But that’s how my head was soon feeling—mellow, like I couldn’t pin a thought down. The band was back on, banging out percussion-heavy music. McKinsey had left along with Samm and Sue, although they hadn’t gone far, just up. The three were joining the other Tenners for a private party in the tallest building overlooking the square—I watched as the lights in Delilah’s eight-floor suite came on behind half-open curtains. Next to me, Lu and Wayne had combined what was left of their wine into a shared glass and weren’t paying attention to much beyond each other. A drop spilled down Lu’s chin and Wayne wiped it off with a kiss.
An elbow hit me in the side. It was accompanied by a loud, “Scottie, did you hear what I said?”
“What, Dax?”
“About alcohol privileges. Before the Dimming, they were based on age—twenty-one and up. By the old way of counting, from birth.” He swirled the final drops in his glass, the proceeding ones on top of the hard cider having rendered him more talkative than usual. “And they drank red wine—we only have green grapes in the greenhouses and on vines around town—in fact, only one variety: Chardonnay. No one’s quite sure why that one took best to the environment.” The last drop took its time sliding down the glass and into his throat. “I better go check on the fountain. It doubles as a growing environment for pink lotus…”
He wandered off and I didn’t hear the rest. Lu and Wayne slipped away as well and I was left alone. The festivities were scheduled to go on until half past eleven, but between the band and the wine, a dull ache had settled under my brow. Leaving the empty glass on the catering table, I made my way out of the square. The way home took me along a housing row, then past a familiar building. All lights were off at the Agency, but across the street, in a structure that’s part of the Town Offices complex, a couple of first-floor windows were lit. A side door opened and I watched a pair of men in security uniforms escort a third man out. Just as they were about to overtake me, the man in the middle abruptly stopped. His shoulders were stooped under the weight of a threadbare rucksack and he was badly in need of a wash, with greasy hair, hollow eyes, and an unkempt beard. A stained sleeping mat stuck out of the rucksack. Urgency wrapped around his words like razor wire, he croaked at me, “Too many birds in this town, too many, what’s inside them?”
One of the security personnel sent an apologetic grin in my direction. “Sorry. He’s been doing that to everybody all day. Buddy, you've been listening to Ben the Birdman too much. Let’s go, c’mon.”
“Too many, chirp, chirp, chirp…” Babbling on, the man took a step closer and the light from the streetlamp caught his face. I let out a gasp. It was Oliver. I didn’t recognize him, his current appearance a long way from the crew cut and plump cheeks from his pre-shaving days.
His features registered no recognition of my own. I wanted to say things, so many things at what was probably the last meeting of our lives, but I only managed a blunt “Was it me, Oliver—was I that unlovable?”
There was no response, only more chirps, and the guards were now staring at me. I tried again. “I’m sorry you have to leave. Do they have a place for you in a greenhouse?”
Oliver gripped my arm. “You’re not listening. The birds…” He frowned. “So secretive…”
“Yeah, yeah, the birds.” The second guard shook his head. “Saying strange things like that is how you end up at the bottom. Should’ve paid more attention to where you were on the List. Now release her arm.”
Oliver did so, his mouth hanging slightly open. “The List…”
“No point in trying to fix it now. It’s too late.”
“I think I understand…”
“Bottom’s the bottom and nothing to be done about it. Your spot is needed.”
“Not-mine-not-mine,” Oliver said so quickly the words blurred into a single strand. “Delilah’s, Delilah’s, Delilah’s… Don’t you see, bad things will happen, bad—”
“Can we get on with it?” the first guard interrupted. “We’ve already missed most of the party. Let’s go, buddy, there’s a greenhouse train waiting for you.”
Rubbing my arm where Oliver had grabbed it, I watched the security guards pull him away. It was too late for our PAL-ship—for further words. I broke into a run and enveloped him in a hug, unreturned, just before the guards pulled him down the train-depot stairwell and out of sight.
4
Housing Thirty-Three
The next morning, the run-in with Oliver having made for a poor night’s sleep, I was groggily in line with my tray. Cheap breakfasts are at the far end of the long counter and, as the line shuffled forward, I checked whether Delilah had shared any thoughts on the Commons—she was an early riser and always started her morning with an amusing or heartfelt tidbit—but there was nothing. Balancing coffee and yesterday’s cafeteria special on the tray, I found an empty table and sat down with what was under my arm: a copy of The Seattle Times, where, not knowing that Delilah was already dead and thinking an ordinary day lay ahead of me, I had the bright idea to look for a brand.
Defining myself still seemed like the biggest of goals.
The pages, yellowed with age, crinkled under my fingers. The special edition—I bought it with the money returned to me after my section F violation—lists the Founders. I’ve stared at the names so often that I might have been reciting them. Organized not alphabetically but by winning lottery number, they read like short poems, melodic and lovely: Jalal Ezrah Andrews, college student; Poppy Nicole Weston, pharmacist; Alex Jon Ellis, bus driver; Gabriela Gallardo Lopez, athlete; David Tang, guitarist; Anita Bukhari, catering assistant; Tomas Rick Donato, technical college attendee; Harper Ellie Isaacs, cashier; Leeshawn Lane, law school student…
Forking congealed pasta into my mouth, I turned the page to where the Founder listing continued to those invited into the Dome on top of the lottery—for technical expertise and such—and see a name I’ve stared at most of all. Eleven children with foster backgrounds formed the first generation in the youth center, including eight-year-old Tadeo Oliver Scott, listed near the fold on the page.
Ten thousand sounds like a large number, but not for a genetic pool—hence the bank of skin samples from Old Seattle in some dark and cool corner of the Birth Lab. But a bit of the Founders does live on—our names are sourced from their middle and last names, sometimes places of birth. I’m unrelated to Tadeo beyond the handful of letters.
I twirled another mouthful of pasta around the fork and considered that Gemma Bligh wasn’t wrong; the Founders did turn their backs—breaking off all contact was a requirement of entering the Dome, itself built across the mountains to ensure a physical distance. Not long after the issue in front of me, Old Seattle was abandoned for smaller settlements—ones where pavements, building foundations, and walls didn’t crack and sag under the weight of snow drifts and ice. The domes were built to preserve a way of life. I don’t know how other town-domes operate—the nearest is New Portland, a hundred-some miles away—but in ours it didn’t work out that way. The Founders saw an opportunity to structure a society by how well an individual fits into it rather than by bank account size or perceived value of a job or service. They upgraded the budding technology that had come in with them and ConnectChips started serving up gems and halos.
Washing down a forkful with coffee, I reminded myself that I was supposed to be looking for a brand and turned to the interview section in case one magically leaped out at me, but my attention went straight to one particular photo. A very young Tadeo with the other foster kids, everyone in woolen coats and scarves, the snow behind them shoveled waist-high. This made me wonder how Oliver was faring at the greenhouse, and thankful they had a place for him.
A quote from one of the kids was provided. “Living in a dome sounds awesome!”
I scooped up the last bit of pasta. The word had puzzled me at first. Awe-some. Possessing some awe, a medium amount of it, halfway between an opportunity full of awe and its similarly named but complete opposite, awful? Cece provi
ded the meaning. Archaic slang for great, remarkable, excellent, standout. Similar outdated words: groovy, rad, fantabulous. Similar contemporary word: brill.
Perhaps not, Cece, I commented now. Awesome Scottie might be too much to try to live up to as a brand. We’ll keep looking.
Are we optimistic, Scott?
You know it. All right, time to go to work. We’re cleaning up today.
But at the Agency, something was amiss. I ran into Wayne, who was walking fast. “Scottie, did you hear?”
“Hear what?”
“Rumors are flying all over the Commons. McKinsey’s called an all-hands—c’mon.”
I followed Wayne into the conference room to find it packed, everyone on their feet. McKinsey strode in last. Her words stilled all conversation in the room. “I’m afraid I’m the bearer of bad news. There was a terrible accident late last night. Delilah fell off her balcony… She was killed.”
There was a collective gasp from those who, like me, were just hearing the news. The room exploded into questions.
Delilah the Duchess—gone. The North Star guiding us had been extinguished. I couldn’t believe it. The packed space with its familiar faces, mismatched furniture, and well-worn brown carpet suddenly felt lonely.
McKinsey’s eyes were dry, but she blew her nose on a handkerchief and, after the room settled down, provided more information. “It’s thought she fell some time after midnight. The balcony railing gave way—wood rot. That’s all that’s known at the moment, people.”
My ears filled with a thumping sound—my heart pounding. I’d remembered something: the alerts from Smith, the Maintenance supervisor.
McKinsey offered her personal reaction. “Delilah and I had our disagreements… Many of them! Still, she was a fellow Tenner, the greatest stage actor New Seattle has ever known, and a leader so remarkable her death will define the end of an era. But—” McKinsey slid the hankie back in her pocket “—life goes on and we need to keep doing our jobs.”
He voice distant in my ears, McKinsey paused as if deciding how to frame her next words. “The truth is, everything will carry on perfectly fine for a few days with no number one—you can take my word for it. There’s another consideration… Does the Agency have the right to simply elevate Rick? Shouldn’t everyone be given a chance to have their say?… Beyond that, I believe Delilah should stay on as number one for the week to honor her memory.”
“Hear, hear!”
McKinsey nodded at the room. “I’ll run it by Hugh”—the Listkeeper never comes to meetings, even extraordinary ones—“but I’m sure he’ll agree. Now, we can all guess what will happen next. Whether or not Rick gets it, there’ll be a mad scramble for the open spot—and yes, I’ll aim for it, too. We’re going to be swamped with requests for publicity help, so let’s prepare for that. I’ll stay here with a few staff, and everyone else head out for the cleanup. Wayne, why don’t you come up and distribute tasks…”
After the room emptied, I was left behind, Wayne not having assigned a task to me. I was about to run out to catch up with him but McKinsey called me over. “Scott, security wants to talk to you.”
“What, now?”
“Now. Go across the street, Bodi’s waiting.”
5
I sit back down and Bodi says to my account of the previous twenty-four hours, “I see. Well, you should know that I’ve talked to—”
Here someone pops their head into the room and Bodi briefly steps out. I hear the phrase medical examiner before the door closes behind him. Finding myself alone, I take a look around. Bodi’s office is a small one. In addition to the metal table and chairs, there’s a wooden desk in one corner with a monitor—it switches between neighborhood maps, each shuffling dot the color of a person’s halo. If Bodi’s own office is in the rotation, the screen will show my mostly black dot in the center of the room, and his mostly orange one in the hallway with the other person’s. It makes me wonder if that’s how he found out about Delilah—by seeing dots hurriedly cluster around a motionless red one. The monitor gives a flicker now and then, a sign of age.
Cece, did you hear the news?
The accident is currently the main topic on the Commons. The prevailing emotion is one of sadness. Are you sad, Scott?
And scared. The queue I sifted through yesterday morning, the one from Delilah. I kept the Maintenance alerts, didn’t I?
My log provides this information: At 8:43 a.m. on Monday, March 15, a queue arrived from Delilah with 120 thoughts. You sent it back at 9:31 a.m. with twelve thoughts in it.
Yes, that sounds right. And two were the wood-rot alerts.
I do not have that information.
Why not?
To store all in and out thoughts and images would clutter my memory. Beyond our interactions, which aid me in better assisting you, Scott, I only remember what you instruct me to.
I know that, I just assumed it was all stored forever somewhere in CC Central. You mean I have no way of proving that I—
The door opens again and Bodi comes back in and takes a seat, picking up where he left off. “You should know that I’ve already talked to the Maintenance supervisor. Smith says that he sent a pair of messages—the first on Sunday morning informing Delilah of the issue and the second later that afternoon to report that a crew was scheduled to attend to the balcony by the end of the week.”
“That’s correct.” I quote as best I can from the first of the alerts. Smith’s style was short and clipped: “‘A safety valve in a water pipe has been leaking due to a disintegrated gasket. Wood rot suspected in balcony side beams. Exercise caution.’”
“Well, Delilah didn’t,” he observes.
“She must have fallen before she had a chance to open the alerts,” I say.
Bodi stirs at this. “CC Central didn’t find them in the in-queue of Delilah’s chip.”
My heart is beating faster again. “So she saw them, then.”
She had to have seen them. I didn’t wipe them. I didn’t. Delilah did herself, after taking in what Smith had to say.
Bodi gives a short shake of the head. “If that were the case, she’d have known to stay off the balcony, not place her weight on the railing and fall. Maintenance tells me that it would have taken quite a bit of force.” He supplies further details. “It happened at four minutes past one o’clock—Delilah’s CC registered the moment her neural signals stopped. A flashlight was found with her. The leading theory at the moment is that she was investigating a nest in the rafters above her balcony and leaned back against the railing, unaware of the wood-rot issue.”
He places two solidly-built hands on the table and seems to change the subject. “This brand of hers. Why didn’t she choose you?”
“She told me that I wasn’t ready yet, that it’s better to start small,” I explain.
“I see. Which left you still at—what did you call yourself? Scottie the No One.” He leans forward across the table—I can smell the toast and sausage he had for breakfast and fight the impulse to pull back—and says, “Her giving the brand away to someone else must have hurt. Were you tempted to take revenge? A couple of Maintenance alerts wiped and no one the wiser.”
My hands ball into fists, as if in self-defense, under the table; the ceiling lights reflect into patterns in the metal. Dragging my gaze up so Bodi’s and my eyes meet, I tell him, “I did no such thing. I was pleased the brand went to one of my PALs, Lu.”
Seeming to accept the answer, Bodi relaxes in the chair, which in his case means a straight back and a grim expression. “Listen. Everyone makes mistakes. You were in a hurry to deliver the remaining Tenner invites. Is it possible you accidentally wiped the alerts?”
The room is claustrophobic, Bodi’s unblinking stare disconcerting, and I’m happy when he, after a few more questions, nods toward the door for me to leave.
Across the street in the Agency, McKinsey’s office is open and I can see that she’s not alone. With her is the person who’ll most likely take Delilah’s
place—Rick. He’s on his sandaled feet, a sneer ruining his trademark “Handsome” look. He’s only half-way to it anyway, as if he stumbled out of bed to the news, unshaven and bleary-eyed, hair disheveled, his wrinkled linen shirt and slacks hurriedly donned. I’ve arrived just in time to hear him spit out, his raised voice carrying into the hallway, “Who made the decision to keep Delilah as the number one for the week even though she’s dead?”
McKinsey is perched on one corner of her desk, legs crossed in a sage-green suit. She takes a leisurely sip from the coffee mug in her hand. “Look, if you want to ensure you’re number one come next Monday, you know what to do—be out there campaigning for rubies.”
Rick is undeterred. “Was it Hugh’s decision? I demand to talk to him.”
Most people tend to forget about the Listkeeper and assume the Agency computer churns out the List on its own, Monday after Monday, week in and week out. Hugh, as befitting his job duties, has no rank and rarely socializes. He avoids even the Agency kitchenette, preferring to take his meals and breaks on the roof, bird-watching. I’ve occasionally caught a glimpse of a wiry, neatly-dressed figure in the hallway or the elevator. His is the only office on the top floor, the rest of the space used for storage.
McKinsey shakes her head at Rick. “The Listkeeper must be left alone to do his job.”
“You rub elbows with him and you’re in the Ten—have been for years. It’s all very convenient. Does money change hands, or is it a different kind of favor?”
I’m outraged on McKinsey’s behalf, but she’s not easily baited. “My place in the Ten has nothing to do with Hugh…and that’s despite what you may or may not know: that he and I used to be PALs. Hugh took an oath of integrity. The List is as fair as he can make it.”
“Is it, now?”
Rick, accepting defeat, strides out and McKinsey nods for me to come in. “It’s generally not a good idea to eavesdrop, Scott.”
All the Whys of Delilah's Demise Page 4