by S. B. Divya
“Hoy. You Mary Guinto, right? Graf me?” said a voice from behind her.
She turned and saw two kids, probably thirteen or fourteen years old. One had her screen thrust out at Marmeg. Her face had a shy, nervous expression that felt all too familiar.
“Lost the race.”
“Won it, squares!” said the kid fiercely. “They gone it ’cause of who you be, but we all know you done first.”
Marmeg smiled at her defenders. “Okay. I’ll graf.”
She scribbled a message next to her signature: TO MY FIRST FANS. Her pack felt a little lighter on her way back to the bus.
Marmeg’s cuff bleated as she took her seat. She flicked it on. The backlog had grown. One after another, messages scrolled by. The earliest were congratulatory. They became supportive, then outraged. Petitions against Minerva’s race committee were filed. Many protested that it was blatant discrimination against a postnatal licensee. Others were appalled by Minerva’s inhumanity.
Hours’ worth of drama played out in the space of a few minutes. Her ratings had soared, dipped, risen, and dipped again. They had acquired a life of their own.
She set her cuff not to wake her until the bus arrived in Los Angeles. Of the rest of the journey, she remembered nothing, not even her dreams.
* * *
Marmeg felt more like herself when she stepped off the bus at the dingy LA station. A gentle mist fell from a cement-colored sky. The sun had set, painting the west an angry orange.
She walked past the lot full of two-seater pods and older electric cars, intending to foot it to the nearest train station. The sight of her family’s rusty electric minivan caught her off guard. Dirty beads of water trickled down its side windows. Marmeg peered in and saw with a sinking heart that her mother sat at the wheel. The window glass retracted jerkily into the door.
“Come in out of the rain, mahal.”
Marmeg slung her pack into the middle row and climbed into the passenger seat.
“How’d you know?”
“Oh, honey, you are all over the feeds. I made Jeffy tell me how you were planning to get home, so I’ve been waiting here. I’m off today.”
“Ma, that’s . . . real nice of you. Thanks.”
Amihan patted Marmeg’s left hand. “Least I could do for my girl after all she’s put herself through.”
“No stink?”
“No stink. I’m not mad at you. Everybody makes mistakes. Lord knows, I get that better than most, eh?” Amihan laughed. “Sometimes, we have to learn the hard way, us women, especially in our family.”
The wiper blades squeaked, and the scent of stale tobacco filled the car. Marmeg’s comfort at being home warred with her mother’s unexpected sympathy. When added to everything else that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, the whole world felt off-kilter.
She stared through the window at a city turned upside down by a hundred perfect water drops. She was a snowflake poised on a warm tongue, awaiting its inevitable death and cherishing the memory of its brief, spectacular life.
Reality crashed in: familiar shop fronts with peeling paint and screen signs with half their pixels gone. This part of the neighborhood was etched into Marmeg’s memory as clearly as traces on a circuit board.
“What we doing here?”
Amihan kept her gaze fixed on the wet, shiny blackness of the road.
“Ma? Talk to me!”
Her mother pulled into a cracked, weed-choked driveway alongside an industrial-looking building. CASA FRANCISCA WOMEN’S SHELTER: the sign hung on the wall in dull metal letters. Amihan turned off the car’s engine.
“Tell me the truth. Did you register and pay for the nursing home program?”
“No.”
“Did you spend that money on the race?”
“It’s my money.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you for being honest. Tonight, I’m going to take you home. Your brothers have planned a little party, and I don’t want to disappoint them. Tomorrow morning, you can come here on your own, or I’ll drop you off on the way to work. You will not be welcome at home again until you figure out how to fix this mess.”
“Fix it your way?”
“Seems better than yours.”
“I won the race!”
“And they took it away from you, like I knew they would. You think because you’re smart, you can engineer your way into their life, but you’ll never be one of them. They don’t want people like us messing up their perfect circles.”
Marmeg crossed her arms, restrained herself against the urge to smash something. Anything.
Amihan reached out a tentative hand. “Take your hardships with grace, Mary Margaret. God is testing you! This is your chance to earn His forgiveness.”
“And yours?”
“Mine comes through His grace. I’m your mother, so I’ll always love you, but I won’t sit by and watch my daughter destroy her life. Are we clear?”
“Crystal.”
Amihan backed out of the driveway. They drove to the apartment in silence and left the van parked between a two-seater and an ancient gas-burner. The mist had turned to actual falling drops of rain. They hurried inside, where they were surprised by two boys in handmade party hats. A sign reading WELCOME HOME SISSY was written in wiggly lettering.
“Surprise!” shouted Lee and Felix, jumping up and down with giant grins plastered on their faces.
Marmeg forced a smile. She dropped her pack near the door and scooped her little brothers into a tight hug. Felix’s sweet curls tickled her chin.
“Best brothers in the world,” she exclaimed, fighting tears.
“Hey, what about me?” Jeffy said, walking into the apartment.
Marmeg turned and gave Jeffy the next hug. His stubbly cheeks were cold and damp, and he held a bottle in each hand.
“Wine, Jeffy?” Amihan spoke in an appraising tone. She took the bottles from him and peered at the labels. “This one’s not bad,” she said. She walked to the kitchen and grabbed the corkscrew that lay on the countertop. The surface was so littered with pans and dishes that Marmeg could barely see the yellowing, cracked tiles underneath.
Amihan poured the wine into plastic cups and handed one each to Marmeg and Jeffy. She grabbed cans of soda from the fridge for Lee and Felix. Little eyes went wide.
“I get a whole can?” Felix squeaked.
“Sure, baby. We’re celebrating!” Amihan said.
“We are? I got the wine to make Marm feel better for losing the race.”
“Jeffy! No, we’re celebrating that Mary is coming to her senses and quitting this embed nonsense.”
Jeffy and Felix simultaneously said, “She is?”
Jeffy looked at Marmeg for confirmation, and she shrugged. His face darkened.
“No way, Ma. We can’t let her quit. She won! Do you know how hard that is?”
“But she didn’t keep the win, and she threw away her future in the process.”
“Are you saying she should’ve let that person die?”
“Of course not, Jeffy. What do you take me for?”
“Enough! Too tired to fight this tonight,” Marmeg said. “Sort it in daylight, brud, okay?” She raised her cup toward Jeffy, who glowered but raised his as well. “To new beginnings.”
The first sip of wine left Marmeg’s tongue coated in acid. The next slurp was as cool and sweet as a mountain stream. Whether or not she had deserved any of it—Ardha’s sabotage, the Mikes’ help, the disqualification—it didn’t matter anymore. Nobody in real life got what they deserved. At least Marmeg had been spared the self-loathing she would’ve felt for winning by cheating.
Who was she kidding? She desperately wanted all of that success. She wanted to be out there, under the trees and the shadow of mountains, getting interviewed by journos and fending off sponsors and rabid fan requests. Instead, she stuffed some basics into her pack while the boys jumped away their soda high. Jeffy and their mother were too drunk
to notice.
The celebration didn’t last long. The younger boys sugar-crashed and turned in. Jeffy fell asleep on the sofa, and Amihan wept at the kitchen table about her ill-fated family until she passed out with her head on her arms.
Marmeg slung the pack over her shoulder. She stood by the door and took in the tableau. Better to leave now than face the drama of the morning. She ducked out and closed the door. The chill, moist air was a welcome relief after the stuffiness of their apartment. The rain had tapered into a heavy mist that clung to Marmeg and slicked the sidewalk. Fog blew in ghostly drifts from the coast and wove around the street lights.
A quarter of the distance passed before her calves protested. Too late she recalled the medic’s warning to stay off her legs. She gritted her teeth against the pain, but she was limping badly by the time she arrived at the shelter.
“I’m sorry I don’t have a bed for you,” said the night manager. She handed Marmeg a ratty sleeping bag. “The rain’s got us full tonight. You’re welcome to find a spot on the floor.”
Marmeg found an empty space by the wall of a cavernous room lined with bunk beds, all occupied. She settled her pack behind her, trying to get the softer items to provide some cushion from the gear. Somewhere on the other side of the wall, a baby wailed. Marmeg slid her legs into the bag, shoes and all, and leaned back to check her ratings.
Minerva had released a statement saying they would look into the Sierra Challenge results, but as of yet, they hadn’t contacted Marmeg even once. The only people who had reached out to her were others in similar situations: born without a license, filching their gear, stuck in dead-end jobs that didn’t require legit schooling—the people for whom she embodied hope.
Her ratings bounded around like a demented basketball. She sighed as she cleared the cuff’s message buffer again and again. In the final cluster of private messages was one from Jeffy: MOM’S WAITING AT BUS STATION FOR YOU. Too bad she hadn’t seen the warning earlier. Then, near the end of the list, a one-liner from a meaningless address: SILENCE IS GOLDEN.
So, the Mountain Mikes were paying attention. Was that a promise? A threat? Did it matter? She had given them her answer already.
She lay awake for a long time and stared at the cement ceiling. Salty, unshed tears ran down the back of her throat, draining away like her dreams. A real degree, embed races, moot surgery: all gone. Hope receded to an unreachable distance in the hours after midnight.
The restless murmurs and snuffles of slumbering bodies surrounded her. She had to get herself out of the shelter, but how? Sleep took her at last, before she came up with a good answer.
* * *
The morning bell rang. Gray daylight filtered in through high, small windows. The room came to life with yawns and groans and the creak of metal frames. Marmeg left the shelter after eating breakfast. She needed fresh air.
Last night’s rain had left the city smelling earthy and clean. She walked to a dilapidated park bench and sat down to check her messages.
She had a new one from T’shawn: MINERVA RACE COMM SAY RULES BE RULES. FANS BE FIGHTING BACK. His earlier message—the one he’d sent at the start of the race—caught her attention: GIVE ME YOUR GEAR IF YOU TOAST OUT?
He’d meant it as a joke, but she had almost toasted out. The words nagged at her mind. Her gear: exos, chips, sleeves. They would be worth something. She felt sick at the thought, but she couldn’t conceive of a better solution. The shelter would give her two weeks. After that, she’d be out on the street with no address. Her ratings would plummet. No one would employ her. The sooner she could get back home, the better.
MEET UP AT ELEVEN-OH? she sent to T’shawn.
He responded that he could. She spent the morning answering what passed for fan mail, not that she had any prior experience to go by. Half of it was hateful—the usual rants against unlicensed and postnatals freeloading off taxpayers—and the other half exhorted her to fight Minerva. DON’T LET THEM DENY YOU! BE THE HERO WE NEED! But in her heart, she couldn’t be what they wanted, not with this race. Not until she won by her own means.
The walk to T’shawn’s place took ten times longer than it would have with functional calf muscles. She limped past cars for hire that she couldn’t afford. Her mind jittered with lingering frustration, and her whole body ached, but her mood lifted when she entered the abandoned building where her friend lived and worked.
He was holed up in a back room, well hidden from the street by small, paper-covered windows. Black-market gear gleamed in stacks around the perimeter. A workbench sat against the far wall. An oscilloscope, multimeters, probes, and screens littered its surface.
T’shawn gave her a rueful smile, grasped her shoulder in a half hug.
“Win some, lose some,” he said.
“Full right, that.”
“What you be here for today? Twice in a week is a special treat.” He flashed his toothy grin at her.
“Want a quiet talk for a sell-back.”
His grin vanished. “Marm, you not serious. What you do with yourself if you go back to nat? Don’t let this race bull get you lost in the head, friend.”
“Only way out, brud,” Marmeg said. “Get good credit for all my chips. Pay out school fees. Do the slow way.”
“Old way, more like,” he said, grimacing.
“Yeah, well, Ma kicked me out. Stuck myself good.”
“Not again!”
Marmeg pressed the case with the two unused chips into T’shawn’s hand.
“How much for these plus the seven inside? Three of ’em busted.”
T’shawn sucked on his upper lip as he typed in some numbers. He showed her the final tally on his screen.
“Minus a few hundred for the surgeon.”
It would be enough to cover the first tuition installment for the elder care program—enough to get her back into Amihan’s good graces.
“Trigger it. Set me up with the doc. Got any work for me?”
“Naw, Marm, nothing paid. Barely cover my own. Get me some new code, might get you some treats again.”
“Can’t test code without chips.”
“Don’t give up, hear? You one of the best we ever got, and you need to get out. Show the kids what can do. Get me a benefits gig someday.”
Marmeg laughed to cover the lump in her throat. “Stay sane, brud. Ping me when you got the date.”
* * *
Her next stop was a used-gear shop. She’d filched many of her own exos from the trash cans in the back. The owner didn’t mind, since he couldn’t fix the broken stuff, and he would buy some of Marmeg’s flips when she found an upgrade. The inside of the store was crammed with floor-to-ceiling shelves. Dusty plastic bins brimmed with parts sorted by function.
Marmeg walked along the scuffed, dirty floor tiles and went straight to the front counter. Chips gleamed inside the glass case. She put her bag of gear down, fighting the urge to curse at the tiny capsules. The sound of clanking metal drew the owner from the back. His tight gray curls contrasted with his dark skin, and his face crinkled into a broad smile.
“Marmeg! What can I do for you?”
She marveled that he remembered her name. She couldn’t recall his. He’d tolerated her filching, but he hadn’t been this friendly in the past.
“Want to sell this.”
“Sure, sure. You must be in line for some real gear now.” He sorted through the items, putting the torn and bloody sleeve straight into the trash, separating the older-generation parts from the new.
“No more gear. I’m out.”
“But the race—you can’t be quitting now?”
So, he knew about that. “Full busted. Race took the last of it, and Mom kicked me out. Need money.”
He pushed the gear aside and leaned on the counter. “Well that’s a shame, considering your skills. I thought a scout would’ve picked you up by now, got you some sponsors.”
She shook her head.
“Have you seen your ratings? The news today? You’re up. Mi
nerva’s sinking like a rock.”
Marmeg shrugged. Ratings had their value, but they didn’t pay for tuition or put food on the table.
The shop owner sighed. “This stuff isn’t worth much. How about a job? You fix broken gear for me, I pay you by the hour. And you have to work here, in the front, and record some ads for the store. Help me boost my ratings.”
A job would let her save up, get Felix his license. Maybe earn back her chips if she kept at it long enough. What for? she thought. You’ll never race again. They won’t let you. Regardless, she could use the money for any number of things, not the least of which was keeping Amihan off her back.
“Okay. Deal. Gotta sort some other business. Start next week?”
“I’ll see you on Monday.”
As Marmeg exited the shop, her cuff zapped her wrist. T’shawn had a surgery scheduled for her the following day.
* * *
Marmeg sat at a plastic table and ate a basket of hot, greasy fries with the last of Jer’s credit. It was a treat to herself. Her legs and arms ached from the chip extractions, and pain pills were the only thing saving her from a stunning nitrous-oxide headache. She’d kept the chip in her brain stem. The surgeon wanted extra fees for that, and T’shawn had talked his buyer into a better price overall. It made little difference to keep it.
She traced the table’s random cracks and stains with her left pinky. The heat from the fries soothed her raw throat. She’d managed to save her tears until she was alone. When she had let them loose, the sobs had ripped through her like an angry spirit. She needed the comfort of starch and fat.
Her cuff buzzed, and Marmeg looked down to see a stranger requesting a live call. The face belonged to an older man with lined brown skin, dark eyes, and wire-rimmed glasses. A full beard and moustache matched his salt-and-pepper hair. She accepted the call.
“Miss Guinto, yes? I’m sorry to bother you like this. My name is Sachiv Jagadisha.”
Marmeg stared at him blankly. The name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t recall why.
