by Susan Juby
“I know!” wailed the sensitive in the dirt.
“Oh my job, I’m going to be sick.” Fon croaked.
“May your credit score be high,” said Bright, uncertainly. That sounded nicer than “Now I’m going to blast you with a light that will make you crawl around and bash into things so I can steal your clothes.”
Bright angled the beam toward the standing sensitive.
“Oh!” cried the man. “It’s so beautiful!” Then he sank to his knees and keeled over onto his side.
The sensitive on the ground held up her hands as though she wanted to embrace the light. Then she flopped back face-first into the dirt.
“That was easy,” said Fon.
“Come on. Let’s get their clothes off before they start crawling.”
With the efficiency of highly trained favours, they quickly disrobed, then got the limp sensitives out of their clothes and into the knight outfit and the religious robes. Then Bright and Fon aimed the sensitives in the right direction, and off they trundled.
Fon and Bright looked at their new clothes. Every single piece was hideous. Bright stepped into thick pants and put on an ugly short-sleeved shirt and a revolting sweater. She sat on the ground to tie up some old-fashioned running shoes with animal shapes on them. Finally, she slid a pair of glasses with black frames onto her face. Bright didn’t need a mirror to tell her that she’d rocketed into the fourth dimension of ugly. All she needed to do was run her hands over the ribbing on the sweater and feel the pills.
Fon made a weeping noise, and Bright knew her dressing-mate was nearly finished getting dressed.
When they were both standing, they faced each other for a long moment. “I’m going to keep my eyes closed until I can get changed,” said Fon. “I can’t see myself like this. Can you lead me?”
Bright ignored her. “Where’s that cutting tool?” she asked.
“Why?” Fon looked at Bright suspiciously. “We’re not at the place we went through before. I don’t see a scar in the skin.”
“We have favour hair. It’s unmistakable.”
“No!” breathed Fon. “Don’t even!”
“We can grow it back.”
With a wrenching sob, Fon produced the device from somewhere on her person and handed it over. Bright could see that Fon’s awful architect glasses had fogged up. Her eyes were squeezed shut behind the lenses.
“I guess we can cut each other’s hair,” said Fon in a strangled voice.
“Okay. But you have to open your eyes when you cut mine.”
Crying so hard their shoulders heaved and their hands shook, and taking small gouges out of one another’s ears and scalps, Fon and Bright took turns with the scissors until two huge piles of shiny, highly processed, product-rich hair lay on the ground.
26.00
Grassly’s heart nearly stopped when he saw the twin mounds of golden hair in the dirt. A few tendrils had drifted away on some phantom breeze. He thought the sight was, for reasons he couldn’t have explained, ineffably beautiful. His Mother would know what he meant. She always did.
He’d passed two sensitives, dressed in unusual clothes, crawling determinedly toward the gate rather than the ship. One clanked along in an elaborate costume made of metallic panels. The other was swaddled in a sheet-like garment that kept catching at his limbs and toppling him into the dirt.
Neither could speak, but he could tell they were sensitives because of the long-term sadness etched into their faces. He paused long enough to turn them in the right direction, then ran on.
He guessed that Bright and Fon had followed his advice about disguises and switched clothes with the sensitives. They were obviously still using their light, which, given the direness of the situation, wasn’t such a bad thing. And now he saw that they had even gone so far as to cut off their hair, a measure he wouldn’t have dared suggest to them! He relaxed his shoulders and took a deep breath. The calm lasted only until he realized that the air quality was worse again. The ancestors probably couldn’t feel it yet, but his lungs were cleaner than theirs. The air scrubbers must not be working. He checked the feed, but the database that contained readings on internal processes related to air quality was listed as corrupted. The notice came up and froze on his screen.
Grassly wondered if he’d hacked the system to death.
He reached down, grabbed a lock of hair, and put it in his pocket. He didn’t know why.
He decided he wasn’t going to catch Bright and Fon inside the Natural Experience, so he headed back toward the gate at a slow run, approximately twenty-five miles per hour. He was increasingly sure the girls were just wandering around, ignoring his instructions. That meant he had to get to the Headquarters to turn on the lights again before the seal failed. If he was lucky, Bright and Fon would join the enlightened when they began to migrate after the lights came back on.
As he passed through the gate into the Mind Alter District, Grassly stopped to look around. The Store was fully dark except for small lights left in a few accessories, vehicles, and games, and some emergency lights in critical regions, such as the personal maintenance areas. All other forms of illumination ran off the same source, which he’d shut down. Thankfully, the night vision function of his dataglasses still worked, and as he ran on, he continued to scroll through the security cameras, trying to assess what parts of the feed still functioned.
When he hit the Gaming District, a few people were in the streets, but they darted away when they heard him coming. Some of the large machines were illuminated, and their wildly gesticulating arms and spinning cylinders whirled and tilted, smearing light across Grassly’s retinas. Outdoor games of chance blinked and flashed, but the rides were empty. The hosts ducked out of sight when he ran by, and the windows of the enormous casinos were dark.
On he ran until he reached the Partytainment District, where thin music leaked out into the barren streets. He kept scrolling and running, trying to figure out where Fon and Bright were. He hoped they weren’t about to run headlong into a pack of PS officers. More selfishly, he hoped they weren’t about to turn the lights back on while he was exposed. His uniform offered fairly good coverage, but he wasn’t convinced it would be enough to keep him from burning to a crisp when the lights came back on. At the very least, he needed to protect his face and hands, which were fully exposed.
Perhaps he should have waited at the ship with Slater and the few individuals Bright and Fon had accidentally enlightened. If the girls failed to turn the lights on, he could have taken off with his scant cargo. But no, he couldn’t face the thought of leaving the rest of the ancestors to await their fate. He’d handled so many things on this Sending badly. He would not give up now.
He headed toward the place he knew would be the best source for a full-coverage outfit that might protect him from the flood of searing light: the House of Gear.
27.00
“Do you know what I hate most?” asked Fon. She didn’t wait for Bright to answer. “I hate that I can’t feel my hair. It’s like when your bot gets your night meds wrong and you feel all … yeeeeeeeaaaaa.” She moved her head from side to side to indicate the awfulness of the sensation.
Fon let go of one side of the broken halo, which hung in front of her hideous cardigan like the ugliest necklace ever made. Fon patted the area high above her head, where her hair used to be.
“I can’t feel my hair!” Fon repeated. “And it’s like an awake nightmare!”
Bright had nothing comforting to say. She was having her own trouble getting used to being hideously dressed and practically hairless. She hadn’t known it was possible to be so afraid. Thanks to calming meds and mind alter mixes and being busy and working hard to get credits, she’d never really been afraid before. But now that she knew the truth about releasing and understood that her future and everyone else’s was uncertain, she was nearly sick from it. Fear was the worst feeling she’d ever had.
Feelings in general, she decided, completely sucked. Fon was lucky to be so clu
eless.
Shortly after cutting off their hair, they had found and cut through the weak place in the membrane. At that point, Bright had decided that they would do what Grassly had asked: they would go to the Headquarters and turn the lights back on. When that was done, she would go and collect her bot. But first, they had to get through Mind Alter and Gaming without being spotted by any PS officers. When they reached the border of the Partytainment District, they could turn toward the Productive Zone and make their way through it to the Headquarters.
Bright had never spent any time in the Productive Zone. All she knew about it was that it was where boring people in brown outfits worked to earn credits to spend in the Entertainment Zone. It, like the Natural Experience, wasn’t the kind of place anyone with taste went willingly.
As she and Fon walked, sticking to side streets and alleys, she felt something move on her neck. Air. There was air brushing her neck! She held her hands up and, for the hundredth time, felt for her missing hair.
“Wigs,” said Fon. “When we get into the House of It, we’ll get awesome wigs and everything will be fine. Some clients even prefer fake hair. There are extensions and follicle techniques available in personal maintenance, and it will be fine.”
Bright sighed, loudly. She wished Grassly hadn’t ruined the whole House of It thing for her.
“I know,” said Fon. “I feel the same. My hair is just such an ongoing concern, you know? And these cord pants. I keep nearly barfing when I see them.”
Bright took a deep breath that didn’t quite fill her lungs with air. She tried again, and once more they wouldn’t fill. No problem. She was used to breathing from the top of her lungs when sucking in her stomach.
They had reached the border of Mind Alter and Gaming, and were going to have to cross a large street before they could continue. Bright was just about to tug Fon out onto the street when she heard the sound of many boots marching.
Bright froze. To her left, she could see the dark silhouettes of dozens of men. Maybe as many as a hundred. They were unmistakably PS staff: the blackest shadows in the darkest night.
Bright pulled Fon back, and they pressed themselves against the side of a building.
When the line of support staff had passed and the sound of their boots had faded into the eerily quiet night, Bright took a sip of air. Neither she nor Fon said anything about what they’d just seen. If everything they’d experienced over the past twenty-four hours hadn’t been proof enough that the PS staff were best avoided, the sight of so many officers marching in tight formation convinced her.
When Bright could will her feet to move, she ran swiftly across the street and down an alley. She heard Fon’s soft footsteps behind her.
Now that they were in the Gaming District, there was more light, thanks to the rides and outdoor games of chance.
They caught the odd glimpse of other people, but everyone slipped away when they caught sight of Bright and Fon.
Only a few hours before, Bright and Fon would have been mobbed if they’d tried to walk outside on their own. Now they could barely get a witness.
At first, being shunned made Bright feel like crying, but then she started to get irritated. How dare people assume that, just because they looked terrible and depressing, with their cords and funny glasses, they were terrible and depressing?
“I feel like we should be choosing colours or making up a song or something,” whispered Fon. “Do you think sensitives have fun when they design stuff? You know, since they don’t really have fun anywhere else?”
“I guess.”
Fon nodded. “I guess they are kind of talented if you think about it. Maybe their work makes them happy.”
As if to answer any questions they might have about sensitives and what they did and did not enjoy, a real sensitive shuffled into view. Bright thought he would trudge right back into the darkness, but instead he approached them and blocked their path. Bright could see that he was crying. Naturally.
Would a real sensitive be able to identify them as fakes? Or would his tears get in the way of seeing clearly?
“It used to be different,” he said. “I’m sure of it.” His face was white, and he was kind of old-looking, even for a sensitive. They aged badly because of their overabundance of emotion, which was hard on a person’s collagen.
Bright felt warm air pressing down on her skin. Was it her imagination or was it getting hotter and harder to breathe? Why did the pink construction helmet in her bag suddenly seem to weigh as much as three party favours after double helpings of nutri?
“I can tell that you guys feel it too,” said the sensitive. He had on old-style clothes that were too big and too checked, including a T-shirt with some words on it, a sweater vest, and loose pants with a funny striped texture. His eyeglasses had thick black frames, just like the ones she and Fon wore.
“I see you shiver with awareness,” he said.
Bright was panting a little bit, but not shivering, except in horror at his outfit.
“Did you know that there used to be animals?” he said.
She nodded. Everyone in the Store was glad to be safe from that particular threat.
“Some of those animals had wings to fly.”
“It’s too bad,” she said. She was pretty sure that was an acceptable thing for one sensitive to say to another.
“Yeah, too bad,” echoed Fon.
“I try to fly through my music. But I can’t, and I can’t make anyone else fly either.”
“Too bad,” repeated Bright and Fon.
“Besides, no one here wants to fly. Not unless you can pay credits for it.” He spit out the last words like broken glass on his tongue. “I wrote a song about a bird once.” He paused. “Do you know about birds?” he asked. “And their feathers?”
“I once had feathers on one of my—” Fon started, but Bright cut her off.
“Old times,” said Bright. She had no idea what she meant by that, but it seemed like a sensitive thing to say.
“I would kill myself to see a bird,” said the sensitive. “And to never have to write another piece of advermusic for Zip Fizz.”
“You write that music?” said Fon. She loved the Zip Fizz songs because they were extremely easy to remember. “That’s so awe—”
“Awful,” Bright interrupted. “That’s really too bad.”
“Do you think there are birds outside the Store?” the sensitive asked. He lowered his voice. “I would go outside if there were birds there. Even with the weather and the poisons and the biotoxins and everything. Because that would be better than writing more pointless songs for brainless, credit-grubbing party favours and their pathetic clients.”
Bright felt her mouth fall open. She’d never heard anyone speak that way about her and her purpose. About her profession!
“You can’t talk that way about the most important and fun purpose there is,” said Fon, as fierce as she had been with the PS officers. “I’ll have you know that we’re—”
“Walk!” directed Bright, propelling her dressing-mate past the sensitive before Fon could say any more. To disguise what she was doing, Bright turned the words into a song. “Let’s get walking. Walking, walking, walking!” Bright made up the words as she went, just like a real sensitive.
Her heart thumped in her chest and her breath rasped in her throat. But it wasn’t like the sensitive would report them. He was worse off than they were.
She could feel the sensitive staring after them. “Hey, can you breathe?” he asked. She didn’t turn around and she didn’t answer.
She thought she heard him say the word “bird” again before he was lost in the darkness.
28.00
The most noticeable thing about the favours scattered around the House of Gear was their gear, of course. It seemed to be in the process of eating them.
As Grassly looked around the Jousting Room, he had the terrible feeling that no one had made it out of the House of Gear. One favour lay beneath an enormous lance and shield.
All that could be seen of him was his feet and hands sticking out.
Another lay half in and half out of a portable duck blind as though it was trying to swallow her. Her high-heeled camo-print hunting boots pointed at odd angles, as though she’d been trying to take them off when she’d fallen.
A favour in full Sniper look had collapsed on top of two clients. She was only half their size, but they lay flattened beneath her as though she weighed ten thousand pounds.
Every room in the House of Gear was like this. Not empty of people, but empty of living people.
The PS staff had used extreme discretion. Grassly wondered if he could have stopped it and thought probably not. He had many times as much intellectual and physical power as the ancestors, but was beginning to acutely feel his limitations. They were laid out before him now in yet another violent tableau.
He’d spent countless hours observing the House of Gear favours as he worked to understand the ancestors and their dances and to consider how best he could help them, but watching them from the comfort of his hidden workshop was vastly different from walking among their corpses and their discarded gear. He wished he didn’t have to see the carnage inadvertently unleashed by his light. Perhaps in time he would forget some of this, if he survived and was able to return home to his Mother.
Grassly thought of one of his Mother’s last messages, which had faded from his consciousness as he moved out of her range. “We are with you,” she had said. That didn’t feel true anymore. He was operating on little more than nurturing and instinct.
The deep functions of the feed had failed almost entirely. Databases flickered on and off, but the only things that still worked reliably were the vision-related functions of his dataglasses. He could use the night vision and access some of the surveillance cameras, though the images they fed him were often disordered and unstable.
Grassly made his way to the dressing room that had been Bright and Fon’s. The scent of death hadn’t yet penetrated it. Instead, the air in the small red room was fragrant with traces of their perfume. The heating and cooling systems were clicking on and off. He hoped the lights would come back on when the switch was flicked.
