by J Bennett
As always, Ollie waves me over to our shared table as if I don’t sit there every time.
“Ta, Alice,” he says, his head jerking in three precise nods while his blue eyes dart away from mine. He’s a skinny kid and his body practically hums with coiled energy. His eyes dart everywhere while his fingers endlessly tap the tabletop. Today, he wears bright green suspenders over a black shirt and loose black breeches. Precise black stripes cut through his blond hair. Bright green sneakers complete the same look the leader of Eat Your Noodles was wearing in their new music vid, “Mom, Make Me Noodles.”
That K-pop band has been gushing their Stream score lately, at least according to Lysee who has watched “Mom, Make Me Noodles” at least a hundred times this past week.
Poor Ollie. While my great social crime is to care little about fashion, Ollie dooms himself in the opposite way. He’s a copier, meticulously trying to fit in, but being far too obvi about it. I guess that’s why we’re at the weirdos table. Not that I mind. Ollie’s interesting and refreshingly honest, not to mention brills at chemistry.
“Adan has not yet arrived,” Ollie announces as if the empty chair next to me wasn’t speaking loud and clear. “This will be his fourth absence. I messaged his Stream again last week to tell him about the test. He has not acknowledged any of my messages.”
“Wow, strange,” I murmur and lay my forehead onto my folded arms.
“Have you attempted to message him? Perhaps he is very ill. Alternatively, I have wondered if perhaps he was injured in the Toury Massacre.”
My hands tighten into fists. Toury Massacre is what they’re calling Shadow’s little murder escapade two weeks ago.
“Law enforcement officials have not yet apprehended Shadow,” Ollie continues, oblivious to my groan of disapproval. “The Big Little City police have opted not to request assistance from additional law enforcement agencies or federal agencies. Mayor Wisenberg promised to catch him by the end of the week, but that was two weeks ago. Did you see the latest news clips today? He presented the Medal of Valor to the Dragon Riders for protecting him against a failed kidnapping plot last night.”
“What?” I squawk, pushing myself upright. “Those shigits got Medals of Valor?” A few students glance over at me. “Good for them,” I manage through clamped teeth.
“Alice, you have additional injuries.” Ollie states.
“MMA practice,” I say. It’s the same lie I used last week and the week before to explain the bruises and bumps from combat practice at the lair.
“You must be more careful,” Ollie chides me. “You aren’t overriding the safeties on the combat robos again, are you?”
“Nope. This was just practice with the other students,” I say, which is sort of true if you replace the word “practice” with “no holds bar battle” and the word “students” with “an arrogant Dragon Rider who probs has herpes.”
“Well, you need to work with less accomplished students,” Ollie says.
I chuckle. “Great idea.” Ollie never holds back his opinion, and I appreciate that even when the truth hurts as much as the bruises around my neck.
“Two minutes until class starts,” the teaching assistant calls from the back of the room.
I close my eyes, hoping to snatch a tiny nap, but to my annoyance I realize I’m not tired anymore. My brain is on alert and I know why.
“What do you think Shadow is doing?” I blurt out. If anyone has a decent guess, it’d be Ollie. He’s more than a little obsessed with capes and vils and spends his free time meticulously updating his in-depth wikis on them.
“Preparing for something bigger,” Ollie answers at once. “That would fit his past behavior. Every appearance is an escalation of his prior crimes.”
That’s exactly what I don’t want to hear.
“How can he get away with it?” I ask. After the Toury Massacre, everyone believes he’s a lunatic freeter causing chaos for some unknown reason, but I’ve started to develop a different suspicion, something dark and terrifying. How has Shadow been able to elude the thousands of cams throughout the city as well as the massive search operation conducted by our officers?
“He’s been good for ratings, hasn’t he?” I ask.
Ollie nods vigorously. “Yes, oh yes. All the heroic shows have markedly improved ratings, and Reena Masterson recently broadcast a special devoted entirely to Shadow that is performing extremely well.”
I open my mouth to speak, then stop. The words burn on my tongue, the suspicion made of acid. “What if he isn’t a freeter?” I whisper. “What if he’s been sponsored this whole time?”
Ollie doesn’t even pause before answering. “Shadow can’t be signed. The town rules don’t allow for the murder of civilians. He also carries unlawful weapons. No producer could legally develop his storylines and no sponsor on the City Council would approve it. Also, he does not have a show or even his own Stream.”
“Maybe… maybe it’s not about having his own show. Maybe he’s a tool to increase the ratings of other shows. And what if he doesn’t tell his sponsors what he’s doing?” I say. “He just does it, and the ratings are so good that they just… let him get away with it.”
Beacon didn’t ask permission before she faced The Professor on the BLC Express, I remind myself.
Ollie shakes his head emphatically. “He is breaking the law. They must apprehend him.”
The lights dim and my Band vibrates as it shifts into forced sleep mode. Class is starting, but my thoughts keep churning. Ollie thinks that the laws of our town are unbreakable, but I know better. Great ratings can bend any rule, even break them.
That’s why producers are always looking for ways to up the potential for conflict and violence on their shows. PIC – Pain Is Currency.
I blink and try to focus on the holo-screen in front of me. The class program boots up and our instructor, Professor Hersherwitz appears on screen. Professor Hersherwitz is a cartoon blue unicorn wearing a lab coat, bowtie, and rimless glasses. He grins at us with his square horse teeth. We have no lesson or lab today. Instead, Professor Hersherwitz spends the lecture reviewing all the material on next week’s midterm. After each practice section, a bubbling beaker pours out questions for short practice quizzes. Ollie quickly completes them for our table.
Thank Buddha for him. I know I should help, but as Professor Hersherwitz drones on, tossing out bad chemistry puns and amusingly antiquated slang, I can barely keep my eyes open. These long nights in the lair are not doing my internal body clock any favors.
Finally, the lecture ends. Before he signs off, Professor Hersherwitz says. “I hypothesize that if you study for one hour each night, the result will be a good grade on your midterm!” The blue unicorn fades from the screen and the lights brighten in the room. I lean back in my chair with a sigh.
“Midterms are next week,” the teaching assistant reminds us. He walks down the aisles, skinny as a wraith, blue hair dangling in his eyes. “My office hours are noon to three each day if you have questions.”
Poor guy. He probs has a master’s degree in teaching, but I doubt anyone pings him during office hours, much less actually stops by. Professor Hersherwitz has already pointed out six different practice modules available on this class Stream. Software trumps breathers yet again.
As my Band hums to life, I tell Bob, “Add chem practice modules to my to-do list.” I’ll go through them this weekend after our next heist, assuming I’m not rotting in the city jail or strapped to a bed in the med clinic.
Ollie’s fingers drum, drum, drum on the table. “Would you… would you like to study for the midterm?” he asks softly. “Together. Not separately.”
I can’t help but smile. “You already know all this stuff. You don’t need to study.”
He shrugs three times in quick succession. “Yes. But you do.”
I laugh. “Sure,” I hear myself say. “My schedule is a little, um, chaotic this week, but how about I ping you when I get some time?”
Ollie p
erks up and nods. “Okay. Yes. Ping me. When you have time. Ping me.”
The other students stream out of the room while a single city-owned cam drone hums above. My social stratification class is in 20 mins. All I want to do is collapse into bed for a few more hours or a few more days, but that’s not on the agenda. As soon as my second class is over, I have a mission to complete. Adan held up his end of our bargain. Now it’s time I do the same, even if it could land me right in Beacon’s crosshairs.
Chapter 7
Shine, wherever you are, do not give in. Do not give up. I will find you, and if the worst shall happen, I will avenge you! ~ Beacon, Stream Video
~
Twenty mins after social stratification class, I find myself walking down a pretty street with some pleasant name, like Ivy Grove or Tulip Path. I’m just a kilometer and a half outside Iconic Square. This is prime real estate, and the cute little homes I pass show off cute porches and well-manicured lawns. These houses are old, part of the original town of Pana before PAGS took it over, changed its name, and started paying people to dress up in costumes. Most of the homes have been heavily remodeled, their roofs remade with solar tiles, the windows wired to broadcast holographic landscapes.
My steps sound loud on the sidewalk but I’m sure it’s just my imagination. A rental car zips by me, the faces of The Dark League members plastered on its side. Lizard’s tongue lashes around the entire car and Scream has her jaws agape. As the car passes, I keep my eyes down on my Band pretending to swim my Stream. Bob has offered up some sort of talent show out of Media Sector 4. On the holo-screen that washes across my forearm, a woman in a pair of hover boots dances awkwardly in the air while the judges tsk.
Every so often, I glance up trying to spot the glint of a lens. My ears strain for the purr of a cam drone hovering nearby. The City Council owns a whole fleet of cam drones that it dispatches around the city to pick up images of everyday life. Producers for sponsored vils and capes can access the images and use them as canned footage for their eps or to get additional angles when big fights go down.
I try to look as boring as possible. Nothing to see here. Just a normal girl walking down a normal street. Zero ratings potential.
City cams aren’t the only risk I face. I’m also on guard against the sudden appearance of a stickup guy, (which doesn’t have to be a guy, of course). The City Council keeps a small group of hoodlums on the payroll to harass and rob townies. These lowlifes give the capes someone to fight and help them pad their eps if the action is lagging. Most of the stickup guys stay close to Iconic Square, but you never know when one will pop up out of nowhere and wave a laz pistol in your face. That happened to me just two weeks ago when my old coworker, DeAngelo tried to rob me. A nice little throat punch encouraged him to back off, and we were working out our differences when that drooling freeter in the white diamond costume showed up
I smile. One benny of being utterly broke is that I don’t have anything for anyone else to steal.
“We’re here,” Bob says, his unshaven face interrupting the talent show on screen. “It’s just one street over.” He burps, and I wonder again why I paid actual money for his crass personality filter all those years ago. I supposed some dark, tangled part of me invites the abuse.
No time to deep dive into my twisted psyche. I’ve got a lobotomy mission to set into motion. I give the street one more visual sweep. All clear. Pulling in a quick breath, I veer off the sidewalk and slip between two houses. I hop a small fence and dash through a yard. I steer around a garden set on a wheeled platform that can be pulled inside during dust storms. Tender green shoots rise hopefully from the soil, some already holding out dainty leaves to the sun. Nearby, a dog starts yapping excitedly.
Real or robo? I can’t see the dog, but since its sharp cries don’t stop, I assume it’s real. Good. A lot of robo pets include security software that alerts their owners if they perceive something suspicious. Gives a new meaning to the concept of a guard dog.
I hop over one more fence and find myself in a pristine yard. The verdant grass is perfectly cropped. What a waste. Californians would froth at the mouth if they knew someone was dumping water on grass. Then they would capture, filter, and reuse their froth because that’s how precious H2O is out on the coast.
A cobbled path runs through the yard to the back door of a charming blue house. It looks like an original of Pana, restored with care, love, and lots of dollars. A wide patio includes plush benches, a bar, barbeque, fire pit, and in-ground spa. The large shed in the corner of the yard probably holds a lawn care service unit.
As I follow the path to the back door of the house, my heartbeat grows fast. Here’s where things get dangerous. I slip the small bag I’ve been carrying off my shoulder, unzip it, and pull out the chunky piece of metal nestled within.
Adan’s Wyvern model Band feels heavy in my hand. That might have something to do with all the diamonds encrusted around its visual interface or just the incredible risk it represents. Beacon isn’t dim. She’ll be synced to the GPS tracker in Adan’s Band. The moment I turn this thing on, the clock starts ticking.
And that could be the least of my worries. What if Adan betrays me? I’ve been pondering this all day. I watched him program his Band in his cell before he handed it over to me, but he could have slipped a sub-vocalized command past me. It would have been so easy for him to set a message to automatically send as soon as his Band comes online. He could tell Beacon where The Professor’s hideout is or even my true identity.
My only defense is his word. Adan promised he wouldn’t try anything. It’s a flimsy shield at best. Standing in front of the door, I waver. I should leave. Right now. I’ll tell Adan I did what he asked. He’ll never know, not until he gets out, and by then he’ll probs have more worries than whether or not I completed this ridic task for him.
I turn my back to the door but stop. I remember the way he looked at me when he finally explained his request. The pleading in his voice. The worry that lined his handsome face.
And then there’s the fact that I gave him my word.
I close my eyes. Before I chicken out, I trace the sequence Adan showed me along the inner side of his Band. The golden-plated Band immediately hums to life. A holo-screen projects out from the center of the Band and a gorgeous azure bird unfolds her wings.
“I have so many updates for you,” the bird says in a pleasant voice. “Over 300 pings, 1800 new pics, vids, hologram uploads from your friends, and you’ve missed several important tests and homework assignments. Your Stream Score has dropped 13 points due to lack of activity, and…” the Totem stops, finally registering that the face staring back at her is most definitely not Adan.
“Well, this is concerning,” she says. “Unless you have a good reason for being in possession of this Band, I shall have to alert the authorities.”
“Quiet,” I hiss at her. “Pause all program updates, notices, and recommendations. Don’t even think of calling the cops. Go into hibernation. Passcode: Striped Puffin.”
The bird fluffs her feathers indignantly but then disappears. The codeword worked. I let out a relieved breath, but this is only the beginning. I step up to the door. Its shining brass knob is all for show. The locking software in the door recognizes Adan’s Band and the door slides open. Lights flicker on inside.
“Buddha’s orbital sockets,” I whisper as I step inside. The place is perfect. Sun streams through huge windows in the kitchen landing on quartz countertops and one of those fully self-cooking stoves. Bronze pots and pans hang decoratively above the stove from hooks in the wall.
I move through the kitchen into the living room and rock to a stop. An Anders 3500 3D Printer takes up an entire corner of the room. It is a truly beautiful piece of machinery. The thing is massive, built within an expandable workstation. With enough materials cartridges, Adan can print just about anything he ever wants. That’s probably where he gets all the fancy, chipped-up shirts he wears to the gym. I’ve heard that the 3500 can
even print nano-tech.
I tear my gaze away from the 3D. I don’t have time to stand around gawking. Not with Adan’s Band humming along in my hand like a ticking time bomb. And yet… I can’t help but turn in a full circle, taking in all the glam of the room. Fancy lamps stand on opposite sides of the room framing a massive, coffee-colored couch. A bookshelf rises up in the corner filled with real, physical books. I touch a globe sitting on the shelf and it lights up, a holo-screen projecting a live satellite overlay.
This home is luxury to the max, and yet something seems off about it. I frown, trying to think what it could be. Something moves into the open doorway on the other side of the room. My heart just about knocks itself out of my ribcage.
Beacon!
She’s here already! Adan somehow found a way to forewarn her. She’s going to pummel my spleen and twist my nerve fibers into decorative knots until I tell her everything, including the password to my childhood diary.
The figure rolls through the doorway and I dance back out of the way of a strike. My leg bumps a side table and I shift around it.
“Oh my, oh my, a guest,” my adversary chirps. “How wonderful! Would you like a cookies n’ cream protein shake?”
I blink. The figure rolls into the light, revealing rounded curves and a wide smile on a flat face. It’s a matronly service robo that looks kind of like a snowman. Hmmm, I would have pegged Adan’s taste as leaning toward a gorg female service robo; one of those models that can be used for “a variety of purposes” as the marketing always puts it.
“I must apologize. Adan isn’t currently home,” the robo says. “My name is Martha and I am at your service. Are you hungry? I can prepare a kale and walnut salad. That’s one of Adan’s favorites.”
“No, no, I won’t be staying long,” I stammer. “I’m just here to, uh, check on his…”
“Oh, Sweetheart. Yes, of course. He always worries about her.” The robo gives an approximation of a chuckle. “Of course I’ve been caring for her. All her vitals are normal and her waste excretion is—”