Yes. That’s BMAC’s job. Ever since Movers started bringing people like Oscar Joji from the future back here to the present, the population has exploded. Some places in the future aren’t all that great – wars, famine, disease and stuff – so a lot of people want to get back to now, where it’s safer. The government says there’s just not enough room, not enough resources, to go around. That’s why they created the Bureau of Movement Activity Control. To hunt down any Mover who breaks the law and lets a Shadow in.
Movers like Dad.
And the East Grove lady.
Maggie knows what my silence means. ‘Do you think Mom can make them stop Shelving people?’
No. Ever since Dad was Shelved, my mom’s been on a crusade to ban Shelving. Putting a Mover to sleep for the rest of his life doesn’t sit well with her. Mom’s not a Mover, but she loves enough of them to make it her business to put an end to the whole process. She meets with Movement experts and scientists and Movers’ rights people. None of it gets her any closer to banning Shelving.
‘Do you think Mom could’ve – you know – I mean if the East Grove lady came to her …’
‘Maggie,’ my voice carries more warning than I mean it to, but she needs to stop before she says something that could get Mom in serious trouble.
‘But could she have? Gotten her FIILES?’
As soon as it’s out of her mouth I lunge, grabbing her tightly by the arm. She cries out, and Beauty’s screeching at me, but I don’t care. ‘Are you crazy? You want someone to hear you?’
The thing about Mom is, she has a reputation – a Mover sympathiser. Not a lot of Non-Movers (including Mrs Dibbs) like that much about her. But there’s plenty of Movers who do. Movers who need help. Movers who broke the law. And their Shadows. So they seek Mom out.
And she helps them.
And it’s way not legal. FIILES – Federal Information and Identification Licensing Electronic System – are a digital account of your entire life. That’s how Mom helps. She’s never said so, but I live in the same apartment. Whispered phone calls and late-night ‘meetings’. She’s even got a secret second closet that I’m supposed to pretend doesn’t exist – a hidden panel at the back of our bedroom closet that stores some of the things she needs to help people evade BMAC. Over the years I’ve overheard her plenty, talking about phoney FIILES – birth certificate, driver’s licence. It takes a lot of work to falsify digital licences like that, and Mom can barely work her smartdesk. I don’t know who programs these phony FIILES for Mom or how she even knows someone who can do that stuff, and I’m not supposed to know. But I do know BMAC would arrest her for it if they ever found out.
‘You cannot talk about that stuff, Maggie.’
‘Ow,’ she whines, pulling her arm back from me as Beauty perches protectively on her shoulder. She pouts, rubbing where my fingers pinched the skin.
‘You don’t know what Mom does,’ I say, ‘and talking like that could get us all in real trouble, so just shut up about it.’
Maggie doesn’t say anything, just keeps pouting.
‘Since when do you care so much anyway?’
She turns back to the tank, fiddling with the knobs so that she doesn’t have to answer. Maybe it’s better if she doesn’t. The conversation shouldn’t have started. Still, she didn’t used to ask about these things. Never seemed to think about it much at all. So why start now?
My eyes drift out over the city, sky scrapers and towering apartment buildings, a jumbled mass of concrete and glass. I can see giant cranes and scaffolding too, lots more buildings going up.
‘I fixed it,’ she says, and steps back from the tank.
I doubt that. But now there’s a mechanical ticking sound coming from inside the tank and I’m surprised to see the green light at the top has started to blink. The gauge springs back to life, waffling between empty and full.
‘Ha!’ I tap the glass and the needle settles somewhere around half. ‘Mags, you’re a genius! How’d you do it?’
She shrugs and Beauty clucks proudly.
‘Success?’ Mom’s leaning out the window, wearing her work clothes, her hair in a frazzled greasy ponytail.
‘Yeah!’ I say. ‘Thanks to Maggie!’
‘Maggie?’ smiles Mom. ‘Mr Sibichendosh teaching you about water tanks in school these days?’
Maggie tries not to grin. ‘I just turned some knobs.’
Mom watches her for a moment, and something in her smile fades. Mom shakes her head. ‘Well, whatever you did, I wish you’d done it faster!’ She looks down at her watch. ‘I’m not going to have time to wash my hair before my seminar, and you two are already late.’ Her eyes narrow on Beauty. ‘Maggie, send Beauty off, please. You shouldn’t encourage her.’ Mom’s not a fan of the bird either.
Maggie strokes Beauty’s feathers and the bird lifts into the air, flapping away to wherever it goes when it’s not annoying me.
‘What are you talking about at your seminar?’ asks Maggie, letting Mom help her through the window.
‘Same old stuff.’ She smiles before snapping her fingers at me. ‘Come on, Pat. Let’s go.’
‘I’m coming.’ I gather up the wrench, the screwdriver and the butter knife. I check the gauge again, just to be sure. The needle’s still alive, the light still blinking.
Same old stuff. I wonder how long Maggie’s going to let Mom get away with answers like that. How long either of us should.
TWO
By last period, I still haven’t stopped thinking about what Maggie said, about Oscar Joji. I lean my elbows on my desk and stare out my classroom window. We’re fifty-two floors up, so there’s nothing to see except the office tower across the street. I’ve counted the windows on that building more times than I can remember, and I’m sure I’ll do it a dozen more before the end of the year. They look silver and black, the stormy sky perfectly reflected in the glass. The clouds churn slowly, and as I watch them I can’t help but think about Dad. What’s it matter to Maggie where Oscar Joji came from? He’s dead.
I grab my droidlet – a little red sphere that stores all my FIILES, and pretty much my entire life. I swipe the surface and the holographic screen blooms to life around it. 2.48 p.m. dances across the little ball’s centre. I have to pick up Maggie at three fifteen.
A low sound calls my attention from the time. ‘Gooooooooooooba,’ moos Ollie Larkin, sitting in the desk in front of me.
The whole class is laughing outright and I try to hide my smirk. Gabby ‘Gooba’ Vargas stands at the front of the room, nose pressed to her droidlet notes as she presents her physics project – tubes and batteries and light bulbs all connected by a nest of wires. She’s fat and I don’t just mean chubby; she’s the biggest in our grade, has been since kindergarten. She’s also the only Mover in our school higher than Phase 1. With those two things alone, Gabby never stood a chance at the Romsey Institute for Academics. Not even her brainiac-ness helps her. Whenever she’s called on to answer a question, she not only knows the answer, but she usually mumbles a whole bunch of additional stuff that our teachers never end up covering.
And none of it gets her good grades. Mostly because every project I’ve ever seen Gabby do has something to do with the mechanics of Movement. And that means talking about Movers. And in my experience, talking about Movers makes teachers uncomfortable.
Teachers like Mrs Dibbs.
‘Gooooooooooba,’ Ollie says again, causing more giggling.
Mrs Dibbs doesn’t even look up from whatever she’s watching on her droidlet. She hasn’t been listening to a word Gabby’s said. Gabby’s been mumbling barely above a whisper about gravity and black holes and electromagnetic radiation for twenty minutes now, trying to explain her machine. Even if any of us could hear what she’s saying, I doubt we’d understand it anyway.
A bored Kevin Prenders joins Ollie. ‘Gooooooooooba.’
The ‘Gooba’ thing started last year and I don’t think it’s clever or anything. I don’t think it even means anything. It’
s just a made-up word. But Kevin manages to make the most perfect cow sound when he says it and I can’t help but smile.
Gabby’s not smiling.
Her skin’s gone all blotchy and her hands are shaking. She glances up from her droidlet, right over at me, and she sees my grin. Her eyes are extra shiny and I know she’s doing her best not to cry. She looks back down at her notes and clears her throat, placing a hand on the big glass tube in front of her. ‘The idea is kind of like an X-ray,’ she says. ‘Only X-rays don’t really pick them up. Neither do normal light rays. So, by finding the right frequency, hopefully I can expose the pungits so they can be measured and better understood.’
Mrs Dibbs stands. ‘The what?’ she says with a bored sigh.
‘P-pungits,’ says Gabby, raising her voice slightly. ‘The particles that I believe are connected to Movers, the particles that make a Mover Move. I have a theory that the Mover manipulates these particles, which is why they have the ability to pull their Shadow from the future here to the present. If I can figure out how to see these particles, or even measure them, then we would better be able to understand Movement phases. For example, a Mover who is Phase 1 would have a low pungit count, while a Mover who is Phase 3 would have a high—’
Mrs Dibbs suddenly claps her hands together. ‘All right, Miss Vargas, thank you for that.’
‘I, uh, I wasn’t finished.’
‘That’s all the time we have, Gabby. Please take your seat.’
Awkwardly Gabby scoops her contraption into her arms and waddles her way to her desk. She’s wedged into the very back, right between the vents and me.
‘And, Miss Vargas?’ Mrs Dibbs’s eyes narrow, carving crow’s feet deeper into her wrinkled face. ‘Tomorrow is the first of the month. I trust you have your Phase Licence Renewal Forms ready for Officer Dan?’
Gabby nods, greasy strands of dark hair falling over her moping face.
Mrs Dibbs makes a note on the smartboard behind her and turns back to the class. ‘Mr Doig?’
Matthew Doig raises his hand so Mrs Dibbs can see him, as if she doesn’t know this classroom and her own specially designed seating arrangement like the hairs on her chin. His desk is on my left. Because this is where we belong, me, Gabby and Matt. In Mrs Dibbs’s class, Movers sit at the back.
‘You’ll remember to complete your forms for tomorrow?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ says Matt with a forced smile. He’s always trying to smile for Mrs Dibbs. He rummages through his bag for a second and pulls out his droidlet. He holds the little green ball high above his head. I sigh. Every month, Matt Doig makes sure he has his phase forms a day early. He’s only a Phase 1 Mover, like me. Phase 1 doesn’t mean much of anything. But for whatever reason Matt feels he’s got to make up for it and sucks up to Mrs Dibbs like it’s his job. It’s a wasted effort. For Mrs Dibbs, Phase 1 is one phase too many.
‘I finished them today for you,’ he tells her, ‘in case you wanted to look them over.’
Mrs Dibbs snaps open her hand and Matt barrels to the front of the room. She’s not even looking at him when he eagerly places the little ball in her palm. Her eyes are on me.
‘Mr Mermick?’ she says, as she swipes the surface of Matt’s droidlet and signs with her fingerprint. ‘I hope I’m not expected to place another phone call to your mother about your phase forms after last month’s fiasco.’
I watch as Kevin Prenders nudges Leelee Esposito with a grin and they laugh. The fiasco was real amusing for everyone, except for me. I forgot to complete the forms last month. Well, actually Mom forgot. I answered all the questions, as usual. Kind of like a psych evaluation. But at the end you have to get a statement and signature from your parent and teacher. I asked Mom to sign them when she was elbow deep in articles and phone calls that were supposed to help some Mover lady, and she told me she would deal with them later. She didn’t deal with them later, and I showed up without my forms completed.
‘No, ma’am, she knows.’ But I’m really not sure. This month could just as easily be as bad as the last.
‘Good. Because her slippery memory when it comes to your phase status, I don’t need to remind you, Patrick, could land us all in jail.’
She doesn’t need to remind me. Officer Dan gave me a pretty hard time when I didn’t have Mom’s statement for him last month. He escorted me home and demanded Mom complete the forms, before he looked over the whole thing himself. It was awful.
‘Remind her when you get home, please.’
More snickering.
‘Yup,’ I sigh, watching the clouds spiral into what looks like the rusted knob on our useless old water tank.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Yeah! I’ll remind her!’ My cheeks burn and I know they’re red.
Mrs Dibbs glares at me. ‘I. Beg. Your. Pardon?’
‘Yes, Mrs Dibbs,’ I grumble.
The whole class breaks into giggles and Mrs Dibbs raises her saggy chin into the air – her Do you want extra homework? face – and the class shuts up.
When they do, Mrs Dibbs moves on with business as usual, telling everyone to load tonight’s mathwork into our FIILES before the bell.
I point my droidlet at the smartboard to capture tonight’s algebra activity and check the time again – 3.02 p.m. Thirteen minutes to get to Maggie. She’s around the block at Wynchwood Elementary. I’m gonna have to sprint to make it … if Mrs Dibbs ever lets me leave.
‘All right, see you tomorrow.’
Finally.
I slam on my hat – Romsey Raiders, the school’s team – and make a break for the door.
‘Pat!’ It’s Ollie Larkin. ‘Wait!’
I look back and see the little squirt pointing to his droidlet, the blue flames of SpaceDraccus5 blazing across its surface. ‘Mission 72, man!’ Yesterday it was BlastForce, last week he wanted to try Blood Night. And every time I have to tell him the same thing.
‘Can’t! Maggie!’ and I fly out the door.
The halls are a mess of students and as I run through them I see the elevator bank, a sea of seventh graders all waiting for their ride down to street level.
‘That’s a solid ten-minute wait.’ Ollie’s at my side already, his shoulder bumping into my elbow as people try and squish their way closer to the elevators.
‘I’m so late for my sister.’
Ollie doesn’t say anything, sulking while he plays SpaceDraccus5. He’s mad because I won’t play him. But I can’t. Maggie is going to be waiting for me. I watch the waves of kids, the shifting bodies piling up in front of me, and then I have an idea.
‘What?’ asks Ollie, when he sees me looking at him.
‘Vator bomb?’
His eyes go wide before he frowns. ‘There’s only two of us!’
A vator bomb is a three-man job.
I roll my eyes and grab the closest backpack to me, pulling some scrawny zit-faced ginger I don’t know into our pocket of space. He looks surprised but I’m in a rush so I get right to the point: ‘Dude, vator bomb?’
Zit-Face shrugs. ‘For what?’
‘Pat, this is a bad idea,’ says Ollie, and I notice the blue flames of SpaceDraccus drifting up from his droidlet. ‘Two hundred SpaceDraccus points?’ I ask Zit-Face.
‘Whose points?’ says Ollie. ‘Not my points!’
The guy nods, holding his droidlet up to Ollie’s so he can take the agreed sum.
‘I’ll pay you back,’ I promise, even though we both know I probably won’t ever have two hundred extra points to give up.
Before Ollie can argue about it more, I grab his wrist to make him hold up his droidlet and the transaction is complete.
‘Ollie, you get on the left.’ I move him to the other side of me so I stand between him and Zit-Face. The three of us shift through the crowd, shoulder to shoulder, so we are in line with one of the elevator doors. There’s at least twenty kids between us and the only way out of here. I haven’t pulled a vator bomb in a long time, probably not since fourth grade when we f
irst learned how, and I’m not sure how well this is going to go. The red number above the elevator door reads ‘58’, and it’s coming down fast.
‘Go, go!’ I shout at Ollie, as he bends over and makes a cradle with his hands. Zit-Face does the same and I use their shoulders to steady myself as I place my feet in their hands.
‘What do you think you’re doing?!’ yells some girl behind me, but she’s too late. The floor counter switches to ‘52’, and at the sound of the bing! Ollie and Zit-Face let out a yell, lift with all their might and I’m airborne.
I scream, ‘VAAAATOR BOMB!’ – as per etiquette – and sail over the terrified kids ducking for cover. The elevator door opens to reveal a jam-packed chamber of older Grade 9s with nowhere to go. A couple of them put up their arms to stop me, but it’s no use. Like a bowling ball, I crash down on top of them, setting off a string of loud profanities and angry grumbles.
‘What’s your problem, kid?’
‘Who does that?!’
My hands fly to my head; I lost my cap in the flight. When I look down at my chest and see the grubby old thing sitting on top of me, I let out a laugh. Successful vator bomb.
‘Get the hell off of me!’ screams the owner of a pair of legs pinned beneath me, some girl with blue hair and sunglasses. There hasn’t been a sunny day since before I was born.
I get to my feet and pull the cap down over my eyes, ‘Sorry, sorry! My fault.’
A big guy behind me gives me a shove and I try not to laugh. I know vator bombs are annoying for everybody besides the bomber, but in a rush they sure are effective.
‘He’s a Mover!’ growls sunglasses.
Oh no.
‘Figures! He’s a Mover!’
‘For real?’
‘It’s on his droidlet,’ she announces, holding up the little red sphere that must have fallen out of my pocket when I landed. An alert pulses from its centre for everyone to read – phase forms, Mom! Officer Dan made me program the alarm last month so I wouldn’t forget. ‘ “Phase forms”. He’s a Mover.’
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