Mrs. Stokes waved her hand at me like I was being ridiculous.
“It’s fine! Don’t stop yourself. Thank goodness a few things are still free, though what they pick and choose is absurd. Burps over fifty-eight decibels are intentional? Shrugs under two centimeters are free? Please. All of it is nonsense. There’s no system, just a matter of who sued first, for what, and who had the shrewdest, most expensive Lawyer.”
She sat, wearily. She seemed more tired than when I saw her before. She patted the couch, a silent request for me to sit beside her.
“Would you talk in a FiDo?” she asked me. Her voice was as light as if she was asking me whether I liked the color blue. “I expect not. Can’t know when the WiFi might pop on, and it wouldn’t be just a small expense for you, would it?”
She sighed.
She didn’t know the full truth. She didn’t know about the Squelches that peppered the city. I wouldn’t even speak there, which was far more controlled than a FiDo. Though, in truth, in the back of my mind, I worried that the door might open at any moment while I was in those Squelches—and, if I spoke, a word might fly out and ruin me.
“But imagine if the whole thing went down,” Mrs. Stokes said, extending her arms wide and letting them fall. “Randall said it would ruin us. Said we’d starve if the power ever ran out. Those inks we have? Ever look at them? They’re all labeled poison.”
I had. We all knew that messing around with molecular inks could be dangerous. They teach that early in school. The inks have to be combined in exact molecular patterns to make it all something you can safely eat.
“Truth is, some inks are just bad for digestion, some have good nutritional value and some, just to keep us on our toes, are poisonous. They would rather kill us than let us eat an ink for the nutrition. Randall couldn’t stand it. Said the WiFi would take years to fix if it went out, and we’d all starve long before that. Made it sound like doomsday.” She shook her head, like she didn’t believe it. I wondered, a little unfairly, if everyone in Beecher’s family might be crazy. But then I really thought about it.
If the WiFi was broken, how could you fix it? You couldn’t print new cables or nodes, because printers won’t work without WiFi. The cables, the nodes, the wires and the configurations were all Intellectual Property. You can’t just make something. You couldn’t create blueprints or plans. Technicians are legally bound to agree to Terms of Service before they even begin to work. No one could enter our city without agreeing to our ToS, either. Each Dome has its own set of Laws. Lawyers wouldn’t be able to sue, because even they can’t legally speak in a FiDo.
“Randall cracked open our food printer and scared the heck out of me. Everything inside was pockmarked with little ©s and ®s and those dreadful Patent marks. I’d have preferred cockroaches. But he said he’d figured out how to tell which ink was which. That’s what they took him for. Said he’d ruin the whole economy.”
She shook her head, a little disgusted, sighed and went back to her original point.
“But if it did go out,” Mrs. Stokes went on, leaning in toward me, “if the WiFi was gone forever, would you speak?”
Maybe, I thought, with a long, slow breath out. I had imagined things changing in different ways. I thought Laws would eventually change. What made me think those changes would be for the better? No one was working toward that—not for us.
Beecher’s grandmother squinted at me. “It’s hard to know if you’re thinking yes or no, but I wish you wouldn’t look so sad,” she said, patting my knee. “Silence is the only privacy.”
She sighed.
“Did you know Rossi & Speight tried to Patent walking?” She paused, thinking. “They called it ‘intentional placement of one foot in front of the other in a series for purpose of ambulation and travel.’ I thought people were finally going to riot on that one. It really could have pushed us over the brink. But then Silas Rog stepped in—Silas Rog!”
She burst out laughing so loud, it scared me. “Oh! Hoo. That face!” She turned to have a better look at me. “Worth a thousand words! If they charged for looks, you would be finished!”
What did I look like? I put a hand to my face, and she laughed again.
“You must hate Rog something fierce,” she said, patting my hand. “I can read that in you. Don’t blame you one bit. What a turd that man is. You and I can both hate him all we like inside, eh?”
She nudged me.
“Anyway, Rog fought for what he called the peoples’ basic liberties. Said the next thing Rossi & Speight would Copyright was breathing. The news said Rog was a hero. Put the American® flag right behind his pixeled head and talked about how he defended all of us. Rog probably set the whole thing up. I heard a rumor Rossi & Speight was a fake Law Firm he dreamed up just to do it. Of course, Rog got the Commander-in-Chief Justice to officially rule that words only have meaning because they are assigned a connotation in the database. He claimed that without the Word$ Market™, words are actually meaningless—like our brains would stop understanding them!”
She finished eating her bar and crumpled the wrapper up.
“Rog doesn’t give two figs about freedom. He wants to write the rules himself. That man knows just how far to push without causing...” her voice dropped, and she looked a little sick “...revolt.”
The word came out like she’d retched it. She looked sorry, or embarrassed, and held her hand to her mouth.
“I shouldn’t say such things,” she whispered. “I put too many ideas into Beecher’s head that way. I don’t know what I’m talking about. That’s what comes from having freedom.” Her eyes went glossy with tears.
Or maybe that’s what comes from not being able to share it, I thought. I considered taking hold of her hand. I was sure our serotonin levels were low enough that my Cuff wouldn’t charge. But I worried about what might happen if the Cuff made a mistake or tripped some alarm looking for hers.
“You should go,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Please.”
I did as she asked and left by her roof. I found the nearly invisible spot where the Agency had printed my locker, just a building away—one quick leap. I didn’t need to tap or thumbprint it. Kel had made it work using a small slip of metal with uneven teeth. I just put it in a slit on the door and turned. Kel said it was a key, which struck me as funny, because I didn’t know a key could be a physical thing.
I changed inside the locker and headed off to the Irons™ Warehouse roof to wait for the others. When I arrived, I laid my body flat, settling against the hard plastic, and looked up at the dome. I felt awful for Mrs. Stokes. A soft, wet lump formed in my throat. I told myself I was overtired.
I had been instructed in many things over the past weeks, but Kel never said a word about how to manage sleep, work and school. Locker or no, until I was assured of this job, I was not going to drop out like Beecher. I had to fit in sleep when I could, with naps after school and again after Placement, before school began. I also had not been instructed on how to manage Sam’s and Saretha’s suspicions, which were growing by the day.
I closed my eyes. My mind drifted. I thought about how great it would be if I could just tell Sam and Saretha what I was doing. I fantasized about convincing Kel to recruit Saretha, and then, a bit later, recruiting Sam. I imagined all of us doing Placements together—my own team. It might not change the way of things, but at least it could save us.
It was foolish and childish, but the dream lulled me to sleep.
* * *
When I awoke, Henri was standing over me. He appraised me as I yawned, his broad grin welcoming me back to consciousness. Margot made a sharp tsk sound behind him. Kel took off, and Henri and Margot broke after her. I collected myself and followed them, darting from rooftop to rooftop, swinging across wide gaps. The thrill brought me back to life.
It was a simple Placement that night. Sounds�
� Bars. They could be placed in any room, so long as the location was prominent and a single spotlight lit them. We worked in quick rhythm, in part because we had to—the simplicity of the job meant we had sixteen Placements to make that night. Henri seemed to stick closer to me, but I could not figure out why.
We made it halfway through our target before 3:00 a.m. Below us, the bars were letting out under a Law that was centuries old. We were used to this, and traveled with extra care as the drunks staggered their way home.
I would not have stopped if the light beneath us hadn’t suddenly grown so bright, but the white flare-up was distinct and unmistakable. Someone’s Cuff had failed.
I’d only seen this happen twice before, not counting Beecher’s Cuff and the one Henri threw from the roof the night he found me. The howling below was inhuman and made me want to flee.
We were several stories up. I peered out over the roof’s edge, though even from the height of the rooftop, the sight made me sick. A man writhed in pain, his clothes charred on one side and, beneath his Cuff, a flash of bright red skin.
A crowd had gathered, but no one dared touch him. No one wanted to get burned or sued. They shielded their eyes, but looked all the same. The only hope for him was to move his arm out, so the Cuff and the white-hot, failing battery inside it were as far from his body as possible. He would lose the arm, but he might, at least, survive if someone did something.
Kel pulled me back from the edge, to spare me, perhaps. Were we really going to leave him down there to die? I could not ignore the screaming. It seemed to pierce right through me. I pulled off my mask and black jacket and dropped my bag. Kel’s eyes went wide. She held up her hands, signaling me to stop. She did not want us involved.
Henri tugged on Kel’s arm and gestured to the trouble. He probably thought Kel did not understand. Margot peeked back over the building’s side. Her lips curled. Henri pulled off his mask, too.
Kel shook her head, no. What if she had said no when Henri asked to save me? What would my life have been like after the attack in the alley? Would I have been alive at all? Would I have given up and screamed?
There wasn’t time to debate. I had to do something. I rushed for the rooftop stairs and pulled at the door. It was locked.
Kel stomped over, her eyes flashing fury. But something in my gaze must have changed her mind. She unlocked the door and turned away.
I broke into a run, down eight flights of stairs, taking them two at a time. By the time I reached the bottom and emerged onto the street, the screams had stopped. The battery burned more brightly. I couldn’t see the man through the light—only his legs, which did not move. I moved toward him, trying to cover my eyes, as everyone else in the crowd moved back. My heart bottomed out. I looked down, stunned and sickened. I was too late.
A siren sounded in the distance. Henri put a hand on my shoulder and pulled me back. I slowly turned away.
* * *
“You can’t just...” Kel half scolded me once when we were safely in a Squelch. “There were too many people around. I know it was awful to see, but there was nothing you could do.”
That wasn’t true. If I had been faster, I might have been able to save him. I’d seen it done before. The horrible truth is that the flailing is what most often kills people. The urge to get away from the pain is too much.
“Why did you let us go, then?” Henri asked, his voice breaking.
I watched Kel, eager for some sign she shared my feelings. She dropped her eyes, let out a heavy breath and shook her head. She had no words to admonish me, and I assumed she understood.
Margot shrugged. “Maybe he was a Lawyer,” she said, trying to lighten the mood. It did not work. Kel was not pleased at all.
OIO™: $22.99
Saretha was twelve when our parents were taken. She remained calm about it, just like my mother asked. Saretha took over our home, getting Sam and me ready for school, ordering inks for the printer and managing our expenses. We made fun of her for being bossy, but took comfort in how normal she made our lives feel. Did she really believe our lives were normal, or had she been pretending for us? I’d never thought of this before. She was loyal to her Brands. She always said things would get better. She talked about options.
That was all gone now.
My constant coming and going contrasted starkly with her own circumstances. If I could have traded places with her, I would have. I loved being free to race across rooftops and zip through the city, unseen, and I enjoyed the company of my team, but a nagging guilt ate away at me. My new career provided a mask and anonymity—exactly what Saretha needed to be free.
I tried to think of some way to get Kel to take Saretha on, but I couldn’t even work out the first step of explaining the problem without words. Even if I could have managed to make Kel see and consider Saretha, there was the problem of Saretha’s physical condition.
Saretha was in no shape to be climbing buildings. It wasn’t her fault; she was never as active as me. She wasn’t interested in gymnastics, or sports, and now she had nothing to do and nowhere to exercise. She had put on weight from mindlessly eating sheets of Wheatlock™. To counter the effects, she ordered an OiO™ Holding Corset, which is supposed to keep your waist tiny, regardless of the size of the rest of you. It was a ghastly, disturbing thing. After a few days of wearing it, Saretha passed out on the couch. Sam and I panicked. He slapped her face to wake her, while I fumbled to unclasp the corset that was crushing her lungs. When she woke, groggy and annoyed, she pushed me away. Sam hugged her and demanded she never wear it again.
She didn’t argue. She peeled the loosened corset off, revealing her midsection beneath, squeezed out of proportion, the flesh pink and pale and dented. A faint smell of medicine and moisturizer drifted through the air, and underneath, a bad skin smell, like stinking feet. It made me queasy. Her expression was more lifeless than melancholy. She held her middle and rubbed, as if both sickened and proud.
“It hurts,” she said weakly. $4.98. Her eyes looked dim and pitiful.
I put my hands around my shoulders and stifled a cry. What was happening to her? Something had been taken—not just her freedom, but some piece of her soul. I longed to say something or do something to bring her back. I felt caged. I think we all did.
Sam sprung up, grabbed me by the hand and pulled me out into the hall.
“It isn’t right,” Sam complained. “Why can’t we sue Carol Amanda Harving for having Saretha’s face?”
The technical answer was that Carol Amanda Harving was older by a year. She had the face first, and, more important, she had Butchers & Rog on her side.
“We have to do something,” Sam said. I agreed, but I didn’t know what that could be. The spare, dim walls of our hallway seemed to press at me. I couldn’t wait to get out onto the rooftops again. I knew it wasn’t fair, but the situation was so hopeless. I wondered if Saretha might be better off having surgery—mutilated, so Carol Amanda Harving could own that face all by herself.
That I could let myself think such a thing made me sick.
“Chuneed, Jimenez?” A voice called from across the hall. Norflo had his head popped out his door, looking at me with long-lashed, sympathetic eyes. I wished I’d asked before my fifteenth why his family insisted on keeping Juarze for a last name when it cost them so much, but named him Norflo after a cost-saving brand of nasal-clearing mist.
“Nothing,” Sam answered him. “I can’t...” He was too frustrated to explain.
Norflo waited for more and saw it wouldn’t come. We couldn’t explain about Saretha without risking her being seen.
“Year,” he said kindly, rocking his door. If you didn’t know Norflo, you wouldn’t know what he meant, but he always had clever ways to say things cheaply. He spent an hour each day scrutinizing the Word$ Market™ screen. It was designed like a video game, with thousands
of words traveling back and forth, up and down, across an acid green background next to their prices. He scanned for cheap slang like “chuneed,” or a sale on the word “year” so he could say “I’m here” without spending too much.
When he saw I understood, he ducked back inside and shut the door.
“What are we going to do?” Sam implored me with a whisper.
I couldn’t speak, but I thought if I walked, he would follow me. I could take him to Mrs. Stokes. I didn’t know if or how she could help, but at least Sam could talk to someone who could answer him.
I looked at him with imploring eyes and made for the elevator. He did not follow. He stood in front of our door, looking flabbergasted that I would walk away. I should have been more understanding, but how did he not get it? I was trying to help.
“Great,” he said. “Leave.”
He pushed back inside our apartment, scowling. I punched the elevator door closed and worked hard not to scream.
It isn’t his fault, I told myself. There was a pause in my breath, then my voice came back inside my head with, But it is your fault. That made me feel crazy. I put my hand over my forehead and squeezed. The elevator shuddered its way down and pinged to a stop on the bottom floor.
It had grown dark outside. With no place else to go, I crossed the bridge toward Falxo Park. The bunnies clicked on, then turned off without their special message. I guess the billboard’s advertising systems calculated that it was okay if I jumped. A light rush of traffic roared below me.
I went past the park and up through the quaint shops, most of which were either already closed or in the process of closing for the night. I sneered at them, assuming they were all like Mrs. Nince. I slowed as I passed her boutique. The lights were out. She had no idea how easy it would be for me to sneak inside. I had a Placer’s skills now.
I wouldn’t steal anything. Her clothes were cruel and ugly and useless. I could ruin her business. I could tear the place apart.
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