It was late enough by then that I wasn't certain I'd be able to find a landlord. I tried Debbie's old room, but of course she'd given up that rental while she was on the show and no one knew where she was staying now. A woman named Elaine recognized me, though. "Why do you want our landlord?" she asked bluntly.
"I need a place to stay. My father kicked me out."
"Oh! That's terrible. I'll find him for you."
It turned out that lockers could be rented only by the week, which meant I had to spend a lot more than I'd expected. Then it turned out that mattresses and blankets were offered a la carte and had to be paid for separately. Oh, and so was the lock. If I stayed there for more than six weeks it would cost more to rent the mattress and blanket than it would have to buy them, but surely by then.…
The locker was exactly long enough for the mattress, with half a meter of clearance overhead. It felt a little like crawling into my own coffin, an image I tried desperately to push out of my head. Elaine showed me how to lock it from the inside. It was pitch black, and I realized that the only light source I had with me was my gadget. I turned it on, trying to glean some reassurance from the dim glow. But the "battery low" light was lit, and I didn't have the charging cable. I turned it off and tried to settle in.
The mattress was so hard I wasn't sure why I'd bothered to rent it, and the blanket was thin. I had no pajamas or even a toothbrush, and I'd forgotten to get a pillow.
When I focused, though, I could feel the movement of the waves: the gentle up-and-down rocking that had been part of my life since I was four years old. That, at least, was the same down here as it was in my father's apartment. I closed my eyes and focused on the waves until I fell asleep.
I woke up desperately wanting to pee. It took me a second to remember how to work the lock, and I mis-remembered the distance to the floor and stumbled. Three women were standing around talking, but they fell instantly silent and stared at me, wide-eyed.
"Elaine helped me rent this locker last night," I said. "My father kicked me out. And I have to pee. Can you tell me where the bathroom is?"
It was down the hall, but you needed to swipe an ID card to get in. "I'll swipe you in," one of the women said grudgingly, "but you'll owe me the charge."
"…it costs money?"
There was a round of derisive laughter. "You sound like a foob," one of them said. "Fresh on the boat. There ain't no such thing as a free lunch, honey, and there's water in those bathrooms. Desalinated water. You don't think that's free, do you?"
Of course. In our apartment, the water was simply billed to my father. "I have an ID card," I said, hesitantly, "but I'm not sure it'll work. And I don't want my father to know where I am."
"You can get a cash-basis card if you want to stay anonymous," the woman said. "They cost more, though." She swiped her card and let me into the bathroom. "Don't waste water," she called after me. "It's all getting billed to me."
I peed. The toilet would be saltwater, so at least I wouldn't be charged as much, but it flushed itself twice while I was sitting on it. I'd run into toilets before that did this and it had startled me, but never infuriated me. When I was done, I rinsed my mouth, since I had no toothbrush. I carried a hairbrush in my backpack, and I wet it to brush my hair and then put my hair in a ponytail. I would have liked a shower, but I had no towel, plus I didn't want to abuse the woman's generosity.
"The stupid toilet flushed itself three times," I said when I came out. "But I used less than a gallon from the sink. Can I pay you later today? I need to get money from Geneva."
"Yeah," she said, and told me how much I owed her.
Now that I'd peed, I realized how hungry I was. The last time I'd eaten was on Amsterdarn, yesterday, with Thor and Janice. Clark's was the dining room on this level: it was cheap and offered meal plans by the week. The line was really long, probably due to the slowdown the union had organized. I was standing in it when I remembered that this was the dining hall that had poisoned Debbie's sister Lynn. What if they poisoned me? What if my father had paid them to poison me? What if the whole purpose of throwing me out was to set me up to get so sick that they could blackmail me with medical care?
I went to the sandwich shop near my morning school, instead.
"Hey, Beck!"
It was Thor, waving me over to his booth. Seeing a friendly face gave me a jolt of hope and relief—a sense that everything would be okay, maybe. I slid in across from him. "You look a little frazzled," he said.
"Yeah. My father kicked me out. He said I could come back if I agreed to 'act like his daughter,' which I think probably means spy on whoever he wants me to spy on, and tell him anything he asks."
I wanted to sound tough and defiant when I said this, but looking at Thor's face—which was worried and concerned and sympathetic all at once—broke my resolve. I started to cry. Thor moved over next to me and put his arm around my shoulders as I sobbed.
"Hey," he said. "Beck, it's not that bad. You can go to California, right? And live with your mom."
"I don't want to leave." I tried to explain, but I could tell from the noises he was making (the sort of "uh-huh" that means, "You can keep talking, I'm still listening," not the sort that means, "I totally agree with you") that he thought I was nuts.
"I can't wait to go back," he said. "If I had a parent on shore who wanted me, I'd be in the embassy right now saying, 'Get me out of here!'"
"Shore's home for you, though," I said.
"I asked Tyrone—you know, the guy at the Citizens' Services Bureau—about whether I could become an emancipated minor. He said no, probably not, at least not yet. But the day I turn eighteen, he said he can help me. I might enlist."
"Enlist?"
"In the military. Which admittedly is a little like being a bond-worker, since you can't quit, but they pay for everything . Housing, food, clothes, all your medical care.…"
I had seen a few movies where people were in the Army. I pulled away and looked at Thor, trying to imagine him with all his pretty curls shaved off for boot camp or whatever they called it these days. I must have made a face because Thor laughed.
"Anything but the Navy," he said. "I've had enough of the ocean."
He put his arm around me again and I leaned my head against his shoulder.
"Go to California," he said. "That way when I get there in two years, I'll have someone to visit."
But I didn't want to leave. I didn't want to leave Thor . And I knew from the way his arm tightened as he said "go" that he didn't really want me to go, either.
I GOT MONEY from my underground off-the-official-books bank and went to Miscellenry to buy the stuff I needed most urgently—a toothbrush, a towel, a change of clothes. A second blanket. A charge cable for my gadget. A flashlight. Jamie took my money and avoided my eyes. I could feel my father's influence as if he loomed over Jamie's shoulder, glaring at me. I thought about asking Jamie if he wanted to hire me back—he'd said just the other day he'd hire me back in a second—but I was afraid I'd start crying again when he said no. So I didn't ask.
"I need a cash-basis water card," I said.
Jamie looked over his shoulder, like he really did expect my father to be standing there, and said, "I don't sell those," a little bit too loudly. Then he pulled one out from under the counter and slipped it to me. "Don't tell anyone," he whispered. I reached for my wallet and he shook his head. "It's on me."
I tried to calculate how long my savings would last, paying for bed, food, water, and all the things I was probably still forgetting to account for. Not long, was the answer. Maybe a month. And then…what?
For now, I decided, I wasn't going to worry about it.
It was supposed to be my first day back at school, but I was pretty sure I couldn't go—if my father was cutting me off, he'd surely have canceled with my tutors. The day stretched out in front of me, empty, so I went for a walk, Min to Rosa to the far edge of Pete. I didn't go to Pete very often, because about the only thing I can say in Russia
n is, "Sorry, I don't speak Russian." (I had a Russian tutor for a while when I was little, but then my father got pissed off at some collective decision made on Pete and switched me to Spanish. Which I don't speak very well, either.)
Pete does have a few cool things, though, including a good-sized stretch of open deck that you can get onto for a really small fee—you don't need an ongoing subscription. Unfortunately, I realized only after I'd paid my entry fee that the weather was lousy. It was overcast and drizzling, but at that point I felt obligated to go stand in the open air for a little while anyway, because otherwise I'd have wasted my money. I looked out over the rail. I could see Sal, which was about a kilometer away, but only barely. Sal is short for Silicon Waters, and it's separated from the rest of the seastead because they do nanotech experimentation and the rest of the steaders were nervous about the dangers. Of course, people go back and forth by boat all the time. It's where my father's business is, although mostly he works from home.
Amsterdarn was on the other side of the stead from here, so I couldn't see it. Aside from Sal, I could see a couple of speedboats and someone who looked like he was out fishing. One of the signs said (in English, Spanish, and Russian) that on a clear day, visibility from this point was 6.85 miles, but I certainly couldn't see that far right now.
"…funeral of the rabble-rouser," someone said, in English. I stiffened but didn't look around.
"What about the press? I'm thinking of Stead Life , in particular, since they have a significant following." The voices were male; there were two of them; they were standing a short distance away. I resolutely stared out to sea.
"They're already not going."
"Heh. Good. The last thing we need is someone making more of this than it is."
"At any rate, we hired the ADs for the actual action. Your people are for the perimeter—we want you to make sure no unacceptable targets even make it to the funeral in the first place. Ideally we'd like no one who isn't a bond-worker, but for sure, absolutely no minors are to be allowed in."
"Understood."
My ears were burning, and even though I hadn't meant to, I glanced at the men. One of them was the operations manager for the Scoundrels, which is a protection firm on Lib. I recognized him because he puts up a lot of ads. People call the Scoundrels the Cut-Rate Bastards behind their backs. The other guy I didn't recognize, and to my relief, he looked at me blankly. "Hey, girl," he said. "You planning to go to the big funeral tomorrow? Are all the kids going to be there?"
"I'm sorry," I said, in Russian. "I don't speak English."
He shrugged and turned back to the Scoundrel. "Payment will be in cash. Since your job is to keep people out of something, I was going to suggest a base payment with a large bonus that goes down for every citizen and dependent who's missing afterward.…" When I heard there was a list of citizens they were to make particular effort to keep away from the funeral, I decided I'd been out in the rain long enough. I might be on that list. My picture might be on that list. Hopefully they wouldn't look at my ID photo and recognize the damp, bedraggled Russian teenager who had been standing right by them.
I'd listened long enough to know that they were planning to do something horrible at the funeral. I had to tell someone! But Miguel was dead, and I had no idea where Debbie was.
After dithering as I walked across the bridge from Pete, I went to the church where I'd gone to meet Miguel. Miguel said the priest had noticed me, and had wondered if he should talk to me about my faith—since he knew Miguel, maybe he'd be officiating at the funeral. Maybe he'd have some idea what to do.
The church was open and less crowded today. I looked for Debbie but didn't see her. I didn't see the priest, either, but there was a door at the far end and I thought it might lead to an office. I tried knocking, and when no one answered, I tried opening it. It led to a hallway, and one of the doors off the hallway was labeled "Fr. Timothy Esposito."
It occurred to me he might not be here. Priests sometimes got called out to visit sick people, didn't they? And…actually, I had no real idea what priests did all day. I knocked. The door was opened by a middle-aged man in a black suit and one of those weird white collars that goes straight across. "Oh," he said, surprised. "It's you. Rebecca, isn't it?"
"Yeah," I said, and wondered if I was supposed to add "Father" or if only Catholics were supposed to do that. "I want—can I talk to you for a minute? Mr.…Father…Mr. Esposito?"
He opened the door a little wider and gestured for me to come in. "You can call me Tim."
Tim. Okay. I took a deep breath and entered.
Tim's study was crammed full of books—old-fashioned bound books. Some of them were Catholic, or at least religious, but as I looked around I noticed he also had Lord of the Rings , the complete works of J. K. Rowling, and The Secret Garden .
"Have a seat," he said, gesturing to a chair, and sat down across from me. I'd sort of expected him to sit behind his desk, but he had two visitor chairs and he sat in one of them.
"I'm not here to talk about my faith, just so you know," I said. "I'm a rationalist."
He gave me a slightly quirked smile. "That's fine."
I was waiting for some sort of religious sales pitch; it didn't come. After a minute of expectant silence I realized he was waiting for me to go on.
"Okay," I said. "I'm coming to you because I think you were Miguel's friend and might know what to do. I heard some people talking an hour ago, over on Pete. One of them was the guy who runs the Scoundrels, and the other I don't know who he was. They're planning to do something horrible at Miguel's funeral. I don't know if they're going to blow up the church, or what, but it's going to be bad."
Tim's brow furrowed. "The funeral isn't going to be here," he said. "They're holding it on the sea platform that was built by the network for their reality show. Apparently, instead of selling it to Amsterdarn, as originally planned, Janet handed it over to the bond-workers who'd performed on the show."
"Oh. Oh. " Well, that explained why they thought they could destroy it without sinking part of the stead. "Tell them not to! I mean— can you? Can you warn them?"
Tim pondered this. "Given this information, I might be able to persuade people to move it here. They'd have to put it off for another day or two, though, while I negotiate with my neighbors for some additional space. Part of the reason it's being held on the sea platform is to enable more people to attend. The other reason is because Catholic funerals aren't set up to allow for speech-making." He shrugged. "I can turn a blind eye to that, but there's a limit to how many people you can fit in here. The biggest church is the Methodist church, which is a level up from here and about four times the size. Whether they'd be willing to host—who knows?"
"Were you going to be there on the platform?"
"Yes." He raised an eyebrow. "So apparently the gentlemen you overheard on Lib consider me entirely disposable. They may be hoping the next priest will be more willing to dance to their tune."
"But you'll tell people," I said.
"Yes, I'll try to get the word out."
"Okay," I said, standing up. "Do you think there's anyone else I should tell?"
"Feel free to warn anyone you like, although rumors of danger may only make people more stubborn. It's hard to know."
"Thank you."
"Thank you ." He stood up. "Feel free to come by and talk anytime. About anything. Rationalists are welcome here; I'm a Jesuit, after all."
I smiled, although I didn't really get the joke, and went back out.
I wasn't sure whether I could trust the priest or not—I didn't know if he'd actually try to get the funeral moved, and for that matter, I didn't know if he actually had the necessary influence. Maybe, I thought, I should spread the word, too. Although, I wasn't sure how to persuade people to trust me. Debbie would, but I had no idea where to find her.
I passed a dining hall; the lines coming out were unreal. The sandwich shop I'd planned to buy dinner at was just as bad. If I went to Clark's, I
could warn people, and surely they weren't actually organized enough to poison me under the circumstances. I went back down to the locker-room level and got in line.
"Miguel's funeral's been delayed," said the man in front of me. "Pass it on."
Well. Apparently the priest was the guy to go to.
Clark's, when I finally made it in, was crammed full of people. Instead of chairs, the tables had long benches, and people sat shoulder-to-shoulder. I took a plate and held it out to the servers, who gave me four scoops of…stuff. There was a scoop that looked sort of like animal protein, but I couldn't tell what kind. The second was beige, like mashed potatoes. The third was green and on inspection I thought it was broccoli. The fourth was brown and was ice cream. To go with all that I got a small glass of water. I looked around for somewhere to sit; I didn't see any spots. But a man saw me looking and scooted over, making a small space, and I sat down. I was hungry enough that it all tasted okay.
"Miguel's funeral's been postponed," I said. "Pass it on."
He grunted. "I know."
The staff here didn't appear to have slowed down—or maybe it was just that customers were expected to do more of the work. We had to carry our own food to the table and bus our own dishes. The dishes went through an automatic washer, but the person who put in the last dish had to give the rack a shove toward the sprayer. I copied the people around me and made my way back to my locker. My gadget's battery was almost drained; I needed to find somewhere to plug it in.
But when I got to the locker room that night, I was locked out of my unit. There was a notice of eviction taped to the side. I pulled it off, blinking away tears of frustration and bewilderment. The letter said that because I was a dependent , and neither a citizen nor a guest-worker, I was not legally permitted to engage in commerce my guardian had forbidden. The money I'd paid—for the locker, the mattress, the blanket, all of it—had been refunded. To my guardian.
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