We shook hands.
I found Beltane squatting behind a dumpster, watching the road. She stiffened when I stepped into view, then pointed her rifle at the sky. “Jeez. I could have shot you.”
“I didn’t think it was a good idea to call out.” I joined her behind the dumpster.
“Your best bet is staying inside, out of sight. What do you need?”
I shrugged, my hands in my pockets. “Nothing. I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”
“How I’m doing?” There was an edge to her tone.
“You’ve been keeping to yourself since we had that argument. I just wanted to see—”
Beltane pointed toward the doors. “Get your ass back inside. I’m breathing. You’re breathing. It doesn’t matter how I’m feeling, and I don’t give a flip how you’re feeling.”
I marched back inside. Jeez, she was hard-core.
As soon as I was through the doors, I heard Rebe shouting my name.
I ran for the cafeteria.
When Rebe saw me, she gave me this look I couldn’t read. Pity? Dread?
“What?”
“I—” Rebe pinched her temples. “It’s bad, Sam. Really bad.”
I rushed over, slamming my shin into a table leg on the way.
Mom was on News America. She was in a chair, a bright light shining on her face from above. Her legs were gone—the exposed stumps red and raw where they’d been removed. She looked like she was in shock. Her upper lip was split and bleeding, her left arm covered in dried blood.
“It could be fake,” Rebe said. “You know what they’re like.”
“Look at her face.” Liquid skin clung to her cheeks and chin where her disguise had been pulled off. If they knew she’d been wearing a disguise, they had her. “Mom.” I had to do something. Now.
I flinched as a hand rested on my shoulder. Basquiat, standing behind me, his eyes filled with tears.
“Oh God, Sam.” Molly pressed against me.
“We have to turn ourselves in,” I said. “They’ll torture her. Kill her.” They’d already tortured her. That’s why she looked the way she did, the wide-eyed shell-shocked stare. They were torturing my mom.
“If we give up, they’ll kill all of us.” I hadn’t heard Beltane come in. “I’m sorry. She was the best.”
“Don’t talk about her like she’s dead.”
Beltane swept tears off her cheek with her forearm.
“We’ll get her back.” Basquiat squeezed my shoulder. “We will.”
“How?” How would we get her back? Storm the Pentagon with two broken-down vets and a few teens who’d never shot a gun?
“The truth app.” Molly shrugged. “If people knew Vitnik was lying, if they knew what she’d done, she couldn’t get away with killing an innocent war veteran.”
I turned to Rebe. “Did they say where she was captured? Do they know about the P.O. box?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you check on the materials? Has anything been delivered yet?”
“We have to get out of here,” Beltane said. “Sooner or later, she’s gonna crack, and then all they have to do is send a drone to drop—”
“We can’t leave!” I shouted. “Kelsey and Mr. Chambliss won’t know how to find us.”
“Fine. I’m just saying,” Beltane mumbled.
“Nothing’s been delivered yet,” Rebe said, eyes on her phone’s readout. “The first package arrives in ninety minutes.”
“So they didn’t pick her up at the post office. It may still be safe to pick up the materials.”
“And it may not be,” Basquiat pointed out.
“We just have to take a chance. I’m going to pick up the packages,” I said.
“I’ll go,” Beltane said.
“No, it’s—”
“I’ll go.” Beltane gave me her thousand-degree glare. “Stay out of sight until I’m back.”
Kelsey pulled up in a black pickup while Beltane was on her way to the post office. I could tell from his expression that he knew about Mom.
He flipped a tarp off a half-dozen cardboard boxes in the back of the truck. “Neodymium magnets.” His tone was flat.
Now we needed Beltane to come through.
* * *
—
I held the newly manufactured rings in my trembling palm. “How many can we make per hour?”
My friends looked at each other, uncertain.
“Maybe ten?” Rebe said.
Ten. “Two hundred a day, if we work twenty hours and sleep four.” No one protested at the schedule.
There were four hundred million people in the United States. If one in a hundred had a truth app, Vitnik wouldn’t be able to open her mouth without being exposed. How could we expose her with only a few hundred? News America would go on releasing its videos and altering ours, and most people would believe theirs. We had an undercurrent of buzz going through BuckyHead, but it wasn’t nearly enough.
“We have to get them into the right hands,” Boob said. “Difference makers. Like Silhouette Lark. If Silhouette Lark had a truth app, tons of people would see it in action. Plus, she’d make it cool.”
“It’s not as if we can ask Silhouette Lark to drive to one of Vitnik’s reelection rallies, point the app at her, and ask the one question she’d need to ask,” Basquiat said.
A red light went off in my head. “No. I’m going to do that. Once we’ve got more buzz going.”
“They’ll drag you away before you can get the question out,” Basquiat said. “Or shoot you on the spot.”
“Then I’ll ask the question, from another part of the room,” Molly said.
* * *
—
Basquiat held out his hand, a pair of rings sitting in his open palm. I took them, shoved one on the ring finger of my left hand and the other on my index finger, then synced them to my phone.
As Basquiat solemnly offered a pair to Rebe, like a priest offering the sacrament, I grabbed a water bottle from the table and wandered into the hall to rest. Under other circumstances this would have been a triumphant moment. Vitnik had taken that away from me.
I slid down the wall of lockers until I was sitting, then chugged until the water bottle was empty.
Four hundred. Two days of production and I was already feeling like the work and lack of sleep were making me crazy. Were four hundred truth apps enough to change the world?
“How are you doing?” Molly plopped down beside me. Her eyes were glassy, her face shiny with sweat.
How was I doing? It was hard to think straight enough to form an answer. “Every minute my mom’s with them hurts. I’ve had bad times before, but there’s no letup to this, no moment I’m not on fire inside.”
Molly squeezed my shoulder. “I know I can’t make it better, but I’m here for you. We’re all here for you.”
I nodded thanks. The pattern on the linoleum floor seemed to be weaving and twisting. “They’re torturing her. Right now, at this very moment. I don’t want to imagine what they’re doing, but I can’t help it.”
I hated Vitnik. I hated her so much it hurt. I wanted her to die. I’d kill her myself if I had the chance.
I struggled to my feet. “I need to get back to work.”
The others were grouped around one table, searching for addresses on the net and addressing envelopes.
“What about Hennie Jeckyl?” Boob asked.
“No politicians,” Basquiat said.
“He started out as an indie news dog.”
Basquiat waved a dismissive hand. “Fine. Send one to a politician. Good idea.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot,” Boob said.
Basquiat squeezed his eyes shut. “Just…do what you want.”
Rebe stuffed two rings and
an information sheet into an envelope, sealed it, and dropped it onto the growing pile in the center of the table.
Another hour to finish packing the rings, if we didn’t kill each other first. Two hours for Beltane to mail them, if she didn’t get caught. Express drone delivery times varied from two to eight hours, depending on the location.
Then, hopefully, all hell would break loose.
Rebe sat cross-legged on a cafeteria table, staring out into the parking lot, her lips moving silently. On another day I might have made some crack about what she was doing, but now it only worried me.
“The missiles are flying.”
I sprung from my seat as Beltane strode into the cafeteria, her bladed feet clacking on the linoleum, her hair and the front of her shirt soaked with sweat. “I drove an extra sixty miles, just to be safe. Dropped them at a bunch of automated kiosks.”
I let out a hoarse whoop, while Basquiat clapped Beltane on the back. Just a few more hours, and the truth app would be out there.
Beltane sat heavily in one of the cafeteria chairs, rested her head in her hands. “Don’t point that thing at me.” She looked at Molly.
“We’re not even talking. Relax.”
“I am relaxed. Even if we’re not talking, I don’t want that thing pointing at me.”
Basquiat perched on the edge of one of the tables. “Beltane, there’s nothing we could learn about you that could make us think any less of you.”
We all burst out laughing, except Beltane and Basquiat.
It took Basquiat a moment to realize what he’d just said; then he buried his face in his hands. “Fatigue. Let me try that again.” He steepled his fingers. “Whatever secrets you have, it won’t change how much we like and appreciate you. And you’ll feel better if they’re out there.”
“I don’t want to feel better,” Beltane said.
“Lie,” Boob said.
Beltane spun to face him. “Do you want to die?” She pounded the table. Plastic splintered as her fist went right through it. “Are you provoking me because you want me to snap your neck and put you out of your misery?”
“There are days I want to die, but today, surprisingly, isn’t one of them,” Boob replied.
And that, according to my truth app, was true.
Basquiat stepped between Beltane and Boob. Not that that would slow Beltane much, as I’d recently learned. “We need to come up with a more polite way to tell someone they’re not being totally honest.”
“Are you suggesting shouting ‘lie’ at people isn’t polite?” Rebe looked Boob’s way. “Especially coming from someone who’s still casting a little shadow of his own.”
Boob looked up. “What do you mean?”
Rebe folded her arms. “The very first time, I asked why you broke up with me, and you still haven’t answered.”
“Jeez. Teen angst.” Beltane grabbed her rifle and headed for the exit.
Boob looked both annoyed and uncomfortable. Which, when I thought about it, was pretty much his resting expression.
“Go ahead, Boob,” Basquiat said. “Tell her. She wants the truth, even if it hurts.”
“It won’t hurt her. It’ll make me look like the biggest loser on the face of the Earth.”
Basquiat gave Boob a big, warm smile. “And you’re strong enough to handle that.”
Boob raised his eyebrows. “Oh, really? You know, you’d make a good priest.”
“I’ll try to take that as a compliment,” Basquiat said. “Come on, spill it.”
Boob gave us one of his signature sighs, like someone had just pulled a plug out of him. He turned to Rebe. “I was waking up in the middle of the night terrified, because we were getting to the point where we were probably going to kiss pretty soon, and I’ve never kissed anyone and I was afraid I would do it wrong.”
Molly suppressed a laugh.
Boob waved in her direction. “Go ahead. Laugh. I know I’m ridiculous.”
“Let’s discuss who’s the most ridiculous person in this room, but give me a minute to go puke up my lunch first,” Rebe said.
The thing was, I could relate to what Boob was saying. Last year, the first—and so far only—time I’d ever kissed a girl, I was so nervous I thought I was going to vomit. It was after a concert I’d performed with my band for a sweet sixteen party. She was a cousin of the birthday girl, visiting from Staten Island.
“You think you can out-ridiculous me?” Boob said. “I’m terrified of being late for a class, because if I’m late everyone will watch me walk to my seat. When people watch me walk, it’s like torture—my arms feel like big salamis hanging from my shoulders. My feet feel like they’re half a mile away. I don’t feel like I can do anything right.”
Molly was looking pointedly at Rebe. “Are you going to do it, or am I?”
Rebe frowned. “Do what?”
“Kiss him.”
Boob looked mortified. “What?”
I burst out laughing at Boob’s reaction. I couldn’t help it.
“It’s ridiculous for him to agonize over something so stupid,” Molly said.
“I’m not kissing him.” Rebe folded her arms across her chest.
“I’d do it, but I don’t think Boob would appreciate that as much,” Basquiat said.
“In five seconds you can erase all that anguish,” Molly said to Rebe.
Boob took a half step back.
“All right, fine.” Rebe huffed in annoyance and went to Boob. “Come here.” Before Boob could say anything, she planted her lips on his.
Basquiat and I burst into spontaneous applause.
Finally, Rebe stepped back. “Was that so terrible?”
“No,” Boob admitted, a little grudgingly.
“It’s not something you do right or wrong, moron. You just do it.”
“Okay.” Boob looked uncomfortable, a little stunned, but also pleased.
I cleared my throat. “You know, I’ve got the exact same problem as Boob. I could really use some help with it.”
Rebe reached out and shoved my shoulder. “Smart-ass.” She turned toward the assembly line. “We should get back to work.”
Fear and anguish flooded back in, and I realized that the invisible boot pressing on my chest had lifted for a few minutes. I felt like crap for forgetting about Mom, for laughing and having fun. How could I forget for even a second what she was going through because of me?
“Hang on.” Rebe checked her flashing phone. “Oh, baby. Oh, baby. We’ve got our first sighting.”
Basquiat squeezed in beside her to see the screen. “Expand it. Expand it.”
Rebe expanded her screen. I recognized Silhouette Lark immediately, which isn’t hard, what with the gold Afro and diminutive height. It was a live user-POV feed. Silhouette was strutting down a city street, riff dub music playing in the background.
“So the security camera picked him up about ten minutes ago. Let’s see if the little rodent is still gnawing on his burger.” Silhouette entered a Burger Boy restaurant. Her state-of-the-art phone system quickly analyzed faces. A guy sitting near the back lit up, glowing yellow.
“There we go.” Silhouette headed across the black-and-white checkerboard floor toward a fortysomething guy sitting in a booth across from two friends. “Corey Carlton Seager.” She sounded like a teacher taking attendance.
Corey Carlton Seager looked up, and stopped chewing. “Yeah?” It was clear he recognized Silhouette, although from the way he was looking at her, he couldn’t quite place how he recognized her.
Silhouette sighed heavily, like she was deeply disappointed in this stranger. “Let’s see if I’ve got this straight. You propositioned Verily Stuart, your student, who’s seventeen.”
Corey Carlton Seager tried to interrupt, but Silhouette raised a finger, silencing him.
“
When she reported you after you tried for, like, the eighth time, you inserted plagiarized lines into a paper she’d handed in, and then you hacked her personal files to change the same lines in her copy of the paper. Then you claimed she was accusing you of harassment to try to beat the plagiarism charge. Is that about right?”
Corey ran his hand through thinning hair, looking disgusted. “No matter how many times Verily tells that story, it’s still not true.” The readout on Silhouette’s truth app shot into the red. “I’m sorry, who are you?”
Silhouette gave Corey Carlton Seager a bright smile. “Silhouette Lark. And friends. One point six million of them at the moment.” A swarm of raindrop-sized faces materialized around her. She held out her hand, displaying the rings. “This is my shiny new truth app, and it just caught you lying through your teeth, jackass.”
She lifted the ketchup, spelled out LIAR across Corey’s french fries. “I hope you have superwicked security on your various electronic devices, because my friends are probably ruining your life as we speak.”
Corey Carlton Seager had a nice phone. Not as nice as Silhouette’s, but no more than a year old. As Silhouette turned on her heels, all four foot ten of her, and strutted out of Burger Boy, Corey’s phone began to smoke.
“This is the coolest, most vascular thing I have ever owned.” Silhouette kissed one ring, then the other, then looked directly into the camera. “Thank you, Team No More Bullshit. Listen up, everyone: As usual, News America is full of it. These kids aren’t terrorists, they’re revolutionaries.”
With tears in our eyes, we whooped, we punched the air, we hugged.
On Rebe’s phone, Silhouette said, “Stay safe, my friends. If there’s anything Silhouette can do for you”—she turned her palms up—“just ask.”
“You know, Silhouette Lark lives only about three hours from here,” Boob said as Rebe switched off the feed.
“So?” I asked.
Boob grabbed my arm. “So you don’t ask the question, you bring her, and she does. They can’t drag Silhouette Lark away to those not-so-secret rooms under the White House without starting a riot.”
The Future Will Be BS Free Page 15
