“Like I said, your access is limited. So if I tell you not to move, don’t move. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of a door.”
I sense this is metaphor as well as literal. “Sorry. I won’t do it again,” I say, intending to heed her warning, though I know myself better than that.
Sharrow’s expression softens. “I forgot to ask what size shoe you wear, but I don’t think it matters.” She holds out socks the same gray as my jumper.
I take them. “Where are the shoes?”
“That’s all you’ve been auth for now.”
“I’m supposed to walk around in socks?”
She laughs. “Slips are a little more than socks. They’re adaptive to give support, like your jumper.”
I pull the socks on. They squeeze my feet lightly and feel pretty good, though they don’t seem good for going outside. Maybe that’s the point—to keep me from trying to leave.
We cross the squishy green floor. Sharrow holds her hand to the wall, and the door swishes open. Stepping into the gray hallway, Sharrow turns left, the opposite direction I came from with Dietrich.
“What’s the deal with these hallways?” I ask as we turn left down another passage. “Like, did you guys build them or were they part of the original BART system?”
“I have no idea.”
Well that’s helpful. I try again. “So how do you know your way around down here when it all looks the same?”
“Habit? I don’t know. I never really thought about it.”
Wow, I hardly know what to do with all this useful info.
We stop at another closed door and I sigh, expecting to enter yet another gray hallway. Instead, the door opens to a much larger passage covered in graffiti. The color feels like rain after a drought. We step through the doorway onto cement, and I feel the cold through my socks.
“Almost there,” Sharrow says as we head to the right.
All I can think is that Bel had better know her way around this place or I’m going to need an ally who does.
“This is it,” Sharrow says, pointing to Donut Shoppe spray-painted bold amidst the other graffiti. Beside it is an artistic rendering of a donut and a steaming cup.
I’m caught off guard, remembering the flyer with the steaming cup of coffee that Jake made for his aunt’s café. I’d give anything to be sitting at that café with him right now.
Quickly I shove down thoughts of Jake. They only make me sad, and I can’t do sad.
Sharrow puts her hand near the drawing of the mug, and a big rectangle of the wall slides away, making a doorway.
“How do you know where to touch?” I ask, squinting at the wall. “Can you see a panel or something?”
“No, you have to memorize where to bank the personal. Basically if you can see the door, or know where it is, the masks are always to the right at about this height.” She holds her hand at shoulder level. “You’ll get used to it. After fumbling around like a dimmy for a bit.”
We go inside, and the door swishes shut behind us. I turn to see if it disappeared, but on this side, I can see it plainly.
I follow Sharrow while scoping out the place. With a name like “Donut Shoppe,” I expected a retro 1950s coffee shop or an ultra-modern interpretation of one. This is more like a factory—large open room, cement walls and floors, high ceiling laced with pipes and ducts and lights. Machines line three walls like metal soldiers. Sharrow heads to the left wall where a couple of people are filling bottles.
So…vending machines? It’s definitely not a restaurant, that’s for sure. No hostess station. No menus. Absolutely no smell of food. I’d never guess this was a place to eat, except for the cafeteria-style tables and chairs down the center. The whole thing is dreary as heck.
The people are subdued, too, scattered in clumps, hunched over trays. Their bodysuits—jumpers—are in a variety of solid colors, but that’s the only non-gray in the whole place.
“Is Bel here already?” I scan for her red hair.
Sharrow consults her personal. “Not yet. Hungry?”
“I could eat,” I say, with the emphasis on eat as I eyeball the people filling bottles. “Please tell me you have something that’s actually food.”
Sharrow looks puzzled, then her eyebrows shoot up. “Oh! You’re not a fan of the liquid nutrition.”
“It’s not my favorite,” I say. “But I could go for a donut.”
“There is food, but the donut thing is a joke. Some old-timer thought he was being clever.”
“Very funny. Not.”
“Whoever named this place was sadistic,” Sharrow says. “But there is carrot cake.”
“Any chance there’s tacos?”
“Of course.”
Yes! I’ve never had a taco from a vending machine, but there’s no way it’s worse than the drink I tasted in Detention.
“You’ll want to stay clear of this section.” Sharrow indicates the machines along the left wall. “This is all liquid nutrition. The solids are over there.”
These people sure know how to make things sound appetizing.
I follow her to the bank of machines along the right wall, which don’t look any different.
“Tacos, right?” Sharrow bellies up to one of the larger machines. “I’ll do mine, then you can have a go.”
There’s a touch-screen like I’ve seen at the newer Micky D’s. The items displayed are tacos and burritos. Sharrow chooses taco, hard shell, quantity two. On the next screen her options are bovine protein, poultry protein, vegetable protein. She selects bovine.
Ew. “Why doesn’t it just say ‘beef’?”
“Because technically it’s not beef.”
“Okaaaay. What is it?”
“It’s lab-grown bovine tissue that approximates the nutritive composition of beef. No actual cows are involved.”
Bovine tissue? Gross. Vegetable protein sounds infinitely better.
On the next screen is a checklist of toppings, most of which I recognize, like lettuce and onions. But some of the stuff only sounds foodish—cheddar dairy composite, soured non-dairy cream, mixed vegetable matter. She presses the button that says “all.” Not the choice I’d have made. Maybe it masks the bovine flavor.
The machine whirs and clicks. She taps her toe, waiting.
I realize I didn’t notice where she put her personal up to the machine. “Where do you access it?”
“The touch-screen.”
“It detects your personal?”
Sharrow gives me the side eye. “Why would it?”
“So they can debit your account or whatever?”
“They don’t track that. They don’t track any resources—clothes, showers, accs, equip. When resources run low, there’s an announcement and everyone reduces. Besides, nothing’s ever wasted. All the food, water, and printable compounds are recycled and reused.”
Double gross.
The machine ejects a plate with two tacos, and Sharrow takes it.
“Your turn,” she says.
“On second thought, I’ll just have that carrot cake.”
Sharrow shrugs. “Fine by me.”
I follow her past machines whose touchscreens show pictures of pasta, stir-fry, sandwiches, salads, and various stew and soup options that look seriously disgusting. Along the back wall are more drink dispensers and a cold-case of snacks and desserts. Sharrow points to a row of plastic boxes with cake slices in them, and I grab one.
“Want some kombucha?” she asks.
I look to see if she’s joking. She’s not.
“No thanks. Ever,” I say, also not joking. That stuff’s nasty in any year. “Water would be good, though.” Hopefully. Not sure about the whole recycling thing.
She hands me an empty plastic cup and shows me how to access the water dispenser. Then she grabs a cup for herself and fills it with brown sludge I can smell three feet away.
I take a fork—also plastic—and some napkins from containers on the counter, and we head to an empty table. The peopl
e we pass all look more or less our age. They stare at me while trying not to look like they’re staring. Sharrow ignores them, so I do, too.
At the table, Sharrow plops her plate down and sits. I take the spot facing her.
“I’m starving.” She picks up a taco and takes a giant bite.
I hear the crunch of the shell and watch her cheeks bulge as she chews, and I have to admit I’m a little jealous. Or at least I would be if I knew the taco actually tasted like a taco.
I remove the plastic lid from the cake and scrape off a bit of white icing with my fork. It tastes okay. It’s pretty much like any day-old cafeteria cream cheese icing, but I can’t help wondering if it’s some sort of non-dairy lab-grown composite-thing instead of actual cream cheese. I fork a bite of the cake. Also not terrible.
Sharrow’s polished off one of the tacos. I scope the other one. It looks like a normal taco.
She sees me eyeing it. “Change your mind? You’re welcome to it.”
“I…don’t know.” How long am I going to be in 2153? If it’s more than a few days, I’m going to have to eat something besides cake.
“Try it.” She slides the plate across the table. “I’m dying to know if it tastes like actual animal flesh.”
Animal flesh. She makes it sound more disgusting than lab-grown bovine protein.
“You’ve never had…animal before?” I ask, considering the taco.
“Nope, never.”
“The world doesn’t have animals anymore?” Geez, what’s happened since 2018?
“The world has animals. We just don’t eat them.”
I sniff the taco and I’m flooded with memories of taco night at Bibi’s house with all the girls talking and squabbling, rug-rats fussing, dishes clanking. My traitorous stomach growls.
“Oh, what the heck,” I say, grabbing the taco and taking a small bite. So far not gross. I chew, letting the flavors cascade over my tongue.
Sharrow leans toward me. “Well?”
“Tastes like a taco.” I take another bite, this time my usual mouthful.
“But does it taste like cow?”
“Sure, I guess,” I say around the food in my mouth. “As much as any taco actually tastes like beef.” I wash it down with a swig of water. There’s a slight chemically aftertaste like the water in the detention cell. Still infinitely better than kombucha.
I down the last of the taco, relieved. Whatever else has changed, at least there’re still tacos.
“She’s here.” Sharrow points.
Bel’s standing at the liquid nutrition machines. She turns, and our eyes meet. I can’t tell if she’s friend or foe. I clench my stomach, ready to do battle. I need to fight for all I’m worth to make her an ally or I’m seriously toast.
Chapter Eleven
Bel comes toward us across the Donut Shoppe, strutting her curves in the gray jumper, make-up done, hair in flowing curls. When she arrives at the table, she tosses her hair back like some sort of supermodel. I snort, thinking how ridiculous I’d look if I tried that.
“What?” Bel looks down her nose at me.
“What?” Crap, she thinks I was snorting at her. Way to start off on the wrong foot. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Whatever.” Bel sits beside Sharrow and sets an opaque plastic bottle on the table. “All right, let’s get this over with.”
Sharrow’s happy expression fades. I know the feeling.
“I guess, uh,” Sharrow says. “We should make a plan.”
“A plan for what?” I ask.
“My mom, I mean our mom,” she glances at Bel, “said to show you around. I was thinking the club next. But I don’t know what Bel wants to do.”
“This whole thing is nox. I don’t know why I have to do it.” Bel takes a swig from her bottle.
Sharrow couldn’t look more disappointed. “Mom said we should get to know each other.”
Bel rolls her eyes.
Some things never change.
“Tell me about the club,” I say with forced enthusiasm. “Bel, did you used to go there a lot? What’s it like?”
“How should I know?”
I’m confused. “But this is your real time.”
“Not hardly.” Bel glances around the room, then back at her bottle.
Then I realize—since no one knows her now, she probably feels as out of place as I do. Maybe more. I almost feel sorry for her. Almost. More importantly, maybe I can use that.
I try again to get Bel to engage. “What’s changed since you were here before?”
“I have no idea. I barely got here.”
“Was this place the same?” I gesture to our surroundings, pretending not to notice her snotty tone. “Was it called the Donut Shoppe?”
“Affirm.”
“And the liquid nutrition is the same, right? I mean you knew about it when we were in Detention,” I say. “Are there are different flavors? Because the one I tried was naaaaasty.”
Bel is silent, staring at the table.
“There are quite a few flavors,” Sharrow says.
“I’d try it again if there’s something closer to a strawberry shake.” I imagine it—a super cold, thick strawberry milkshake—and my mouth waters.
“We used to have real strawberries,” Sharrow says. “But something went wrong with the crop. We do have blackberries. They say they’re hardier for growing down here or something. What about a blackberry shake?”
“You grow food down here? Underground?” I ask. “How?”
“Hydroponics, grow lights, fertilizer,” Sharrow answers like it’s normal. “There’s a whole farm wing dedicated to producing as much protein and vegetable matter as possible. Of course, some things we have to get topside, but we keep it to bare minimum to maintain the illusion of only a dozen people living here.”
“A farm wing? I’d love to see that. Wouldn’t you, Bel?”
“Forget it. It’s off limits for you, anyway.”
“What can I see?” I remember the newspaper from 2152 that Beck showed me. “How about those synth-pets?”
“Pets?” Sharrow says. “We don’t have animals down here.”
“Not even robot ones?” I remember the picture of the Newfie dog robot.
“I wish,” Sharrow says. “That would be phee. Do you have those in your time?”
“No, I…”
Bel shoots me a look that clearly says stop talking about this. I don’t know why. But I go ahead and change the subject. “How about that club you mentioned?”
“Sure, if Bel—”
“Fine. Whatever,” Bel says.
I catch Sharrow’s eye and shrug. Isn’t it fun having a sister?
“Where do we put this?” I ask, gathering trash from the table. “I expected it would be more environmentally conscious in the future, but there’s a metric crap-ton of plastic.”
“All the plastics get melted down and used to print new stuff,” Sharrow says, picking up the remaining items.
“Still, it seems like such a waste,” I say, following her away from the table.
“For most stuff it takes less energy to throw all the material in the processor than it would take to clean reusable items,” Sharrow says. “Though there are some things we use more than once. Like drink bottles. We’ll get you one later.”
She shows me where to dump the recycling, then I turn to look for Bel. She’s still at the table looking at her fingernails. She seems so sad and alone. But it won’t last. Other things may have changed, but she’s still the same Bel. I’d bet a hundred tacos she’ll be Queen Bee in no time.
The three of us exit the Donut Shoppe into the graffitied tunnel.
“Up for a shortcut?” Sharrow asks, looking mischievous.
“Sure,” I say.
“Whatever,” Bel says.
We follow Sharrow—who’s practically jogging—down the graffitied hallway. It opens into another BART station. I look for any indication of which station it is, but again, there are no signs. I’m about to as
k Bel, but one look at her sour expression silences me.
Sharrow goes to the end of the platform and pulls something from a box on the wall. “Put these on.” She hands gloves to me and Bel, then puts on a pair herself.
What the heck?
I follow her up a ladder and onto a catwalk that spans the trough where the trains used to go. She stops halfway across and faces the mouth of the tunnel. “Watch what I do, then count to ten and jump exactly the same way. One at a time.” She takes a flying leap, her arms out like Superman.
I look below to see her zipping away on a giant slide.
“Sweet!” I turn to Bel. “You want to go next?”
“No.”
“You are coming, though, right?”
She lets out a huge sigh. “Just go, already.”
I completely forgot to count to ten, but I steel myself and leap. The landing on my stomach isn’t comfortable, but I don’t care—this is such a rush! The sides of the tunnel are flying past—there are lights overhead at intervals making a strobe effect. This is the coolest shortcut in the history of ever.
It’s getting hot where my suit touches the slide. It’s not exactly painful, yet. I hope the slide isn’t much longer.
Ahead, I see a brighter area where Sharrow is standing off to one side, and I realize I have no idea how to stop. But before I can panic, the slide flattens out and I slow to a stop.
“That was amaze-balls!” I say, getting to my feet.
Sharrow grins, and we both laugh.
I peel off the gloves and look up the slide for Bel. “I hope she’s coming.”
“Me too.” Sharrow takes my gloves and drops them in a box.
“So. I guess having a sister isn’t all you imagined, huh?”
She smiles, but the smile doesn’t go all the way to her eyes.
Bel arrives at the bottom of the slide, gets to her feet, and drops her gloves in the box without a word.
“Wasn’t that cool?” I ask. “Did they have that in—”
“Sluff it.”
Sharrow’s eyes go wide. “Okay, this way,” she says, uber-cheerfully. She heads for the side and climbs the metal rungs to the platform
Shake Page 6
