Bright's Light

by Susan Juby

  “Did you see anyone from It?” asked Fon in a muffled voice. “Were they watching? Did they think I was hot?”

  “Not talking is really big right now. I’ll let you know when we get there.”

  “Oh, okay,” said Fon.

  Bright drove.

  20.00

  Grassly swam across the Choosing Room at the House of Splash. Drowned speakers below the water produced burbling noises. Electrical currents seemed to shimmer across the surface. He dove down to a bot door and heaved it open. His high-capacity lungs strained and felt like they were about to burst before he finally surfaced in a small bot chamber. Water poured in, and it took all of his considerable strength to force the door closed behind him.

  He was on his knees and his head nearly touched the ceiling.

  Could other PS staff have forced their way in here? He’d disabled and locked all the privators and doors, but he shuddered to think of soaked PS officers creeping around the bot corridors, releasers at the ready.

  Grassly breathed deeply. He pulled the ship’s link from his pocket to make sure the deadline for seal failure hadn’t moved up again. Nothing happened when he touched the screen. He shook the small silver device once, and it emitted a small puff of smoke and gave a tiny gurgling cough. A death rattle.

  Grassly stared down at it. He’d drowned his link! Now he could keep track of the deadline only if he was physically on his ship.

  Grassly had the intelligence of all the 51s who’d ever lived behind him, an intelligence so strong it was physical as well as metaphysical. 51s had achieved great things with their collective mind: telekinesis, levitation, and other phenomena. But young 51s needed to be in close contact with their Mother in order to access that power. That’s why a Sending was such a demanding rite of passage.

  Still, he was orders of magnitude smarter than any ancestor. He was trained in the arts of stress management and strategic thinking. He would figure this out. He had to.

  First, he needed to go to his secret workshop in the House of Gear and gather his things. Then he would make his way to the ship. He would program the lights from there. He wouldn’t be able to be present in person to protect the favours from the commander and his rampaging PS force, but that couldn’t be helped. Grassly had to focus on the greatest good for the greatest number.

  He checked the feed. At least his dataglasses hadn’t been damaged by the swim. He scrolled through until he found the hidden surveillance link he’d created to help him track Bright and Fon. He saw that they were in a badly damaged cart, rattling along a dirt road in the Natural Experience. According to the topographic map, they were moving away from the Sankalpa and back toward the main part of the Store.

  Why? Where could they be heading?

  He needed Bright and Fon. He’d realized that they were the key to his problem of how to turn the lights back on. They were immune to the lights, which meant they could flip the switch without being incinerated by an allergic reaction or being enlightened and falling to pieces. Once the lights were out, and it was safer for them to move around the Store, Bright and Fon could go to the Headquarters and find the main switchboard while Grassly waited in the Natural Experience to escort the enlightened ancestors to his ship.

  To find a way out, Grassly scrolled through the building plans for all the structures inside the Store until he found the schematics for the House of Splash. He’d taken complete control of the feed and made some parts appear operational, but in reality it was just looping old data. Other parts he’d hidden entirely. Now he took the system offline so only he could access it. Everyone else would see error messages.

  It took him less than three minutes.

  That’ll stop them for a while, he thought.

  He began to crawl toward the exit. He had to shimmy down a steep bot chute. There was a tense moment when his shoulders got stuck, but he squirmed free. Finally, he poked his head out a bot door in the reception room at the House of Splash’s maintenance department.

  He was crouched too low to see the receptionist at the desk, but he knew from the surveillance cameras in the room that the white-suited young man was staring as though tranquilized at the updatemercial screen across the room.

  Grassly squeezed through the bot door, then leapt to his feet and stretched to his full height.

  “Oh my!” the receptionist gasped. He had blond curly hair and golden skin and purple eyes. He was late-model in every way: sharp nose, sculpted top lip, puffy bottom lip, bicep enhancements, and a halting way about him that suggested not all his surgeries had completely set.

  “Carry on,” said Grassly.

  The receptionist continued to stare.

  “You’re doing fine work here. Keep it up.”

  Grassly felt bad for the young man. There would be no more favours coming in for maintenance. If Grassly didn’t get a handle on the situation, soon there would be no more favours, period.

  “Thank you.” The young man’s voice was alarmingly deep from voice box adjustments. “Do you know …?” he began, struggling to find words. To ask a PS officer why no favours were coming in for maintenance would suggest that he wasn’t doing his job. And that would reflect badly on his division. It was better to pretend everything was running smoothly. It took at least forty-five laborious seconds for the receptionist to reach this conclusion.

  Grassly wiped a smear off his dataglasses with a wet sleeve. His uniform dripped water onto the floor. “Your house favours are currently undergoing a team-building exercise,” he said.

  The receptionist didn’t look calmed by the news. The poor thing seemed in desperate need of enlightenment.

  Grassly noticed the bank of lights right over the young man’s curly head. “You just stay here. If you notice anything unusual happening with the lights—if, for instance, they go dark—just stare directly at them until they come back on. Then do what feels right.”

  Grassly really should have spent more time learning how to talk to the ancestors, rather than just copying their dance moves.

  “Right then,” he said. “As you were.” He realized, with dismay, that he’d begun to speak like the commander.

  He marched out of the maintenance department, past the carts in the cart park, out the exit, and directly into a sea of PS staff gathered outside the House of Splash for yet another debriefing session.

  Grassly whispered to the officer standing next to him that he’d heard all the favours inside had been drowned and were no longer a threat. Then he suggested that someone should inform the commander that the problem of infected favours had been successfully contained. The officer he spoke to nodded and whispered the news to the man in front of him. That man tapped the officer in front of him to pass along the news. And so on. A minute later, an officer in the front row whispered a version of the story to the officer standing at the commander’s right side. That officer waited for a break in the commander’s speech, which was about unity and self-control and pride and a lot of other dusty old items he seemed to be pulling out of storage.

  As the rumour was repeated to the commander, his expression stayed the same, but he began to nod severely. When next he addressed the ranks of PS staff, his back was even straighter and his chest had swelled to painful proportions. “I’m proud to announce that our first offensive was successful. We have eradicated all signs of the virus from the House of Splash using top-secret military support staff know-how and cutting-edge equipment in a stealth operation that went off without a hitch.”

  Grassly thought of all the PS officers tumbling off slides and falling from descent poles like a badly trained circus act. The commander had a poor understanding of the term “without a hitch.”

  “All favours inside have been released, and the house will remain off limits until it can be repopulated with fresh lures and favours from the Party Favour Training Centre. I will require four officers to stay here and inform the productive public who attempt to enter.”

  The commander cleared his throat. Grassly waited
for him to announce that all the support staff gathered should go back to supporting as usual. As soon as that happened, Grassly would put the feed back online. Inaccurately, of course, but at least they’d see what they were used to seeing.

  But the commander wasn’t finished. “I believe that this is just the first battle in a war. We must remain vigilant. We must be alert. And we must continue to root out viruses, biological or electronic, wherever we find them, for the good of all.”

  “Hear, hear!” cried the assembled support staff.

  “I have just now heard reports of suspicious activity at the House of Pretty Olds and have learned that the feed is entirely offline. The two issues are obviously related.

  Therefore, the House of Pretty Olds will be our next target. From there, we will move house by house through the entire Partytainment District. What is required is a full reboot of the favour population. After that, we will track down the source of the problem inside the feed.”

  Grassly couldn’t believe he had heard correctly, even though he had marvellous ears. A full reboot? The commander was going to release every favour in the Store?

  He edged over to the cart park door and slipped inside. He brought the security communication system back online and composed a direct message for the commander. He should have thought of doing this earlier, but too much of his attention had been taken up with dancing and water-slides.

  Attention Commander of the Personal Support Staff:

  Effective immediately, all releasings must be halted. All personal support staff will stand down from the search for infected favours. Personal support staff may not use discretion in their dealings with any Citizens United Inside the Store. All instructions will be issued via the feed. Effective immediately.

  —The Board of Deciders, H.Q.

  After he sent the message, Grassly moved back into the sea of black uniforms and waited for the commander to rescind his orders.

  The commander paused in his speech and put a hand to his temple, his black glove cupped near his ear as though trying to hear something. Then, with slow deliberation, he flicked his index finger down. The gesture was unmistakable. The commander had switched off his connection to the feed.

  “Go forth to begin the releasings at the House of Pretty Olds.”

  “Forward march! Hut, two, three, four!” cried the PS officer on the commander’s right.

  The assembled officers, who were unused to marching, jostled each other. Some went straight, some turned in circles. Others stood still, looking confused.

  “Forward march! Hut, two, three, four!” The commander’s man demonstrated the direction and the movement he wanted.

  The crowd of support staff fell in raggedly behind him.

  Grassly fought the urge to sink to his knees and bang his head on the ground. Or better yet, run to his ship and fly away, leaving the Citizens United Inside the Store to their fate. Instead, he darted back into the cart park and accessed the part of the feed that controlled the systems at the House of Pretty Olds. First, he sealed all the doors. They wouldn’t hold for long if the PS staff used their new discretion to find ways to break them down. But each door would have to be destroyed individually, and that would take a long time. He hoped. Then he sent a message to every screen inside the house and hacked the intercom system to inform the favours that they were all confined to quarters until further notice and under no circumstances should they allow anyone into their dressing rooms.

  He had done what he could to save the favours at the House of Pretty Olds. Briefly, he considered locking the doors to every house in the Partytainment District, but decided that might cause a panic. Individual houses were sometimes closed for short periods, but it was too risky to completely shut down the most popular entertainment inside the Store for any length of time. After all, access to entertainment was the primary reason for living for these people. He hoped the delays the PS staff encountered at the House of Pretty Olds would keep them occupied long enough for him to get back to his ship and quickly program the lights. He also had to figure out what Bright and Fon were up to and give them their new instructions. Things were coming apart fast, and there was no time to waste.

  He peeked out the cart park door and made sure the area was clear, then broke into a sprint toward the Natural Experience. He ran so fast, he looked like a fleeting notion.

  21.00

  When the cart crested the low rise, Bright spotted the dark gap between the membrane wall and the roof of the Store, revealing the permanent citynight that lay over the districts. She was looking forward to getting into more flattering lighting. There was a limit to how much sallowness one favour could take.

  Fon hummed happily inside the parachute bag. At least she’s enjoying herself, thought Bright, sourly.

  In the distance, Bright saw two tour buses lined up at the gate and tiny black figures arrayed around them.

  She brought the cart to a stop. She had a strong feeling that they shouldn’t drive out one person short. Plus, the PS officer from It had said they should avoid other PS officers until everything was straightened out. She’d forgotten that little detail when she headed off on her mission to rescue Pinkie and Peaches. Doing things she thought up herself was really hard.

  The cart sounded like a sack of old metal scraps tumbling down a flight of stairs when it was in motion, and still Fon had to ask: “Are we moving?”

  “Just waiting our turn,” said Bright. They were far enough away that she hoped the officers at the gate couldn’t see them. Just in case, she dimmed all the lights on the cart, including the headlights.

  Danger seemed to drift around the gate area the same way mind alter mix wafted around a fun pipe with a cheap mouthpiece. Bright backed up the cart until the gate was no longer visible. Then she began driving in a series of slow, noisy circles. Click, thump, bang. Click, thump, bang. Grind. Around and around they went. Fon hummed to herself, perfectly content. Bright experimented with how tight she could make the cart’s turning radius while she waited for a solution to come to her.

  Was there some way to climb over the membrane between the Natural Experience and the Mind Alter District? She doubted anyone had ever tried, since few people wanted to get into the Natural Experience and anyone leaving would just use the gate. Plus, the barrier was too high.

  She turned the cart in circles and listened to the battered tires scrape against the wheel wells. The sky above, faintly visible through the yellow tint, had begun to darken. Bright’s spirits rose as the outside light departed. Suddenly, she slapped the dashboard. She had an idea!

  She straightened the wheel and the cart bumped off to the left of the path. Twice in one day she was heading off-road! Bright could hardly believe her own daring. She made sure to stay on the far side of the rise and out of sight of the gate. She was going to take the cart under the membrane. Or through it, if she had to. Her motto was “No bot left behind.”

  “Are we—?”

  “Yup. Nearly there,” said Bright. It was warm in the Natural Experience, and the few living things sprouting here and there gave off colourful smells. As they drove, the translucent ceiling above them gradually turned blacker than the skin above the districts ever got, because here there were no artificial lights. Bright turned the headlights back on.

  The membrane seemed to dampen any noise from the other side.

  Bright stopped, got out of the cart, leaving the headlights on so she could see, and slowly approached the towering barrier. Warm sand gave way under her feet. Bright lifted her right foot and toed the rubbery membrane. There was the slightest give in the material, but it was stronger and thicker than she’d imagined.

  She’d thought that she could simply dig a hole underneath the membrane that was big enough to drive the cart through, but when she got to her hands and knees and scraped the sand away from the base, she began to have doubts. She dug deeper. The sand under the first inch or so was cooler to the touch. When she’d dug a hole half a foot deep, her fingers felt something
hard. Concrete had been poured around the base of the membrane.

  She sat up, dismayed, and pushed both hands against the wall. It seemed to push back. She poked it with the last of her long fingernails. The nail bent, and she quickly took her hand away. Her manicure had been brutalized enough.

  Bright looked back at her battered cart and her hooded dressing-mate sitting inside. Maybe she could use the vehicle to ram through the wall. There was only one way to find out. With stiff knees, she got to her feet, ready to give it a try.

  “Please tell me you aren’t going to try and drive through it,” said a male voice.

  Bright clapped a hand to her mouth to stop herself from screaming.

  A PS officer, nearly invisible in his black clothes, appeared beside the cart.

  “I don’t think this is necessary any longer.” He reached over and pulled the parachute bag from Fon’s head. It caught on her halo as it came off, and Fon squeaked in alarm.

  Bright tensed and got ready to run. If he asked whether they were from the third shift at the House of Gear, she was going to make a break for it. She had a feeling she wouldn’t get very far.

  “It’s me,” he said. “Grassly.”

  Bright remained perfectly still. Grassly? What kind of a name was that?

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t introduce myself before, so I suppose you don’t know my name. I’m your representative from the House of It.”

  Bright needed to see him better. Because he stood beside the cart, behind the range of the headlights, she couldn’t see his face. She remembered the light on her head and reached up to turn it on.

  “No!” he yelled, startling her. In a quieter voice, he continued, “The light hurts my eyes. Just trust me when I say that I’m here to help.”

  “What’s going on?” asked Fon. “I don’t understand what’s happening. I never understand what’s happening anymore!”

  The PS officer ignored Fon. He seemed to be considering the membrane. He looked the featureless black expanse up and down.