Stealing Liberty

by Jennifer Froelich

  “She said my brain doesn’t work right.”

  “That’s stupid. You’re the smartest guy I know!”

  “She’s not worth your anger, man,” Adam adds. “She’s not even worth your time.”

  My tragus implant chimes and Luna tells me the hour. “Listen, this is great, sharing our mutual disgust for Ms. Lura and everything, but we already missed curfew. If we don’t head back now, we’re—”

  I stop talking when all their eyes suddenly focus over my shoulder.

  “You’re going to be in big trouble,” says a voice behind me. “Is that what you were going to say?”

  Chapter 9

  Riley

  * * *

  They give detention at the House?

  It’s news to me. I thought a single broken rule meant a quick trip to the labor camps or, worse, the front line. Haak must have thought so too, otherwise he wouldn’t have been muttering, “Good riddance,” as he marched us up to Kino’s office.

  We waited outside with Chad and Monica while she interrogated us one by one. I’m sure she wanted to compare our stories, but there’s always more to it.

  Sam was the most upset. I know he was thinking this was all his fault, that if he hadn’t taken off right before curfew, none of us would have been searching for him and gotten ourselves in trouble.

  I don’t blame Sam, though. I blame Reed.

  Well, I can’t exactly blame him, but something’s not right. He was in Kino’s office way longer than any of us. Then when he came out, we got detention instead of being expelled, which seemed to hack off Monica.

  I don’t know what’s going on, but I intend to find out.

  The next afternoon, while everyone else heads to the warehouses, Kino has all six of us report to the library. Monica meets us out front.

  “Your detention for the next several weeks will be cleaning up the fire damage in the library,” she says. “We may have an important visitor next spring. We want our campus looking its best.”

  Tilting my head back, I stare up at the gaping hole in the second floor. I don’t care about any visitor. Sounds like a headache to me. But the library used to be my favorite place on campus. Even though most of the books were removed long ago and replaced with data research consoles, it still had hidden alcoves, antique chairs and brass lamps, giving it an out-of-time feel. It was a good place for pretending I was somewhere else, living another life in a different time.

  Monica is giving us a list of rules, but I’m only half listening. It’s pretty straightforward. The fire started on the second floor and spread both up and down before it was contained. When a section of the second floor collapsed, everything fell through to the first floor. Our job is to clear out the mess, one floor at a time. Haak will supervise.

  As soon as Monica walks away, he ushers us inside and finds a chair near the staircase.

  “Get to it, then.” He leans back and closes his eyes. Pretty sure he’ll be snoring before long.

  “Does anyone know how the fire started?” Xoey is pale and has moved closer to Reed. I wonder what’s up between the two of them.

  “No one knows,” says Oliver. “It happened a few months ago. Ever since then, the building’s been locked up.”

  “Not completely,” Xoey mumbles.

  I follow her gaze down a dark corridor to the left. “What do you mean?”

  She shakes her head. Meanwhile, Oliver removes caution tape draped across the staircase.

  “Let’s see how bad it is,” he says.

  Our shoes echo on the staircase as we climb to the second floor, making us sound like a larger crew. The air upstairs is thick with dust. It swirls around us, making me cough. I smell burned wood and melted plastic, which gets stronger as we approach the north wing (the section I used to love). It’s tragic now. Just rows of oak shelving charred and collapsed, scorch marks on the walls and across the ceiling. Wires, insulation, and melted plastic everywhere. Part of the west wall and most of the roof is burned away. Leaves, broken branches, mud, and sand have found their way inside, adding to the mess. I tiptoe toward the gaping hole in the floor and peer down at the destruction below.

  “This is going to take forever.”

  “It might not be so bad,” says Reed. He’s such an idiot.

  “Maybe not on this floor, where we have fresh air coming in,” says Oliver. “But when we move downstairs, or up into the attic space…”

  “We should be wearing masks,” Reed says. “Buildings from this era had dangerous stuff in their walls. Lead, asbestos…”

  “Kino’s not giving us masks,” I say. “You think she cares if we get cancer?”

  “Cancer?” Sam squeezes his brow into a frown, more miserable than ever, imagining, I’m sure, we’re already inhaling poisonous fumes and it’s all his fault.

  I glare at Reed. Why did he have to bring it up?

  “Don’t worry, Sam. Like Oliver said, there’s fresh air up here, and we’ll make sure to air out the other floors while we work, okay?”

  Sam glares at me. He hates it when I treat him like a child. “Reed could be right.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Reed interrupts me. “I have an idea. What if we take off our undershirts and wear them over our faces while we work. Like this.” He unzips his uniform and pulls it down to his waist, right here in the library, then pulls off his undershirt and wraps it around his mouth and nose.

  “See?” His voice is muffled by the shirt, but I can tell he’s proud of himself.

  I put my hands on my hips. “Are you kidding me?”

  “What?” He glances down at his bare chest then back up at me. “Is this too much for you to handle?”

  I roll my eyes and twist away, just in case I’m blushing. “Where are we supposed to put this stuff?”

  “Out the east windows.” Oliver starts throwing them open. “There’s a parking lot down there. No one uses it.” He’s smiling like an idiot, like he always does when work is involved. I’ve never seen anyone with so much energy. Still, I follow his lead and start dragging debris toward the windows. I have to admit, it makes a satisfying sound when it smashes to the pavement below.

  We work until dinnertime, which is delayed by half an hour for one of Kino’s speeches, then by the Short Timers, who are always fed first, leaving nothing good for the rest of us. Tonight they slow down the line intentionally, demonstrating what Kino said in her speech about the perks of signing a confession and being “exemplary students.”

  I wait impatiently for my pig slop, rocking from one sore foot to the other, aching in new places. Like me, Xoey has blisters all over her hands. She’s so quiet (except when she’s screaming in the middle of the night) I sometimes forget she’s there. She’s a hard worker, though. We’re all covered in white dust and I can’t help wondering if Reed is right. Maybe Kino only kept us around because she needed someone to do this job. Someone expendable.

  It takes more than a week to clear the second floor. Oliver manages to get some tools from Haak (sledgehammers, Readybeams, saws, brooms, and crowbars) which makes the work a little easier. A huge dumpster appears in the empty parking lot on the second day. We spend it cleaning up all the debris we threw out the window the day before.

  From now on, we’ll aim more carefully.

  The work is hard. Cuts and blisters cover my hands and the bits of insulation give me a rash if I’m not careful to keep my sleeves rolled down. We’ve all followed Reed’s example, fashioning ourselves masks out of clothing. I just hope it makes a difference.

  Reed finds ways to irritate me every day, but at least having him on the crew means I can keep an eye on him. He watches everyone too, which makes me wonder. Sometimes, when he thinks no one’s paying attention, his eyes glaze over, haunted by something. I wish I knew what it was. When his face goes white like that, I almost feel…well, it doesn’t matter, because it’s not hard to push those feelings away. All I have to do is think about Lexie.

  The other students on campus have
come to see us as a unit, nicknaming us the six-pack. I should have expected it. Our work schedule is out of sync with everyone else’s, meaning we get to the cafeteria a little too early or a little too late. We always sit together. It’s the same in the common room at night, where everyone give us a wide berth. Except for Oliver, of course. He’s welcome everywhere.

  At night, Adam, Reed, and Oliver spend a lot of time talking about the upcoming tackle draft. I have a player or two I might enter, but I’m not obsessed. Plus, Sam hates sports, so I often sit with him while he tinkers with broken tablets or messes around online.

  We haven’t told anyone, but Sam figured out a way to hack into the school’s Cit-Track system. He hasn’t changed anything. He’s like a ghost, invisibly wandering through the program to see how it works. That’s how he found out it cycles offline every few days for updates, leaving batches of students unmonitored in random intervals. Sam doesn’t know this, but one morning, I tested it, sneaking away from the fields during a rainstorm to see if the Cit-Track noticed. It didn’t. Nobody else did either. I’m waiting for the right time to talk to him about trying it again.

  Xoey sits by herself, staring at whatever is streaming on the closest pixel wall. I don’t think she watches it. Sometimes she talks to Sam. Reed tries to draw her into conversation now and then, but she doesn’t have much to say, even to him. On Sunday mornings, she disappears for a while. I don’t know where she goes, but she always squares her shoulders like she’s marching off to her death. When she gets back, she’s quiet and pale.

  Some students are suspicious of our workload. Despite our cuts and blisters, despite the way we stumble in covered with white dust, these are the kids who are convinced we’re getting away with something. Xu and Brock lead the cry.

  “Not surprising the freak got light duty,” Brock says loudly one night. He bumps Sam with his shoulder. Several kids laugh, but Adam steps in.

  “You know what, Brock?” He leans in close and sniffs the air. “You smell like mick.”

  I find Sam later in the evening in the blackberry bushes. His face is stony. I just sit down next to him and wait.

  After several minutes he heaves a bone-rattling sigh. “Just because I don’t know what to say, doesn’t mean I don’t…” He stops, sitting quietly for another minute before slapping his head. It’s something he does when he’s upset, and it always hurts. Me, not him.

  “Don’t, Sam. Please.”

  He stops, but doesn’t look any happier.

  Sam is one of the smartest people I know. He’s funny and thoughtful, honest and gentle. His mind keeps track of details I can’t even begin to understand. He just worries a lot, fixates on things, and can’t get his language to keep up with his brain. I can’t imagine how frustrating it is, feeling out of sync. Trapped, even, by words.

  I’m surprised when Reed ducks under the blackberry branches a few minutes later.

  “Hey Sam. Can you help me find something? It’s a blog.” He crouches down and whispers. “It’s hidden on an underground website, which is even hard to find on the dark net. I think it jumps servers or something. Do you think you can help?”

  “Maybe.”

  Sam is already unfolding his long legs and rising to follow Reed. I wait until they are gone then smile in spite of myself. Sam’s answer is always “maybe,” but he’ll be able to find the rebel blog. And, despite how I feel about Reed, I’m grateful to him.

  Chapter 10

  Reed

  * * *

  Tackle used to be called tackle football, or just football, which is confusing because there already was another kind of football, which was also called soccer. Citizens still play soccer in the Sand, even though the fields tend to be torn up and littered with trash. Most people prefer to play virtually.

  Tackle was once played by real people too, before regulations on concussions, torn ligaments, and shortened life spans became so restrictive it got boring to watch. Now all tackle leagues are virtual so we don’t have to reconcile our concern for safety with our desire for pure, brutal sport. From professional to hobby leagues, players are built with tackle software then drafted to field teams.

  In the pros, players build names for themselves by constructing amazing athletes. But even for them, the game matrix won’t allow perfection, instead using an almanac of human existence to virtually create the kinds of strengths, weaknesses, stresses, and distractions which once plagued real players. It’s the same for those of us who play in hobby leagues like the one Oliver is organizing at the House. I’ve known guys who spent hours fine tuning the right DNA, environment, nutrition, and training regiments to construct their players. And just like in the pros, sometimes the player who looks perfect in development can’t do squat on the field.

  That’s life, though. In a virtual sense.

  I’ve developed three players over the years, using tackle shareware and pulling as much data as I can from the pro matrix to guide me. I’ve got a quarterback, a wide receiver, and a defensive end. Here at the House, I won’t be able to add to their constructs since my com links are disconnected, but no one else can either, so I guess it’s okay.

  After dinner tonight — a potato and carrot stew with microscopic pieces of questionable meat — those of us who want to play meet up in the common room. It’s kind of refreshing to break up the detention six-pack for a while. Or at least in part since Oliver, Adam, and I are obviously in. An entire pixel wall has been reserved for the draft. On the other end of the room, an epic Halo battle covers half a pixel wall. The other half streams a commercial for the newest Flexi Plexi tablet followed by an all-new episode of East and West, both at ear-splitting volume.

  I spot Xoey and Sam sitting by the window with their noses buried in their tablets. Xu and Brock are getting more aggressive with their threats, so I’m glad they are somewhere I can keep my eye on them. Sam is always their primary target, which stinks because he’s a good guy — smart too, finding my grandmother’s blog on the dark net within just a few hours. He’s been able to track it ever since, even though it changes hosts all the time. I read as much as possible in between class, work, and detention.

  And spying on my classmates, of course.

  Kino was almost manic when I got to her office the night we broke curfew.

  “Well done, Reed! I’ll admit, I didn’t think you could do it, then you ingratiate yourself with some of the students who concern me most. Excellent work.”

  “You’ll give me a chance to do more, right?” The thought of someone being shipped off to a labor camp just for missing curfew soured my stomach. “With a little more time—”

  “Yes, yes.” She waved her red fingertips at me. “Just keep your ears open. I’ll punish you all the same so they won’t suspect you.”

  “And my mom?”

  Kino stayed focused on her desktop. “Next time.”

  Oliver whacks me on the shoulder. “You ready?”

  “In a sec.” I grab my tablet and access my chip. From there, I copy my players to the common room’s server and assign them numbers. Oliver approves the transfer and they appear on the player roster.

  “Am I too late?” Riley falls into a seat opposite me.

  “No,” Oliver says. “Get your players up there. We’re about to get started.”

  She quickly adds a burly tight end and a safety to the draft. I can’t help wondering what they might do to my guys on the field.

  There’s no class on the weekends, but plenty of work to make up for it. When we reach the fields Saturday morning, the ground is hard and covered with frost.

  I groan, dreading the hours ahead. “Why don’t we use harvesting drones?”

  Everyone just laughs at me.

  Oliver remains optimistic. “Don’t worry. We’ll wrap up within a week and head indoors to work at the munitions plant for the winter.”

  I can’t say I’m sorry. Making bullets doesn’t sound as hard as digging for potatoes.

  The six of us are back in the library o
n Sunday afternoon. We’ve done all we can upstairs and none of us are excited about the bigger job greeting us here on the first floor. But I’m not about to admit it when Riley starts ribbing me.

  “‘Not so bad’ were your words, right?”

  “Would you rather be out in the fields? Or boxing potatoes in the warehouse?”

  Oliver leans on his sledgehammer. “Can you two give it a rest? Even for a few hours?”

  Adam steps between us. I roll my eyes, grab a slab of drywall, and drag it toward the window.

  Some days I feel like Riley and I are making progress — if her not loathing me every minute of every day counts. But then there are times like this when her raw hate clouds the space between us like poisonous gas. Of course, I never stop myself from rising to her bait. Sometimes I think about finding a quiet moment to apologize for what happened to her family, then I ask myself, would you forgive her if things were reversed?

  I return to the pile of debris in the middle of the floor. It looks so much like an unlit bonfire, I’m tempted to throw a match on it and watch it burn.

  What if that’s how this happened? Maybe someone set the library fire on purpose.

  Oliver opens more windows and cold wind rushes through the room. At least the smell of burned plastic is fading. I’m dragging more debris toward the window when I hear a cracking sound behind me. Xoey cries out. By the time I turn around, she’s gone — down through the floor.

  “Xoey!” I run toward the hole. Oliver beats me there.

  “Xoey! Can you hear me?”

  No response.

  “Get a Readybeam!” yells Oliver. “Adam, find some rope!”

  “Can you see her?”

  I still haven’t heard a sound from below, just creaking wood. Oliver’s on his stomach, inching forward, trying to distribute his weight so he doesn’t fall through too.

  “I’ll go find the basement stairs,” Riley says. She runs off while I crouch down on the other side of the hole, aiming my Readybeam at the mess below.