by Y A Marks
She offered me a cold soda, and I took it. After leaving her, I took a quick picture of a fire escape route diagram. I spun my PCD around and used it to work my way out of the building without looking lost. When someone neared me, I just giggled and moved my fingers around like I was texting.
I exited through the closest door to the train. From there, I entered through the broken D-tag scanner near the far side and took the escalator down to catch the train. A quick glance at my watch alerted me that I was running late. Thirty minutes late, but that was okay. I had avoided the cops and more importantly, I had gotten paid—cha-ching!
I took the train to Perimeter Center Market where security was reduced and Lower-Cs could walk around in peace. Sure I could head out to one of the counties, but I didn’t want to get way out into Gwinnett or Cobb and be denied entry into the shops. At Perimeter, I only had to hang my head low and hope there weren’t any cops around. I entered a bathroom and changed back into my original outfit. The hoodie was helpful to keep wandering eyes off me and nakedness slid over my skin without it.
My grin widened as I left the bathroom. I was dying for a chocolate crème mocha. I hadn’t had one in two weeks, and there was only one place to get one: Dhyla Star’s shop, Café Lanta. Dhyla Star was a sweet woman who didn’t care that I was Lower-C. She treated me well and made the best coffees, hot chocolates, cookies, and cupcakes in all of Georgia.
I left the subway station and passed through the concrete maze of walls and bars until Perimeter Market appeared in the distance. The area was once a mall, but after a tornado ripped half of it away, the owners created a marketplace that was half covered and half open-air. Trailers and tents were scattered around what used to be the parking lot, creating little alleyways and avenues for patrons to travel and discover wares.
I entered the west gate and passed a few shops selling this and that. Before I could walk ten feet, an old lady sped toward me, a pair of three-inch maroon heels in her hand. I paused in my tracks as the old lady met a raven-haired woman carrying a baby. They stopped two feet in front of me as though I wasn’t even there.
“Good afternoon, my lady,” the old woman said.
I took a step back, bit my tongue, and walked around the two women. Lower-Cs are invisible, like rats, roaches, and everything else someone doesn’t want to see.
As I passed by I glanced at the maroon heels. The shoes were Allison Rileys. I’ll admit they were super cute: velvet, hidden platforms with a smooth, shiny fabric that rose up the heel. A leaf pattern was cut out in the back, made of gold with tiny holes in between the leaf’s veins.
Allison Riley shoes had been in fashion for the last couple of years, along with everything else a girl my age could want. Allison Riley sold sunglasses, belts, purses, blouses, skirts, panties, bras, lounge wear, and lingerie. Everything had been supposedly designed by Allison Riley herself, including my prized hoodie that I wore almost every day during the fall, winter, and spring months. Allison Riley came to fame after posting images of her lady parts on the Internet and having sex with the right rappers at the right time. She sold expensive shoes while I struggled on the street—so much for the blessings of morality.
I could sell my body one way or another. It was an easy way to make money, but it wasn’t my way. I didn’t like the fact that strange men or women would see me like that. Maybe I had spent too much time with Ms. Cooper, my foster mother, who lectured me about what was decent for polite society. I never saw the polite society she was referring to, but I agreed that wasn’t the path I wanted to follow.
The old lady gave the baby woman her biggest grin. “I have a great sale on these, only 700 credits.”
As I put my back to them, an extremely bad curse word caught in my throat.
Part of me wanted those shoes. They’d look great on my feet, even though I had nowhere to go and show them off. But 700 credits was crazy talk, especially since they were probably being made by some poor family in Montana. I always imagined muscular androids pointing guns at the cowering workers, telling them to work faster for two credits an hour, or something weird like that.
Last year, I’d heard the factory was having trouble keeping workers. Employees kept getting depressed by the long hours and low pay. They began committing suicide, throwing themselves off the top of the ten-story factory. To compensate, the factory installed a net around the outside. The employees would jump, fall, live, and go back to work. I had to admire the intelligence of the modern day corporation.
I continued down the main aisle of Perimeter Market, which would take me through the mall and over to Café Lanta. In the heart of the mall, a crowd of ten or so people gazed at one of the four-foot monitors that hung from the ceiling.
As I neared the monitor in the middle of Perimeter Market, I noticed the image of a teenager standing atop the wreckage of a security drone on the monitor’s screen. The teenager’s face was covered in rags with fire blazing around the wreckage. He waved the 2050 version of the American flag complete with the fifty-two stars and thirteen stripes. The thirteen stripes were for the original colonies, and the fifty-two stars were for all the current states, including Puerto Rico and Mexico.
In the corner of the flag was the Escerica symbol. It looked like a peace sign turned on its side and the little angled cross area was enlarged to form an “E” over most of the circle.
The 2050 flag was illegal. The government had outlawed all flags besides the One-Star a few months after the Five-Day Restitution. The One-Starred Flag was the new symbol of peace created by the Upper-Cs and the government after the Five-Day Restitution. It was all blue, with one bright white star outlined in red, which took up the whole center of the flag. It had been seven years since Five-Day Restitution, or Five-Day R, but almost every adult I ran into acted like it had happened yesterday.
A message dashed across the bottom of the screen: “Members of the rebel organization known as Escerica are an enemy to the State and National Government. A 1,000 credit reward is set for anyone who has any information about the Escerica Organization.”
I scoffed at the idiocy of these Escerica teenagers and twenty-somethings in the video. They’d be in prison or dead in less than twenty-four hours.
The video on the monitor cut to an old man, around sixty years old, standing at a podium with a middle-aged black lady slightly behind him. I recognized the man immediately. It was Governor Read. It was hard not to know who he was because there were signs everywhere declaring his reelection.
Governor Read lifted his plump hands and gathered his belt around his protruding waist. “My friends, you can believe the government of Georgia will not stand idly by and let these Escerica thugs push us around. They’re a menace to everything that our good citizens have built. I want you to know that right now, Captain Davis and I are working around the clock with the best minds in the state to keep us safe.”
Someone in the audience yelled, “Have you located the leader yet?”
Governor Read glanced off to his right. “No, but we’re getting close.”
Another reporter spoke up. “Isn’t it true, Governor, that the state security systems have been hacked twice over the last three weeks and millions of records have been stolen?”
“There’s no evidence of that.”
“Of the hack or of the theft?”
Governor Read narrowed his eyes. His skin reddened, making his face look like a huge, ripe cherry.
“Governor, how can you fight an enemy when you don’t even know who they are or what they look like? Anyone here in the crowd could be a part of the Escerica Rebel Organization.”
“Everything has a face, and we’ll find the right one. When we do, we’ll rip it off and show the world what a coward looks like.”
I flinched at the last comment. I didn’t know much about Escerica, but I was glad I wasn’t in it. Three security drones flew a few miles overhead, constantly circling Atlanta and most of Georgia. The D-Tags in our necks sent information to the drones to monitor
the population. There were chips in our hands to designate class. No one could hide from the government—no one.
A guy backed out of the group and almost smacked into me. I pushed away before he made contact. I was more than used to the bump and grab scheme because that’s what I did. I fell to the ground, bumping my butt against the hard etched concrete. My head spun for a second, but I was fine. Nothing hurt but my pride. It was just part of being invisible and maybe a little tired from my police chase earlier.
After a quick glance, the guy leaned over with one hand extended toward me.
“You okay?” he asked.
I glared at him. His face was partially covered, with only his eyes and a bit of his nose showing. A quick glance at his clothes let me know he was Lower-C like me, not Upper-C. He had dark hair and bright gray eyes that caught every drop of light in the room. He might have had an ocular implant or some other kind of electronic device in his eyes, but as he leaned forward, his eyes dimmed.
His stare caught me. Periwinkle rimmed his pupils. My mind stilled, and my heart refused to beat. The world dissolved as my mind fell into his hypnotic trance.
“Um… hey? You okay?” he asked a second time.
I blinked away his stare and forced myself to breathe. “I’m fine.”
“Here, c’mon, let me help you up.”
My protective nature flared. I laid all the way back with my backpack propping me up. My arms folded across my chest. “I’m good,” I said. “Thanks anyway.”
His gaze never left me. It wrapped warm arms around my chest and pulled me into his aura. Part of me wanted to trust him, but my better side, smarter side, told me not to. Boys with gorgeous eyes were even more dangerous than the ones with guns.
CHAPTER 3
The gray-eyed boy’s forehead tightened for a minute while he figured me out. After a second, his face relaxed. A slight ripple in the cloth mask gave the impression that a smile was on his lips.
“I’ll leave you to it,” he said and jogged away.
Once he was out of sight, I stood and checked all my valuables: my fob, scanner, headband, headphones, and PCD. Everything was accounted for. It might seem like paranoia, but he was the type to know a trick or two. I wouldn’t put it past him to have some pickpocketing skills. Lower-Cs survived by stealing or begging, and I had given up begging a long time ago.
I took a second look at the monitor playing the video, and at the rebel guy waving the flag. There was no way through the fire and smoke that I could make out any of the guy’s features on the monitor, but there was something about his posture. I could tell things about people, like Mr. Cheater, just by watching them. The rebel guy was happy, smiling, and most importantly, he was in control, not too unlike the gray-eyed guy from a few moments ago. Maybe I should call this new guy Mr. Gray-Eyed Bandit, or perhaps Gray-Eyed Fox.
Yeah, I liked the name Gray-Eyed Fox better.
I continued toward Café Lanta, stopping momentarily at a general shop, Mangum’s Domestic. I picked up a few items I needed: shampoo, socks, moisturizing soap, mauve nail polish, and the prettiest lip gloss called Invisible Dream by Allison Riley. The lip gloss had just enough pink to bring out the color in my cheeks without making me look old. I had been eyeing it for over a month. Besides, I liked to splurge when I got paid.
I also picked up a few boxes of butter cookies, seven bags of dried fruit, a bottle of Tykol, and two plastic puppies—one with long, fancy eyelashes and another that had a cute little beret hat on. I paid with the fob, placed all the stuff in my backpack and continued on to Café Lanta.
The restaurant-café was made from three storage containers welded together in an L-shape which sat on a grassy area away from most of the other shops. There were two floors, one for the Upper and Middle-Cs on the bottom, and one for the Lower-Cs on the top. The Lower-Cs entered through a metal staircase that was anchored on the back side of the building. The corner part of the L-shape was where Dhyla’s kitchen was.
I rapped the backdoor two times. Sun Hi, a Korean girl who worked for Dhyla, opened the door with tired eyes. Her body curved over and her head bobbed. I didn’t know what was wrong, but she could barely stand. I never knew her exact age, but she had to be at least twenty-three. I wondered if she had been out partying last night. Any safe club was going to be up on the higher tiers, which were impossible to visit without a visa. People had ways to get up there illegally, but I didn’t even want to know how that was pulled off.
“Hey giiiiiiirl.” Sun Hi’s words dragged and then faded away.
“Hey,” I responded.
She flung her blonde-highlighted hair back, then ran her pale fingers over the edges before balling up her hands, letting the ends of her hair thread through her fists.
It was obvious she wanted me to say something about her hair. Last time I saw her, every strand was jet black and almost touched her tailbone. That was ten days ago. Since then, her hair had been dyed and cut a few inches below her bra line.
“Sun Hi, did you get your hair colored?” I asked.
“Oh, I just… I just wanted to try something new. You like it?”
I imagined she took on some extra work just to get it colored. I had thought about adding some highlights to my hair to make me look more Upper-C, but I couldn’t. It cost way too much.
Everyone wanted to seem Upper-C, even if they weren’t. I’d seen Middle-C’s waste all their money to buy cars like the Upper-Cs, or try to do weird stuff they found on the Internet just to have a body that looked more Upper-C. Everything from using dog hair for wigs and cat urine for facial cleanser were considered normal.
I took a long look at Sun Hi’s blonde hair and gave her my best grin. “It looks great. It’s really cute, very Up-C.”
“You think so…” The words trailed off as her eyes closed for a second. “Hey, you heading up?”
“Yeah, can you ask Dhyla to send up a chocolate—”
“Chocolate crème mocha, I know… I know.”
I liked Sun Hi. She was generally cheerful, and she was the one who made the best drink in the whole entire universe—the chocolate crème mocha. Without her, my life would be, well it’d be… tasteless.
She closed the door, and I walked around to the side steps. At the top of the stairs was a platform with a ladder riveted into the side, leading to the roof. I grabbed the lower rung and made my way up where five tables were set aside for employees and special people. Very few patrons wanted to sit in the heat or deal with the polluted air, but I was used to it. Besides, the roof was the best place to see the skyline.
I took a seat at my usual spot, a table near the far rail. After folding my right leg under my butt, which is super comfortable for some reason, I leaned on the hand rest and stared at downtown Atlanta. The triple-tiered freeway snaked through trees and a few oddly-shaped buildings before entering to the city. At each freeway exit, buildings spanned in multiple directions, each tiered like the freeway. At the top tier, glass gleamed along heavenly archways. The middle tier was lightly shaded with parks and solid living spaces. Constant shadows spread over the bottom tier. Even at noon when someone walked on the lower streets, it was midnight. I refused to even go out at night when I was downtown because it was so dangerous, with everything from kidnappings to blood sports.
At the very top, the Summit floated high above the tallest building. It was a disc-shaped envirodome for the super-rich, the people beyond money. I’d heard rumors growing up that the people who lived there wanted to settle on the Moon or Mars and leave the Earth behind. When concerns arose about terraforming and the loss of easy-access workers, they decided the envirodome would do.
I hated the Summit. It was a constant reminder that there were thousands of people living a life I could only dream of. They didn’t look over their shoulders or hustle for their next meal. Up there, fathers watched over their sons and mothers kissed their—
“Paeton,” said a familiar voice behind me.
I twisted around in my seat.
“Well, I see you’re still alive.” Dhyla wrapped her arms around me.
I hugged her. The coffee and sugar scents caught in her clothes drifted into my nostrils filing me with warm happiness. After a moment we let go, and she drew back.
“I also noticed that you’re not eating,” she said.
I shrugged and sat back down. “Who needs food when you have—”
She presented my drink and set it on the table.
“Mocha! Yummy,” I continued. I took a sip with the tiny stirrer-straw and licked some of the extra cream off my lips. A moment later, I relaxed back on my calf.
She settled opposite me and glanced out at Atlanta’s skyline. Her deep blue eyes absorbed the city. I’m not sure how many times she looked at it, but every time I was with her, she was transfixed by the buildings, cars, and arches.
Dhyla was probably my favorite person in the world although I only saw her a few times a month. She was my pretend mother who gave me a little hope and taught me a few tricks on how to survive. At forty-five, she wasn’t married. Her only child had died a few years back. Like me, she was basically alone.
I took another sip. Her head craned back toward me and a few strands of her reddish-brown hair curled around the edges of her cheeks. The skin around her eyes tightened.
“How much weight have you lost?” she asked.
“I dunno,” I said. “I’ve dropped a dress size, though.”
Her nostrils flared before she angled forward. “You can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what?” I asked with sheepish eyes. She could read me, and honestly, it was more fun this way. We played this little game every time I saw her. I didn’t want to tell her the truth, but I had a suspicion I would before I left the table.
