by Kyle Andrews
Aaron smiled and said, “Sorry about that. The names are randomly generated by our system. That way we won't have duplicates showing up in the official database.”
“You make a lot of fake Civvies?”
“Yes. Many of our members can't go back to their old lives. I'm sure you understand that.”
“So you give them new ones?”
“If we can. Others just use the Civvies to get through checkpoints and use the subway. At least, they do for now.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that we recently received word that there might be a change coming. A new form of identification.”
Libby's interest was piqued. She hadn't heard any official reports of a new system, but it didn't surprise her. The Civvies had been in use for decades. The system was outdated and obviously flawed, considering how easily forgeries could be made.
“What is this new form of identification?” she asked.
“It's hard to say for certain, but we've heard whispers from people on the inside. We've tracked shipments coming into the city and going to other cities. Right now it all points to a genetic identification system.”
“Meaning?”
“They explained the scan to you at the hospital, right? It maps your entire system with one quick scan,” Aaron explained. He pulled a stack of papers from the folder and showed them to Libby.
The papers were printouts of an old science magazine article, talking about a theoretical method of storing data within the human body.
“Basically, they use a machine to encode information in an organic base solution; maybe a genetically modified virus. They could store police records, education, medical records... You name it. Then it's all injected into a person. Part of the booking process when you're arrested, or a routine medical exam. The new information within that virus works its way into your entire system. Writing itself on every cell in your body.”
Libby nodded, still skimming the article, and said, “We become hard drives, storing our own information. One scan and they have our entire life story. All linked to a specific genetic structure that can't be rewritten and can't be faked.”
“No more fake Civvies. No more hiding. In theory, there could be a scanner in every market and on every bus. Everything a person does from the day they're born could be recorded.”
“This magazine is old. Why is this happening now?”
“I don't know how widespread it is, but the technology has been around for some time. There was a big scandal, not long after this article was written. The head of the development team was arrested for testing the process on babies.”
“Sounds like a great guy,” Libby said dryly.
“For whatever reason, the authorities have put off using this technology until now. Maybe they just haven't been able to get the size of the machines—or the cost—down to a reasonable level. But my theory is that it's because of you.”
Libby nodded. She had a feeling that this was coming.
Aaron continued, “What if there was something in your father's DNA, or grandfather's... Something important? Something that they don't want us to have? If they put scanners everywhere, they risk exposing themselves.”
“But with Uly dead, I'm the last person on Earth with whatever's in my blood?”
“In theory.”
Libby tossed the papers down on Aaron's desk and said, “I'm tired of sitting in my room, wondering. I'll do it.”
Aaron smiled, which didn't seem to come naturally to him, and said, “I'm glad to have you on our team.”
“You'd be screwed if I wasn't.”
His smile grew. Libby could tell that there was a response to her comment, but he chose not to say it out loud.
Libby turned toward the TV. It was still off, but her mind ran through years of news reports. None of it was real. Nothing she ever believed in could be trusted.
She looked at Aaron again and asked him, “Why? Why would they lie about everything? Why would they want the world to be like this?”
Aaron raised his eyebrows his and took a deep breath, taking in the largeness of that question. Then he said, “They wanted power, but it was never about them. Not really. People have always wanted power, and the second they get a little, they want it all. It was everyone else who changed. They stopped asking questions and demanding answers. They stopped taking control of their own lives, and handed their fate over to someone else, just so they wouldn't have to feel responsible for themselves. The people who gave up their freedom are the ones who created all of this. They're the only ones who can end it.”
8
Darkness was falling over the city. The closer to the group home that Justin got, the gloomier it felt. Group homes weren't the types of places that people wanted to be in. They were the places that the authorities never spoke of, and the nightly news never reported on, because no amount of spin could make them look any better than they smelled.
That smell first struck Justin when he was three blocks away from the home. It was like some sort of vegetable soup, mixed with feces and locker room stench. Even breathing through his mouth left Justin holding back his gag reflex.
He was in an area of town where there were no apartments or shops. The authorities arranged the lives of most citizens in such ways that there would never be a need for them to enter that part of the city, because walking by those who had it even worse than they did could cause a spark of humanity in some people. That could lead to questions, and that could lead to chaos. It was better if the lowest of the low were forgotten, or at least easily avoided.
People lined the sidewalks, bundled up as best they could be without any proper blankets. Like birds, they made nests out of whatever materials they could find. Most were coughing and shivering; sick, but too weak to make it to the hospital. There was nobody around to help them, except for the caseworkers. Those who were assigned to care for those in need, yet typically grew more heartless by the day. They showed up for their jobs, the same as anyone else in town, simply for the sake of their own food and shelter. They undoubtedly lived miles away from those that they were assigned to tend to, and would not be able to flee that area quickly enough once their shift was over.
There were times when Justin thought it would be easier to live his life if he'd just stayed on the supplements, rounding the sharp corners of the world with drugs. Dulling his reaction to sights and smells such as those which surrounded him in that part of the city, and to knowing that there was nothing for him to do for most of those people. The ability to feel made it harder to pass them by. He couldn't take them all back to the Garden. All he could do was acknowledge them and keep moving.
The sidewalk was cracked and covered with garbage. The street lights didn't work. Instead, campfires were being lit in preparation for a cold night. Justin looked from one flame-lit face to another, expecting each one of those people to be Amanda, and feeling a mixture of relief and disappointment each time they turned out to be strangers instead.
As he passed one shivering stranger on the sidewalk, he noticed that this person had their back to the street. He moved closer, to look at that person's face, just in case it was her. But it wasn't.
The person turned out to be a man, holding a small piece of chalk in his hand and scribbling a small note on the wall next to him: FREEDOM PREVAILS.
Justin stopped in his tracks when he saw the words. It was not the line that most people knew—the one that Uly spray painted on walls around the city. This was something different. A play on the line that the government often attributed to Freedom: 'HATE PREVAILS'
This line was one that Justin had only seen once before, in the note that was written by Collin Powers.
The man turned around and looked up at Justin. He had a long beard and one milky white eye. He coughed into his hand as he locked eyes with Justin. This man was not a member of Freedom. If he had been, he would have been fed and there would most likely be someone willing to take him in.
“You should k
now which side you're on, boy. Choose wisely,” the man said with a raspy voice.
Justin looked at the other people nearby, to see if anyone was watching him with this man that had the words of defiance scribbled behind him. He felt exposed, like whatever he did next would be recorded and played back later, even knowing that the street cameras in this area of town probably didn't work.
He stepped away from the man and continued to walk up the street, hearing the sound of coughing coming from every direction. There was a flu going around town and everyone seemed to have it. They were urged to get treatment, but everyone knew that the hospital was a waste of time. It would have been even more of a waste for these people, who weren't even important enough to merit a floor to sleep on, away from the weather.
As he neared the group home's door, he heard moaning coming from within. It was a painful moaning that made him wince, just hearing it. He wondered how many of those people still received supplements. Was the government concerned with controlling the population in this part of the city, or were these people truly forgotten? To give them those pills might ease some of their suffering, but the authorities weren't in the business of easing anything. For them, everything was a calculated political strategy, and if these people were strong enough to rebel, they would be working. They would have homes and food, to whatever degree the authorities saw fit.
The schoolbooks said that before the government gave to the people, citizens starved and went uneducated. They couldn't find work. They couldn't receive medical care. But there were stories, passed down within the walls of the Garden, which told a different story. Back in the day, people could choose to help those in need. There were private organizations, dedicated to raising money for the needy and providing shelter. Not at the will of the government, but because people wanted to help their fellow man.
There were also stories about girls with glass shoes, which always struck Justin as being completely impractical. He had to carefully measure what he was willing to believe and what he wasn't. He didn't know how that world of the past functioned, but he had seen charity with his own eyes. He believed that it existed, and could only imagine what would happen if it could be practiced openly.
Inside the home's door, there was a counter where social workers signed in residents for the night. Justin walked to that counter, stepping over people who were sleeping on the floor, desperate to escape the cold outside.
As he approached one of the social workers, she looked him up and down, as though he were some sort of optical illusion. Obviously, he was not their normal type of visitor. He was young and able-bodied.
“There are no more beds and the soup pot's empty,” the woman said, trying to answer whatever questions he had before he even asked them. She was a heavy-set woman. In her thirties, with a face that looked as though it could have been kind once. Now, it was weathered by years of having to deliver brutal news to people in need.
“I'm not here for a bed or food,” Justin smiled at her warmly. She smiled back without seeming to realize it. He leaned on the counter and asked, “Is there any way to check the names of the people in here? I'm looking for an old friend.”
“It's against regulations to let any unauthorized personnel look through the database,” she told him.
“You're authorized, right? Maybe you could look for me?”
“I'm afraid not. I could get in trouble.”
Justin nodded, understanding her dilemma.
The social worker then said, “I could let you walk around and look for your friend.”
Of course they would let random strangers wander around the home. How else would people get murdered in their sleep and save the authorities some money?
The moaning from within the home was shredding Justin's nerves, but the woman behind the counter didn't even seem to notice it.
“I will go and take a look around then,” Justin said, still smiling and being as charming as he could possibly be.
He wasn't sure why, but some women seemed more accommodating when he smiled at them. Maybe they just weren't used to kindness in this dark world that they lived in. It didn't take a lot of effort to brighten a person's day, but not many people thought about such things.
Justin walked through a doorway, into a large open area where hundreds of cots had been set up. People were already curled up on them, trying to get some sleep. It wasn't even seven o'clock yet, but these people were frail and sick. The flu had put Justin out of commission for weeks, and he was young and strong. He couldn't imagine the toll that it would take on people like those that now surrounded him.
He passed a cot where the occupant, an old man, appeared to be staring up at the ceiling with his mouth hanging open. It took Justin a moment or two to realize that this man was dead. He must have only died within the last few minutes, because his cot would have been stolen otherwise.
His first instinct was to cringe and call for help, but he resisted the urge and simply turned away from the dead man. There was nothing else he could do for that man, and calling out would only draw attention to himself.
Up and down each row of cots, Justin looked from face to face; from one pair of troubled eyes to another. The area he lived in looked downright luxurious compared to this. He could practically feel the suffering of the people in the building radiating off of them, and it made him sick to swallow that feeling and press on.
It took him a while to get through the mess of people, listening to the coughs and sneezes from dozens of people in every direction, and that one person moaning on the other side of the room. That person was a woman. It could have been Amanda for all he knew. It was her face that lingered in his mind as he listened to the moans. He imagined her suffering so much that she couldn't keep herself quiet. Agony in her eyes. Mouth curled and teeth rotting. It was a chilling thought, which he wanted to push aside, but each time he passed a face that wasn't hers, he believed that chilling thought just a little bit more.
After a while, he was nearly convinced that it was her. He believed it so much that he almost stopped looking from face to face, and was tempted to walk right over to where that moaning was coming from.
Had he done this, Justin would have missed his chance to find Amanda. She was lying on a cot, wheezing and shivering because her shoes and her blanket had both been stolen. She was pale and unconscious, looking far too thin.
As he looked down at her, Justin began to wish that the moans had been hers.
9
“There are cameras all over the city, running facial recognition programs. If they spot you, you're toast,” Rose said to Libby as she set down an old, heavily worn backpack on Libby's bed. “Once upon a time, they'd have been able to track you based on how you walked, which is crazy. Fortunately, those systems were poorly maintained, so you don't need to worry about that.”
Though Libby was trying to listen, Rose's words were muffled by the sound of her own pounding heart. The idea of actually doing something was great, but the reality of it was terrifying. If Uly couldn't escape HAND, how could she?
Looking Libby up and down, Rose said, “We'll do our best to make sure that you're not seen. You're going out at night, which helps. Just try to keep your head down, so the cameras can't get a good shot of you. We'll also use this...”
Rose dug through the backpack for a few seconds before pulling out a small container of white powder. She said, “This stuff has light refracting something-or-other stuff in it. I don't know what it does, but it helps keep your face hidden from cameras using night vision. Handy on the streets. But the cameras are the easy part.”
Continuing to empty the backpack onto Libby's bed, Rose said, “My sister can recognize the back of my head from a block away. People are harder to fool than cameras. Any one of the kids you went to school with, or neighbors that you passed on the street could recognize you. Then there are the cops who have your picture...”
Though she was sure that Rose was trying to help her prepare for her trip to the hospital, nothing
that she said was making Libby feel any better about the situation. The knot in her stomach was growing larger and tighter by the second, but she wasn't about to back out of going. She needed to know what Uly died for, and she needed to know that the decision to save her, instead of Collin Powers, meant something.
“You already cut your hair, so that'll save some time,” Rose continued, using a cotton pad to apply some of the white powder to Libby's face. Once it was on, the powder was invisible.
As Rose went about disguising Libby with a scarf and some glasses, Libby remained quiet. It wasn't until they were walking out the door of Libby's room that Libby asked, “Have you ever considered telling your sister about all this?”
With a smile, Rose said, “I hope you haven't been thinking about my sister this whole time. Most of the stuff I told you is pretty important.”
“Do you think she'd be able to accept it?”
Rose shook her head and said, “My sister would never question the authorities. She's a twenty-nine year old grandmother-to-be who loves to live in blissful ignorance.”
“So, you don't think there's any chance that she'd understand?” Libby asked as memories of her mother flashed through her mind. Amanda had never been a fan of Hate, so Libby had no idea what to expect from her, once she knew the truth.
Rose took her time thinking of a response before she shrugged and said, “People are all different. You never know when someone's going to surprise you. To hope is fine. To expect is dangerous.”
As they walked through the Garden, Rose turned the conversation back to the mission at hand. She kept repeating herself, telling Libby to keep her head down as much as possible. To let her hair fall over her face. Not to turn away from police or HAND officers, but to find some way to take their attention off of her face. This part involved Rose demonstrating some stretching techniques that Libby would probably never attempt to use, because the result would be far more comical than intended.