The Bar Code Prophecy

by Suzanne Weyn

  China and Russia have followed NASA’s lead in bringing their people down from space. They have urged Global-1 to do the same.

  On Monday, Grace took the GlobalHelix elevator to the fourth-floor personnel office. The moment had arrived. The bar code tattoo was the rite of passage that would mark her as an adult. And what choice did she really have? The life of an outlaw, running and working against the bar code tattoo wasn’t for her. It would all be fine.

  When Grace got off the elevator, she saw a girl she knew from a lower grade in school who had a job as a data-input assistant for the summer. “Hey,” said the girl, whose name Grace couldn’t recall. “What brings you up here?”

  Grace flashed her wrist. “Getting the ’too.”

  “Awesome. Happy Birthday!”

  “It was yesterday, but thanks.”

  A rush of anxiety ran through Grace as she sat waiting in the tattoo office. When the nurse appeared, she smiled at Grace as she took a blood sample, working the needle with a skillful, practiced touch. Grace waited while the nurse disappeared into the next room and returned with a black machine about the size of a toaster oven: the laser tattooing machine.

  With the nurse’s guidance, Grace slid her upturned wrist into the machine. It caused only a slight burning sensation as the blue laser lights etched the first two sections of the bar code tattoo onto the inside of her wrist. Numbers, words, and symbols whirred by on a read-out as the lasers worked.

  With an unexpected abruptness, the machine whirred to a halt. Grace looked at the nurse quizzically. “Why are we stopping?” she asked.

  The nurse poured the vial of Grace’s blood that she’d drawn into a glass compartment built into the machine. “We entered your vital information from a disc that’s been compiled on you. Now the machine will analyze your blood to add your genetic information.”

  “I thought that’s illegal now,” Grace objected, alarmed.

  The nurse smiled confidently. “The system has been refined so that only authorized medical practitioners can access your genetics. Employers and insurance companies can’t see it. Having ready access to this information could save your life someday.”

  “How do I know that’s true?” Grace questioned.

  The nurse scowled lightly and shook her head, silently scolding Grace for her mistrust. “President Waters signed that bill into law just last week. It’s against the law for anyone else to access that information. You don’t have to worry.”

  Grace nodded uncertainly. Was it paranoid not to trust what this woman was telling her? What reason would she have to lie?

  Eric’s voice came back to her. Don’t do it.

  But then she saw her father’s face. He’d worked here all his life. Didn’t she owe Global-1 that much trust?

  “Which kind of bar code tattoo do you want?” the nurse asked. “You can have the traditional rectangle of bars or the new square ones with the bars inside.”

  “I don’t know,” Grace replied. “The new ones are kind of cool looking.”

  “Not as many places take them yet. They need a special upgraded scanner,” the nurse pointed out. “On the other hand, some people like them because they don’t look like the old ones. It makes people feel safer.”

  “But is it really any safer?” Grace asked.

  The nurse shook her head and smiled. “They’re both perfectly safe now.”

  Once the blood was in the tattoo machine, the blue laser lights appeared once more. In an instant, the bar code tattoo was emblazoned on Grace’s inner wrist. She withdrew her hand, rubbing away the burning sensation. The nurse handed her a cool cloth. “In five minutes you won’t even feel it,” she promised.

  A strange elation mixed with sadness swept over Grace. It was done. There was no turning back from it, no more deciding.

  “It’s like closing a door on your childhood, isn’t it?” the nurse said kindly, reading the anxiety in Grace’s expression.

  “In a way,” Grace admitted.

  The nurse got up. She’d had this conversation many times before, no doubt. “You’ll get used to it very quickly.” She displayed her own bar code tattoo. “Soon you won’t remember how you ever lived without it.”

  As Grace headed toward the elevator, she was so engrossed in her bar code tattoo that she walked right into the tall figure standing in her path. “Dr. Harriman!” she cried when she looked up and saw who it was. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You’ve been bar coded,” Dr. Harriman observed. Grace was immediately struck by how concerned he looked.

  “Yes,” she told him. “I’m seventeen now.”

  His expression twisted into one of self-reproach. “Of course you are. How could I have forgotten?”

  What was he talking about? Why should he even know her birth date?

  “Dr. Harriman?” Grace asked.

  Clutching Grace’s wrist, Dr. Harriman examined her bar code tattoo. “Go home, Grace,” he ordered. “Right away. Wait for my phone call.”

  “What’s wrong?” He was scaring her. “Isn’t the Bar Code all right now?”

  “No, it’s not all right. Not all right at all!”

  This didn’t make any sense. Dr. Harriman had invented the bar code tattoo. Grace wanted to turn back to the nurse, to ask if she was imagining things. But Dr. Harriman’s grip was too tight, too real. His words were too urgent.

  “Tell me why it’s not all right,” Grace said, pointing to his tattooed wrist. “You have one.”

  “Mine is deactivated. And I wish to God I’d never begun this cursed thing.”

  Maybe Eric was getting to her, because the moment Dr. Harriman said this, she expected Global-1 police to come storming in, to pin them both to the ground. She expected the walls to cave in and the ground to shake, because that’s what listening to this man felt like.

  But none of that happened. It was just two people in the hallway of a corporation, one of them holding on to the other for dear life.

  “What do you mean by that? Please tell me,” Grace pleaded.

  There’s a good man, her father had said when she was a child every time Dr. Harriman had walked by. Great men aren’t always good, but this one is.

  “And now you! This has happened to you,” Dr. Harriman muttered. Then he came back into focus — not with any answers, but to repeat his instructions. “Go home,” he told her. “Go home as if nothing else in the world matters.”

  He looked around, to make sure there was nobody else nearby. Then he hurried off, leaving Grace standing alone, bewildered, and frightened.

  Grace’s natural first instinct was to call her father. Heading to the nearest inter-office image phone, she punched in the numbers for the maintenance department, desperate for him to be there. He would dispel her worries. He always had a good way of calming her.

  But all she got was the department secretary, who told her, “Sorry, dear, he wasn’t scheduled to work today.”

  Grace punched her home number into her droid cell. “Face. Screen. I don’t care!” she cried when Tilly’s voice came on asking for instructions.

  “Screen only,” Tilly chose.

  Grace cried out with exasperation when the home voice mail came on.

  Where is everyone?

  Grace hurried down to the front desk, where Terri had been covering for her.

  “Is it done?” Terri asked, looking up from her magazine.

  “I’m so embarrassed,” Grace told her, “but getting the tattoo made me a little light-headed. Would you mind staying here? I think I need to go home and lie down.”

  “No problem,” Terri said kindly. “Feel better.”

  Grace quickly gathered her things, making sure to only take what she’d ordinarily take home for the night. The rest would be left behind.

  Why do I feel like I’m never coming back here?

  It was such a strange sensation, this instinct. But it felt like certainty.

  When I get home, everything will be better, she told herself.

  But thos
e words also felt hollow, as if she already knew better.

  The Bullit-Bus left Grace off only a few blocks from her house. At first she hurried toward it, eager to find her parents, but Grace slowed her approach as she neared her home, and a heavy wariness came upon her. Pushing back her hair, she surveyed the scene. The front door was open. So was the garage — and both cars were gone. No one, not even James or Kim, would have left the house wide open like this. It was one thing for them to be gone, but quite another for it to be so recognizable. They wanted her to know: We’re not here.

  But where had they gone? And why had they run off so fast?

  Grace was a few houses away, hanging back behind the trees, when she noticed the SUV parked at the curb with G1SP written on it. GLOBAL-1 SECURITY POLICE.

  The low flame of fear burning in Grace’s gut flared into full-blown panic.

  What were G-1 police doing in her house?

  They have my family, she thought, and at that moment she was ready to go to them, to turn herself in, in order to get them free.

  But then she thought, No. Because if the police had taken her family, they would have left the cars.

  Her family had gotten away. She had to believe it.

  A Global-1 officer stepped onto the front walk wearing the usual uniform: black helmet with a mirrored glass visor, black pants, and black shirt. The slightly padded bulletproof vest he wore bore the taser, laser guns, and ammunition of his profession. Turning his head slowly, he surveyed the neighborhood, his handheld laser rifle at the ready.

  “Hey! Grace!” Eric was walking down the driveway nearest her, moving at a fast clip. His voice was low, insistent.

  “Eric!” Grace gasped, surprised to see him.

  He came close, wrapping his fingers around her arm, drawing her nearer to him.

  “There she is!” the officer across the street called to someone. Three more police officers ran out of the house and began running toward Eric and Grace.

  Still grasping Grace’s arm, Eric took off, propelling her forward.

  A stream of electric red crackled past her cheek, scorching a shrub just in front of her. The three G-1 police cut a diagonal path across the street. A blaring truck horn hurt Grace’s ears as a large tractor trailer careened onto the road, blocking her view of the approaching police. The truck’s brakes screeched as it stopped and the back trailer doors opened.

  The young man standing in the tractor trailer looked just like Mfumbe Taylor from the holographic Decode video.

  “Go! Go!” Eric urged her to run to the truck. There was no time to think about it — she just had to do it. The young man in the truck reached down to help her up, pulling her in as she jumped up. Eric leaped in beside her.

  As they slammed the back doors shut again, another jagged red line buzzed the door handle.

  The truck lurched forward, throwing Grace back into its interior. In a moment they were speeding forward. Eric knelt beside her.

  “You okay?” he checked.

  “I think so. What’s happening?” Grace shut her eyes and tried to order the events of the past day and a half as best she could. But they resisted order, or logic. It was a haywire mess, full of jagged holes.

  Normal life already seemed like a lifetime ago, like she was now acting out a life that belonged to someone else. At what moment had this new life begun? As the truck raced on, she tried to pinpoint it.

  Somehow everything that happened had led to this strange and unlikely moment that she now found herself in — speeding toward somewhere unknown in the back of a tractor trailer.

  Wait for my phone call, Dr. Harriman had said. But it was too late for that now. It was too late for her to go home, too late to see if her family had left her any word, any instructions. It was too late to call Emma, too late to do anything without fear of getting someone she loved in trouble.

  It was dark in the back of the truck, with scant light trickling in from the outside. She had no sense of where she was anymore, and barely had a sense of who she was with. In the near-dark, she looked at her wrist, tried to make out the details of the Bar Code. But they were as unreadable as anything else about her life. Other people might know the truth of it, but she didn’t.

  Time passed. She had no sense of how much time. She could have checked her phone, but Eric had taken it from her and immediately dislodged the battery and the info-sim card. He’d thrown the phone forcefully out the back of the truck, then smashed the sim card under his foot, grinding it with the heel of his boot.

  “You could have just turned it off,” Grace grumbled, upset to see her phone, especially Tilly, so utterly destroyed. For most of her life her Android cell phone had been her link with friends, family, and the world in general. It was on all the time. Grace even slept with it under her pillow. And Tilly, in a crazy way, had become her guide, always tracking her location by satellite so she could direct Grace to the nearest public bathroom, the best restaurant, the closest bank ATM and so much more. Without Tilly’s soothing voice, without the phone’s comforting connections, Grace felt lost — so lost that her stomach clenched with the stress of it.

  “I couldn’t just turn it off,” Eric said, still standing by the back door of the truck. “It emits a signal even when it’s not on. Every part of it does.”

  The truck swerved just as Eric opened the back door once more and hurled the phone battery out. He grinned, watching it go. “Final level!” he cheered. He turned back to her, still smiling as he latched the door. “Got it right into Hollowbrook Creek. Let them try to find that! As long as that phone is in your possession, off or on, Global-1 can find you.”

  “Why am I hiding from Global-1 at all?” Grace needed to know. “What’s happening?”

  “Does it scare you?” Eric asked, ducking the question, in Grace’s opinion.

  “Yeah, it does,” Grace admitted. “Of course I’m scared! I’d be stupid not to be scared.”

  “Try not to be,” Eric advised, “because this is only the start. The wild ride is just beginning.”

  When the speeding truck finally stopped, Mfumbe — and she was now certain it was him — opened the door. Eric and Grace jumped down beside him. A woman in her early thirties, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, descended from the driver’s seat and walked toward them.

  They were underneath the Los Angeles freeway. The woman introduced herself as Katie and extended her hand to Grace.

  Grace shook hands and trained her eyes on the woman’s face. “Have we met before?” she asked. The woman looked so familiar and yet she couldn’t figure out why.

  “You might have seen pictures of me in the papers lately,” Katie replied. “They called me Dusa the Drakian Menace in some of the papers, or at least the ones Global-1 owns, which is a lot of them.”

  “That’s it! I saw a story about you on the TV,” Grace recalled. About six months earlier, Grace had sat down beside her mother, who was watching the TV report with avid interest. She remembered the reporter explaining that Drakians were an offshoot of Decode, a much more violent group whose illegal tactics violated the law and made its members subject to arrest.

  “I know which show you saw,” Katie said with a bitter smile that rose up a little higher on the right side of her face than on the left. “It was a batch of lies. We like to mess up Global-1 any chance we get because they keep trying to ruin our lives. But we don’t hurt anyone. They didn’t even get my name right.”

  “Your name isn’t really Dusa?” Grace asked.

  “I called myself Medusa for a while, just to seem scarier to Global-1. It got shortened to Dusa. Then when I thought the bar code tattoo threat was over, I went back to my own name.”

  Grace clutched the bar code tattoo on her wrist. The lines still tingled and burned slightly. “How is it not over?” she asked. She knew that the events of her own life were somehow tied to this question, even though she couldn’t say how.

  Eric, Mfumbe, and Katie exchanged anxious glances. “We’re not sure, but we think they migh
t be up to something again,” Katie answered.

  This didn’t satisfy Grace at all. But she had more important questions to ask. “What’s happened to my family?” Her voice rose with fear. “Why were the police after me?”

  “We’re not certain of that, either,” Katie answered.

  “But how did you know to get me?”

  “There are people in Global-1 who are sympathetic to our cause,” Mfumbe said. “Eric had told us about you, so when your name came up, we knew we had to act decisively.”

  Every answer was only leading to more questions.

  “Who was it?” Grace asked. “On the inside.”

  Mfumbe shook his head. “We can’t tell you. It wouldn’t be safe. Not for you. Not for our informants.”

  As if he could sense her frustration, Eric said gently, “We’re still trying to figure most of it out ourselves. The information we got was … vague. We need to know your story, too. Why don’t you tell us what you know?”

  This was a different kind of trust he was asking for now, because it was clear that it would have to be, for the time being, an unequal trust. There were things they couldn’t tell her. But at the same time, they needed to know everything.

  “Please,” Eric said. “We’re on your side.”

  Grace decided to trust him.

  “This has to do with it being your birthday,” Katie said once Grace had finished her story about Dr. Harriman and about the police coming to her house. When Grace had said Dr. Harriman’s name, she had hoped there would be a flash of recognition, a confirmation that he was the one who’d tipped them off. But they hadn’t betrayed a thing.