by White, Ben
Imogen's eyes closed. Her mouth was thin and tight.
If the young man said anything further during the rest of the trip, she didn't hear it.
After the monorail glided to a gentle stop Imogen waited while the other passengers got off. Maybe the young man said something to her in parting. Maybe he didn't. Whether he did or not, Imogen didn't particularly care.
"If we don't get off soon the train'll go to the next station!"
Zack recoiled back as his sister stood—the movement had been startlingly swift and sudden.
"Come on," she muttered, fumbling her hands into her pockets as she led Zack out. The main station was nicer than the one near Spring Heights—more glass, more sheets of white metal that curved in impossible ways, less food wrappers, and a conspicuous absence of vagrants. It was larger, too, or at least was attached to a larger complex, filled with shops and restaurants and far too many people.
"You were talking to that guy, right?"
Imogen didn't respond to her brother's question, just led him down another stairway.
"Why were you talking to him?"
Further down they went, the lights on the walls long and thin and soft on the eyes.
"Because you like girls, right? Just girls?"
It got dirtier the further down you went. Not excessively so, but to those sensitive to this kind of thing it was impossible not to notice.
"Or do you like guys too now?"
Three floors above street level now. Traffic noise was already beginning to filter through, along with the spark smell of ozone.
"Or do you just like guys now?"
Imogen stopped, and her brother ran into her and fell on his backside. He stared up at her as she turned to regard him.
"Shut up," she said, and then she turned away and started walking again. It only took Zack a few seconds to recover and scurry after her.
His silence lasted less than a minute.
"I don't mind if you like girls or guys or girls and guys, I mean it's fine whatever you like. Um. Whoever you like. Um. Right?"
They were at ground level now, the stairwell opening onto the street itself—it was covered over by the complex above, and the wide road was crowded with slow-moving cars.
"Wow. Is this the way to the convention centre? I don't think this is the way to the convention centre. I think the way to the convention centre is over there. Are we going to the convention centre?"
Foot traffic was light, and the pavement was wide. The wall was solid black plastic, covered in cheap fliers for a local electronics store. Here and there a long-faded missing person poster showed through. The supports for the roof above were old and cracked, made of dark stone and rusted metal.
"Did you know it's called the Phoenix Convention Centre? Are we going to the job centre first? Is that first? Or is it after? Hey, we have to meet Curtis. He's riding the monorail by himself! Do you think Mum would let me ride the monorail by myself? Can you imagine me doing that? Do you think they'd let me drive it? It just goes one way so it must be pretty simple. Don't you think? Imogen? Don't you think?"
At the end of the not-quite-a-tunnel everything opened up. The station complex was behind, a huge intersection was in front. Cars were everywhere. The noise was intense.
"Why are we here? Imogen, why are we here? Whoa, that crossing is so long—look, Imogen, it's so long it's two crossings! You have to stop in the middle and press another button and—oh! I remember Curtis told me that you don't have to press the button! Because it's automatic? The button doesn't do anything! Are we gonna cross? Do we need to cross? Is that the job centre over there? Imogen, I think that's the job centre over there. Are we gonna cross to get to the job centre? If we cross can I be the one to push the button both times?"
There was the frighteningly wide road to the left and the complex to the right, protected by a chain-link fence that seemed short compared to the building itself, but tall compared to the average nearly-twelve-year-old named Zack. Eventually there was a break in the fence, and a stone stairway leading down.
"Imogen where are we going? Imogen you can't just take me places, Mum's gonna get mad. We're supposed to be meeting Curtis!"
The stairway was narrow, stone walls painted shining black to both left and right. Numerous brightly coloured showbills had been pasted to these walls, many of them fresh. Zack stared at them as they passed, his mouth still going:
"He'll be waiting I bet. He'll be waiting and—oh, I got a message! Imogen, I bet it's Curtis saying he's waiting, I bet it is, what do you want to bet? Imogen? What do you want to bet?"
The bottom of the stairway opened onto a wide corridor, smooth tiles underfoot, grimy ceramics covering the walls, the entire ceiling formed of glowing chemical lights. They were the cheap kind that lent a greenish tinge to all they illuminated; Zack's face looked sick and pale as he pouted at his phone.
"Aw, no! Aw man! Imogen, guess what terrible thing happened? You'll never guess. Curtis can't come! Aw, his stupid parents said it was a waste of time. Just because they want him—aw, this sucks!"
The corridor led to an underground thoroughfare, wide with a low ceiling, with the same cheap chemical lights tainting everything with green. Shops lined its sides but almost all were permanently closed, thick metal shutters jammed in place, most of them covered in hastily scrawled tags. There were people here, mostly young, many of them dressed similarly to Imogen. None of them looked at her, and she didn't look at any of them.
"What IS this place? Imogen? Can you tell me, please? Is it a mall? Is it a secret mall for cool people like you? Is it?"
Some of the shops were unshuttered in this part. Few of them had names, most were little more than a flimsy desk and stacked boxes. Some had clothes on metal display racks. Zack stared around at everything, still talking:
"Are you gonna get some clothes? Wow, what does THAT shop sell? Hey, that guy on the monorail who talked to you gave you gum, right? Did he like you? Is that why he talked to you?"
Imogen stopped, then headed left. The shop she'd chosen was more 'complete' than most; it had a proper counter and even shelves. The girl behind the counter looked a little older than Imogen, with narrow brown eyes and braided blonde hair beneath a bright green scarf.
"Hey, gorgeous," she said in greeting, before nodding at Zack with a sly smile. "Who's the sprite?"
"My brother," Imogen said. She pushed some money onto the counter, which the girl took.
"You want something—"
"Just cigarettes."
The girl shrugged with another sly smile, then pulled a packet from underneath the counter and slid it to Imogen.
"Anything else?"
Imogen shook her head as she turned away, the cigarettes already in her pocket. The girl waved to them as they left, and Zack waved back, hesitantly at first but then with more enthusiasm, before Imogen took hold of his wrist and shoved his arm down.
"Do you know her? Is she your girlfriend?"
Imogen glanced down at Zack, then veered off to the left, to a small alcove containing an old emergency call station. Zack followed without hesitation, his expression one of guiltily thrilled excitement.
"This is kind of fun—"
"You're not telling Mum I bought cigarettes," Imogen said. She crouched down so that she was eye-to-eye with her brother. "Okay?"
"I, um—"
"Zack."
"I guess I won't tell ... but you shouldn't smoke, it's—"
"If you do tell her, I'll break your arms," Imogen said flatly, as she straightened. She took out the packet and opened it, pulling one long tube out with her mouth as she fetched her lighter. "Both of them," she clarified, the cigarette bouncing with the words. With a practised motion she flicked the lighter open and clicked the wheel.
She barely got a spark.
It took three more attempts before a high flame appeared and she was able to actually light her cigarette. With a second practised flick Imogen closed her lighter and pocketed it in almost the same motion, then pinche
d her cigarette between two fingers as she took a long, luxuriant pull. For a second she held the smoke in before blowing it upwards, her pale eyes on her brother, who had been watching the whole performance with referent awe.
"What are we doing now?" he asked, after a few seconds of smoky silence. Imogen shrugged as she tapped ash from the end of her smoke.
"Don't care," she said. "Go play at your thing."
"What? No!" Zack shook his head violently to accentuate the word, the absurdly long 'tail' of his mask flicking from side to side. "You have to stay with me, you HAVE to stay with me! Mum said, she told you—Mum TOLD you—and you don't even have to pay, it's for free if you're in costume—"
"I'm not in costume."
Zack stared. "But ... but ..." He trailed off, frowned, then looked up at his sister again. "Aren't you?"
"This is how I dress," Imogen said. She blew smoke up at the chemical lights. "This is 'me'."
"But usually you just wear your pajamas or dressing gown—"
"Look, shut up," Imogen said, accidentally letting her cigarette drop from her lips—a single sad spark of ash marked its demise, before Imogen sealed its fate with the heel of her boot. "So I dressed up," she said, her eyes on her brother again. "So what? What do you care, Spack?"
"Don't CALL me that!"
The impact of Zack's fist against Imogen's arm was unexpectedly painful. She emitted a surprised grunt, then her hand shot out to grab his wrist.
"Leggo!"
Imogen squeezed until Zack yelped, then she let off the pressure—just a little. Slowly, making sure his attention was on her, she bent over until her face was inches from his. When she spoke her voice was utterly flat, not a trace of emotion showing in her tone:
"Do. Not. Touch. Me."
With that she threw down his arm and shoved him away. He stumbled but kept his footing, already nursing his wrist. There was a moment of sullen silence, then Zack spoke:
"I can't go on my own. They won't let me in unless there's an adult with me."
"I'm not an adult."
"You're over sixteen," Zack said, his tone naively arrogant. "That's okay."
Imogen took in a long breath, wishing it was smoke rather than air, then she gave up. Arguing was too much of a hassle. Without a word she started walking, back the way they'd come, Zack swept along in her wake.
"Are we going? Are you taking me there? We're going, right? We're going to the convention centre? Is that where we're going right now? To the convention centre? Imogen? Imogen? Are we going to—"
"Yes we're going to the stupid convention centre, just SHUT UP."
Zack's silence was pleased.
To Imogen's irritation, it only lasted six seconds.
"It's gonna be SO cool, SO fun, I bet everyone will be in costume, what do you think? Imogen? Do you think everyone will be in costume, maybe not EVERYONE everyone but like ... um ... eighty percent? Maybe seventy percent. Seventy percent is seven out of ten. Seven people wear costumes and three people don't. Seventy people wear costumes and thirty people don't. Seven-hundred people wear—"
"Zack, if you don't shut up right now I'm donating you to that tattooist."
Zack's eyes went wide as he stared at the tattooist in question, a broad, shirtless man with no body hair whatsoever, not even eyebrows. He had the thick outline of large jigsaw pieces inked all over his body, their appearance almost cartoonish, and when he noticed Zack staring he gave him a wide, broken-toothed grin.
With a sharp inward-gasp Zack faced forward and shut his mouth, eyes still wide.
They left the thoroughfare soon after that, a short side passage and a narrow stairway leading Imogen and her brother up to the glaring light of the street—the sun seemed to have gotten brighter during their underground sojourn. Imogen squinted and winced in distaste, then looked around to get her bearings. They'd emerged beside a long, straight road, the traffic fast and thick. Behind loomed the station complex, its sheer grey walls glowing harshly.
"Which—"
Imogen started walking, and Zack shut his mouth and followed her. Several minutes later they came to a T-intersection with a low bridge above it, its supports black with traffic filth. There was scrubby grass growing from the pavement, and a nearby fenced section was lush with pale yellow weeds.
For several seconds Imogen stood staring in at the empty section, then she started walking again, turning right and heading along the new road—there were buildings ahead, regular buildings, not the huge architecturally stark intimidation of the station complex but simple grey stone businesses—a dollar store, a karaoke box, a hairdresser, a sad old toy shop with faded posters on its soap-streaked windows. Zack slowed to look at the mystery egg dispensers stacked outside, but Imogen's pace was quick and he soon had to hurry to catch up.
"Is this the way?" he asked, a minute after they'd left the collection of businesses behind—wide, empty stretches of bare earth and tall weeds surrounded them now, punctuated with faded signs promising future developments that had never come to be. In response to Zack's question Imogen jerked her head forward.
"Oh!"
The road was straight and long, and at its end there rose a graceful curve of white against the deep blue of the sky—the convention centre was on the waterfront, beside the promenade, and although not as large as the station complex it came close. Surrounding it were clean paved parks, filled with elegant almost-circles of trees and other greenery, with inviting benches beneath.
It took Imogen and Zack more than ten minutes just to get close to the centre. Imogen had never been here before, had only seen it from a distance, and despite herself she was impressed—at its sheer scale, if nothing else. It was wide rather than tall, sprawling actually, except its curving, future-now design made the word 'sprawling' seem inappropriate. It also made it difficult to tell just how many floors it had, but Imogen guessed at over a dozen.
"Wow," said Zack, as they walked slowly through the surrounding parks, people-noise loud around them. It was close to lunchtime and already the benches were filled with dozens of men, women and children eating and drinking and enjoying the day. The clatter of a group of skateboarders sounded from the far side of the park, soon joined by high young laughter. Still further dozens—hundreds—of people, most of them wearing some form of costume, were walking through the park, in the same direction as Imogen and Zack, towards the convention centre's entrance; a wide, welcoming glass frontage up a series of short steps. Above the entrance blazed the shining metal of the convention centre's name: PHOENIX.
"Great," Imogen muttered, as the scale of the crowds swarming the entrance became clear—but there were staff at hand to guide them, over a dozen of them stationed at temporary gates outside the main doors, and they worked efficiently to funnel everyone in.
"Come on, let's line up!" said Zack, running ahead towards the crowd. Imogen rolled her eyes and followed him, already itching for another cigarette—but she knew that even taking out her lighter would attract masses of public scorn, and she couldn't be bothered dealing with that. So the pack remained in her pocket, snug beside her lighter, and she scratched her fingernails against her palms as she joined Zack in the line. His shoulders were slumped as he glanced around.
"Everyone else's costumes look great," he said, his voice almost lost in the noise of the crowd. Imogen looked down at him, then let out a quiet sigh.
"Didn't know this was such a big deal," she muttered, but loud enough so that Zack could hear. "I guess geeks rule in this town."
"They've got guests from EVERYTHING!" Zack said, his face serious as he looked up at Imogen. "From Villainesque and EFE and KokenKo and they've even got Praxis from Fayette Eve and—"
Imogen let Zack's prattle fade, which wasn't difficult considering the crowd noise all around—too many voices, she thought. Too many people all talking at once about nothing—
Awareness that someone was addressing her brought Imogen out of herself. She blinked at the large, dark-skinned man in front of her. H
e was grinning.
"Imogen!" Zack said, near-panicked urgency in his voice. "Tell him!"
"Tell him what?"
"That we're here together!"
Imogen looked down at her brother, then up at the man beside the entrance gate.
"Sorry," she said. "I'm just here on my own, I've never seen this kid before in my life."
"Imogen! That's not true—it's not true!" Zack repeated, looking up at the gate man. "She's my brother, I'm her sister—I mean I'm her brother—look," he said, yanking his mask up almost off his head, "we have the same ears, look at our ears!"
The man pursed his lips and furrowed his brow as he examined Zack's ear with great seriousness.
"Mm," he said. "Well, that's good enough for me. Get in, you two."
"Thank you! Thanks!"
Imogen shook her head as she walked past the man. He said something to her but she wasn't in the mood to hear it.
Inside was far worse than outside. The entrance foyer was packed with people and makeshift booths—most of them little more than a cloth-covered table with a couple of metal poles supporting a banner. All manner of items were on display, comics, books, DVDs, games, plastic toys, t-shirts, a thousand forms of materialised geekdom.
Zack stared around, as wide-eyed as he'd ever been, in complete heaven.
Imogen rubbed her forehead, a pained expression on her face, in utter hell.
"Oh my god," she muttered, before shooing Zack away. "Okay, go off and do your minigeek thing. You can get home by yourself, right?"
"Imogen! We have to stay together! You can't just leave me alone!"
Imogen let her hand drop from her forehead to fall limp at her side.
"Ugh," she moaned. "Can't you just, I don't know ... how old are you now, ten?"
"I'm almost twelve!"
"What, you're TWELVE? How the hell are you so tiny?"
"I ... I haven't had a growth spurt yet! I'm gonna get bigger! And Mum TOLD you—"
"Fine, FINE, let's just, oh my god ... just, whatever, let's just go."
Zack let out an excited squeak and grabbed Imogen by the wrist, pulling her through the crowds to squee over booth after booth after booth. Imogen faded into herself and wished for nicotine. Every now and then her brother's high voice would penetrate her veil of gloomy indifference as he exclaimed about some stupid thing or another, a costume or stand or familiar branding. They went up stairs and there were more booths on the second floor, the wide corridors made narrow by their presence. They walked through rooms filled with people and noise and objects that meant nothing to Imogen. Further stairs led up to the third floor, where the crowds began to thin and the booths became more amateurish and huge blue and white sculptures made of metal and plastic looked down from above, unnoticed by all.