“What do you do with them, anyway?”
Yvgeny looks up from the screen, frowning at her like she is demented or something. “I sell them. Not that I can sell something this damaged.”
She resists rolling her eyes. “I know you sell them, Yvgeny. I was never under the impression you hoarded them or, I don’t know, that you were building some weird glass screen shrine in your apartment.” She throws her hands around, indicating the lack of anything decorative in the room they occupy. “I meant how do you sell them? How do you get them to work without setting off the Peacekeeper alerts?”
“Like this.” He reaches behind him, pulling a small device from the nearby cabinet. It looks like a benign black box. The length and width of her palm and only a few centimeters high, its matte graphene surface picks up no reflections. He pushes down lightly on the box, the object emitting a faint click and ejecting the familiar silver links of a lifeline.
“Is that a—”
“It’s a proxy,” Yvgeny answers, before she can finish asking the question. “It mimics a wristplate lifeline to gain access to the device. Whereas your lifeline has your unique code attached to it, this one can run all two million possible lifeline numbers in five microseconds. Less than half the time it takes a device to register an unauthorized lifeline.”
“And then what?” she asks as he plugs the lifeline into the device.
“Then I usually delete the contents, metadata, and applications. Reset to factory settings, which clears the lifeline authorizations and lets the new owner set them again.”
“What if you didn’t want to delete the content? Could you copy it? Or transfer it?”
The glass screen lights up and her breath catches, waiting for the beeping to start, the inevitable white cross to appear, the Peacekeeper alert to send. But it never happens. Instead, the familiar deep tone of the start-up sequence sounds and the screen flashes with bright colors and icons.
“What sort of file are we looking at?” he asks.
“To copy . . .?” she replies, confused by his question.
“No, the one that is lucrative. Where will I find it?”
“It’s a video file.”
“Why would you want to copy or transfer a file?” he asks as he locates the gallery application.
The screen flickers as the most recent video file opens, the sounds she had heard a month ago echoing in the room.
“What is this?” Yvgeny asks. But Lira is too transfixed by the vision to answer, the violent act she had only heard now presented in clear color. She stares at the bed, amazed and horrified that she had been hidden under it the whole time.
“Lira, what is . . .?”
The Air Actor is pinned to the wall. The Water Commissioner’s hands tightening around his neck even as he tries to thrash away from them.
“That is the Water Commissioner killing an Air Elemental.”
Chapter 6
After seeing the footage, Yvgeny had transferred the six-day equivalent payment immediately. He had looked at her strangely, as if seeing her for the first time.
“You were right,” he had said eventually. “The content is more valuable.”
After that, he had promised her eight-day equivalent for any other devices that held saleable scandal. Celebrities, Commissioners, anyone in the upper echelon with secrets they would pay to keep that way.
That had been a week ago, and she is still no closer to finding a screen that meets the criteria. Limited opportunities, too much security, restricted access. Still, it hasn’t stopped her trying. And it isn’t as if she is any rush to go home to her small apartment and disappointing marriage.
Scowling, she clenches her fists. Thoughts of Jandah still rile her. And it’s not that she’s just angry at him and the fact that he’s a useless, drunken, lazy shit. She’s angry at herself. For ever thinking it was normal or acceptable. For never questioning it. For never thinking there could be something else. For never thinking there could be something better.
She stops and forces herself to breathe slower. Tonight, she is casing the more exclusive entertainment venues of Precinct 16, not so much to get access to possible screens, but instead to find high-profile targets she can follow to more ideal locations. Her heart-rate finally returned to normal, she sticks to the shadows, keeping to darkened pathways that run past shops and administrative buildings closed for the night. If anyone stops her, she has her cleaning alibi, but she’d rather not take the risk of anyone remembering her if questions are asked.
Ahead, she sees one of the city’s few bicycle carriages pull up at a small intersection. Most Elementals prefer to walk, cycle or catch the subworm, but there are a few—the incredibly rich or the incredibly lazy—who will shell out money to have some Earth Transporter carry them through the city’s streets.
A tall, beautiful Elemental dressed in outrageously colored and multiple-layered clothes steps out into the street and immediately heads for the small intersecting laneway. Lira waits a while before following the Air—for it could only be an Air who would dress so conspicuously.
Looking up, she notes the name of the thoroughfare—Boileau Road—before peering down its length. The Air—a Dancer? An Actor?—wobbles as she struts along the rough cobblestones. Confident she won’t be noticed, Lira enters the road and follows at a distance.
The road is a subtle mix of low-density apartment blocks and upmarket storefronts, all dimly lit and quiet.
Where is this Air going?
And no sooner does the question enter her mind, it is answered. Not twenty meters ahead, the Air stops. In the deep shadows, Lira can just make out a Fire Infrastructure Protector leaning against a nondescript wall. No lights, no sounds, no signs distinguish the door the Protector stands in front of from any other. The light of an entry terminal flashing green and the sudden flash of warm light and mellow music is the only indication that something exists beyond the entry door.
Lira backtracks, no longer looking at where the Air disappeared, but along the buildings and rooftops for a feasible access point. Her recent fall has made her cautious, so it is only when the deeply recessed bricks of a squat, boutique fashion store present themselves that she begins the climb.
The roofs are more sharply pitched than she is used to and she finds her boots sticking to the tiles that are covered in a thick layer of grime. This roofline has not been cleaned in years, maybe decades.
Is that even possible?
Most upmarket areas have their roofs and facades cleaned every week, some twice-weekly—even with the city’s numerous air recyclers, the airborne waste from all the synthetic processing still leaves its mark. How can it be that such an exclusive part of Otpor is so dirty?
She walks slowly, crouching down, wishing for a flatter roof that would allow her to move away from the street front and prying eyes, relying only on the darkness to keep her hidden.
Keeping her bearings by the street front opposite, Lira slowly advances to the spot where she last saw the Air Elemental. Getting down on to her belly, she ignores the slick feel of thick chemical residue, and peers slowly over the edge of the roof. The view is an unobstructed drop to the head of the Infrastructure Protector, the light from her wristplate a beacon against the deep shadows.
With no other points of access into the strange building, Lira frowns and slowly stands up, pressing her body against the steep pitch. Looking up, she surveys the peaked roofline, trying to estimate how high it is. Twice her height at least. No way to scale something so high and steep . . .
And, yet . . .
She pulls her right foot up slowly, feeling the tug of the grime as it sticks to her soles and tries to keep her tethered to the tiles. Pulling her sleeves over her palms to form makeshift gloves, she tries the same again with her hands. Again, the residue adheres and resists her attempts to pull free.
Her heart is pummelling the barriers of her ribcage, adrenaline surging at the thought of the risk, and its consequences, of what she is considering.
<
br /> Lira, don’t do it. You will not survive this fall. It is true, even if her body did wake from the new damage, it would be immediately incarcerated for trial and sentencing.
And yet . . .
Thoughts of the Air Elemental in expensive clothes and jewelery, stumbling along an expensive street with expensive alcohol in her veins puts fire to her belly. And, though she knows she will never have that life, it is enough for her to know that she doesn’t want the one she has either.
With a few glass screens and Yvgeny’s help, she can get something better. It’s not as if she has to find new screens all the time—if she can find a few key locations, like the Bordello and this, whatever incognito gallery or izakaya this is, she could always take the screens and then return them after checking them for content worth selling. It wasn’t an impossible stretch to think that an Air Elemental would just assume they had misplaced the device after a hedonistic night of partying. It would be like the fabled pigeon who laid the platinum eggs.
Banishing all thoughts of caution and fear from her mind, Lira starts to climb. It is a slippery, messy business; the weight of her body dragging her through the grime before she can reach and shimmy to a higher position. Eventually, her hands reach the sharp point of the roof’s pitch and, with a last flash of desperate energy, she hauls her body up to the peak.
The unexpected glow of warm light is the last thing she sees before her momentum carries her over the peak and sends her sliding down the other side.
Chapter 7
Lira’s feet crash through a brittle barrier that seems to shatter and splinter on impact. She falls again but her tumble ends quickly and abruptly. Groaning, she rolls to her side and slowly opens her eyes.
The soft light disorients her. She expected to find herself in a service alley, but this is not the bright fluorescence of access doors. Grinding her teeth against the pain, she sits up.
Panic slams into her belly as she realizes she is on a balcony. The light comes from a dozen windows overlooking a small sizeable courtyard.
Where am I?
She has never seen anything like it, never heard of anything like it. There is a reason all the buildings in Otpor have street-front doors and windows: how else were Peacekeepers to gain access whenever they liked? And, yet, here, all the doors and windows face inwards.
Her confusion overpowered by curiosity, she stands cautiously. Pausing until she is satisfied that her landing hasn’t attracted any unwanted attention, she moves closer to the glass door at her back. The room beyond is dark and silent—nothing to suggest anyone is home. She tests the door, her heart skipping when it glides open.
Tapping on her wristplate, her fingers trembling, she activates the diode. A brighter, harsher light sweeps through the room, illuminating rare treasures that make her heart flutter. Tapestries of fine, bright threads. Ribbons of tiny crystals that hang in clusters from the ceiling. And a wall of narrow, multi-colored bricks arranged in arresting patterns.
She walks over to the wall, reaching out to touch one of the strange, softly textured bricks.
This is madness. She should leave. Still, her fingers sink into soft, padded fabric.
She needs to leave. This is not a place to be caught stealing. And anyway, there is nothing here she can steal and profit from—no next-gen technology full of potential gossip she can move anonymously and undetected.
Still, she lingers.
Pulling a soft, blue-colored brick from the wall, she murmurs a curse when it seems to split apart into fragile layers. But, though it bends back double, it holds together.
Not a brick . . .
She places it down on the nearby table and examines it, gently turning over each impossibly thin layer, careful not to pull them from the spine. Her gaze tracks over the pictures and glyphs printed on each. Some of them are familiar, crude forms of the letters that flash on her wristplate messages. But most are unintelligible.
Heart racing, she pulls another two from the wall, stuffing all three in her backpack. Pulling up the recording function on her wristplate, she takes a dozen or so pictures of her surroundings before exiting the apartment. Perhaps there is something here that Yvgeny will pay for.
Chapter 8
“I want to renegotiate,” she says as Yvgeny joins her at their rendezvous point in the Edges.
He grimaces, the expression made more severe by the harsh light of her diode. “You already renegotiated, as I recall; to an eight-day equivalent.”
“Do you want what I have or not?” she says, making a show of readjusting her backpack.
“I’ll give you ten-day wage equivalent if and when you deliver devices with the same sort of content you obtained on the Commissioner.”
“I don’t want ten-day equivalent, and I don’t have any more next-gen screens.” Her heart is drumming so loudly, she is sure he can hear it. She folds her arms over her chest. To mask the noise, to steady her nerves.
“Then why are you wasting my time?” he says, pushing away from the recycler wall and getting ready to leave.
She holds out her arm, her palm pressing against his chest, stopping him from leaving. “I need your help.”
There is no strength in her obstruction; he could push past her with little effort and never look back. But he stops.
“You need my help?”
“Yes.”
“With what? The science of negotiation?” His voice holds a strange mix of frustration and amusement. She has never credited Water Elementals with the capacity for joking.
“No. I need you to help me translate the old language.”
It is a crazy idea. But a week of staring at the strange text in the three bricks has sucked her into an obsession she can’t ignore.
Early on it became obvious that the semi-familiar glyphs were a remnant of the old language, before stylised text rendered words in pixels. Not long after, it became equally obvious that the only way to translate this old language was with the help of a Water Elemental. And Yvgeny is the only the Water she both knows and has any leverage over. As small as it is.
“Why do you need help with the old language?”
She hesitates before reaching into her backpack and retrieving one of the books. The others she has left behind in the sixth-floor apartment she used to dream about, but now squats in.
Yvgeny’s eyes widen at the sight of it. He looks up at her and down at the brick in rapid succession, unable to fathom what she holds or that she holds it.
“Where did you find that book?”
Book. She rolls the unfamiliar word around in her mind, her lips forming the word like pursing for a kiss.
“Where did you find it?” Yvgeny repeats, louder. He’s nervous—more than his usual Water twitchiness. And she doesn’t blame him. This book belongs in a faraway past. A past that has been erased from the collective memory. A past whose remnants are frowned upon, if not expressly forbidden.
There is no reason for Elementals to think about what happened before—everything in the present is so perfect: full employment, universal health care, every Elemental accommodated, fed, and given opportunity for advancement. Of a kind. Free entertainment, cheap alcohol, and drugs. No fear or threat of famine, war, poverty; not like there was before the Singularity and the Emancipation.
Thinking about the past gets you into trouble. Idolizing it, treating it reverently, could be enough to get you detained and isolated for years.
“It doesn’t matter where I found it,” she replies, unwilling to share all her findings. “I know the right Elementals—the curious, the Unorthodox, the upper Echelon who want to maintain control—I know they will pay well for this type of . . . artifact. I don’t just want a finder’s fee anymore, I want a commission. Twenty percent.”
He grimaces again, unhappy with the new terms but too greedy to refuse them. “That still doesn’t explain why you need to know about the old language.”
She thinks about the books she has stashed away in the vents of the sixth-floor apartm
ent. About the strange words and glyphs in their pages.
“I need to know what to look for if I am to find them again,” she lies, the deception rolling easily off her tongue. “To know if they are valuable.”
Chapter 9
Lira sits cross-legged on the floor of the empty sixth-floor apartment. Her diode light spills across the pages of the book in her lap, the characters and glyphs no longer unintelligible.
True to his word, Yvgeny had taught her the old language—enough to translate the pages she had hidden away. The first book she had given him had proved to be nothing but a curio—an ancient tale of conflicted lovers and misplaced loyalty and betrayal. He was confident he could sell it to a romantic Air Elemental with lots of money and little sense. But he wanted more—more words, more impact, more scandal. More was better. More made him, and her, richer.
This book is different.
The mind of the citizen is weak—a vulnerable and transient ether. A variable that must be both nurtured and controlled. Freedom does the citizen no favors, provides it no benefit. Success of the Cooperative depends on the governing body assuming the role that parents once performed. Love and security must be met with discipline and submission. Divide and conquer, weaken and dominate, love and enslave; this is the path to progress and achievement.
She reads the words over and over again, feeling them twist and turn in her mind, sending synthflies to her belly and spikes to her thoughts.
On and on she reads, every new page presenting her with revelations that threaten to break her mind, and her Orthodoxy.
Choice is a dangerous thing. Give a citizen choice in the things that matter and they will invariably choose the easy option, or the lazy, or the short-sighted. Instead, flood them with insignificant choices—what to wear, what to drink, what to entertain themselves with. Saturate them with decisions about the things that don’t matter so they tire of choice and defer to the Cooperative on choices that do matter. And for the things that really matter, give them no choice. These decisions should be dictated by the Cooperative alone.
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