Bright shiny on my face. I scrabble under lady legs, away from the squaddies with their Tasers. Zap. The lady’s bony limbs are herky-jerkin, a smoke smell, her yellow hair burned black at the top.
The driver shouts, “What do you think you’re doing? She’s fuckin fried, man! You got any idea how much a skin job costs?”
I push one of those ladies off the bench, onto the nearest squaddie, and race off down Market, cut west between buildings, hoppin a fence, another, another, huddlin small in a backyard bush and tryin to hold my breath.
An I8 passes overhead, scannin the yard in its slow-makin circles, and I’m scared, pee-in-my-pants scared, haven’t gone since morning, and it’s happenin, I’m peein my pants, and I can’t do nothin about it.
I remember the doctor’s package, check my shirt, still there. Kidnap, that’s what the Metis man said, prison. I can’t be in no cage. Mam’d be so mad if she knew. She was always hissin at me, you gotta be more careful than that!
I8 gone, I bolt out the yard, for the underpass, sprintin down Bryant, skeleton towers comin up between old Victorians.
* * *
When I push open the door to the doctor’s purple house, she hobbles to meet me, swishy pants swishin over bone legs, afrownin like I done somethin bad. She takes hold of my sweatshirt and drags me into the house explodin with books and papers covered thick in the doctor’s scratchy writin. A smell like pancakes and hand-san.
“What’d you do?” she asks me.
“Nothin!” I peel off my mask, my gloves, tuck them into my sweatshirt. “I got your package.”
The man on the couch has a cool eyebrow scar and a terrible pirate beard like Dad. Mam always said face hair was revoltin, a place for germs to grow, but she was just mad at Dad for gettin caught. He’s in a cage somewhere, beard and all. Mam told me how he done somethin to help us get ahead, how the cops caught him and took him. And when I asked her what he done she said he’s a thief, Gabe, like you.
I wish I liked Dad more, but he was always stompin round and tellin us no no no, don’t touch, don’t jump, don’t be drawin when I talk to you. Bee felt the same about him, hidin in her room, buildin towers or readin out loud when he was home.
“Pretty impressive,” the man on the couch says, “destroying that I8. Foolish too.”
“How’d you—”
“The footage is all over the police feed.”
“Nat here’s a whiz with the computer. He helps out from time to time,” the doctor tells me like I don’t already know. I seen him here before, huddled up with the doctor.
“That I8 captured your face, clear as day,” Nat says. “The cops are looking for you.”
Spittin face.
“Don’t you spit at me, boy.”
“I’m no boy. And don’t you be tellin me what to do. You’re not my dad.”
Goofy grin. “What’s your name?”
“Gabe.”
“That’s a boy’s name.”
“It’s not a boy’s name. It’s a nickname. Short for Gabrielle.”
“Why are you pretending to be a boy?”
“I’m not pretendin nothin.”
“Stop it, you two,” says the doctor. “Gabe, give it here.”
I pull the conshushness out my shirt and hand it over. “What’s so special about it?”
“Her,” the doctor says. “She left. Companions don’t leave.”
“Why not?”
“Something in their programming. They’re command-driven.”
“Command-driven?”
“You know, like, ‘Fetch me that hard drive, boy,’ ” Nat says.
Spittin face.
“You better be careful. Somebody’s liable to smack you on the back, and you’ll be making that face for the rest of your life.”
“Mam tried that one on me before. You’re alyin.”
“Your mam sounds like my kinda lady,” the man says, “smart.”
“The smartest.”
He doesn’t ask where she is. Where else? Burned to dust like the others, Bee too. Before the hospital I’d been pretendin I didn’t like it when they kissed me. It was a game, kind of, they’d chase after me, smackin lips, and I’d be runnin and complainin and they’d capture me up in their arms and kiss and kiss me.
The doctor sits down at her desk, at the screen where I play games sometimes, and Nat drags a chair up next to her. They work awhile and I’m so bored and hungry, waitin and waitin till finally a girl asks, “Where am I?” and the doctor and Nat are starin at each other all asmilin.
“You’re in my lab. I’m Diana. I’m a doctor. Please, can you tell me your last memory?”
It’s quiet for a while. Then the girl’s voice comes from inside the screen. “I found her. She was so old, stuck in a wheelchair. I did not realize the danger. She screamed and threw something at me—a bottle—over the cliffs—she sent me over—the shovel—I was flying—I—”
“Quiet,” the doctor says, but the girl keeps on goin.
“I—I—I—” It’s like she’s stuck, skippin the way Mam’s old record player did, the one we left behind when they took our Western Addition complex for condos. The doctor dims the screen.
“This is an interesting case,” she says to Nat. “Not only is she not responding to commands, but from what my Metis connection said, she’s undergone a second bodily trauma. She’s died twice, in essence. God, I wish I could get Dorothea in on this. She’s an amazing psychotherapist. What we could accomplish without this endless house arrest!”
Nat tilts his head at me. “Now that they’ve seen her—”
“We’ll lie low, won’t we, Gabe?” The doctor gives me one of her wrinkly smiles, teeth yellow-and-gray nubs, gray hair wirin in the lamplight.
“She’ll be in the system.”
“She can stay in the garage for now.”
“No way,” I tell em, “I’m not stayin in the garage!”
“Shush, Gabe,” the doctor snaps. Then she feels bad about it, all shoulder slumpin and sighs. “Why don’t you go into the kitchen and fetch a snack, huh? I’m sure you’re hungry. I think there might even be some leftover pancakes from breakfast.”
“Pancakes?” I go shufflin off into the kitchen knowin they’re gettin rid of me, but I don’t care. I’m starvin and pancakes are one of the ten foods I like. Mam said I’m the pickiest eater in all of San Francisco and I’m pretty sure it’s true.
* * *
When I come back full, they’re gone out front, that conshushness still jacked into the doctor’s screen. I bring the screen to life.
“Hello?” the girl inside says.
“What you doin?”
“Sorry?” She’s forever quiet and I bop the screen and she says, “Where am I?”
“San Francisco.”
“I mean, how did I get here?”
“I snuck you from Metis. I’m the slinkiest fox, the slipperiest—”
“Red,” she nearly shouts. “I saw her. She—” There is a sound like moaning.
“Stop that. You’re gonna get me caught.”
She goes quiet. Then she says in a small voice, “Am I to be—your companion?”
“My what?”
“Your companion. It is like a friend.”
“How can you be my friend? You can’t be runnin and slidin and slippin into hidey holes, can you?”
“No, that is true. It appears I am without a body.”
I don’t mean to laugh but it’s funny, like picturin someone extra naked. “How does it feel?”
“Pretty terrible if I am being honest. Am I to get one?”
“I don’t know. That’s up to the doctor.”
“Who is that?”
But I don’t want to talk about the doctor. “Do you feel like a ghost?” I ask her.
She doesn’t answer and I think she’s gone off somewhere in there and I’m about to bop the screen when she makes a spooky sound, ooooooh, and I get to laughin and she laughs too, kinda like she’s barkin.
“What’s your name?” I ask her.
“Lilac. And you?”
“What are you doing?” the doctor says from the doorway. She hobble-runs over, dimmin the screen. “You can’t be tampering with her. She’s a test subject!”
“I was only sayin hi.”
Her wrinkled face unpinches. “It’s been decided. You can’t stay here.”
“I’ll be good. I promise.”
“Stop it, okay? This is hard on me too. I want you to be safe, you understand?”
“You said I could stay. You said you’d take care of me—”
“This is me taking care of you. Nat’s headed north till this quarantine passes, and he could use a scout. Now, pack your things. Chop-chop.” She claps her hands at me and I don’t dare give her spittin face. She promised. She promised me I could stay with her. Tradin me for that thing, Lilac. I should bash her.
I’m down the block sprintin when somethin heavy falls all over me, scoops me up. Nat carries me kickin and squirmin to a delivery van, hissin in my ear, “You may be a clever little rat, but you’ll die out here just the same. Or worse.” Then he shoves me inside, climbin in behind me. I crawl over the island, take the passenger seat, as he pulls the van up in front of the doctor’s.
Out she comes draggin a garbage bag, my things, passin them to Nat. She knocks on the window. Nope. Not gonna look. My hands—it’s been a long time since I been outside with no gloves. I pull the dirty ones from my pocket, slip em on. I need a new pair.
Through the glass, the doctor says, “I’m sorry, Gabe. I will miss you.” Her voice—I can tell she’s sad but I don’t look at her. I don’t cry neither. Not when we drive off, not ever. I stare at my hands until we’re on the Golden Gate Bridge and the water’s all everywhere, the sick feelin of bein up high hittin me.
Nat says, “I need a scout. You suit the job fine. I’ll make sure you’re fed, you have shelter at night. I’ll protect you from carriers. It’s not a bad deal.”
“Only if you give me one.”
“One what?”
I point at the gun, hitched at his side.
“Oh no.”
“I’m not comin.”
The man scratches at his scraggly beard, all those germs, Mam and Bee here with me now, and dang it, I feel like cryin.
He asks me how old I am, and I tell him, and he says, “Maybe when you’re ten.”
“That’s forever away!”
He hands me a candy bar. I know he’s distractin me but I don’t care. I live for candy—it’s one of my ten foods—and I’m not gonna cry, no way, not ever.
THREE YEARS SINCE QUARANTINE BEGAN
CAM
DEL NORTE COUNTY, CALIFORNIA
As companion day drew closer, I felt none of my usual excitement, even as I posted my daily announcements to the rec room screen. Tina had in fact cut the companion program’s budget from four times per annum to two. She funneled the money into art therapy and put Jude in charge.
The residents didn’t seem excited either. I could tell they’d all been affected by what happened to Mrs. Crozier. They needed companionship now more than ever, so I tried to muster a little positivity, to at least fake it.
It was dinnertime, all the residents and staff gathered in the dining hall. I was at the screen making selections when I heard a tapping on the window. I startled up, face-to-face with a stranger, a woman, young, midtwenties maybe, grinning at me, waving. We never had unscheduled visitors. There was a protocol for that, but I did not call the orderlies, I did not sequester the residents, I did not put on my mask. I went to the door as if drawn to her. I nearly opened it, catching myself hand to handle. I watched her through the windowpane, spoke through the intercom. “Yes?”
“I’m here to see Mrs. Crozier.”
“Mrs. Crozier? Are you a relative?”
“No.” The woman smiled, teeth gleaming white.
“How did you get past the gate?”
“We’ve met before, actually.”
“We have?” I was certain I would’ve remembered her. Her face flawless in its symmetry, her hair ink black, cut close to the head. She was dressed for the road, motorbike by the looks of her reinforced pants and jacket.
“I came here once. You let me see her.”
The voice was smoother than before, less robotic, older even, but I recognized her all the same. “No. It can’t be.”
“I got skin, a processor upgrade, the works.” The only skin jobs I’d seen had been on the screen. Sure, they looked real-like, or at least as real as anything looks on the screen, but in person it was uncanny, how human she was. “I need to see her.”
I opened the door a few inches. “I’m sorry, she’s gone.” It was our preferred euphemism, as if she had merely left, departed, exited the building.
“What do you mean, she’s gone? Where’d she go?”
I remembered that I was talking to a teenager and tried again. “She passed.”
“She’s dead?”
“She killed herself.”
“She would never.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s true.”
The companion scrunched up her face in disbelief. “I wanted her to see. I knew her. When she was younger. She—she—”
“I know. I heard you,” I interrupted to stop the glitching. It happened sometimes when companions got worked up.
She was crying now—no tears came, but it was real enough. I didn’t know companions could cry. “I never got to ask her what happened to Nikki.”
“Who’s Nikki?”
“She was my friend, my best friend. I was maybe a little in love with her.” She kicked the doorframe with her boot. “I’m pretty sure Red killed her.”
Then I remembered something Mrs. Crozier had said. “I thought it was nonsense, but she mentioned a mock trial, having to defend your friend. Was she talking about Nikki?”
The companion’s eyes went big, and it was so human, her hope. “The mock trial. Nikki was supposed to play Harry Truman. Did she say anything else?”
“Not really. But I think she was sorry. She was very upset.”
The companion was so relieved to hear it she pulled me into a hug. I felt a jolt as if she’d shocked me, only it was just a surprise, her warmth. She let me loose and we lingered there until I could stand the silence no longer, blurting out, “What’s your name?”
“Lilac.” She wiped her face, stared at her dry palms, and I was sorry for her.
Before I could stop myself, I offered, “I can take you to her grave.”
* * *
There was no discernible path. Not enough visitors to make an imprint. But I knew the way, weaving through the redwoods, watching for banana slugs, of which there were many at this twilight hour.
Lilac was surprisingly clumsy, getting tripped up on tree roots, falling to avoid a mud patch. She seemed embarrassed, laughing uneasily with each blunder.
“I thought you were—” I struggled to find the appropriate word. Dead? But she had died a long time ago. Terminated? Ceased? “So, the agency fixed you?”
“Please. They would’ve junked me if it hadn’t been for Diana. She heard about me, the faulty companion who ran away.” Lilac laughed loudly, and I heard in the high register the slightest trace of machine. “Bought me on the sly.”
“Bought you? I thought no one owns a companion.”
Lilac bristled at this, her voice rising in teenage indignation. “She doesn’t own me. She paid her connection to make it look like I was junked so she could give me a second chance at life, or a third, depending on whether you consider companionship living.”
“You don’t?”
“I was a companion in San Francisco, a girl’s plaything. It was no life.”
“That’s where I’m from!”
“No kidding.” Lilac raised her thin, neat eyebrows, and it felt as it always did when I found I shared something with a fellow staff member or resident.
I asked the question, though I wasn’t sure I wanted the
answer. “What’s—what’s it like now?”
“It’s as dead as this place on the streets. People live like hiving bees in their towers.” It was impossible for me to picture. I had spent my childhood on those streets, taking the N standing, bodies swaying and bumping with the glide of the train. I’d go downtown with my girlfriends to shop or make fun of tourists, gawk at cute skateboarders in shredded jeans. We’d weave down the jammed sidewalks, holding hands like a chain of animal babies so we wouldn’t lose one another in the shadows of the towers.
It occurred to me that one year ago, Lilac had come all that way, San Francisco to Jedediah Smith, despite travel restrictions, all on her own, in that cheap body. “How’d you get here in that—”
“Old plastic can?” She grinned. “You can travel anywhere if you’re not too scared to share a truck bed or a train car with livestock.”
It was impossible to picture, a companion of the lowest grade making its way north, hundreds of miles, no papers, not a credit to its name. I felt shamed by how easily I’d let myself believe I was trapped.
As we entered the clearing, she asked, “How’d she do it?”
“She cut herself.”
“Do you think it was because of me?”
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “Mrs. Crozier was with us three years. The whole time, well, she was difficult.”
Lilac stared at the freshly churned earth, kneading her hands—was it a prayer? In the low glow of last light, she was beautiful—I had the urge to tell her so, to touch her, but I refrained.
* * *
By the time we slunk along the side of the main house, it was dark, crickets humming, residents all in their beds. We stood in the shadows, avoiding the floodlight, the red pin-eyed gaze of security cams.
The Companions Page 5
