“So your grandmother was Elena Reed? She’s where you got your name?”
“Yes. How did you—”
“Kino’s wall.” He leans forward. “Did you know, growing up? I mean, who she was?”
“No. Not until the end.”
“Floodlight.” He shakes his head. “My folks listened to her podcast as far back as I can remember. Momma swore anything she said was gospel. She cried when…well, when it was all over.”
I don’t want to talk about it. I turn to the window and bite my nails.
History texts call Grandma’s generation the Lost Ones, but just in passing. Teachers talk about them quickly, always ready to move on. But Grandma was a great storyteller, which made sense when she finally told me about Floodlight.
Grandma said people spent a lot of time imagining the future when she was a kid. In movies, books and music, they thought up utopias, dystopias. They wrote about technology taking over or disappearing altogether. Most of all they imagined change.
It’s not surprising. She was born during the dawn of cell phones and cyberspace, after analog gave way to digital. When plasma fought with LCD, then disappeared for LED, 3D and pixel paint. Satellites crowded the atmosphere. Electronic books were born, everyone began storing data on the cloud. Transportation engineers built the first bullet train and laid the first mag tracks. Gaming systems mimicked movement. Robots performed surgery and medicine got smart. Retinal grafts got to be as popular as tattoos. The first nanochips were installed, then the first tragus implants, allowing us to sync our data with any device we hold.
Everyone looked to the future and wondered what next?
Grandma said people rush to extremes, but never settle on the truth. No one knew the great technological advances characterizing the past two centuries would stagnate, too gradually to be noticed.
And the change?
People celebrated it. Then they fought over what it meant, who had the right to make it happen, and who should just shut up. But they didn’t understand. It was happening with or without their permission, and never how they envisioned it. Like a pebble you nudge with your foot, only to watch it roll down a hill and start an avalanche. You could have stopped the pebble, but why would you? How could you know it would destroy a town, a city, a nation?
“We were rich and spoiled,” Grandma said, “throwing away more food than we ate, living from one form of entertainment to the next. Offended by everything, we grew weaker still, building bubbles around our opinions, enraged by anyone who shared ideas not matching the most popular narrative. War and disease caught us unprepared, which is why most of us didn’t survive.”
A bell tolls. The cafeteria doors slam inward and a rush of students press toward the chow line.
“It’s a good day,” Zak says. “Hot food for everyone since the UN inspector is coming Monday. We always eat better right before a visit.”
The students are dirty and skinny, every last one of them, and too quiet for teenagers. Exhausted or hopeless. Maybe both. When they fill the tables, they fall on their food in silence. About half of them wear brown uniforms. The rest wear mustard.
“What’s with the uniforms?”
“Mick yellow for underclassmen, scat brown for upper.” He laughs. “You noticing a theme?”
A second wave of students is hitting the cafeteria, cutting off my response. I spot her right away — Riley Paca — a girl I knew from the Sand. One I hoped never to see again. Recognizing her in a crowd of kids doesn’t seem possible. She’s shorter than average, for one thing. She also has dark hair and brown eyes, just like most of us. Maybe my guilt makes her familiar, storing her features where I can get to them quickly. Riley must sense the same awful connection because she turns from the chow line and finds me in the crowd. Shock crosses her face like an eclipse, draining her cheeks of color then returning it in scarlet fury. Seconds pass. Then she is pushing kids out of her way, knocking chairs aside and climbing over the table to wrap her hands around my throat.
Chapter Four
Riley
* * *
“I’ll kill you!”
My voice is dull and distant through a red veil of rage. The cafeteria disappears and I lunge across the table, just so I can feel Reed’s worthless pulse between my fingers. I’m losing my mind and don’t even care. Every horrible thing that’s happened over the past few years will be right again, if only I can make him suffer.
“Riley, no!” Warm hands grip my shoulders. “You’re upsetting Sam.”
Oliver’s right. Sam stands next to the table with stiff arms, his fingers splayed and shaking. His face is screwed up in pain, as if I was choking him, not Reed.
Rage evaporates like fog. My fingers relax. Oliver does the rest and pulls me backward. With his arm around my shoulder, he aims me toward the door and waves to Mr. Haak, who hasn’t done much more than step away from his favorite spot by the door.
“I’ve got this, Mr. Haak.”
Haak nods to Oliver and I marvel at the respect he gives him. My friend, O, the golden hero.
Oliver leads me outside. Sam follows. He seems better, but not well. When we reach the fountain, I take a deep breath and try to take his hand, to duck under his curls and make contact with his chocolate eyes, but he backs away, so I keep my distance.
“I’m sorry, Sam. I won’t do it again. I promise.”
Sam nods and begins to pace.
“Let’s sit down,” Oliver says, but he doesn’t. He never sits if he can help it. Usually he rocks from one foot to the other. Today he squats in front of me so we’re eye to eye. Two girls pass by in mick uniforms, watching him. One glares at me. The other giggles. Oliver ignores them both.
“Who is he?”
“Reed Paine.” I stare at the cafeteria door, then at my hands. “He’s the reason I’m here.”
He waits, but I don’t elaborate. It’s not the full truth, but close enough. Enough to remind me of a time I wish I could forget.
A couple of years ago, Reed was just a boy at my core academy back in the Sand. I didn’t even notice him in fifth year, but by seventh, he and his best friend had one purpose in life — to annoy me. Reed wasn’t an individual, he was part of a set. Reed and Jaxon, boys who swaggered. A year earlier they might have passed me the ball in PE, but in seventh, they threw it at my head. They spit on the pavement, right where I was about to step, and snorted or rolled their eyes whenever either of them was paired with me for an assignment.
Worst of all, they followed me home and rode their mag boards back and forth in front of my building, just so they could ogle my older sister.
Lexie was truly beautiful. Take my black hair and brown eyes and make them shine with everything admirable, then you’ll have an idea of what my sister was like. I never cared if she was the pretty one because she was also the sweet one. She always had time for me, even though I was five years younger. Whether braiding my hair or playing dolls with me, she was always there, even promising to stay in touch when she moved away for guild training.
But none of that happened. Instead, she caught Reed and Jaxon peeking through her bedroom window one evening like a couple of pervs. Her ear-piercing scream drew my father from his game show. The boys had nowhere to run. It had been tricky to climb onto our balcony and our residence was four flights up.
My father was a traditional man. His parents came here as refugees from a country called Iraq, which is gone now, just like the United States. “Swallowed by warlords with guns but no sense,” Baba said. It was always easy to set him off. He would just start ranting and wouldn’t stop until he had told us, again, about his parents, who were promised freedom but instead died sick and miserable in a country torn apart by the same kind of war they had left behind.
“They should have joined the Exodus.” Tears filled his eyes. “All their cousins survived the contagion, just by returning home.”
My mother always pretended to agree. “And then our daughters would have been born in the Islamic State,
and safely married by now.”
Baba’s eyes always cleared when she said that. Then he would touch her cheek and return to his crossword puzzle. Mama was good at calming him down, but she wasn’t home that night. Baba dragged Reed and Jaxon through the apartment and out the front door, lecturing them all the way. By the time their parents arrived, a crowd had gathered, including two policemen.
We didn’t know Jaxon’s father was a government official, but I saw how angry he was, tucking Jaxon behind his back, poking his finger in my father’s face. The next day, the police were back, this time arresting Baba for seditious public speech. When they found banned books hidden in my mother’s closet, they arrested her too.
I haven’t seen them since. Hope is all I have — hope they are still alive.
Social workers took Lexie and me to a reeducation facility not far from our residence, but she didn’t last long. She screamed in terror as uniformed men dragged her out of bed one night. It’s a sound I’ll never forget. I tried to stop them, but was kicked out of the way like some alley cat. A year later, when they brought me to the House, I hoped I would find her here. She was already gone.
Director Kino’s welcome speech left me with little doubt about where Lexie is now. She is much too pretty to fight terrorists.
I try not to think about it, but when I do, I’m so full of anger, fear, and nausea, I feel like I’m drowning. I’d do anything to find her. To save her. But I don’t know how. All I know is this — if it hadn’t been for Reed and Jaxon, she would be safe, studying for a new job through her guild, and I would be home with my parents.
Oliver touches my shoulder. “Are you going to be okay?”
“Yes. I’m always okay.”
My response is automatic, but my hands are clenched, my dirty fingernails cutting half-moon circles into my palms. I imagine them returning to Reed’s throat, finishing the job.
So how am I ever going to keep my promise to Sam?
I’ve been at the House for six months. At first I was so miserable thinking about Lexie, I refused to focus on anything beyond my own shoulders. I lived in a bubble, doing what I was told. I ate, I slept, and I ignored the girls in my dorm. To me, it never mattered how much work we did or how pointless our lessons were. I understood quickly. Only the suck-ups would get sent back to the Sand. Since I’m not good at faking anything, I’ve always known my future lies in work or war.
Sam was the one who got me to see past myself. Sam and Oliver.
Oliver has the kind of personality that is impossible to ignore. He takes over a room and fills up all the blank space as soon as he walks in. He also makes a point of talking to everyone. He sat down next to me in the cafeteria one day and told me he was transferred to the House just a few months before me.
“From the Western or Eastern Sand?”
“Chicago.”
My eyes widened. Chicago isn’t controlled by the UDR, but by the Mafia.
“Then how did you—”
“It’s a long story.”
Oliver’s not like the rest of us at the House. Beaten down, too tired to think, too traumatized by whatever brought us here to do much more than exist. When Kino comes through the classrooms or fields, pushing just the right buttons on just the right student, Oliver stands upright, indestructible, frustrating her. Some mornings he shows up to breakfast with bruises on his face and I know he was up in her plush office the night before, getting the tar beaten out of him. Still, he won’t rise to her bate, won’t shrink from any job she gives him.
Sam is different: tall and lanky with dark, unruly curls. He sat by me in language arts but kept his head down. Never said a word. Wrapped up in myself, I ignored him like I ignored everyone else.
One night as I was headed back to the dorms from the common room, Oliver showed up out of nowhere. His eyes were wide, and he had blood on his shirt.
“Can you help me?”
I followed him around the dorms, beyond the munitions plant, toward the train yard. Sam was leaning against the maintenance garage; his nose bleeding, his eye swollen shut.
Oliver got him on his feet.
“What happened?”
“Brock and Xu,” Oliver said.
“They beat him up? Why?”
Oliver didn’t answer.
We made our way slowly toward the Med Center with Sam between us. Oliver bore most of Sam’s weight since I’m so short. Climbing the stairs wasn’t easy. Sam pushed away from us as soon as we got to the door.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I tried to touch his shoulder, the way my mother used to comfort me, but he shrank back.
“Sorry,” he said again.
Oliver opened the door and waited until Sam walked through. “He doesn’t like being touched,” he murmured.
The Med Center was empty, which was not a surprise. Mr. Vardelos is the campus nurse, but he’s almost never around. Someone told me he’s a drunk, spending most of his time at Dinah’s Place or in his cottage in faculty housing, but I don’t know if that has anything to do with it. Seems like half the adults back in the Sand live their lives through the haze of alcohol or weed.
Sam sat in a chair while Oliver grabbed a first aid kit.
“Not much here.” He shook his head.
I examined the cut on Sam’s cheek, but tried not to touch him. He flinched whenever I got too close. “Any butterfly bandages?”
“No.”
We eventually found some surgical glue and did our best to patch him up. Sam didn’t say anything when we walked back to the dorms. He didn’t even look at me before going inside.
Oliver found me the next day in the library.
“Thanks for your help last night.”
I nodded. “How’s Sam today?”
“He looks awful. Feels worse. He’s a pretty tough guy, though. Doesn’t complain.” He fiddled with his collar. “Last night, you asked me why.”
“Yes.”
He squinted at the window. “Sam’s different. Some people can’t handle it. They don’t think they should have to.”
He picked up my tablet and did a quick web search before setting it back in front of me. “He could use a friend.”
Oliver walked away and I picked up my tablet, which was open to a popular tabloid. The story was about Hollywood’s most famous couple, Jasmine Rush and Tom Hayward, their meteoric rise and fall from fame, and the baby they had against doctor’s orders when prenatal tests told them he would be neurologically different.
They named him Samuel.
Chapter Five
Reed
* * *
By the time I reach the potato fields, everyone has heard about it. Some stare. Others snicker and exaggerate the story in loud whispers. I am the boy in pajamas who got beat up by a girl half his size.
The boy who pulled Riley off me in the cafeteria is part of my workforce conditioning crew. His name is Oliver Penn and he’s been watching me ever since. He watches Riley too, since — because I’m such a lucky guy — she’s on my crew as well. His expression when he examines me is mostly a question mark, but Riley clearly has his admiration. I wonder if she’s his girlfriend.
If she is, what kind of trouble is he going to give me?
I glance toward her. She glares back and I lower my head, focusing on the potatoes at my feet. What else can I do? How would I even begin to apologize for what I’ve done?
Jaxon and I were idiots. I never should have let him talk me into climbing onto Lexie’s balcony. I told myself it was just a prank — nothing to get worked up over. Even when Dad took me home and lectured me that night, I was most upset about getting caught. He talked about respect for others and choosing friends with care while I sat there with my arms crossed, staring over his shoulder. Like I was bored. Now he’s dead and I wish I had that moment back to do over. But one thing I’ve learned: there’s no going back.
Maybe there’s a certain justice in being here, imprisoned just like Riley. Then I think of her parents and Lexie.
I think about my folks and remember, there’s no such thing as justice.
I squat and dig for another potato. It’s hard work and my back aches after only half an hour. I spot Xoey several rows over. She wipes her hands on her pants, leaving streaks of dirt. Our eyes meet and I think she tries to smile, but her mouth won’t cooperate. Something about her seems even more haunted than she did last night, but what could have happened between now and then?
Oliver digs across from me and beams like he’s loving every minute of it.
“What’s your deal?”
He shrugs. “They think this is punishment, but they’re teaching us to survive without them. Did you ever think of that?”
I’ll admit, I hadn’t.
“It gets easier. The first day is always tough, though yours has been rougher than most, I expect.” He glances at Riley. “You want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“Can you at least tell me if you deserved it?”
I wipe my sleeve across my brow. I’d never admit it, but my throat hurts. It feels like Riley’s hands are still there. “Yeah, I guess I did.”
We harvest in silence for another hour. My stomach growls. Turnip mush isn’t filling. Then again, I’m used to hunger. With food shortages from Sand to Sand, I don’t know anyone who isn’t.
I straighten up and examine the skyline beyond the fences. It spreads out across a wide, flat valley in three directions. Just a stone’s throw to the east it’s interrupted by a rocky ridge jutting out of the ground. The fence climbs over it at odd angles, leaving part of it within the campus, though I don’t like to imagine what the Sentribots would do if I decided to go for a hike.
Like most citizens, I’ve lived my whole life in the Sand. Stories about Dirt living are a mixture of fact and fiction — the bandits and pockets of rebellion, the abandoned cities and those taken over by drug lords. The Red Zone, Chinese territories, reservations, and refugee camps. All of it burdened with constant war. The government likes to throw around the word united, but we’re not.
Stealing Liberty Page 3