The Towering Sky

by Katharine McGee

  “Which is one of the many reasons I love you,” Max said firmly.

  Their hover emerged onto the 540th floor, the location of the largest midTower polling station. Technically Avery could vote anywhere in New York City—people weren’t assigned locations to vote, not anymore, since the whole process was linked to retinas and fingerprints. Still, most people voted at their nearest station, for convenience’s sake. Which meant that voting was at least somewhat segregated by neighborhoods.

  Her dad had asked weeks ago if Avery wouldn’t mind voting at the midTower station. It had probably been his campaign manager’s idea: a last-ditch Election Day publicity stunt. Using Avery as a living, breathing commercial for her father.

  People were already queued up and down the block before the community center, a sense of anticipation gathering in the air like a storm. Avery heard one group murmuring about health care, another online security, and yet another the environment. It struck her what a tricky game it was, politics—trying to please everyone, when everyone wanted such different things.

  “That’s her!” A girl elbowed her friend, both of them staring as Avery started toward the back of the line. The whispers instantly multiplied. Everyone was suddenly blinking, probably taking snaps. “Wonder who she’ll vote for,” more than one of them said sarcastically.

  And so it begins again, Avery thought, her stomach twisting at the unwanted attention. Max trotted alongside her. He’d started talking loudly about his research, probably in an attempt to distract her.

  She’d only made it a few meters before a young man in an official-looking vest came forward. “Miss Fuller!” he said officiously. “Please come with me. You’re a press case and can skip the line.”

  “No, thank you. I don’t want special treatment,” Avery assured him.

  “Don’t be silly. We always do this for the candidates’ families,” the polling attendant insisted, reaching for Avery’s elbow to steer her through the crowd. The people in line cast her dark looks.

  Avery tried to keep the smile on her face, but it was dimmer now, mechanical beneath the spotlight of attention.

  The polling attendant led her through the main doors of the community center, which was decked out in swaths of New York decorations. Across the room, a few simulated windows depicted the chill of a gray autumn day.

  “I’ll wait for you right here,” Max told her. “Good luck.” He paused at a wall of election stickers—the kind that fastened themselves to fabric on a time release, much better than the old pins people used to stab their clothes with. Most of the stickers said I VOTED! “Can I take one of these even if I didn’t vote?” Avery heard Max asking, and almost laughed. Of course Max wanted to feel included.

  At the wall of retinal scanners, she lifted her gaze and focused on not blinking. There was a momentary instant of darkness as the low-energy beam licked over her eye, gathering all the rich data from her pupil, exponentially more data than what was encoded on a fingerprint. AVERY ELIZABETH FULLER appeared on the screen before her, along with her New York State ID number and birthdate. She had turned eighteen over the summer, and this was her first time voting.

  A cone of invisibility descended on Avery from above. Not real invisibility, of course, just simple light refraction technology, the kind used mainly in recreational toys or in schools on test days. Genuine invisibility was available to only the military. Avery knew that her body was still in full view of everyone outside the cone, though watery and hazy, as if seen through a rippling surface of water.

  A holo materialized before her, projected by one of the computers along the ceiling. NEW YORK CITY MUNICIPAL MAYORAL ELECTION it said in block letters. Beneath were the names of the candidates: PIERSON FULLER, DEMOCRATIC-REPUBLICAN PARTY, and DICKERSON DANIELS, FEDERALIST PARTY, along with a string of minority-party candidates Avery had barely heard of. Beneath each person’s name appeared his or her headshot. There was her dad, smiling and waving in his little square of high-res instaphoto; and next to him Dickerson Daniels, wearing his signature red bow tie. Avery reached up to touch her index finger to the circle marked with her dad’s name.

  But her hand didn’t seem to be working properly, because for some reason, it had hovered over Dickerson Daniels’s name instead.

  She didn’t want her dad to be mayor.

  She didn’t want four years of this media circus, this endless public scrutiny. She didn’t want to keep being summoned to appear in preapproved dresses, to smile and nod on command like a marionette. She wanted to be herself again.

  If Daniels won, wouldn’t people eventually lose interest in her? Her life would go back to the way things had always been. People would stop staring at her in public places, except for the occasional fashion blogger trying to chronicle her outfits. Most of all, her parents would go back to normal. They would stop obsessing over every last detail of their family’s appearances, and go back to stressing about other things, like making even more ridiculous amounts of money.

  A cold sweat had broken out on Avery’s brow. Several minutes must have ticked by. Had she been in here too long? Would people notice? The faces of her father and Daniels kept smiling cheerfully and waving at her from their squares of holo. Her hand wavered, and she began to lean in, toward Daniels.

  But at the last moment, Avery’s rigid lifelong training kicked in, and she pushed the holo-button marked with her dad’s name—jerkily, as if she hadn’t fully committed to the decision and part of her was still resisting it.

  The box glowed a bright green, confirming her vote, and then the screen repixelated into the election for treasurer.

  Avery bent over to catch her breath, her hands on her knees. She felt as if she’d just fought a battle within herself, and had the oddest sense that she’d lost.

  Finally she pulled herself together and cycled through the other items: everything from city council to town clerk to library trustee. The holographic ballot rolled itself up with a flourish, and the invisibility cone dissolved into thin air. Avery reached up to smooth her hair as she stepped away, producing a vague, distracted smile for the various hovercams aimed in her direction. There was a whole swarm of them now, clearly sent by her parents, whose PR team was probably already blasting the pics to the feeds.

  As she walked toward the line of press contacts waiting for an interview, the cold metallic eyes of the cameras and the organic eyes of humans followed her every move.

  “Fifteen minutes left!” one of the campaign aides cried out as the hum of excitement reached a fever pitch.

  It was later that night, and Avery was home on the thousandth floor, where her father had set up a makeshift campaign headquarters in what he and her mom called the great room. It was the room they usually used for parties, almost the size of a ballroom, and empty of furniture. Right now the room was packed, seething with volunteers and publicity assistants and their parents’ friends. A stage had been set up along one side, with enormous touch screens above it, depicting the citywide votes in glowing bars of red and blue. The data was being fed into the system in real time, as the last few citizens made their way to the polling stations.

  Unless something drastic happened in the next ten minutes, it looked as if Avery’s father was about to win.

  “Avery,” her mom hissed at her elbow. “Where have you been? You missed photo call!”

  “I’m sorry, Mom.” Avery had purposefully shown up late, her one small willful act of rebellion. But she was here now, and wearing the dress her mom had picked out: a bright crimson shift, since red was the signature color of the Democratic-Republicans.

  “Avery, smile!” her mom admonished. “The cameras—”

  “Right,” Avery said wearily, grinding her teeth into a smile. The cameras, of course. Waiting, poised to take snaps, to document the perfect lives of the perfect loving family.

  “Excuse me,” she added, and turned away blindly, only to collide into Max.

  “I was just looking for you.” His hands settled warmly on her shou
lders.

  Avery closed her eyes and let her head fall against his chest for a moment, drawing upon Max’s unwavering, steady strength. He smelled like laundry detergent and spicy deodorant.

  “Thank you,” she whispered into his sweater.

  “For what?”

  “For everything. For being you.”

  “I’m not very good at being other people,” Max said lightly, but Avery could tell he was concerned about her.

  She stepped back and let out a strangled laugh when she saw his sweater. It was a bright Christmas red. “Did my parents tell you to wear the party color?”

  Max didn’t deny it. “I’m good at following orders. And, you know, I have good reason for wanting the Fullers to like me,” he told her, his hands still on her shoulders.

  “Do you, now?”

  “Yes.” Max smiled. “You see, I’m in love with their daughter.”

  “Ten seconds!” cried out one of the campaign staffers. Everyone in the room quickly joined in, counting down as if it were New Year’s. On the podium, Avery’s father began adjusting his tie, preparing for his victory speech; her mother stood at his side with a proud, placid smile.

  It all felt suddenly overbright and loud to Avery, with a slight glossy tinge of unreality, as if the whole thing were a holo show viewed from a distance. As if it had nothing to do with her.

  The room erupted in cheers, and she realized dimly that her dad had won. If only she hadn’t voted for him, after all.

  “Thank you, thank you!” her father boomed. “Thanks to my entire staff for your tireless, instrumental work on this campaign. I couldn’t have done it without you.

  “We should remember that only a few decades ago, confidence in New York was in short supply. We were a city displaced, the laughingstock of the global community as we moved all Manhattan’s residents out of their homes, and began the world’s most ambitious construction project to date. . . .”

  Of course, Avery thought. Her dad never turned away from an excuse to talk about the Tower, and his role in it.

  “Thanks to everyone in this room for your support, your donations, and, of course, for your votes!” Everyone laughed dutifully, and Avery’s father cleared his throat. “And most of all, I would like to thank my beloved family for their never-ending support.”

  There was another smattering of applause. Max took a respectful step back, creating a halo of space around Avery, who felt the full onslaught of everyone’s stares. A mass of zettas—the small hovercams used by paparazzi to take pictures of celebrities—coalesced into a cloud around her. Avery resisted the urge to swat them aside; that would only result in a bunch of unflattering snaps.

  Avery knew that her parents loved her, but at times like this, it was hard to feel like anything but an employee of the family company, a standard-bearer of the Fuller name. A beautiful, golden, living prop, which her parents had custom-ordered nineteen years ago for precisely this purpose.

  “All my family,” her father added.

  Something in his voice made Avery look up, and then she couldn’t look away.

  He stepped out onto the stage almost casually, as if they’d been expecting him. Which they had, Avery realized. This was another PR stunt, just as elaborate and staged as her midTower vote this morning.

  He looked different. Of course he did, Avery thought. This whole time, she had been imagining him just as she last saw him—preserved in the cryo chamber of her memory—but life wasn’t like that. Life left its mark on you.

  He was wearing dark-wash jeans and a white button-down, no trace of red in sight. His light brown hair was cut shorter than Avery had ever seen it. It highlighted the bold, strong lines of his face, his long nose and square jaw, making him look older.

  His eyes met hers, and he glanced from her to Max, a million emotions darting over his face too quickly for Avery to make sense of them.

  “My son, Atlas!” Pierson Fuller cried out. “Who, if I’m not mistaken, delivered the final vote!”

  “Though not the deciding one.” Atlas smiled, and the room erupted in laughter again.

  Her father was saying something else—that Atlas would be here until the inauguration to help Pierson get his business affairs wrapped up, since he wouldn’t be able to touch any of his personal assets while in office. But his words were lost over the roar of noise. Everyone seemed to be flooding forward, exclaiming over Atlas, congratulating Avery’s father, popping bottles of champagne.

  “I can’t wait to meet your brother!” Max said, and glanced at Avery. “Did you know he was coming home?”

  Avery’s mouth formed the word no, but she wasn’t sure she actually spoke it.

  She couldn’t move. She knew she needed to do something, to walk forward with a smile and introduce her adopted brother, who also happened to be her secret ex-boyfriend, to her current boyfriend. But she was planted in place.

  The sheer reality of him, of his presence here after all this time away, struck Avery with a blind, blunt force. Her entire world felt upended.

  Why hadn’t anyone warned her? Why hadn’t Atlas warned her? Clearly this plan had been in place for a while. Did they want it to be a surprise for her . . . or had she been right last year, when she worried that her father suspected what was really going on between them?

  Avery couldn’t quite believe it. After all this time—after she had finally moved on from him—Atlas was back.

  LEDA

  LEDA PULLED HER feet up onto the cream-colored couch that dominated her parents’ living room. It was scratchy and stiff, not particularly inviting, but still her favorite place in the apartment. Probably because it was right at the center of things.

  She was home alone tonight, watching an old holo, letting its familiar dialogue lap pleasantly against her mind. At school earlier, Avery had asked if Leda wanted to come to some campaign event that Avery’s parents were forcing her to attend, but Leda had refused. Max would be there to keep Avery company, and besides, it didn’t sound like fun.

  She found herself wondering what Watt was doing tonight, then scolded herself for thinking about him. And yet . . . she had liked spending time with him the other day. Even if that time was spent at a random party in Brooklyn, investigating the death of a girl who’d known their darkest secrets.

  They had been flickering back and forth ever since, discussing what to do about Mariel’s diary. They both assumed that it was in the Valconsuelos’ apartment, but couldn’t agree on their next step. Watt wanted to break into the apartment and try to steal it, which Leda insisted was too risky. What if instead they pretended to be friends of Mariel’s, she suggested, and concocted some excuse for needing to search her room?

  Every time she tried to bring it up, though, Watt would inevitably pull the conversation off-topic: to ask Leda whether she missed him (no), whether she thought he needed a haircut (still no), what class she was in (stop hacking my school tablet; I’m trying to focus). When he interrupted her SAT tutoring session, Leda demanded in mock frustration that he hunt down the SAT answers to make it up to her.

  And deprive you of the joy of knowing that you beat everyone all on your own? Absolutely not, Watt had replied. Leda shook her head, fighting back a smile.

  At least she no longer dreaded falling asleep. She was still having the nightmares, but they were shallower, easier to wake herself up from; especially now that she was waking up to a series of waiting flickers from Watt. There was something comforting in the knowledge that he was on her side. For the first time in months, Leda no longer felt alone.

  A buzz sounded through the apartment, and Leda’s head shot up. It wasn’t the delivery she’d ordered from Bakehouse; that would have scanned automatically into the kitchen. She pulled her hair into a messy bun and went to answer the door.

  Watt was standing on the other side, holding a massive double-handled bag with the Bakehouse logo. “Delivery for Miss Cole?”

  She gave a strangled laugh. “Did you just hack my delivery bot?”

&n
bsp; “I was in the neighborhood,” Watt told her, which they both knew was a lie. “And don’t worry, I’ve hacked far worse.”

  Leda realized belatedly that she was wearing her oversized school sweatshirt and artech leggings. “Sorry. I would have dressed up, but I wasn’t expecting company. Then again, I don’t know if you count as company when you show up uninvited.”

  “In some cultures, it’s rude to insult people who show up on your doorstep bearing food.”

  “Except that you’re acting like a human delivery bot, bringing me food I ordered.”

  “You’re calling me a human bot? Rude again.” Watt’s dark eyes were bright with laughter.

  “It’s not rude if it’s accurate.” Leda reached for the delivery bag and paused, trying not to make her next words sound like a big deal. “You might as well stay, since you’re already here. I always over-order.”

  “I’d love to,” Watt said, in a show of surprise, though Leda knew this was exactly what he’d hoped for.

  Watt followed her back into the living room and set the Bakehouse bag on the coffee table, scattering the disposable boxes over its imitation mosaic surface. His eyes flicked to the holo, and he grinned. “You’re watching The Lottery?” he teased. Leda started to turn it off, but Watt threw a hand out in protest. “Oh, come on! At least wait until they win!”

  “That’s not until the very end,” she reminded him, a little surprised that he’d even seen this holo. It was something she and her mom used to watch, back when Leda was really young.

  “Good thing we have all night,” Watt replied. Leda wondered what he meant by that.

  She stretched across the coffee table to reach for a pizza slice, only to frown at it in confusion. “This isn’t my pizza.”

  “I adjusted the order. You’re welcome,” Watt said cheekily.

  “But—”

  “Don’t worry—your weird veggie pizza is still here.” He slid a box toward her. “But seriously. Who orders pizza without pepperoni?”

  “You’re insufferable. You know that, right?”