Mirror's Edge

by Scott Westerfeld

  Col looks at his location-finder. “We’re making up lost time. We can do this.”

  I don’t even bother to look.

  One foot in front of the other. Ignore the endless rub of Terra’s too-small shoes.

  “You think Riggs will be there too?” I ask.

  “Hard to say.”

  That’s the problem about living with the dust—everything’s hard to say.

  Then city AI speaks up.

  “You mentioned Riggs, but I don’t know who that is.”

  “You don’t …” My voice sputters out, and I stumble to a halt.

  The city AI doesn’t know the name Riggs anymore.

  Col and I stare at each other.

  I haven’t thought about it since we splashed down, when Col and Yandre went missing, but our Shreve identities are programmed to self-erase if we disappear.

  Or if we die.

  It was in case someone was lost in the lake full of crash gel. So the rest of us wouldn’t have to deal with emergency services, med drones, and an investigation that first night.

  But the programming is still there …

  Riggs is gone from the city’s surveillance systems.

  “Islyn?” the city asks. “Who were you talking about?”

  “My tongue slipped. I was wondering if any new friends will be there.”

  A pause. “You said Riggs instead of new friends.”

  I try to stay calm. “Yes.”

  “Interesting,” the AI says.

  The voice falls silent, but I can tell the conversation isn’t over.

  Our merit-missing behaviors have been adding up—random feasts, oddball conversations with a widget, our winding course through the greenbelt.

  If the AI flags me, Security will spot in seconds what the algorithm is programmed not to see—one of my traveling companions has vanished.

  We start walking again. There’s no time to stand around.

  But I can’t help asking, “Sir, is there a problem?”

  “Possibly. I have flagged the issue for low-priority review.”

  Flagged. A jolt goes through me at the word.

  “The sun’s almost down,” Col says.

  Right—the cliques have started their denial of attention attack by now. Hundreds of people across Shreve have thrown themselves into transgressions against the city’s logic.

  Maybe their host of dramas will protect us.

  But the bomb is ticking. Sooner or later, Security will take a look at me. Everything depends on how distracting our allies in Secret Hookups, Crime, and Future can be.

  “New friends are good,” I say.

  We start hiking faster, and soon our wrist lights are sweeping the dark ground.

  Maybe Riggs found a way to slip across the border. She could be headed toward my sister to wrest back her old crew.

  Not great for Rafi, but it’s her fault for stealing my name.

  Of course, there’s another possibility—here in wartime, Shreve’s border defenses are lethal. Riggs might be lying dead somewhere out there.

  “You okay?” Col asks. “You look pale again.”

  I take a slow drink of water.

  It’s not radiation. It’s … everything.

  “Just anxious to see our friends,” I say.

  As we near the rendezvous point, barely on time, the wind kicks up.

  Every rush of fluttering leaves is nervous-making. Like it’s the roar of lifting fans in the sky—a Security detail arriving to question us about our vanished friend.

  But no hovercars swoop down on us, and eventually we spot firelight flickering through the trees.

  “Ten minutes early,” Col says, and falls to his knees.

  We made it.

  Yandre, by the fire, looks up as I crash through the underbrush.

  “Islyn!” They run to gather me in a hug.

  We all converge by the fire. Boss Charles gives me a wink. Even Lodge and Zura look happy to see us. But their eyes are searching the dark trees behind us.

  Someone’s missing.

  Col guides Yandre toward updraft of the fire, and I join them.

  Its warmth envelops us, the air rushing past into its blistering core. The stars on my badge begin to flicker out.

  No one speaks until the signal hits zero.

  “Riggs followed you,” Yandre says. “She didn’t catch up?”

  “She did,” I say. “But she found out who I really was, and took it hard. She stormed off last night.”

  They frown. “To where?”

  “Out of town, I guess. Her identity erased itself. We shouldn’t say her name anymore.”

  Yandre’s eyes widen.

  “It gets worse,” I say. “The AI flagged me a few hours ago. Low-priority, but Security could show up anytime. Maybe I should stay away from the rest of you …”

  Yandre shakes their head. “The dust knows we’re together. If they come for one of us, it won’t matter how far apart we are.”

  Somehow the words are comforting. I don’t have to leave the warmth of this fire, the strength of this crew.

  We’re all in this together.

  “It’s good to be back,” I say.

  Col holds me. “It’s almost over—the hiding, the silence.”

  Nothing left but breaking and entering, kidnapping, and probably some shooting.

  And in this moment of safety, my exhaustion comes crashing down at last. I’ve been hiking since dawn, worrying about the radiation in my body. Worrying about Riggs, and that the city will see my sins.

  My sister was right. It’s more than I can take, being watched every moment, being under his gaze, a littlie again.

  But every person in Shreve has felt the same way for ten years.

  My muscles burn beneath my skin, streaks of soreness down both legs and across my back. But it doesn’t matter how tired I am.

  This mission has to succeed.

  I can’t let my father win.

  When we step away from the fire again, the city AI talks to me.

  “You’ve had a long day, Islyn. Maybe you should get some sleep.”

  “Thank you, sir. But I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re going to have a long day tomorrow.”

  Why does the city think that?

  I almost ask, but in five minutes, it won’t matter what the city thinks. We’ll be in a blind spot of crashed dust, courtesy of our helpful spy.

  From then on, the rescue will unfold too fast for Sir to keep up.

  “I’ll be okay, sir.” I have a rescue to get ready for.

  I bend to touch my toes, stretching my aching hamstrings. The thrill of an upcoming battle starts to move in my veins.

  No one came to arrest me while we hiked. Our new allies must have created enough drama to overwhelm the city’s algorithms. I smile at the thought, hoping that every one of the Futures goes down in history.

  But then the city AI speaks again.

  “If you’re staying awake, Islyn, you might want to check your messages. One came in while you were by the fire.”

  I freeze halfway into a stretch. “A message? From who?”

  “City Counseling. Shall I connect you?”

  “Uh …” City Counseling handles mental health issues. Do they think all this weird behavior means that I’ve gone sense-missing?

  “We recommend you return the call,” the dust says.

  “Okay, sir. Connect me, please.”

  A moment later, a new voice pops into my comms—not an AI, a real human. “Islyn, my name is Dramond.”

  “Um, hi.”

  “I see you’re up late. That’s understandable.”

  “It is?”

  “Of course,” Dramond says, his voice filling with concern. “This is a very upsetting time. It may feel as though the whole world is against you. But don’t worry—for the next few days, I’ll be here for you, day or night.”

  “Uh … Dramond. What are you talking about?”

  There’s an oddly long pause, my
comms going dead silent, and I almost think we’ve been cut off.

  “Ah, I see you’ve been hiking. So you haven’t been watching the feeds. You don’t know, do you?”

  I stare at the fire, afraid of what’s coming. He sounds so worried for me, so reluctant to say the next words.

  “I don’t know what?”

  “Well, here’s the thing, Islyn. You’ve been shame-cammed.”

  “This doesn’t make sense,” I say. “What did I do?”

  Dramond’s next words are stilted, like he’s reading from a screen. “This afternoon at 16:45, you were reported for vindictive theft.”

  “Theft? Of what?”

  “A pair of shoes, belonging to Terra Intyre. You stranded Terra in the greenbelt, dangerously far from the nearest transportation. Tonight’s episode included images of her walking home in rough terrain. Her feet were bleeding, Islyn.”

  My mouth falls open. “But she …”

  “The episode also included your meal this afternoon. When you celebrated your cruel joke on Terra with a luxury picnic at a cost of …” He pauses. “Six thousand merits?”

  “Terra gave them to me!” I cry.

  “She gave you six thousand merits?”

  “No—the shoes!”

  “We realize that this happened in a dust blind spot, Islyn, so we had no proof that you stole them. But then you wore the shoes.”

  “I never said I didn’t have them—I said she gave them to me!”

  “Terra has no reason to lie. And every reason not to hike three klicks barefoot.” Dramond gives me a tired sigh. “Would you like to launch an appeal to the crowd?”

  I swallow. A crowd appeal means that the whole city gets to weigh in. Every citizen of Shreve is allowed watch every second the dust has recorded of me for the last two days.

  It never works out for the shamed—the crowd always finds something awful that you did.

  Plus, I happen to be on a secret mission.

  I take a deep breath. “No. I’ll take the blame.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Dramond says. “Admit your guilt, and you’ll get through this faster. You got lucky—Shame-Cam was crowded tonight. Lots of public fights, messy breakups. If it hadn’t been for that luxury feast, you might not have made the cut.”

  “Well, that’s good,” I say.

  “One last thing, Islyn. We suggest that you make a public apology. We’ve written one for you.”

  He waits for an answer, but all I can do is imagine the whole city glued to the feeds, watching Terra taking painful steps across broken ground. Then an image of me feasting like a queen.

  All of them must hate me.

  I stare into the embers, trying to clear my head of shame.

  Why did Terra make up this story? To disrupt our mission? To protect her beloved Future from a world without dust?

  Or was it was purely for the drama?

  “Islyn?” Dramond prompts.

  “I can’t apologize tonight,” I say.

  “Understandable. Tomorrow, then?”

  “Whatever. I mean, yes.”

  “Excellent,” Dramond says. “Do you need anything else now? Any counseling?”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  “Very well,” he says. “Take care, Islyn. Next week it’ll be someone else.”

  The line goes dead.

  And I’m standing here asking myself, why does being shamed even matter? I could get killed in a firefight tonight. Or die of radiation sickness.

  Tomorrow, no one will care about Terra and her shoes. X’s rescue will be the big news, along with the free cities’ attack, and I’ll be fifteen hundred klicks away.

  Islyn won’t exist. Her hateful face will vanish.

  Still, part of me is withering inside …

  Everyone in Shreve dreads being shame-cammed after a false accusation. An old childhood fear has come true out of nowhere.

  And my new name—this person who was real for a while—is ashes in my mouth.

  “You okay, Islyn?”

  I look up from the embers—Col.

  There’s no point in explaining what happened. His face will have been edited out of my indulgent feast, to keep the hatred focused on me. And only someone born in Shreve can understand what a shaming means. How it feels.

  “A little sore,” I say.

  Col frowns. “Are you okay?”

  I shake my head.

  In Shreve, you can’t lie—and the truth now is that I’m a confessed thief. I can’t say otherwise to Col with the dust listening.

  “We’re headed out,” he says. “Yandre has your gear packed up. Make sure to tell someone if you feel sick.”

  Right, as in vomiting. My hair falling out.

  But it’s just a little shame-cam.

  “Let’s get this over with,” I say.

  We keep to the darkened path.

  After ten minutes’ walk, Zura comes to a halt. Downhill from us, soft lights twinkle through the trees.

  It’s a large, old-fashioned house, made of wood and brick. The home of the head of Security, only a hundred meters from a public path. That’s how much faith they put in the dust.

  We head down toward it, swift and silent through the underbrush.

  This was always the tricky part of the mission—will the city AI flag us now? Or have the cliques overwhelmed it with drama?

  I watch my badge—with every step, the dust’s signal fades. Before we reach the edge of the trees, it hits zero.

  Our spy has done their work, at least.

  Zura makes a hand signal—spread out.

  We’ve practiced this part a hundred times in simulation, based on orbital photos of the house. The other commandoes are going in through the front door. Col and I are going in the back, across a terrace built from creaky recycled timber.

  Kessa Shard is a Special. One stray sound will turn this into a firefight.

  We stay in the shadows, skirting the swimming pool. Steam rises from its heated water. Tropical fish glint beneath the surface, caught in the floodlights bathing the backyard.

  My breath cinches as Col and I pass the motion sensors that ring the house. But our spy has disabled the house AI. The comm links to the city should be down as well.

  It’s all of us against a single Special—and her daughter, I suppose, one of Rafi’s rich friends. Too easy.

  We reach the stairs leading up to the deck. I place a foot on the bottom step, testing my weight. A creaking sound, a gentle bowing of the wood.

  We walk in slow motion, like on a frozen lake, listening for the faintest noise. How did the Rusties live in houses that creaked every time they moved?

  At the top, the deck stretches out before us, its wooden planks ancient and water stained.

  A scrabbling comes from above, and I freeze.

  But it’s just a squirrel flitting along the gutter.

  My heart is beating hard now, all my battle frenzy pent up in my chest.

  The back windows stretch the length of the deck, with a view of the pool, the forest, and me and Col. Glazed against the summer sun, they reflect us like an onyx mirror in the dead of night.

  Anyone could be in there, taking aim at me.

  A deep breath steadies my hands. I make a fist, thumb on the inside, so the variable blade forms. A hard squeeze sharpens it to nanometric thinness, the blade only a few molecules across, invisible in the moonlight.

  The tip skids across the window for a moment, a noise like a diamond sliding down a mirror. Then the blade finds some microscopic flaw in the glass, and slips through.

  I pull a piece of camping gear from my pocket. It looks like a water heater, but when I press it against the window, it grips the glass, a suction cup.

  I draw a slow circle around the cup with my blade.

  Col presses his face to the glass, trying to see inside. Not that he can do much if someone’s in there—his weapon is a compressed air rifle, formed from one of our tent poles. It shoots low-velocity tranq darts that would boun
ce off this window like hummingbirds.

  When my circle is complete, I tug the suction cup, and the glass pops out. I place it gently on the deck, letting the knife retract.

  Col reaches through the hole and hits the window’s manual override. The glass glides up into the ceiling.

  We creep in, our footfalls soundless on the living grass carpet.

  The orbital photos only showed the house’s exterior. But infrared suggested that two rooms upstairs are warm at night—the bedrooms of the head of Security and her daughter.

  We don’t know which is which.

  Down here, the walls are lined with shelves, full of old books, dusty wine bottles, models of Rusty aircraft—and antique weapons.

  I glance at Col. Maybe we can borrow a few.

  He gestures at an empty spot on a shelf, between two ancient sabers. One of the weapons is missing.

  We head deeper into the house.

  The front door is shut, but smoke rises from the lock—Zura and Lodge trying to get through.

  I can smell the nanos breaking down the metal. If the scent wafts up to the bedrooms, it could wake someone.

  We don’t wait for the others.

  Past a workroom, we find a wide staircase, the grass carpet continuing up it. A trickling irrigation system runs down either side, like two tiny waterfalls. The sound covers our ascent.

  My own air rifle is out and ready now, also loaded with tranq darts. We can’t risk killing Kessa Shard—we need her biometrics to enter Security headquarters.

  At the top of the stairs, I freeze in a half crouch. A sound reaches my ears, barely audible above the trickle of water.

  It’s music, playing on tinny little speakers.

  Someone is awake upstairs.

  I point at my ear. Col nods—he hears it too.

  I peek over the staircase landing, like a cat slunk low to the ground, stalking prey.

  Light spills from the doorway down the hall—one of the bedrooms. The rest of the upstairs is dark.

  I steal up the last few steps, eyes trained on the open door. Whoever’s up here might have that missing antique weapon.

  Col takes position by the closed bedroom, covering my back.

  I edge my way to the side of the open door, then step into the light, leveling my rifle.

  Someone’s on the bed, awake.