And then it starts. The whole ride down is an angry discussion about Movers and all the ways they’re destroying the world: letting in the Shadows, letting future people overpopulate the present. I’ve heard it all a thousand times. Since the first Movers were discovered only fifty years ago, the world population has exploded. People from the future invade the present, use up our resources, have children, and their children have children, and the more they keep coming to our time the less there is for everyone. I don’t know what they’re so mad at me for though. It’s not like I’ve ever Moved my Shadow.
I try my best to ignore them and watch the monitor above the door. An advert for Junior Formal is followed by a picture of Officer Dan and a phase-forms reminder. The phase-forms reminder is the same every day, and it cycles through the different phases. Phase 1 – minimum potential hazard to state and environment. That’s me. Minimum hazard. More like no hazard. If you gotta be a Mover, that’s where you want to be. Sure, I have a Shadow, I can feel him somewhere ahead of me. But I’m too weak to Move him. That’s what BMAC means by minimum risk. I’m practically a Nowbie – er, regular person. Most Movers are Phase 1, like me and my sister Maggie.
The video of Officer Dan drones on. Phase 2 – moderate potential hazard to state and environment. While those classified as Phase 2 are unable to Move their Shadow to the present, their connection to the future is strong enough to allow for clear communication between Mover and Shadow. BMAC sure hates that. Phase 2s can cause them all sorts of headaches. They basically have a window to the future. Their Shadow can communicate clearly enough with them to tell them stuff Nowbies can’t know. From things as small as who’s going to win the big game, to things as big as stockmarket crashes. I think BMAC sees Phase 2s as cheaters. They’ve got an advantage over Nowbies. And Nowbies don’t like that.
The screen goes dark, filled with a swell of black churning clouds. There’s music too. Always the same music. Heavy drums and whiny violins. Phase 3, Officer Dan’s voice is super-serious now. Highest threat level to state and environment. The Phase 3 Mover poses the risk of Movement activity, allowing for a traveller from the future to infiltrate the present. And that’s the whole reason BMAC has to exist. Phase 3. BMAC doesn’t stress too hard about the 1s like me, so long as I get my forms in and nothing changes. They keep an eye on the 2s, scrutinising their forms a little more closely to make sure they aren’t getting stronger. But the 3s – well, I’ve never met one, but I do know that once your status changes to Phase 3, you get your own BMAC officer, checking in with you weekly like you’re on parole. It’s not illegal to be a Mover. It’s illegal to Move. But for the Phase 3s, they live their lives just a thread away from the Shelves.
My eyes flick to the floor counter.
Being in a school with sixty-four floors, 27,000 students – 4,000 of those in my grade alone – makes for a long elevator ride. Six minutes from my floor to ground level. I usually get through the phase status video one and a half times before I finally make it to the bottom.
The bell dings and the giant G in the centre of the floor buttons lights up – ground level.
The doors open and I shove my way out.
‘We’re reporting you!’ Sunglasses.
I turn back and tip my hat at her. Let her report me, like she even knows who I am. And if she does, the school’s too big and a vator-bomb incident is too small a deal for anyone to waste their time looking for me. At most they’ll make an announcement in the morning, A reminder to all students that vator-bombing is strictly prohibited. Big deal.
The revolving doors are jammed with students, no surprise. When I finally make my way through and out onto the street I break into a full sprint.
It’s stormy out. It’s always stormy out, thanks to the Eventualies: the warm winds that blow in clouds of varying shades of grey, brown and black. They blow in from the future, attracted to the Movers. Something to do with gravity. I don’t really understand it. But to be honest, I’m not sure anyone really understands it. Lots of theories. But that’s all they are. Theories. And that’s what frustrates BMAC and Nowbies so much. Movement is an inexact science. One thing is for sure though, the Eventualies blow for Movers. And that, I kinda like to think, means they blow for me. The winds surround me as I run, whipping against my face and weaving through my arms. I know I’d miss them if they ever went away.
The streets are crawling with people – jam-packed, shoulder to shoulder – but I’m good at finding my way through. The thing about a crowd is, you gotta think of ’em like pigeons. Everyone’s just sort of bobbing around not paying attention to anything, but if you just barrel through like a rabid dog on a mission, they scatter and make way. I run down the street and nearly trip over a group of guys in suits as they shuffle out of the way of a BMAC vehicle. My mom says that when she was little, her family was still allowed to drive a car. By the time she was in high school, there were too many cars on the road and the government banned them. Now only BMAC is allowed to drive – unless you’re a celebrity or famous person or something. Then you can hire a private car service for some crazy amount of money. But the rest of us walk or take the underground. And no one likes to take the underground – not unless you’re OK with hugging a bunch of smelly strangers while the transit assistants shove you into overcrowded cars.
Maggie’s school is just around the corner from Romsey, which is good cos my lungs are about ready to burst. Her school’s a lot smaller than mine, fourteen floors, and it’s only kindergarten to grade 3. It’s yellow with blue shutters on all the windows, like something out of a nursery rhyme. I guess that’s the idea.
The front’s pretty quiet when I get there, just a bunch of moms and dads and nannies. I look at my droidlet: 3.13. I made it just before the bell.
I throw my bag against a big cement planter with grubby plastic sunflowers in it and sit on the edge to wait for Maggie. I do my best to catch my breath. A pair of moms stand to my left, looking at me like I just took a dump here. I stare back – Got a problem? – and they turn away, getting on with their conversation.
‘Have you felt the Eventualies today? The Movement in this area is getting out of control.’ She’s got a baby in her arms and she’s wearing a skirt that’s angel white. Her hair is perfectly done, complete with a polka-dot headband, but the snarl on her face makes her look like an absolute witch.
The other mom’s lotioning her hands with some ether-smelling junk that’s burning my nose. ‘Well, I heard from Cathy – Cathy Fraser, her husband works for BMAC – and she was saying that this year’s phase updates have seen more upgrades than any other year! So instead of a bunch of harmless Phase 1 kids running around the schools, they’re developing into Phase 2s!’
‘Well, exactly!’ agrees Witch Mom. ‘How long before they all become Phase 3s and we’ve got doors opening up all over the neighbourhood?’
I pluck a synthetic leaf off a sunflower and start twisting it in my hand. I’m glad Mom isn’t here for this. She gets crazy when she hears people talking about Movers when they don’t know anything about it.
‘How dare you?!’ she’d say. That’s the standard intro to her Movers are people too speech. ‘Are you aware that ninety-two per cent of all Movers are only Phase 1 or 2?’ No one ever is. ‘You can’t open a door unless you’re Phase 3, and yet Phase 1s and 2s get treated like criminals!’ They don’t really, at least not Phase 1s like me. Sure, Mrs Dibbs makes me sit at the back of the class, but I don’t mind the back anyway. And a lot of parents didn’t want me at their kids’ birthday parties when I was younger, but I think that had more to do with Dad than my Mover status. Everyone knows Dad opened a door to the future. And because of it no one likes him. No one but Mom and me.
I chew on the inside of my cheek and try not to say anything.
The bell rings and kids start pouring out the doors, but the ladies drone on.
‘Well, even Phase 1 and 2 make me nervous,’ says the hand-lotioner. ‘That woman from East Grove, they only changed her
status up to Phase 3 a week before she caused her Move. And the Shimoda family? Their oldest—’
‘She was Phase 3.’
The hand-lotioner frowns. ‘Are the rest of the Shimoda kids still at this school?’
‘No, they left the city after that. I mean, wouldn’t you? How embarrassing.’
Embarrassing? I don’t think anyone who loses a family member to BMAC would call it embarrassing.
‘Good,’ says Hand-Lotioner. ‘I don’t think any of these Mover children should be going to school publically. It’s dangerous, don’t you think? I mean, there’re so many these days. The Shimodas, the Minkens’ son, and there’s that Mermick girl …’
My teeth grind. She means Maggie.
‘You remember the Mermick case, don’t you?’ says Hand-Lotioner. ‘Caused all that phase-form restructuring? He was supposed to be Phase 2! But that didn’t stop him from Moving his Shadow.’
That’s Dad’s legacy. He was identified as Phase 2, but still he managed to Move Oscar Joji from the future. That freaked BMAC out because it meant Dad’s phase status was wrong. He’d developed into a Phase 3 Mover without them knowing. That was back in the days when Movers only had to submit their Phase forms once a year. And now we have to submit once a month. Thanks to Dad.
I spot Maggie, alone in the sea of running, laughing, shouting kids. She waves. Her brown hair is wild and tangled – she must have taken out the braid Mom spent all morning on.
‘Marigold Mermick!’ I say, just loud enough for Witch Mom and Hand-Lotioner to hear. I steal a sideways glance and they do their best not to react, smoothing out their clothes and clearing their throats.
Maggie walks quickly through the swarm and I know something’s wrong. Usually, she shouts ‘PAT!’, like she’s surprised to see me. Usually, she runs, her purple star backpack bouncing around behind her.
Not today.
‘I think I got in trouble,’ she tells me and swings her backpack around to root through the pockets.
‘Think?’
‘Mr Sibichendosh gave me a letter to take home.’ She hands me an envelope – a real paper envelope – a plastic smiley-face sticker sealing it shut. I can’t remember the last time I held a piece of paper; everything’s digital and carried around in droidlets. This is serious, whatever it is.
‘You better read it.’
‘It’s sealed,’ I say, pointing out the smiley. ‘It’s for Mom.’
She snatches it from me, tears off the sticker and hands it back. ‘There. Now it’s not sealed.’
‘I’ll tell her you did that.’
‘Read!’ she orders, pointing at the envelope.
With a sigh, and I’ll admit a piqued curiosity, I take out and unfold the piece of paper. It’s typed in small font. I have to stop walking and squint to read it. When I can see it clear enough, the first line sends ice through my veins.
This letter is to express my concerns surrounding Marigold’s current phase status.
‘Shit.’
‘What?’ She’s pulling at my arm. ‘What’s shit? What’s it say?’
I shrug her off and turn away, trying to focus on the rest.
As you are aware, Marigold is currently registered as a Phase 1 Mover by the Bureau of Movement Activity Control. The BMAC officer collects Phase Licence Renewal Forms tomorrow, Friday 5 March 2083. Marigold has shown a variety of behaviours in recent months that I am required by law to bring to the attention of her BMAC officer. This may affect BMAC’s evaluation of her current phase status.
This is bad.
‘Mags, what did you do?’ I breathe.
‘You’re supposed to tell me!’
‘Sibichendosh is reporting you to your BMAC officer!’
‘So?’
‘So he could upgrade your phase status, Maggie!’
‘She,’ Maggie corrects me. ‘Officer Kelley is a girl.’
‘Whatever! This is a big deal. Phase 1’s bad enough, but Phase 2 and life starts getting really difficult, Mags! Why does Sibichendosh think you need an upgrade?’
She just kicks the ground and shrugs.
Phase status is never set in stone. If one or both parents are Movers, a baby is automatically identified as Phase 1. As a Mover gets older, that status can change. BMAC updates the list of ‘flag symptoms’ every year – frequently distracted, withdrawal, talking to yourself, expanded vocabulary or changes in speech patterns. If a Mover kid starts doing any of those things and someone tells BMAC, the kid’s phase status always goes up.
‘Mom’s gonna flip,’ I say, more to myself than anyone. I can only imagine the stats she’ll throw out on Phase 2 Movers.
My thoughts are interrupted as someone ploughs through me and Maggie, slamming into my shoulder and nearly knocking Maggie off the sidewalk.
‘Watch it!’ I say, only to see the giant backside of Gabby Vargas hurrying on ahead.
‘Goooooooooooooooooooba!’ About a hundred feet back are Zit-Face and Matt Doig with little Ollie Larkin, whose hands are cupped around his mouth. ‘Gooba!’
I look ahead to Gabby and she’s swiping at her face.
‘Shut the hell up, Ollie!’ I scream. I don’t know why. I’m not mad at him. I’m mad at Sibichendosh – and Gabby Vargas. As she waddles on ahead I can hear her mumbling to herself. She’s always mumbling to herself, and I hate her for showing me what a phase status change could mean for Maggie: too low to be feared, high enough to be noticed.
‘What gives, Mermick?’ calls Ollie.
I ignore him and grab Maggie’s hand. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Who’s that girl?’ she asks me.
‘No one.’
‘Why’s Ollie being mean to her?’
Besides the obvious?
She’s Phase 2.
THREE
I eat my morning cereal sitting on the end of the bed I share with Maggie. A screen glows above Mom’s smartdesk, projected on the wall with the Avin news station. My phase forms are still unsigned, sitting in my droidlet on the top of my bag. I haven’t showered. The tank’s busted again. But Mom didn’t wake me up in time to do anything about it. The letter from Sibichendosh is sitting on the end of Mom’s bed beside me.
I expected a lot of yelling after Mom saw it, expected her to throw a lot of numbers, stats and examples at us. She didn’t. It was weird. She just nodded a lot while she read, pressing her lips together like she was blotting her lipstick, even though she never wears any.
She spent the rest of the night sitting at the kitchen table, banging her wedding ring against the edge over and over, making a noise like a muffled jackhammer.
Movers Update – Phase Upgrades at All-Time High, Says BMAC flashes along the bottom of the screen. I guess Maggie’s not the only Mover who got a letter home.
I can hear her screaming from the bathroom. Mom’s attempting to do her hair again and it sounds like a more savage battle than usual.
At this rate she’s not going to have time to fill out my forms. I grab my droidlet and sit at Mom’s smartdesk to fill them out myself. I swipe open the screen on my droidlet and pull up the forms, projecting them onto the desk.
I did the phase test last night. A bunch of random brain-teasers that change all the time, test to test. I’m not sure how it works exactly. I just know that BMAC can tell if your thinking changes, based on your answers. Movers who spend a lot of time communicating with their Shadows in the future pick up new habits in their ways of thinking. Because future people think a bit differently than we do. They use some different words, have different ideas. And if a Mover’s thinking changes, then that means they’re communicating a lot. And if they’re communicating a lot, then that means they’re getting stronger. And if they’re getting stronger, then that means they need a phase upgrade. Anyway, I did mine last night and I’m not worried. My Shadow and I have never had anything to say to each other.
I grab one of the litepens sitting in a coffee mug on the corner of the desk to fill in the rest, and the corner of my mouth twitc
hes. I stop. Maggie’s been asking lots of questions about Movers lately. Did she say something to Sibichendosh? Something that made him think she was getting stronger?
I stare at the form, at the Sworn Testimony box. I’ve filled out that box the same way my whole life. Basically, since the Nowbies don’t like that Movers might know things about the future that they don’t, the government passed a bill that makes Movers report any information they receive about the future from their Shadow. ANY information. Seems silly to me. What’s to stop Movers from lying? Sure, if BMAC finds out you lied it’s the Shelves. But how are they going to find out? It’s like that oath they make you say in court. ‘I swear to tell the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, yadda yadda.’ But it makes the Nowbies feel better. So I write as legibly as I can, my droidlet recording the movement of the litepen, I have had no communication with my Shadow. Which is the truth, but, even if it wasn’t, I’m not sure I’d write anything different.
What will Maggie write in the Sworn Testimony box this month?
There’s a buzzing to my left, and I see Mom’s white droidlet, sitting beside the litepens, rattle on the desk.
‘Phone!’ I yell, but all I hear back is Maggie screaming about hating braids.
I snatch it and swipe the surface.
‘Yeah?’
A deep raspy voice croaks out of the tiny ball’s centre. ‘Izzy?’
The caller’s breathing is heavy on the other end.
‘Is Izzy there?’
‘She’s busy,’ I say. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Can you get Izzy?’ There’s a smacking sound, like he’s chewing a wad of gum.
‘I said she’s busy.’
He sighs.
‘Pat?’ Mom shouts from the bathroom. ‘What did you say?’
‘Can you tell her something for me, son?’
I nod.
Even though he can’t see me, he’s giving me the message anyhow. ‘Hexall Hall,’ he tells me. ‘The match. Rani’ll wait.’
I swallow. Hexall Hall? I know it from what I’ve seen on the news sometimes and hear when people talk. It’s a place hidden somewhere in the old part of the city – the part that the city dump has started encroaching on. The people who lived there abandoned it when the smell got too bad. But a lot of people who didn’t mind the smell started moving in.
Movers Page 3
