these corporations became the moguls, the Council of Seven that rule us. They overthrew the old, elected governments and promised a glorious new future with food, shelter, and security for all. The NWP herded the willing into domed cities connected by subway tunnels so no one ever had to see the poisoned surface again. They said it was our only hope was to live inside the domes under their rules.
The NWP make the poor work in factories, telling us it's for our own good, and the good of the planet. The stuff we make keeps us alive, and allows us to trade with other cities for whatever goods we can't produce on our own. It also makes the moguls richer.
If we work long and hard enough, the NWP promises that someday, things can return to the way they were in the Before Times, only better. We can all live outside again…
Only not everyone believes them. There were some who questioned corporate rule, who wanted to see what life was like outside the domes. They said the Council of Seven were lying to us. They formed the Resistance, staging protests and strikes, calling for unions and a Worker's Bill of Rights. But unions are treason and punishable by death.
After the NWP executed many of the Resistance leaders, the ones who got away reformed in secret, renaming themselves the Revolution. They're terrorists who use assassinations and bombings to disrupt the corporations. Dad's injury was caused by them. I may not like the New World Plutonomy, but I hate the Revolution.
DRONE Preview — Chapter 3: BLACK MARKET
The Trade-Mart is a pawn shop in the worst part of Dronetown. The owner, Trader Nox, is a fence with connections to the black market. It's the only place I know I can sell the tank without being arrested.
The neighborhood gets rougher, more ruined-looking with every step. This is where the Unassigned live—Drones who refuse to work and survive by killing, thieving, and whoring. Security rarely patrols this area, either because they're afraid or because they've been bribed. Maybe both.
This is the most reckless thing I've ever done. I clutch the hidden tank tightly through the jacket. My pace quickens.
A tall punk with a blue mohawk leans out the doorway of an abandoned building. He leers and whistles. I cross the street to avoid him and run into a bald guy with a prosthetic hook for a hand.
“Hello, beauty!” he says with fake cheer. “Whatcha hiding under the jacket?”
“N-nothing,” I stammer.
His hook taps the jacket, clanking the tank underneath. “Nothing, huh? Then you won't mind giving it to me and my friend, and maybe something else…”
The punk with the mohawk circles behind me. He has hungry eyes and a crutch slung over his shoulder like a club.
I run and they give chase. If they catch me, I'm not just dead. I'm worse than dead. Behind me, I can hear the punks gaining.
The Trade-Mart is just up the street. I can see the garish red and gold sign promising more than safety:
FAST CASH
PAWN AND LOAN
BUY — SELL — TRADE
FREE OXYGEN WHILE YOU SHOP
An armed guard stands outside the airlock. I don't stop running 'til I reach him. “Help! Those guys are after me!” I turn and point at my pursuers.
The guard raises his blaster rifle. The two freaks stop chasing me.
“We didn't mean no harm,” the bald one grumbles. “Just having a bit o' fun, that's all.”
“Go have your fun somewhere else,” the guard replies. When neither punk moves, he fires a warning shot. The orange laser scorches the filthy pavement. The punks curse and retreat back the way they came.
“You want in?” the guard asks, indicating the airlock.
“Yeah. I've got something… special to sell. Is Trader Nox here?“
He nods and activates his wristcom. “Customer waiting, Wink. Code 12.”
There's a hiss of static before a male voice replies, “Copy that.”
The airlock opens. I step inside and wait. The door shuts behind me. A red light blinks on, and a robotic feminine voice says, “Remain still. Weapons scan in progress…”
I hug the tank and think about how much money it will bring. It has to be enough, it just has to.
The robotic voice says, “Scan complete. No weapons detected…” The red light turns green. “Welcome to Trade-Mart, where every deal is a good deal.”
The inner airlock opens. I step onto the selling floor. I take off my breather and turn off the tank. There's a mixed crowd shopping in the aisles: factory workers and Unassigned.
I recognize the Elite boy I saw earlier by his synth-leather jacket. His helmet's off, and he's chatting with a short-haired girl wearing Foodtronix green. Now I get it. He's slumming, looking for kicks from any Drone desperate enough to sell herself to him.
As I pass, the girl giggles at something the boy has whispered in her ear. He's about seventeen,
with chestnut hair and deep eyes of soulful brown. He smiles at me, but I don't return it.
I head toward the sales counter. On all sides, rows of household and personal items line the shelves to tempt me. I try not to notice.
Trader Nox peers at me from behind a reinforced window. He's a small man with beady eyes and snowy hair. He must be near his expiration date, yet seems horribly alive. “You the Code 12?” His voice is thin and nasal, with an unpleasant rasp.
“I guess so. I've, uh, got this jacket to sell and… something else.”
Nox leers at my body, licking his chapped lips.
I clear my throat and briefly expose the tank inside the jacket so only he can see it.
Nox pushes a button. There's a loud buzz and a heavy security door next to his window swings open.
I walk into a small room that's empty except for a surveillance camera and another armed guard. This one is maybe twenty, with short blonde hair. A jagged scar runs down the left-side of his face and he's wearing an eyepatch.
He keeps a hand on his holstered pistol and says, “Please put your items on the floor. I need to search you for any weapons the scanner may have missed.”
I set the tank on the floor. The jacket slides off.
“Arms out, legs spread.”
Again, I comply. The guard frisks me, but he's professional. His hands don't linger where they shouldn't.
“I need to ask you a few questions before the boss comes in,” the guard says. “Are you now, or have you ever been associated in any way with a member of the New World Plutonomy Security Service, or anyone acting on their behalf?”
“No,” I reply.
“Do you understand that it's bad luck to tell anyone about this transaction?”
“What?”
“People who talk tend to have ‘accidents,'” the guard explains. “You get my meaning?“
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