Текст книги "The Earth Dwellers"

Автор книги: David Estes

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

Would anyone miss this woman? Maybe, but not the same way they’d miss an officer. Has fate brought me to her to use for my purposes? Do I have it in me to cut her open, to spill her blood, to stain her brilliantly white clothes? My earlier silent promise to myself rattles through my head. Whatever I have to do…

I take a soundless step inside the room and she goes on mopping the floor, whistling now.

My fingers tighten on the knife in my belt, brush against the gun strapped beside it. Hot blood rushes through my veins, my heart pounding.

I take another step, my shadow trailing behind me.

A noise, high-pitched but not overly loud, rings out. Sort of throaty.

I freeze, take two quick steps back into the hallway. Duck behind the doorframe.

The woman stops whistling, props her mop against the wall. “Hush, my darling,” she coos, stepping to the side and reaching down over the railing of a small bassinet on wheels that I hadn’t noticed while focusing on the woman.

She picks up a child, a baby, no more than a few months old. Gently, ever so gently, she rocks it in her arms, once more singing the moon dweller lullaby, whisper soft.

I hold my breath the whole way through, barely blinking, entranced. When she places the baby back in the portable bed, I empty my lungs, the sound louder than I expected it to be.

The woman turns sharply, startled. “Oh,” she says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was here.” She looks embarrassed, guilty, like she’s the one who’s not supposed to be here, rather than me.

“I’m,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, like a soldier, “just making my rounds.”

She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. A grim smile. What is she so worried about? Surely being here is her job.

“I—I know I’m not supposed to bring Charity to work, but I—” Her voice trails away as she looks at the baby sleeping beside her.

“Rules are rules,” I say in the sternest voice I can muster. I realize my hand’s still on my knife. Was I really considering slicing this woman open, potentially killing her? Baby or no baby, have things gotten so far out of control that I’d do that? Hurt an innocent woman?

“My husband—he’s not well. He can’t look after her while I’m at work. He can barely look after himself. I don’t have any other choice,” the woman pleads.

Does it matter if this woman dies? I wonder. Like the rest of us, her life is falling apart. Is one life more important than another? If I’m destined for greatness, to save lives, to kill a corrupt president, to overthrow a dictator, does that make my life more valuable than a woman who does nothing more than raise a child, care for a sick husband?

As long as blood’s running through my veins and my heart is beating, yes, it matters. Maybe more than anything. This woman is exactly who we’re fighting for. The Tri-Tribes, yeah, them too. The dwellers below. But not only them. This woman. Her child. Her sick husband. Those who can’t fight for themselves.

“It’s okay,” I say, softening my voice. Her eyes widen like it’s the last thing she expected me to say. “I won’t tell anyone.”

And then I move on without another word, no doubt leaving the woman speechless, alone with her baby again.

Down the hall I run, feeling more and more tired with every step. At some point I have to sleep, or my exhaustion will no doubt cause me to make a mistake. But where?

I pass a door and the placard on the wall catches my eye. Morgue.

Stopping, I return to the door, which is windowless. Soft, white light pours through a tiny crack at the bottom. Slowly, slowly, slowly I turn the handle, push the door open. Cold air rushes out, instantly sending a chill through my bones. I freeze when I catch sight of a foot.

Not moving. On a table. I push further in, slip inside, turn the handle and close the door, as quiet as a sleeping baby.

Thankfully, the dead soldier’s eyes are closed, not watching me.

She’s naked, dark lines drawn on the entirety of her body, as if in preparation for an autopsy. White light from panels above gives her skin an unnatural sheen, almost as if she’s glowing from within. I shiver, the cold biting through my stolen uniform.

Is this my chance for a chip? The woman’s right arm appears unmarred, so apparently they haven’t taken her chip out, if they will at all. I could easily extract it, but would that lead to too much suspicion? The last thing I want is a massive manhunt within the dome. It would distract the earth dwellers until they caught me, but my mission would still fail. And they’d likely kill me.

But wait. If she’s here, in the army medical building, she must be a soldier. Again, not the type of person’s identity I want to steal. I need someone who can blend into the background better…

I sit down on an empty slab, hug myself, trying to create heat by running my hands up and down my opposing arms. A wave of exhaustion hits me. I need sleep.

Well, if nothing else, they’d never expect me to be hiding out here. I stand, walk to the wall, where there are rows and rows of large drawers, rising all the way to the ceiling. Grabbing a handle, I say a silent prayer that this particular “bed” is unoccupied. Slide it out, cringing until I see the blank and empty darkness inside.

Goodnight, Tristan, I think as climb into the drawer that’s meant for a dead person, use the top to slide myself in, closing it completely, save for a sliver of soft, white light shimmering through a crack at the end.

Chapter Twenty

Siena

All we can do is follow the fire chariots as best we can, wondering why in the name of the sun goddess they’re rushing off in the direction of our friends to the north. Whyohwhyohwhy.

Nothing makes sense. Nothing good anyway.

Thankfully, the dunes slow them down, as they have to take the long way ’round the big ones, while we—Skye and Wilde and Tristan and me; we left Lara and Hawk back at the cave—can just go over ’em, careful to wait ’til they can’t see us anymore. But soon the dunes give way to flat, hard ground, and they race away from us, the only evidence of their passing the lingering clouds of dust and the cracked-earth tracks from their wheels.

We run along the track, and I’m impressed that Tristan is able to keep up. His forehead is red from the sun—unprotected by the half-mask he’s wearing—but he ain’t slowing, ain’t complaining. “You run well,” I say between breaths.

“I’ve had to do a lot of running recently,” he says.

We pass the cave that he and Adele first emerged from and I see him staring at it. “No one’s stoppin’ you,” Skye says, noticing it too.

Tristan just grits his teeth and keeps on running, only looking back once.

The sun reaches its midpoint and still we run, clinging to the tracks like a baby to its mother, as the ground pops up in mounds. And then we climb a mound and the fire chariots stand ’fore us on another hill, strangely still, like a hurd of grazing tug. As if they’re trying to decide what to do.

A loud CRACK! rings out and we see the Glassy soldiers diving behind their fire chariots, clustering near the wheels. I know that noise. It was a fire stick going off. Invisible killers. Not the fire sticks themselves, but whatever comes out of ’em, the little metal pods we found stuck in the sides of our shelters after the last attack.

But who would be shooting fire stick pods at the Glassies? Only the Glassies know how to use ’em.

Shouts in the distance. From the Glassies. Screams further still. From someone else.

CRACK, CRACK, CRACK!

More shots, the soldiers still ducking. Now some of ’em are sticking their fire sticks underneath their chariots, ’round the sides, aiming at whoever’s doing the screaming and shooting.

CRACKCRACKCRACKCRACKCRACK!

A flurry of shots, fire exploding from the soldiers sticks, which is why we named ’em the way we did. And then the soldiers are jumping back into their…trucks, and they’re racing out of sight, over the hill, attacking someone…

Skye yells for us to go and we do, racing down one mound and up the next, peering through a dust cloud as we crest the hill, seeing the chariots flying across a flat, barren field, right toward—my heart stops ’cause I can’t believe my searin’ eyes—a massive group of people, as many as we have left in all the Tri-Tribes.

And I can see right away that they’re…they’re Icers. All the Icers.

Most of ’em are screaming and running, but some of ’em are standing, holding fire sticks like they know what to do with ’em—and they must, ’cause I heard the CRACKS.

And the only thing standing ’tween the Icers and the Glassy soldiers are…

Bodies.

Scattered on the ground like stones.

Chapter Twenny-One

Dazz

It took a chill of a lot of running around and talking to people to get them to calm down. Buff agreed to stay back with our families as I worked with Abe and his conspirators to collect all the weapons from the fallen soldiers. Curly Mustache Man looked like he was about to complain, but after a quick glance at Abe’s fire stick, he backed off.

The minority reps are suddenly controlling the show. “We’re going back,” I say to Buff and the others as I approach them.

“I don’t understand,” Buff’s father says. “Why did they kill the soldiers? Weren’t they protecting us?”

“Yah, protecting us right off a cliff,” I say. “We can’t trust them. They want us all dead, or controlled, or both. They think we’re savages.”

“The people need to rest,” Mother says. “They’re tired, they’re scared.”

“No time. We have to go now,” I say. “We can rest when we get home.” Then I have to find Skye, tell her what’s happening, and figure out what to do next. Rekindle the Unity Alliance.

Abe and his people are giving the message to the rest of the village. Questions are met with rebukes. No time for questions. Finally, everyone gives in, start to shoulder their packs, get their carts moving back the way we came. “Let’s do it,” Buff says, positioning himself under a cart handle.

Growls in the distance.

No.

Coming fast.

No.

Getting louder.

No.

And then they’re there, a dozen vehicles, standing on a hill, looking down at us like desert gods. Someone screams, “Oh, Heart, no!” and then a lot of people are screaming and shouting and running.

No. Please, no. Not my family. Not our people. Not this.

“Run!” I shout to those in the cart. My mother scrambles down, helps Jolie, then Buff’s injured father. The kids spill out, tripping all over themselves, fleeing in front of everyone, joining the stampede. Jolie looks back at me. C’mon! her face says.

“Go!” I yell. “Go with Mother!”

“Not without you,” she cries.

“Now!” I say, turning back the other way, blinking her scared face out of my head.

Abe and his people are aiming fire sticks at the top of the hill.

CRACK! The first report of a weapon, probably Abe’s, the one who seems the most confident with them. Our enemies dive for cover and three more shots hammer away.

Buff and I run to Abe and he tosses us each a weapon from a pile. I catch it awkwardly, gaping at the hot metal. I fight with my fists, not with knives or swords or clubs…certainly not with fire sticks. But what choice do I have? I can’t fight fire with punches and kicks. I have to try.

I don’t even know how to hold it, but I watch what he does. “Point and press this thing,” he says, showing me a little lever. I mimic his motions, try to hold it like him, wondering how he figured this out all on his own.

Half a dozen shots slam into my eardrums, raining down from the hill. A guy directly to my left slumps over, blood pouring from a hole in his forehead. Down the line from Abe, another man falls.

Then the fire chariots growl and come roaring down the hill.

“Ruuuun!” Abe bellows, taking off in the other direction. We do, pumping our legs as fast as we can, and at some point I realize we’re all trying not to be the slowest one, because the slowest one will get caught first, killed first. And I glance back, and the slowest one is…it’s Buff.

The vehicles are gaining on us. A shot rings out and I hear the whine as something screams past my head. A miss. No. Fifty feet beyond us a little girl falls, her hand slipping away from where it was clutching her father’s as they fled. He looks back, his face a sheet of white terror and then he stops, falls to his knees, slumps over her. Curly Mustache Man.

None of his slanted words can save her now.

I look back again. Buff passes someone, one of the reps from the Black District. CRACK! The guy stumbles, falls, dies.

Why are they doing this? Is it because we broke the alliance, killed their soldiers, shot at them? Doesn’t make sense. Why would they send so many soldiers to meet us when we already had an armed escort? Was this always the plan? To slaughter us as we crossed the desert wasteland? I suspect the answer is yes. Abe knew it and he tried to do something to change our fates, but it was too little, too late.

We can’t escape. We have no choice but to stand and fight. Try to give the rest of them a chance. Our families. My family.

“Abe!” I yell. He’s ahead of me and looks back. “We have to fight!”

He nods and stops. “Turn and fire!” he yells.

We do. We turn and fire.

The CRACKS! explode in my ears and my fire stick rocks against my shoulder, sending spears of pain dancing through my already sore muscles. Sparks fly against the metal vehicles as they rush toward us. One of us gets lucky and a soldier tumbles from the back, rolling away in a cloud of dust.

They respond with shots of their own and another one of us dies, I’m not sure who. We keep firing even as they roar closer, and the weapon dances in my hand, like it’s alive. I force it steady against my shoulder, although I know it’s going to hurt, and aim at one of the vehicles. CRACK! Shards of rock shiver through my bones, but it works! Cracks form in the glass at the front and I can see someone slumped inside, his arm hanging awkwardly out the window.

The vehicle lurches sharply to its right, slamming hard into the flank of another one. There are more sparks as the domino effect continues, ratcheting across three or four other chariots. The one on the end loses its center of gravity and rolls, throwing men and women and guns around and off it like a folded hand of cards. The other vehicles follow, crashing into each other, bouncing around and eventually slamming into the overturned one. The soldiers in the back aren’t moving.

“Shoot at the front windows!” I scream, even as another one of us gets hit, falling almost right in front of me.

I fire and another window shatters, but the soldiers inside are still alive, staring at us. One of them aims a weapon and blasts away…

Abe goes down, blood spilling from his neck. This can’t be…this isn’t…

Buff and I fire in short succession, and both men in the front die. But the vehicle lurches the wrong direction, away from the other enemies, angling off harmlessly into the desert.

A half a dozen enemy carriers, still coming, shooting…

Another Icer slumps over and I swivel my head from side to side. Everyone dead. Everyone except Buff and me. I shoot. Nothing happens. Buff shoots and a soldier rolls into the dirt.

Enemy shots crackle.

Buff groans and falls.

No.

His chest is covered in blood.

Not my brother.

He’s trying to speak, but his lips are red and slick.

Like Wes. Just like Wes. Not a brother by blood, but a brother just the same. I wasn’t man enough to save him.

Shots ring out, but this time they’re different. Not hammers in my ears but punches in my chest. Sharp pressure. My legs fail me. The last sounds I hear are muffled and unreal, like maybe this was all a dream. A very bad dream. A nightmare.

Screams and growls and cracks like thunder.

Just a nightmare. A bad dream.

Go back to sleep, Dazz.

But they’re screaming—the children and the people and my sister. They’re all screaming.

Just a dream. I close my eyes and sleep.

Everything goes black.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Adele

I know I’ve overslept when I hear a noise outside my drawer. The door opening with a click. My intention was to sneak in a few hours sleep and creep out before anyone was the wiser.

I don’t move, just blink in the dark, listening.

“We’ll have to finish with this one and get the place ready for a large intake,” a woman’s voice says. “Just in case there are casualties.” Casualties?

“But I thought the mission was scheduled for later today?” another woman says. I close my eyes, concentrating on not missing a word. What mission?

“It is, but we have to be ready early. You know how Lecter likes things.”

A laugh. “Don’t we all. Clean and organized. A clean city is a happy city. I’ve heard the ads. Hey, you want to grab a coffee before we get started? I feel like it’s going to be a long one.”

“Sounds perfect.”

I hear the door close, and once more I’m alone in silence. No time. I’ve got to move now or I might not have another chance.

I guide my hands along the top of the drawer, pushing myself out. My skin is cold, but I feel refreshed. Ready.

My friend the corpse-woman hasn’t moved since last night, which is a good thing. Eyes closed or not, I try not to look at her.

I’m about to exit, when I see them. A pile of white linen clothes that weren’t there the night before. Brought by the women I heard talking. Preparing for a potentially large intake. These must be the clothes they dress the bodies in after they’ve finished each autopsy. They don’t look all that different than what the cleaning woman was wearing as she mopped the floor, singing to her baby…

I’ve never undressed so quickly. The first set of clothes is way too big, covering my hands and feet. The second: perfect, or close enough, the sleeves plenty long enough to cover my cut arm. Do I take my dirty, bloody, and torn soldier’s uniform with me? If someone asks me about it I can probably lie my way through an interrogation, but I’d rather have my hands free. And what about the weapons? Do I take those?

The clock is ticking…

Making a split-second decision, I use a knife to cut off a piece of fabric from one of the other white clothes, wrap it four times around the blade of the knife, and shove it inside my boot. Unfortunately, there are no shoes to wear, so I’m stuck wearing a dead soldier’s boots until I can find something else. But for now it makes a good spot for the knife. Everything else—the uniform, a couple knives, and the guns I took from the drugged, bound and gagged soldiers in the electrical room—I shove in the highest corpse drawer, hoping they won’t be found anytime soon.

When I turn to leave, the door handle rattles, turns and…the door opens.

I freeze.

“I heard the president bathes three times a day,” a woman says, looking back as she enters. Her hair is bright orange and tied up in a bun. She’s somewhat wide, but it’s more pudge than muscle. Right away I know I can incapacitate her if I have to.

“I heard four times,” another woman says, her voice carrying through the door. The two from before, back with their coffees.

“Oh!” I exclaim, trying to sound as surprised as possible, which isn’t that hard considering my heart is in my throat.

The woman turns sharply, her coffee spilling over the side and onto her hand. “Dammit!” she says, cradling it with two hands and pushing it onto one of the tables. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

The other woman—as skinny as a rod, her dark hair also tied up and away from her face—rushes in behind her, immediately grabbing a towel to wipe up the mess.

“I—I—” I stammer. I should’ve been born a sun dweller. I could’ve been an actress.

“Well, spit it out, girl,” Meaty-Bun says, kindness absent from her voice.

“I’m sorry, I was under the impression there might be a large intake today, that this room needed to be cleaned and prepped,” I say, staring at my feet. Eye contact shows strength, and strong people draw attention. I want to be like a piece of furniture, just part of the room.

“You heard right, but that’s part of our job,” Skinny-Bun says, her tone less serious. “It’s not a normal cleaning job. It takes a special kind of training.”

“Oh,” I say again, like I’m an idiot who barely understands the simple concepts she’s explaining. “I’m sorry. Really sorry. I’ll check with my supervisor to see what I’m supposed to be doing.” Like I can’t think for myself, requiring direction for every little menial task. Do I even have a supervisor? I hope so.

“What’s your name, girl?” Meaty-Bun says. “I’ll have to report this.” Uh oh. Don’t make me introduce you to right-fist.

“Aw, c’mon, Sandy,” Skinny-Bun says, “there’s no need for that. It’s probably her first day on the job.”

“It—it is,” I stutter.

Meaty-Bun frowns, but waves her hand. “Fine, fine. I don’t have time to file a report today anyway. Those forms are so damn long. Just don’t come back, you hear me?”

I nod sheepishly. “Th-thank you,” I say as I’m opening the door and slipping through. Before the door closes I hear the fat one say, “Must be a star dweller,” and then they both laugh like it’s the funniest thing they’ve heard all day.

Unable to control myself any longer, I slam the door and bolt down the hall. How can there be so much ignorance in the world? A star dweller? Just because I acted a little simple, a little scared, a little shy? I’ve met star dwellers who could outthink sun dweller engineers if given the chance. Hell, my mother is an honorary star dweller, considering how much time she spent in the Star Realm. And Trevor…a burning bubble wells up in my chest and I have to take a deep breath to push it away…Trevor was a star dweller and one of the smartest, most capable people I’ve ever met. Quick-witted and sharp-tongued. Another casualty of ignorance, a life—if it was ever really a life to begin with—cut far shorter than it should’ve been.

I turn a corner, feeling queasy, following a sign for EXIT. Pass a woman in a white coat who doesn’t bother to look up at me from the papers she’s reading. Dressed like a cleaner, I’m invisible.

My thoughts continue to roll and tumble and spill over each other. Why have we rebuilt the world this way? Was it ever different? Did people ever just accept each other, regardless of race, religion, gender or social status? If the President Nailins of the world were born in the Star Realm, would they turn out differently? More tolerant? Better? Does something as simple as the place you’re born change everything about you, determine what kind of person you’ll be? As my face grows hotter and hotter, I know I’m losing control, which is something I cannot afford to do. Maybe my questions have no answers, or answers I’ll never be willing to accept.

One more turn and I see the exit, a set of glass-paneled double doors, bright outside light pouring through them. Closed, locked, impossible to push through. There’s what appears to be a chip scanner on the wall, next to a sign that says, “Do NOT exit building without scan.” Feeling light-headed, I slump against the wall, right next to the scanner.

There’s a beep and the door opens. A man enters, striding past me as if I don’t exist. I wait a second until he’s further down the hall, and then grab the nearly closed door, holding it open. I slam through with a shoulder, gulping at the air, my hands on my knees. Trying to get control.

Someone pushes past me, into the building. “Watch where you’re going,” he says gruffly, and I almost laugh.

The ridiculousness of everything I’ve seen—from the squalor the star dwellers are forced to live in, to the bright-costumed and well-perfumed lives of the sun dwellers, to this new world, stark and sterile and cold-hearted, the home of the earth dwellers—snaps me out of my temporary funk, because despite all that, there are people out there like my mother, like Roc and Tawni, like Tristan—who had it all and gave it all away—who are on the right side. And regardless of the mistakes I’ve made, the people I’ve failed along the way—Cole and my father and Trevor and my little sister, Elsey—I’m on the right side. If nothing else, that’s a truth I can cling to when I’m feeling weak at the knees.

So I stand up straight, take a deep breath, and march on, more determined than ever to bring down Lecter.

~~~

This is a strange place. Beautiful, in a way, with the sun shining through the glass dome, raining down in spots on the pavement as it penetrates the massive sun shade that runs along the curving atrium. But it’s ugly, too. Almost too clean, everything brand new and untarnished. From the paved, unlittered streets to the clear, shiny glass windows on the buildings—constructed of light-colored stone and white-painted metal—the New City is pristine. It almost looks…unlived in, like everyone’s just a visitor, like me.

Evil wears many disguises, some that can be mistaken for beauty.

I shrink against the wall of a building to let someone, dressed similarly to me, pass by, using some kind of machine that appears to be cleaning the already spotless street. He winks at me as he passes, as if he knows just what I’m thinking.

“Excuse me,” I say, and he stops. As he shuts off the machine and turns, I wonder where he’s from. The Star Realm? The Moon Realm? Could he be from the subchapter I grew up in, number fourteen? The possibility excites and scares me.

“Yes?” he says. “Are you okay?” His eyes flick to my battered face.

“Oh yes—yes. I just fell yesterday, I’m fine. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m sort of lost. You see, my chip is malfunctioning and I need to get it replaced. Do you know where I can do that?”

The man chuckles. He has a friendly face. “Are you new around here? I thought the Lower Realms were done sending workers.” Definitely not a sun dweller. His subtle use of “Lower” rather than the derogatory “Lesser” Realms tells me that much. Someone I can trust perhaps?

“You could say that,” I say. “Seems I’m always the last one to arrive.”

He takes it as a joke, his thin, brown beard chasing his cheeks into a smile. “And to think, I thought I’d won some lottery!” he says. “I guess it was, in a way. This place isn’t exactly what I was expecting, but it sure beats the darkness of the Star Realm.” So he’s a star dweller. Or was, I guess. “I’m Avery,” he says.

I shake his offered hand. “Uh, Tawni,” I say, grabbing onto the first name that pops into my head, the name of my good friend. “Tawni Sanders.” I lock it into my memory. Can’t change it now.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Sanders. I have a daughter about your age. If our paths cross again, I’ll have to introduce you.”

“I’d like that,” I say. “About those directions…” I’ve got to get going; I can’t linger here, chip-less and exposed. Several other people have passed in the few short moments we’ve been talking.

“As I’m sure they told you during initiation, the city’s set up in blocks, numbered and lettered. Not the most interesting way of doing it, but it makes getting around easy enough. You’re at the corner of twenty-sixth and J, and you want to get to thirty-third and P.”

“Sooo…” I say, looking up and down the road.

“That-a-way,” he says, motioning down the road I was heading. “Seven blocks, turn right, and then…”—he looks at the dome above us, his lips moving as he counts—“…uh, another six blocks. There’s a big sign on the door, ‘Get Chipped!’” He pumps a fist in the air, which makes me smile. “You can’t miss it.”

“I remember now,” I lie. “Thank you, Mr…Avery.”

“You’re welcome. And it’s just Avery. See you around, Tawni Sanders.”

He turns his machine on and begins pushing it down the road, toward the army medical building.

I go the other way.

~~~

I don’t talk to anyone else until I reach the “Get Chipped!” building. I take in as much of the New City as I can along the way. The sights—uniformed kids walking with their arms folded reverently in front of them, eyes forward, lips closed; soldiers patrolling the streets with automatic weapons held with both hands, like they’re expecting to have to use them any second; cleaners, going about their business, keeping the city scrubbed and buffed to gleaming perfection—to the sounds—the whir of huge turbines set in the dome above, pumping in fresh air that’s apparently gone through some sort of filtration system, probably something similar to what we’ve used for centuries in the Tri-Realms; the hum of various cleaning machines being used by window cleaners, and street cleaners, and everything-else cleaners; the clear clop of the parade of people moving down the streets, rarely stopping to talk, or even look at each other.

The whole thing is giving me the creeps, so I’m glad when I reach my destination.

I enter through a spotless glass door.

A woman with a pointy nose and thick horn-rimmed glasses looks up from a screen. “May I help you?” she drones in a dull, nasally voice, as if she hopes the answer is no.

“Yes…please. My chip was malfunctioning, you see, and I—”

“Name?”

“Uh…Tawni. Tawni Sanders. I went to the medical center and they—”

She silences me with a finger in the air, typing with her other hand. “There’s no Tawni Sanders listed. Spelling?”

“My chip was malfunctioning, deleting inform—”

“Spelling?” she repeats, as if I hadn’t been talking.

I spell it for her and she taps at her keys, with both hands now. “No. Not here. Proceed to the right, to malfunctioning chips.” She goes back to her screen. I take the whole experience as a win.

The door to the right doesn’t have a window. The room beyond is—surprise, surprise—white and sterile, without even a splash of color anywhere. And empty, save for a little window with a circular hole cut in it.

Behind the glass, a balding man with two chins and a bulge in his neck looks up at me. “Name,” he says.

“I already told the other lady my—” I start to say.

“Name,” he repeats. I’ve really got to stop fighting this, just go with the flow.

I sigh. “Tawni Sanders.” I spell it for him before he can ask.

“You’re not in the system.”

“I was,” I say. “My chip was—”

“Your chip must be malfunctioning,” he says. “Doesn’t happen very often, but it does happen. The specialist will call you in shortly.”

He goes back to his screen, but I can’t imagine what he could be looking at considering I’m the only one here. For all I know he might be sending a message to security, who could crash through the door at any moment, fully prepared to shoot me on the spot, a team of cleaners behind them, ready to mop up the blood and gore before it even hits the mirror-like tiled floor.