by Su J. Sokol
There’s an air of excitement, like before a good fight. It takes twenty-five minutes to make my way to Erin with all the people who stop me to talk. The eleven officers enter the hall together. A hush settles over the packed assembly and the two-way holo-chatter goes silent. I listen to the president speak. It’s mostly leadership spin. I zone out until a teacher from Queens stands up to oppose legislation that would lower the age to twelve for mandatory iris scanning.
“Requiring this at sixteen is bad enough. Can’t they have some time to be kids before their personal info is spread all over the national security database?”
I listen to her words. Childhood memories try to creep into my head. It’s difficult to breathe. I push myself to my feet, applauding to hide my discomfort.
Erin’s watching me with concern. I smile. “I’m just a little tired,” I tell her.
“Nightmares again?” she asks.
I shrug instead of answering.
“Close your eyes for a few minutes. I’ll let you know when we get to the important part.”
I shake my head but lean back anyway. The presentation consists of glossed-over proposals for givebacks. I try to listen but despite myself, I feel my eyelids close. Soon I’m walking the midwestern drylands. The odor of dust and ozone is suffocating. A sudden rainstorm. Water pouring down, filling my mouth and nostrils. Then it’s not a rainstorm because I’m inside and strapped down to a board. I can’t breathe. I jerk myself up and cough.
Erin’s hand is on my shoulder. “I think you might be getting sick,” she says.
“I’m OK.” I try to shake it off. The discussion has moved to proposals for privatizing services for special-needs students. Virtual classrooms. AI mentoring models. I drift off again.
I wake to Erin telling me that they’ve beamed the proposals. I begin to read. Halfway through I see it, buried between the “no strike” clause and the “duty to report.” I grab Erin’s arm. Show her the section. While she reads, I beam a message to our coalition. Confusion moves like a wave across the room. Zion, the delegate from the Music and Arts School in Boerum Hill, asks, “Does this mean what I think? They can’t expect us to turn our students in to Immigration.”
Some chapter leaders stand, try to ask questions. They’re cut off. Discussion of this item has been reserved for the legal subcommittee. We’re told that a newer version of the text will be beamed for next meeting. I look down at my screen. The proposals have been deleted at source.
After the meeting is over, our coalition briefly discusses how to respond, but everyone’s exhausted. It’s decided that a plan of action is premature before the subcommittee report. We disperse, but I still feel worked up. I lean against the building. Stare off at Union Square. There’s some commotion. I walk to the corner of Fourteenth. Cross the street. A homeless woman is being forcibly removed from the park by two cops. I step out from the darkness, am seen by them. The grip on her arm loosens. I decide it’s time to go home.
I find my bike where I parked it. Unlock it from the pole. Enter the codes to release the handlebars and brakes. I stow my stuff, get on and start riding down Broadway. I’m thinking about the meeting. About possible organizing strategies. Half a dozen blocks from my starting point, I wait at a red light. It turns green. A car arrives on my left. I roll into the intersection just as the driver turns right—directly into me!
Swerving, braking, and skidding, I stand up on my pedals and, feeling the heat of the car just inches from me, I smack the hood hard with the palm of my left hand. It screeches to a stop. I clear the intersection. As soon as I’m across, the driver pushes down on the pedal. The car jerks forward, disappearing down the block. I shake my head. Continue on my way. Not two blocks later, a gunmetal grey car—one of those models resembling an armored box—cuts me off and stops, blocking my path. The driver opens his passenger window. I lean over my handlebars.
“Can I help you?” I ask, trying to control my frustration. Behind me, horns are blaring as drivers steer around us. The man in the gunmetal car ignores this, looks me up and down and says: “You just went right through a red light.”
“I did not. I stopped. The driver of the car turned into me without even looking.”
“You think you own the road, don’t you? Goddamned bicycles.”
I wonder where all this road rage is coming from. Maybe he was caught in the Bike Strike this past weekend. I start to respond, angry myself, when he shows me his ID. Shit, a cop.
“Off the bike. Pull it over.”
I examine his car. It’s unmarked but through the open window I see the special screen, the scanners, other police tech. My senses sharpen. I follow his instructions, mind racing for ways to defuse the situation. He leaves the motor on. Activates the blue light hidden in the roof.
“Bare your wrist. Keep your other hand in plain view.”
I slip off my wrist band and extend my arm to him. I try to act casual. Will myself to keep my hand from shaking. “Listen, I really don’t think I went through the red light. I’m sorry for my reaction, though. It’s been a long day.”
“Are you armed?”
“What? No! I’m, I was just on my—”
“Up against the car.”
Quickly, I assume the position, hoping my cooperation will cool his temper. Instead, I realize I’ve made a big mistake.
“Done this before, haven’t you?” He sounds satisfied and excited at the same time.
I try to push my brain into a higher gear. “No. I watch a lot of real crime drama. You know the one with the tall blond policewoman who’s partners with that guy—”
“Shut up and don’t move.”
He begins to read the text that’s come up on his screen. My heart is racing. I need to know what he’s seeing, but it’s impossible from my angle. Scrolling down with his thumb, he turns to me. “Maybe I should take you downtown, run your Uni through the big federal database. Then we’ll have a nice little chat, just the two of us.”
My mouth gone dry, I don’t reply. What has he noticed? I’ve tried to stay off the grid as much as possible. Used my Uni only when absolutely necessary. Up until now I haven’t had a real problem. Even when I made my application to teach in the public school system, everything went smoothly. Making good on the assurances I’d been given about how my Uni was altered.
I watch the cop carefully. Try to calculate my next move. I’m leaning forward against his car, seemingly calm, but the muscles in my arms are tensed, ready to push up and away, my legs set to spring and run. How long would it take for me to reach my bike, to mount it and flee? On my bike, I could go places it’d be hard for him to follow—the sidewalk, against traffic, into narrow alleys. But there are no narrow alleys in this part of town. Realistically, I have little chance of evading him for long. He has my ID on his screen. And if he’d intended to take me in, he’d’ve simply done it. Not bothered to threaten me with it. If I run, he’ll take me in for sure. Even knowing this, I want to flee so badly it takes every ounce of my strength to remain here, posed against his car, wondering what’s coming next.
He stops reading. Approaches me. He’s not carrying handcuffs. But he’s strapped a phaser stick to his belt. He begins by sliding his hands down my arms and checking my shirt pockets. I try not to flinch. He stops. Puts his hand flat against my chest.
“Scared, aren’t you?” he asks in a low voice.
“No.”
“Your heart’s going a mile a second. What are you hiding? Tell me.”
“Nothing … Well, I’m a teacher. I guess you saw that on the screen?”
“So what.”
“I can get into trouble, maybe lose my job.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
“They’re very strict at my school.” This is not a total lie.
“I had a teacher once who told me I’d never amount to anything.”
“That’s terrible.”
“You talk too much. Shut the fuck up.”
He continues his search, his hand still on
my chest, like he wants to monitor my heart rate. His other hand slides down my stomach to my belt. Then down my back. I know he doesn’t actually expect to find a weapon. Otherwise he wouldn’t perform a pat-down in such an unorthodox way. As he’s guessed, I’ve been searched before. So what’s his game?
He’s now moving his hands very slowly below the back of my belt. I’m wondering how long he’s going to leave his hand on my ass; then he slides it between my legs and to the front.
I jerk my body back, away from his hand, feel my shoulder make contact. He grabs me and slams me hard against his car. I feel his phaser stick across the back of my neck, my face and windpipe crushed against the metal as he lurches at me from behind.
“Like it this way?”
I feel his hot breath against my ear. Struggle to turn my head to the side. I suck in some air. Breathe out, “Fuck you.” He takes his phaser stick from my neck and smacks me on the hip. The volt sends an agonizing spasm of pain down my left leg and across my crotch.
“Or you can taste my stick.” He prods me with it from behind.
I don’t trust myself to speak. He waits, then hauls me up by the back of my shirt.
“Spread’em. This time don’t move.”
I do as he says. He continues from where he left off. I will myself to be perfectly still as I picture my fist smashing into his face. No, I despise violence. But as the search goes on, similar images keep coming into my head. I try to push them away. I concentrate on taking deep, even breaths. If I have to feel this cop’s hands on my body for much longer, I don’t know how I’ll control myself. No, I’ve gotten through worse. If this is all he’s after, I’m pretty sure I’ll be allowed to go home in the end. Home. I focus on that instead. Home and keeping my family safe.
He removes his hands. Tells me I can get up. I push myself away from the car and start to turn around, not looking at him. He grabs me and throws me against his car again, smacking my forehead against its thick, hot metal.
“Did I tell you to turn around?”
When I don’t answer, he gives me another jolt from his phaser. I barely keep to my feet, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me on my knees.
Then he tells me to open my belt.
TWO
Laek
I’m walking the streets of New Metropolis. Everything’s sketchy, blurry. Faded street signs, hard to make out. I haven’t been here since I was young. Since before I met Janie. But I came here a lot when I was a kid. When I first invented this place. I focus hard, recalling details. The grid reforms around me.
A purple flower bobs in the light wind. I kneel down and caress its velvety petals with my fingertip. Inside the dome where The Community lived, there were no flowers. Not in the middle of the drylands. We were hidden beyond the drought farms, the burnt-out towns. Under the dome, we had our own weather. Artificial lightning. Thunder so loud, my ears pounded with pain.
I check the street sign against my memory of where I am in New Metropolis. In our domed community, none of the streets were named. It didn’t matter because there was no way out. No way to even dig down below. I know because I tried. He said it was our duty to stay inside. Where our environment was a weather experiment. Where a deal with the government kept us fed. And off the grid. And under the power of one powerful man. How bright my mother’s eyes burned when she looked at him. But his eyes looking back were so cold.
New Metropolis has real streets. I named them all when I was eight. I wander over to the central square. Let the water from the fountain run over my hands. I try to wash the dust from my face, from my neck. But it’s not dust I see mixing with the water. It’s blood.
I shove my hands into my pockets. Can I feel my hands? I make them into fists. The nails dig into my palms. Keep walking, I tell myself. It’s safe here. No one can find you. No one can hurt you. Let your mind drift from your body. Your body’s strong. It can take care of itself.
I allow myself to run through the streets of New Metropolis, looking for other people. I don’t like to be alone. All that time in the Thinking Place, in that small, locked room. I tried to make them talk to me. When they left me food. Everyone was too afraid to disobey. And my mother? Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she didn’t really know what went on.
New Metropolis has lots of people. I recorded all the demographic data. Created political parties. Held elections. I built schools and big green parks. And lots of playgrounds. I go to one now. See an empty swing. I sit down and start swinging. I go higher and higher, pumping my legs into the air. I can feel my pulse beating in my head, my breath tightening, but I push through it, push until I’m free. I decide to keep swinging until it’s over. I swing for a very long time.
*
I land hard. His voice has pulled me out, back to the streets of New York. Telling me, for what’s clearly not the first time, that I can get up and get the hell out of here. That he’s decided to let me off with a warning. I close my belt. Notice the bright red marks on my palms.
I continue my ride down Broadway, shaking my head to clear it. It feels like hours have gone by. I see it’s been less than twenty-five minutes. I ride slowly, stopping at each light. I look over my shoulder, check the traffic in all directions. Even normally, I’m an unusually conscientious cycler. Most people who commute by bike don’t follow all the traffic rules, written and designed for cars. But I prefer to follow a rule when there’s no good reason to break it. Breaking rules has been necessary enough in my life. I stop my bike, confused. Where am I?
I see the sign for Great Jones. I’m tempted to go down to Mott Street, access the narrow twisty lanes of Chinatown. There, I could shake anyone who might be following me. But I have a better idea. One that doesn’t involve me going anywhere near One Police Plaza. I ride all the way to Bowery, then find the Manhattan Bridge bike path.
Biking across the East River, my mind keeps going back to Broadway. My body bent over the police car. I pull myself away. Focus on the ride and my surroundings. It’s hard to keep it out though, so I’m halfway across the river when I wonder about the remark the cop made about his teacher. Did that really happen or was he playing me, even then? I try to put him out of my mind but I keep feeling him behind me. Pedal, I tell myself. Just keep pedaling.
Once in Brooklyn, I take Flatbush all the way to Grand Army Plaza. Make my way into Prospect Park. I take the circular Park Drive, not slowing on the long climb. When I get back to the place where I started, 3.35 miles later, I begin again, this time faster. I go around a third time. Remove my shirt. I breathe in the darkness, grateful for the broken street lamps.
I let myself drift into a cycling zone. Round and round. Faster and faster. Each circuit gets easier. How many times around have I gone? Six, no, seven times. That’s more than 20 miles and I’m not even winded. But, as I look down on the screen of my bike to see how fast I’m going, I suddenly realize how long I’ve been riding in circles and that it’s almost 1 a.m., the park curfew. The Prospect Park Southwest exit comes up and I take it, like a kid stuck in a revolving door who finally stumbles, dizzy, into the street.
I’m OK now. I’m covered in sweat and my body aches, but I’m relaxed and calm. Empty of emotion. Ready to move on. I pedal home. Wipe the sweat off my face with my shirt.
I carry my bike downstairs to the basement apartment. Hang it on the hook mounted on the wall. I peel off my clothes, dump them in the bin, head for the shower. I turn on the hot water and step under before it’s hot. I shut the water, soap up, vigorously cleaning every surface of myself, every crevice. I rinse with the still-cold water coming out of the hot tap. I soap up and repeat the process. The water’s begun to get warm, quickly turning hot. I let it run over me for as long as I can stand it. I switch to cold, remaining still as the freezing water pours over me.
I step out of the shower. Pat myself dry. Walk down the hall. I check on Siri and Simon. All is quiet. I enter my own bedroom and slip under the sheet. As I review the events of the day, it’s only then that
I begin to tremble. Bitter anger, terror, exhaustion, I let it all pour through me. Almost instantly, Janie wraps herself around me. My tremors slow, then stop. I lie quietly in her arms. She asks me what happened, if I want to talk. I say no, that I’m OK. For once, she doesn’t press me and I’m grateful. Then she kisses me, opening her lips against mine. I kiss her back, then turn away, telling her I’m sorry, that I need to sleep. She says it’s OK, that she’s tired too. She snuggles up against me and I feel safer, her breath soft against my neck.
A long time later, I’m still awake, struggling to keep my thoughts from slipping backwards. I give up trying to sleep and instead think about the next day’s classes. The week’s lessons have already been planned. Tomorrow’s subject: the social contract.
THREE
Janie
My heart wakes before my head, telling me something’s wrong without knowing what it is. I glance over at Laek sleeping, his long arms and legs sticking out from under the sheet, and the memory of our fight last night comes flooding back. Shit! Did I really tell him to fucking grow up and live in the real world? Laek, of all people, with the childhood he had? I saw the hurt look on his face, and when the hurt changed to anger.
I watch him sleep for a few minutes. Laek’s eyelids seem almost violet under his thick, dark lashes. He looks so peaceful, innocent—a dramatic contrast to the set jaw and scalding eyes of last night. Maybe he didn’t mean the things he said either.
The morning already feels hot as a bitch, so I peel the sheet away from my damp skin, wondering what time it is. I grope the side of the headboard. A radiating sun holo, followed by text, takes form just above my knees: 6:02 A.M, 94°, Alert Level AMBER. The display doesn’t disturb Laek. A marching band parading across our bed probably wouldn’t wake him either. Maybe his ability to sleep deeply accounts for why he seems to need so little of it. Then again, he doesn’t always sleep well. I think about the nightmares he’s been having recently. A wave of protectiveness douses the last flames of my temper. My anger is quick to ignite and burns hot, but never lasts long. Some say it’s my red hair, but I think it’s more how I do everything fast. Quick to anger, quick to forgive. In other words: next, next, next. Or maybe that’s a bit simplistic. I also hate being at odds with people, especially people I love.