We start forward again, now climbing the long steps toward the exit. “Where are we going?”
“Jude’s apartment.” The words come out heavy. “Someone has to organize his affairs now that he’s gone.”
I’d forgotten Jude came from Prime. I’m going to see where he lived. How will I feel? How will Solomon feel?
We step outside.
Crowds of people shuffle up and down the sidewalk, pushing past each other with brisk strides. Buildings tower around us, higher than the Ivanhoe Marble, higher than the county building–higher than any building I’ve ever seen in my life. Screens and advertisements line the sides of each one.
Weaving through the sunset sky are tiny electronic birds. They have four propellers and zip in a pattern so perfect and so fast I grow dizzy and fall against Solomon. He steadies me and pushes me along the wall of one of the buildings, up the sidewalk. Through the masses.
“Those are delivery quadcopters. They have their own flight patterns. Everyone calls them heralds.”
Beside us is a type of road with cars gliding along—no, over—rails set in the ground. They float inches above each rail, speeding along. All the windows are tinted, so I can’t tell if people are driving them.
We reach a line of identical black cars and climb into the first one. There’s no steering wheel, four separate seats, and a screen for a dashboard. Solomon types in several words, then lifts a patch of skin off the underside of his wrist, revealing a square of lines with a short string of numbers.
He scans it into the dashboard screen and the car slides forward, easing into traffic with the others. He leans back in his seat and looks at me. “I know this is all new to you.”
I gape at him. “You . . . have a fake wrist? Why did that screen scan your body? How does the car know where to take us?”
He grins. “Do you really want me to explain everything?”
I don’t know. I’m not sure I like it. I look out the tinted window as we move along, studying the people who chose to walk. The best description for them is . . . decorated.
Some decorations are subtle, like makeup and tattoos. But one shirtless man has tiny rose thorns snaking in a line down his spine and then across what I can see of his shoulders. Another woman has blue swirls, like liquid metal, ornamenting her buzzed head. Someone else has feathers attached in her skin, fluttering with the evening breeze.
Some of it would be fun . . . if I were at a costume party. If I ever got a tattoo, what would it be of? And what would feathers feel like on my skin?
“Might be nice for a day, eh?”
I swear Solomon can read my thoughts. I let loose a small smile. “Yeah.”
“Well, everything’s temporary nowadays. If you want to buzz your head and paint it pink, you can do it for a day.”
I laugh. “But what about my hair?”
“There’s a growth parlor by Jude’s apartment.”
I think of the bald man in the train station with his advertisement for hair growth. “I could just plaster an ad of my own face on the back of my head.”
He lifts his hands. “Double Parvin? I don’t think I’d mind.”
“Such a flatterer.” Are we bantering? I think we are.
“Here we are.” The floating car stops next to a skinny building that stretches so high into the sky that I can’t see the top. It’s dark now and lights blink from the windows not covered in advertisements. A colorful shine comes from around the corner. I catch a glimpse of glowing trees, but we don’t go that way.
Glowing trees?
A special code and scan from Solomon opens a glass door that lets us into a cramped square room with an elevator. We take it to the seventh floor. The doors open to reveal another closed door, as if we’re on the doorstep of a house. Solomon enters a code and then we step inside Jude’s apartment.
The elevator leaves us behind. I stand on polished stone flooring, mixtures of tan and grey squares. A living room the size of my house is straight ahead, with a wall of windows. To the left is a curved wooden staircase with a railing of swirly metal vines.
I drift into the living room, not feeling my legs move. A square patch of wood marks the flooring beneath a wooden coffee table. A white couch, loveseat, and armchair surround the table, all angled toward a fireplace set in the marble wall behind me.
Above me hangs an electric chandelier. The second floor is open, revealing bookcases and more white walls in a wrap-around walkway.
“Jude lived here?” I’m surprised any sound comes out of my mouth.
“Not exactly what you’re used to, is it?” Something in Solomon’s tone tells me it’s not something he’s used to, either.
“It’s just hard to believe that he’d waste so much money like this.” I slide my hand over the white armrest of the couch.
Solomon sets my pack on a stone bench built into the wall by the fireplace. “It’s not like that, Parvin. This was the cheapest Jude could find, and it came furnished. High Cities require this type of living.”
“Why? How can they force people to spend money on such . . . luxuries?”
“Because High Cities are ‘the best.’ They want to keep it that way, perfect it. Jude lived here for the sake of research and inventions. He needed access to the best.”
My room is upstairs. More windows and a flat, smooth bed with blankets made out of the finest material I’ve ever touched. I’m not sure it will keep me warm, though. Solomon returns downstairs. Maybe to give me a moment to swallow this world of expense I’m standing in.
High-City life . . . I’d never fit in here. But right now, I feel like a queen.
Along the wall opposite the bed is a suspended verse of cut metal: For by me your days will be multiplied, and years will be added to your life. – Proverbs 9:11
Further proof of Jude’s insistence that Clocks don’t run our lives. Who is that verse talking about? God?
I return to the living room and plop on a couch. It bounces me back off. “Wow, that’s stiff.” I lower myself again.
Solomon sits on the loveseat and looks up from his NAB. “Jude didn’t stay here long enough to break them in.”
“But long enough to hang a verse in my room. Isn’t that . . . dangerous here? Don’t High-City people hate believers?”
Solomon tilts his head. “They don’t hate them, it’s just against the Law to spread our beliefs unless someone asks about them. And it’s illegal to share with people underage, even if they ask. If an Enforcer came in here, he’d make Jude remove the verse. But Jude didn’t have many visitors. What verse was it?”
I see it floating in my mind, word for word. “For by me your days will be multiplied, and years will be added to your life.”
“Ah, Jude’s favorite.”
Really? Why did he never share it with me? “Is it talking about God?”
Solomon shakes his head. “I think it’s talking about wisdom. But the verse before that one says the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom. It all comes back to Him in the end.”
So having wisdom means fearing the Lord? And He has the power to multiply my years. What a powerful thought. “What do we do now? My meeting with the Council isn’t for another three days.”
Solomon returns to his NAB. “How about something illegal?”
I start. What does that mean? “I’m coming here to blackmail the leaders of our country and you want me to do something illegal?”
“I think you’ll like it.” His tone is playful, like he knows the answer to a hidden joke.
“What is it?”
“An underground church meeting.”
I arch my back against the stiff cushions and try to smoosh them down a bit. “I didn’t know church was illegal, too.”
“Religion is a lot more . . . controlled here. Churches have to register with the government and then teach only fr
om a list of approved topics. There used to be different denominations, but they’re all forced to meet in the same building, taking turns. Discussion of actual Scripture isn’t allowed. Anyone who goes outside those rules is imprisoned or turned into a Radical.”
Skelley Chase said something about religion being dangerous back when I thought he was on my side. “That makes me want to go.” Despite my sarcasm, I love the idea of rebelling against the law for the sake of gathering with others who share my beliefs. Maybe they’ll have a Bible I can borrow.
“We get together to be a family. To support each other and fellowship.”
I’ve never been among a group of believers. It’s like what Solomon said on our drive back from the Wall. We’re outlaws going beyond the law. I tilt my head. “I’m in.”
His lips spread in such a wide smile, it erases my hesitance. “Okay, bring me your NAB and I’ll explain how this works.”
I move beside him. “Are you sure it’s safe to tell me these things before my meeting with the Council? You said they could force me to talk, remember?”
He takes my NAB from my hand and taps the screen so fast I can’t keep track of where he’s going or what he’s programming. “They won’t ask you about this. You’re safe. There.” He hands my NAB back to me. “Now if we get separated, you’ll always know how to get back to people who will help you.”
A new tiny bubble on my home page says, Verse of the Week. My stomach leaps. A Bible verse! I tap the bubble.
And through his faith, though he died, he still speaks. Hebrews 11:4
I look up. “Well, that’s . . . random.” Or maybe not. There’s the word SPEAK again.
“It’s a code that tells us when to meet.” He points to the reference. “The name of the book tells the day of the week and the reference tells the time. It’s always in the evening. This means Wednesday at eleven-forty.”
“How does Hebrews mean Wednesday?”
“Matthew means Monday, Timothy means Tuesday, Hebrews means Wednesday—because it’s one of the only books with a W in it—Thessalonians for Thursday, Philemon for Friday, Samuel for Saturday, and Song of Solomon for Sunday.”
“I bet Sunday verses are fun.”
He chuckles. “We’ve had some good ones come through.”
“So my NAB will update the new verse every week?”
“Yes.”
I look back at this week’s verse. And through his faith, though he died, he still speaks. “Who is this verse talking about?”
“Abel, I think. The murdered son of Adam and Eve.”
He still speaks . . . My throat constricts. “It’s kind of like Reid and Jude. They still speak in their own ways, even though they’re gone.”
SPEAK.
Where? When? I need more!
“Yeah.” Solomon folds his hands in his lap.
I force despondency out the window. Will my story be like Jude’s and Reid’s, continuing even after I’m gone? “We’re going to honor their deaths, Solomon. I’ll do everything I can to keep the Council from using Jude’s invention.”
“Don’t do it for Jude, do it for everyone. Do it for God.”
“I will.”
Tuesday afternoon finds me drenched in sensory overload as I meander the streets of Prime. Solomon has gone to meet with someone who can put Jude’s apartment up for sale. After hours of mulling over what I’ll say to the Council, I opted to go shopping as a distraction.
Shopping. Me. I don’t think I’ve ever gone shopping. Not unless I spent a month scrounging up specie for something specific, like a new sewing needle. Now I have my pouch of Last-Year funds from before I crossed the Wall. I don’t know how expensive things are in Prime, but I’d like to get some new clothes—clothes I haven’t made or haven’t worn six hundred times over.
After all, I’m meeting friends of Jude’s and Solomon’s tomorrow night at the underground church. I want to make a good impression.
I find a long street with shops on both sides of the road. Cars float down the road at a crawl. Small bridges cross from one side of the street to the other every block or so. Several of the stores have clothing. I never considered my clothing unfashionable until I saw these stores. People walk out with giant bags and boxes. What will they do with so much clothing?
The mannequins in the windows are clad in garments that won’t last or keep me warm. Much of it is pretty and . . . fun. Not something I could wear in Unity Village unless I want to ostracize myself even more.
I didn’t think it would be so hard to find something new that would be useful. I finally enter a store. I try not to be overwhelmed by the displays, but the floor is carpeted. In a store! I want to take off my boots and run my bare feet over it, but no. This is normal for a High City.
People live like this every day. What a different world.
I browse, avoiding the eyes of the two female workers whispering together in the back by the check-out table. Their stares burn my back. I know I’m rugged. I wear the black dress and thin boots that Wilbur Sherrod, my old employer, gave me in Ivanhoe. I’d much rather be in Mother’s skirt, but Reid’s blood is on it. They’d whisper a lot more if I wore that.
I stop at a rack of clothing colored in tans, blacks, and browns. At least they carry my colors. I wave my stump under a loose dusty-brown blouse. It’s soft. Good quality. It is a V-neck with loose long sleeves. No buttons, no collar.
A tan dress catches my eye—sleeveless, ankle-length, and simple. Where would I wear it? The material is sturdy. It might look nice on me. What would Solomon think?
My hand rests among the cloth and I stare at it before laughing under my breath. Maybe that’s why the employees watch me—because of my missing hand. I was more self-conscious about my clothing than about my stump. Weird.
“May I help you find something?”
Oh dear. I turn around, clutching the dress in my right hand. The woman is young, with flickering purple and green leaves tattooed down her neck. Her blond hair is up in a side do and curls come down across her other shoulder. She wears one earring—a giant dangling heart with small ticking Numbers on its face. Is that her Clock?
“Um . . . I’m just . . . how much is this dress?”
She looks under the neckline and a virtual price glows at the back of the neck. “Three hundred.”
“Th-three . . . hundred? Specie?”
She drops her hand and purses her green lipsticked lips. “Yes.”
“Oh.” I turn away. I don’t even have one hundred specie in my pouch. But . . . that doesn’t make sense. One hundred specie in Unity Village lasts forever. How can a dress cost more than my entire Last Year funds?
“May I be of assistance?” a smoother, older voice asks from behind me.
Great, now the other one has come and I’ll have to tell them both I don’t even have enough coin for a sock.
I turn around. She has a black vest on under a white see-through blouse. The dark electronic word Manager is displayed below her left shoulder. The other employee looks at her feet. Maybe she’s new.
“No, thanks, I—”
The manager gasps and her eyes fix on my stump.
This isn’t awkward at all. “Yeah, kind of disturbing, huh? I can guarantee it’s an interesting story.” Though not one I’m willing to tell right now. So why did I say that?
“Are you Parvin Blackwater?” She’s breathless.
The other worker jumps with a squeak. “She is!”
Drat. They know my name and face, and now they also know I can’t afford a single dress.
“Parvin Blackwater’s in my store.” The manager isn’t looking at me anymore. She’s fixated on nothing, in awe. After a prolonged moment of silence, during which I start to think this is turning humorous, her gaze returns to me. “You just go ahead and take that dress.”
The younger employee snags th
e long-sleeved brown shirt I liked and thrusts it into my hands. “And this, too.”
The manager glares at her. “Go man the register.”
The girl hangs her head and slouches back toward a white standing desk in the back corner. I wish I could do something for her. I don’t want to be like Skelley Chase, famous and above everyone else.
“Bee was right, though, you can have anything you like. This black skirt goes perfectly with that blouse. And you’re so thin and dainty they’ll look elegant on your frame.”
I hold up my hand. “I can’t allow you to give me these things for free.” Besides, her comment about thin and dainty is clear flattery. I’m short with long legs and half a torso. “I was just about to get going, actually.”
“Well, I hoped we could take a few emotigraphs with you . . . in the clothing.”
“I really should—“
“Please.” She grabs my left forearm and looks as though she’s about to cry. Then she must realize she’s clutching the arm with the stump and she lets go.
I relax. These women have read my X-book and they like me. They admire me. They want an emotigraph of me. “Oh, all right.”
“Bee! Set up the sentra!” She shoves the clothes back into my arms. “Take these. I insist. As long as you let me blow up these pictures and hang them in my store.”
Ah, a catch. So this is fame. But who cares? “Sure.”
I’m holding a year’s worth of Unity Village luxuries right now. Can I really take them for free? I imagine wearing the black skirt with the blouse and my calf-high boots. I might be pretty.
We take several pictures. Some of me in my new clothes, then me with the two workers, then me with the manager, and then me with Bee, who hugs me so tight I can’t breathe.
They’re all squeals, giggles, and unprofessionalism–and I love it. They fluff my hair, talk about their favorite parts in the X-book—when Jude tried to save me and when I tried on Wilbur Sherrod’s suits—and wave me out the door just as a fresh batch of oblivious customers walk in.
I leave with a new dress, skirt, blouse, scarf, wrist bangles, and a shoulder bag that barely fits my folded NAB.
A Time to Speak Page 12
