XVI Read online

  Just when I thought I couldn’t take the piercing tone any longer, there was a crackle, and then, “. . . the End-of-Wars extravaganza sale ends at midnight tonight. Don’t battle for bargains, shop Sale-o-rama, where every deal is a good deal.”

  Several police had arrived on the scene. Some were conferring with the Media repairmen while others questioned the drivers involved in the accident. I overheard one of them say, “ Officer, I don’t know what to do. It was so quiet, all of a sudden like. I figured it was some kind of emergency. So, I hit the brakes . . .”

  Traffic picked back up and Sandy and I clicked our PAVs back on. Passing by the cops, I dipped my head down. Pretending to examine a spot on my jeans, I glanced down the alley where the homeless guy had disappeared. It was empty.

  “Two weeks ago, when Mom and I came into town, the same thing happened. Not the accident, but the silence,” Sandy said. “It freaked me out then, too. Mom says it’s happening more often.” She frowned. “Damn NonCons. How dare they say that people don’t think for themselves?”

  I wasn’t about to say that I liked the silence, NonCons or not. The constant bombardment of verts really didn’t give anyone a chance to think. Ginnie always taught us that thinking for yourself is the most important thing. When I see how Sandy blindly follows whatever the latest Media-induced frenzy is—I know my mom is right. But it’s hard being the only person who thinks like me. Sometimes I wish I could just be like everyone else my age and not think at all.

  We were almost to Gran and Pops’s, so I changed the subject. Pointing across the Chicago River at their building, I said, “The reflection’s pretty cool, huh?”

  Sandy barely looked up. “Yeah. That broadcast better not have messed with this.” She tapped the face of her new chronos all-in-one. “Says it’s eleven-thirty, the temperature is sixty-two and we’re on the corner of LaSalle and Wacker.” She squinted up at the street sign. “Guess it’s okay.”

  While we waited for the light to change, I stared at the shimmering wall of glass caused by sunlight bouncing off the water. It reminded me of a painting I’d seen on a field trip to the Art Institute.

  Inside, the lobby hardly resembled art: subsidized housing for retirees and disability pensioners like Pops; decorated on the blech side of ugly in lifeless beige and gray, standard government building colors. Gran often threatened to make a sneak attack on the lobby with a can of rainbow spray paint just to get some life in there.

  I wondered again, like I’ve done all my life, what our lives would’ve been like if Pops hadn’t had that accident. He’d been on his way up tier, on his way to becoming Corporate, before it happened. Everything would be so much different, maybe my dad would even still be alive . . . if only—

  “Hey, Nina, what planet are you on?” Sandy tapped my shoulder. “Light’s changed.”

  I shook my head back to reality, determined not to let myself get caught up in wishful, impossible thoughts. We hurried across the bridge.

  At the entrance, I flashed a cheesy grin into the security panel and put my hand on the auto-recognition pad announcing, “Nina Oberon and guest.” I grabbed Sandy’s shoulders, pointing her face at the panel—she grinned, too.

  “Did I tell you last week was Gran and Pops’s anniversary?” I steered her into the revolving door and got in the next compartment. “Thirty-eight years,” I hollered through the glass. Before she could exit, I spun us around a couple more times. We finally whirled out the other side in a fit of laughter. “Most of the time Gran and Pops kind of pick at each other—you know, like those chickens at the zoo.” I picked Sandy’s sleeve and she smacked at my hand, giggling. “But they really love each other.”

  “Just because people are married doesn’t mean they’re in love. If Ed loved his wife he wouldn’t be with your mom.”

  “Don’t.” I gave her a sideways glance.

  “Sorry.”

  She knew I hated Ed. More times than I could remember, Ginnie would send me and Dee over to Sandy’s when Ed was coming over. That way we hardly ever saw the full force of his rages. Although I always had a front-row seat for the aftermath. Mostly, I did my best not to think about him. Especially not about him and my mother, together.

  “Anyway,” Sandy said, “my mom and dad were in love. I remember how they used to laugh and dance around the house when I was little. Daddy would twirl Mom and then swoop me up with them.” Her face darkened and she jabbed the elport button. “Stupid forays.”

  I thought I’d dodged the subject of NonCons after the Resistance’s announcement—guess not. I knew better than to say anything. Sandy’s real dad had been a policeman. When she was five, he and his partner were on a foray in the tunnels under the Chicago River searching for NonCons. Police had been tipped off that there was a pocket of the Resistance living in an underground city hidden in the ancient storm drains. An overflow door got jammed open (on purpose, the Media said) and water poured into the room the cops were in. They all drowned.

  Ginnie was sure it was a setup to make it look like NonCons were responsible; she knew they weren’t killers. She might be right, but I’d never say that to Sandy. Besides, Ginnie’s just a cafeteria cashier at Cor-Cem Works, so how would she know something about NonCons that the rest of the world doesn’t?

  III

  I’d barely pressed the buzzer when the apartment door swung open and there stood Pops leaning on his crutch—holding the GI leg in his hand. “Damn thing, ain’t good for nothin’!” He waved it in our faces and Sandy shrank back into the hallway.

  “Pops.” I lowered his arm and whispered, “Please, don’t, you’re scaring Sandy.”

  “Huh?” He stopped brandishing the leg and stared at me, confused. I smiled back, waiting for his brain to catch up with his eyes. It took a second. “Little Bit!” He hugged me as best as he could considering the circumstances.

  I took the prosthesis and shook it back at him, grinning. “Little bit more than you.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Sandy looking everywhere except at us. I lowered the leg and urged Pops inside. “Let me help you get this on.” Guiding him to his favorite chair, I asked, “What were you doing at the door like that?”

  “Foray. Cops all over the building; I thought you were them again.” He eased himself down onto the cushion. “Didn’t have time to get my leg back on.” Pointing at the top of it, he said, “There’s something irritating there.”

  There was always something there. The whole leg was just uncomfortable, from what Gran said. I knelt down beside him and brushed off the nonexistent offending particle—then inspected his stump. “Looks good, Pops.” I handed the prosthesis back to him. “There was a vert silence downtown and a Resistance announcement. That must be what the foray’s about.”

  “Guess so.” He snorted. “Supposed to be a NonCon in the building. We’re all too damn old to be NonCons.” He jerked the straps of his prosthesis into place. “Not that I wouldn’t be, mind you, if I had the body parts. Someone needs to put the GC in their place. World’s gone to hell in a—”

  “Pops, stop.” If surveillance was aimed at the apartment, those cops would be back in a second. Besides, I didn’t want Sandy to hear him go on about wanting to be a NonCon. She was uncomfortable enough around him as it was.

  Fortunately, he noticed her still standing in the hall. “Sorry, little missy, didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “I’m fine, Mr. Oberon.” She came inside, but left the door open.

  She had on her dutiful face—expressionless with wide eyes. The same one I use when I have to listen to her mother go on and on about her weight and whatever new diet she’s trying. It’s what best friends do—try to ignore the crazies in each other’s family.

  “Where’s Gran?” I asked.

  “She’ll be right back. Harriet called her after the checker heads left.”

  Oh, Pops! Why did he have to insult cops in front of Sandy? He knew about her dad. I snuck a peek; she must not have heard.

  “No school today, Lit
tle Bit?”

  “It’s End-of-Wars Day. We had a choice to take it or Moon Settlement Day off. The class chose today because everything’s still open and there’s plenty to do.”

  “Plus”—Sandy finally shut the door behind her—“on MSD we have a big party at school and the AVs tune into our sister school on the Dark Side. My aunt’s a teacher there. It’s the only time I get to see her.”

  Pops made a funny half-cough, half-spew sound and grimaced.

  He doesn’t think we should have settled the moon, says it’s sacrilegious. I didn’t see anything religious about the moon, or anything else. Religion went out with automobiles, except for people like him and Gran. Sometimes they would go to a tiny church near Grant Park. Gran even reads the Bible. But everyone knows that’s mythology. Although sometimes when I see how good it seems to make Gran feel, I have to wonder if there’s some truth to it.

  “I like Moon Settlement Day, too.” I glared at Pops and he averted his eyes, like a little kid who thinks you won’t see him if he isn’t looking at you.

  “Moon belongs in the sky without people tromping around all over it.” He pushed his crutch out of the way and hobbled to the window. “When I was a boy ...” His shoulders slumped and he leaned his forehead on the glass. “Eh . . . everything’s changed,” he muttered.

  Sandy gave me her I-told-you-he’s-weird look. I feigned indifference, but my insides clutched. He looked so wretched.

  The door opened behind us and in came Gran. I rushed into her arms, burying my face in the crook between her shoulder and neck. Enveloped in her warmth, I felt five again, when her hugs fixed everything. Part of me could’ve stayed there forever.

  “How’s my favorite granddaughter?”

  “Fine.” I gave her cheek a peck.

  Gran motioned Sandy over and hugged her, then held her out at arm’s length and said, “Does your mother know you’re wearing that? It’s too revealing. It’s not safe.”

  “Mom doesn’t mind. And I can take care of myself. Besides, I’m almost sixteen.” All the same, Sandy pulled her sweater closed over her slide top and zipped it partway up.

  “Sixteen’s not everything the Media makes it out to be, hon.” Gran shook her head. It wasn’t the first time she’d tried to say something to Sandy about her obsession with all things Media. I could have told her it was a hopeless cause. Sandy was practically a walking sex-teen vert; her clothes, her hair, the way she was insane about boys—exactly the way girls were supposed to be. “And aren’t you applying for FeLS? I was under the impression that the candidates had to be virgins.”

  “I’m a virgin.” Sandy looked the teeniest bit hurt at the implication.

  “I know you are, dear.” Gran gave her a hug. “It’s just that dressing like that gives boys the impression that you don’t want to be.”

  Before Sandy had the chance to confuse Gran with her convoluted reasoning about FeLS and sex-teen, Pops, who had hobbled back to his chair, said, “How’s Harriet?”

  Gran shook her head. “It’s her son, Johnny. The Bureau of Safety and Security took him. Found some kind of transmitter, or so they said . . .” She must’ve noticed Sandy’s expression, and cut her sentence short.

  “B.O.S.S.? If I was thirty years younger ...” Pops snorted.

  “You’d still have only one leg and not a lick of sense in that head of yours.” She gave him a look that could only be interpreted as Don’t-say-another-word. Pops shut up.

  “Gran,” I said, “we can’t stay. I just wanted to come by and say hello to my two favorite people.”

  “See there? You scared ’em off with your ridiculous antics and whatever nonsense you were spouting.” She swatted at him with a news zine from the end table.

  Pops ducked, squawking when a corner of it caught his shoulder.

  I planted a kiss on his cheek; his whiskers poked me like a thousand tiny needles. Sandy waved her fingers at him. She was already halfway out the door.

  “You girls be careful.” Gran stuffed something in my back pocket and gave me a good-bye squeeze. “Watch out for Sandy,” she whispered. “I worry about her.”

  Yeah, I thought, so do I.

  At the elport, I pulled out the card Gran snuck me from my jeans. It flashed five credits. “We’ve got lunch.”

  Sandy peered over my shoulder. “Your gran’s so ultra.”

  “Between this and what your mom gave you we can eat at TJ’s. If Mike’s bust we’ll have to go some place cheaper, though, like Tofu Heaven, ’cause I’ll have to pay for his. And you know how he likes to eat.”

  “Yeah, no kidding. Typical welf.”

  “Sandy!” I hated that word. I never used insulting slang—Ginnie would have killed me if I did. And everyone has feelings, no matter what tier they are.

  Mike’s dad didn’t work and his family got free food from the government store over on Clark. I’d eaten at his house a couple of times when we were little. That stuff tasted like the containers it came in, and I didn’t think it was because of his mom’s cooking. Ginnie claims welfare food is low on nutrition and high on additives to keep welfare recipients overweight, unhealthy, and dependent on the government for menial jobs, like Bio-testers. Ginnie says a lot, but I figured she must be right because Mike’s family is all of those things.

  “Sorry, you know I like Mike okay.” She shrugged and two seconds later changed the subject. “I wish we’d been there when the foray happened. Policemen are so cool.”

  Maybe if I’d known Sandy’s dad I’d feel differently, but I didn’t know him and I’m not sure I’d really have wanted to anyway. Ever since the time I saw a couple of cops ignore a group of eighteens beating up a homeless person, my opinion of police had been much closer to Pops’s.

  When we reached the ground floor, there was a circle of cops standing at the entrance. As we walked by, one of them tipped his checkered hat to Sandy. The officer next to him, an older guy, scrutinized us. I mentally ran through everything about me at that moment. I looked like a typical teenage girl, although not as blatant as Sandy. We weren’t doing anything wrong. Why did I feel guilty? Then I remembered Pops’s tirade upstairs. Had they heard? Did they know?

  The officers approached us, and my palms began to sweat. I felt a blush rising. I’d never been stopped in my life. Ginnie’s stories about false arrests and being thrown in jail zinged through my head. If they had an emo-detector, I was in trouble. How would I explain my reaction? Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sandy flouncing her hair. Crap! Didn’t she think about anything except guys?

  “Girls,” the older cop said, “let’s see your ID.”

  I’d watched enough AV to know the routine. In unison, we presented the back of our left hands to the officer. He ran the scanner over them.

  “Wrists.”

  We turned over our arms, so they could see we weren’t tattooed. It took everything I had to keep mine from shaking off my body.

  “Nina Oberon,” the older one said, examining my ID on the scan screen. “You live in Cementville. What are you doing here?”

  “Visiting my grandparents.” I fought to keep the trembling out of my voice.

  “Oberon.” He scrutinized my face, looking like he was trying to retrieve a memory. All I could do was quake inside.

  Meanwhile, Sandy had launched into the whole story about her father with the other cop. Turned out that he knew someone who knew someone who’d known her dad. After a few moments, and lots of sweating on my part, they warned us about the NonCon activity in the area and advised us to report anything suspicious. Like we would know what “suspicious” was. Moments later we were outside.

  I took a deep breath. “I really—” I was going to say hate cops, but caught myself just in time, covering with, “I wonder if Johnny really is a NonCon? He’s always been nice to me.”

  “If he is,” Sandy replied, with a look of pure hate in her eyes, “he’ll get what he deserves, reassimilation by B.O.S.S. It’s what they do to criminals. Remember Mr. Dunbar.”


  I shuddered. I would never forget Mr. Dunbar. He had been my seventh-grade Ethno Customs and Languages teacher—and one of my favorites. He’d been a friend of Ginnie’s, too.

  Before they took Mr. Dunbar away, he was fun—cracking jokes, taking us on field trips, and telling us stuff that wasn’t in our text chips. A month after they took him, he returned. But it might as well have not been him. No more jokes, no more field trips, and he never deviated from our chips again. There were all kinds of rumors about actual reassimilation, but no one really knew the facts about it. That was one thing they didn’t teach us in school.

  Anyone who knew Johnny Pace would know he’s no criminal. The last time Ginnie and I were in town together, he and Ginnie got to talking about the government. But that was just talk. It didn’t mean they were NonCons. But if people thought Johnny was a NonCon, what would they think about Ginnie? What if she were mistaken for a NonCon . . . ? I didn’t want to think about that now. It wasn’t like the thought had never occurred to me. It had, and often. But I knew I had to stop myself now, because whatever I didn’t want to think about is what I couldn’t stop thinking about.

  “Wish they’d had an emo-detector,” Sandy said, cocking her head at me. “You would’ve been off the meter. I saw how red you were.” She laughed.

  “It’s not funny, Sandy.” I could feel myself starting to blush again. “What if they had had one, and ran me? What if the Bureau of Safety and Security took me? Huh?” How could she not realize what could have been? My temper was rising.

  “Oh, come on, Nina. Everyone knows that sixteens are emo wreckage. Cops hardly ever ED them, for that reason alone.” She hooked her arm in mine and I started breathing a little easier. “I was just kidding, okay? I wouldn’t have let them do anything to you. Besides, it’s not like it was B.O.S.S. They were just local police.”

  We headed north on LaSalle, toward my old neighborhood. I vaguely listened as she babbled on about how cute the younger cop had been. Even though the sun was bright, my mood wasn’t. Those eighteens on the express, forays, NonCons, cops, and then setting my mind running worrying about my mom—well, it could ruin anyone’s day.