subject matter: off-cycle
chapter: loading...
time: 1332ms
I didn't know what was in the bucket. Didn't want to know. Something awful, obviously, from the stench. One thing I did know—passing Wilcox & Son's Quality Meats on the way home from school had been a mistake.
"Pick it up," said Teddy. "Carry the bucket, or you'll be wearing the bucket."
Teddy Wilcox, the butcher's son. I called him Moo behind his back because he smelled like discount brisket. Probably why he jumped me outside his father's store. Must've heard.
I didn't have time for this. Cycle One ended soon. I had to get home. Last time I was outside near shutdown, I got tsunamied by alerts. If by some glitch I actually missed shutdown—nope, pause brain, abort. Didn't even want to think about what happens then.
"Won't fit me," I replied. "Got one in extra-medium?"
Teddy's pals side-eyed each other. They were both named Todd. One was tiny, the other backhoe-sized. Teddy snarled and stuck his finger in my face. "Best shut your—"
"Nice chatting, boys," I interrupted, trying to slip past.
Teddy stepped in front of me, then bent and dipped his hand in the bucket. "Know what you get when you mix lamb guts and pig blood?" He hovered slick fingers under my nose. I jerked back. He slapped his hand on my chest, painting my Sync Happens hoodie red. "Pick it up and follow us, or it comes down on your head in three, two—"
I yanked the metal handle. Didn't budge. These morons really think Marco Fontaine—120 pounds, noodle-armed—could schlepp this to wherever they were going? "No can do," I said. "Too heavy."
Teddy snorted and spat on the sidewalk, his eyes never leaving mine. Slowly, he lifted three fingers. A moment later, one finger folded, then another.
I raised a finger of my own—index, not middle. "There have been new developments in my position on this matter." Squatting low, I grabbed the handle again, this time getting my legs into it. Sure enough, we had liftoff. Barely. Pink gore splashed everywhere. On the sidewalk. On my jeans. On my sneakers—my spotless white Lemur Oxygen IV high tops.
"Make sure he keeps up," Teddy said to Big Todd.
He stomped ahead, Little Todd close behind. I wobbled a few steps, hands already burning. Guess Teddy cared more about making my life miserable than making good time. Suddenly, three bratwurst-sized fingers wrapped around the handle. I looked up at Big Todd and mouthed thanks. Operation lug-guts was back on track.
Up ahead, the others turned right, into an alley just past the Wide World of Socks Emporium. I'd been down there before to buy a retro game off a kid from school. His second-story bedroom window backed onto the alley. Reached it by climbing the fire escape. Wait a second, I thought. That was the same kid who recently told Teddy—direct quote—to consider partaking in the time-honored tradition of occasional bathing. Pretty funny, not so smart. Name was Cecil Pips. Poor guy. He was about to come face to pail with day-old innards.
We were steps from the alley when Todd came to a halt. The bucket began to shake.
"Lovely afternoon, boys," came a warm voice.
I'd been so focused on my dirty Lemurs that I hadn't seen the man approach. His tall, thin frame loomed over us. Big smile on his face, looked well-practiced. He wore chunky white running shoes, tan pants, and a powder-blue polo. Standard attire for the Circadian Correction Division. His grin turned into a playful, exaggerated frown. It wasn't the bucket of horrors that drew his attention. He hadn't so much as glanced at it, actually.
"Couldn't help but notice," he said, finger-gunning our chests. "You boys aren't wearing your Proddy buttons."
I let go of the handle and patted my pockets, making a big show of it. You know, must be here somewhere kind of thing. No such theatrics from Todd. He remained a vibrating statue.
"Sorry, sir," I said, eyes down. "Took it off before shutdown. Forgot it this morning."
The man lowered his hands, placed them on his hips, and chuckled.
"No worries, boys," he said. "I've got you covered."
He unzipped his yellow CCD fanny pack and reached inside, pulling out two glossy cookie-sized buttons. Each showed Proddy Bootstraps, a happy-face emoji in a hard hat with a bow tie made from a hammer and wrench. The slogan encircling his head was the same one plastered on every poster, flag, and banner in town: Productivity Today, Happiness Tomorrow!™
"There, that's better," he said, pinning them to our shirts. "Only two hours left in your cycle. I trust you'll make good use of them."
I nodded. Todd blinked.
After closing his fanny pack, the man winked and tapped the Proddy button on his own shirt. Then he set off, whistling as he strolled past. The tune faded as I waited for Todd to defrost. It took a beat. He was clearly rattled—no fan of the CCD, not that any of us were.
Those khaki-clad sys-cogs seemed friendly enough. All smiles and back slaps and how-ya-doings. But we'd heard the stories. Get caught awake off-cycle? You'd be CCDed within the hour—tracked, retrieved, fixed. Back on cycle by sunrise.
Todd stirred. We lifted the bucket and entered the alley. A few steps in, I spotted an open trash can on our right. Without pausing, I took off the Proddy button and tossed it in the bin. Todd did the same.
"What took so long?" Teddy yelled as we got within earshot.
He stood beneath a raised fire escape, hands hooked over the bottom rung.
"CCD," I replied.
He flinched. Even alpha bullies feared the powder blue.
"Anyway, I'm gonna climb up beside Cecil's window with this bucket," he said. "You're gonna ping him—get him to poke his melon out." He pulled down the ladder. "Then we'll see if that smart-mouthed nerd likes leftovers."
It was one thing to get roped into logistics, quite another to run point on comms. I had nothing against Cecil. But I enjoyed living, so had to play along. I pulled a small glass rectangle from my pocket and raised it to my mouth.
"Quarter-slab," I instructed.
The device expanded to a six-inch square. I flicked open BubbleTalk and tapped out a few bubs to Cecil. A flourish of lime-green holographic bubbles rose from my slab with each keystroke, popping under my nose.
come to
window asap
DO NOT OPEN IT!
pretend the
window is stuck
I waited. A second later, three little bubbles began dancing on my screen, indicating Cecil was responding.
Beg pardon?
Sincerely,
Cecil Pips
Not surprised he was confused. How could he not be? But I didn't have time to explain.
life & death
sitch here Cec
Very well.
Shall play along.
Cheerio,
Cecil Pips
By this time, Teddy had reached the landing just left of the window. He pushed his back against the brick wall, so Cecil couldn't see him, and lifted the bucket over his head. When he glanced down at me, I gave him a thumbs up. He nodded once and turned back to his left.
The jammed-window idea would be a win-win, I hoped. Save Cecil from Teddy's mess. Save me from Teddy's wrath. Couldn't blame me for a janky pane in a century-old brownstone. I waved at Cecil when he appeared behind the glass. He looked awfully confused. Mildly amused. He rattled the window, his face suggesting—like this? Odd duck, but a good sport. Pretending to encourage him, I went full mime, lifting the bottom of an invisible window. Just a show for the Todds, who were now leaning against the wall, eyes on me.
After a few seconds of listening to Cecil wrestle the window, Teddy decided to give him a hand. He freed his left arm, balancing the bucket on his right shoulder, like a waiter with the world's worst entrée. Still out of Cecil's view, he squatted and slid his hand under the window frame. His fingers found the bottom edge. No worries, I thought. Probably locked. Had to be.
The window cracked open.
Great defense system you got there, Cecil. Why not just sleep in the alley? The only way to save him now was to get in Teddy's head. I had three seconds to do it.
Teddy had a circ in his brain. We all did—non-optional, implanted at birth. Courtesy of the fine folks at CircSync Biotech Corp. The tiny device was near-impossible to hack, even for a quasi-gifted slab-jockey like me. So I couldn't break in. But I sure as heck could rattle the windows. The implants received alerts from the CircSync network. Nobody outside the network could access the notification channel. Well, nobody but me. I'd modded my slab—Brick, I called it—to send audio-bubs on the same frequency. The implants couldn't handle it. Too much noise. Got dumped right in your skull.
"Hey, Brick. Open alert spammer."
Now to pick the musical genre. Mid-euro rage-skunk? Nah, too subtle. Twang fusion? Too twangy. Might as well go with a classic.
"Triple-max hell metal. Full volume. Infinite loop."
A screaming burst of flaming-orange holographic electric guitars and drums exploded out of my slab. Not to crib Teddy's line, but his noggin was in for a surprise in three, two—
Teddy yelped and grabbed his head with both hands. The bucket rolled off his shoulder, spilling over him and onto the landing grate. Entrails slipped through the gaps. The Todds, also clutching their domes, were directly below. Gravity plus animal gunk equaled two very dirty Todds.
I killed my slab and rammed it into my pocket. When the chaos settled, everyone turned toward me. I had two options to get out alive. Option One: Pretend I had no idea what just happened. The giant cloud of semi-transparent guitars drifting from my direction was going to make that a tough sell.
Option Two: Run.
I had a head start on Teddy, just now starting down the ladder. The Todds were closer, arm's reach, but the big one slipped on what looked like a spleen and ate pavement, smothering the little one on the way down. I bolted. Sort of. Genetically ungifted, I had speed to match my strength. No way I was outrunning these guys once they were upright and moving. A hiding spot, that's what I needed. Fleeing the alley, I hit Magpie Avenue, my Lemurs slapping asphalt like flip-flops on tile. I banked right, scanning storefronts for potential refuge. What was I expecting—Joe's Deli & Bully Protection Mart?
I glanced back. Still no meatheads. Pig blood's not great for traction, I figured. They'd be out soon, though. Had to disappear myself, pronto.
Another alley opened on my right. I dashed in and yanked the nearest door handle. No luck. The lock's interface looked ancient, real dino-tech. Easy to pop, I hoped. Encryption was a hobby of mine. Decryption too. Big fan of all the cryptions. I shoved my slab against the lock and barked, "Crack it!" A hologram of a locksmith holding a ring of keys popped up as Brick got to work. I'd cooked up a tasty code-busting algorithm over the summer. The locksmith was just for kicks. He took a key off the ring, inspected it, shook his head, and chucked it over his shoulder. The animation repeated until—
"Entry granted," the door announced.
Yeah, until that.
I jumped inside and slammed the door behind me. Heart pounding, legs burning, I dropped to the floor to catch my breath. Still alive, for now. Teddy would be looking to get even. I'd deal with that later.
Where the heck was I? It was dark, dead silent. I thumbed my slab's light to half-max and stood up. There was a sign on the door: Zongwei Shoelaces Ltd. No circing way, I thought, not believing my eyes. I had eleven more pairs of white Lemurs at home—always kept a clean dozen—and Zongs would be a major upgrade. Best shoelaces ever made. But they'd closed shop a while back, after auto-lace polyfoam klomps cornered the sneaker market. Fakes were plentiful but legit Zongs only surfaced every couple of years, at prices high enough to make your wallet weep.
Dust-covered industrial gear filled the center of the giant room. The city banned AI and bots years ago, so every factory in Orbis had been forced to go old school. I had no idea what any of this stuff was. The word loom drifted from a deep crevasse of my brain. When my eyes found the back wall, however, I knew exactly what I was looking at. Racks upon racks of Lemur-ready laces.
I was about to hunt for the color I needed, Cryo Frost, when I noticed movement to my left. It looked like a—no, impossible. Must be a projection, a 3D vid stuck on loop. But it wasn't. No flicker. This was the real thing. Just thirty feet away, examining a spool of purple cotton shoelaces, was something I'd only seen in history class and bootleg holograms.
A girl.
Does pork vapor make you hallucinate? Because what I was looking at made no sense. A girl. Awake. During Cycle One.
"How'd you get in here?" she said without turning.
She held up a plum-colored shoelace, inspecting it in her slab's dim glow. Her ponytailed hair was a perfect match, maybe a shade darker.
"Uh—bucket. Lamb. Moo. Run," I replied.
Her head tilted my way, exposing one amber eye. She raised an eyebrow.
"Hacked the lock," I said.
She glanced at my feet. "Those Lemurs?"
"Yeah, uh, Ox-Four edition."
She gave a small nod of approval, then took a knee and unlaced a sneaker. High tops, like mine, but matte black. Looked foreign—out-of-dome import, most likely. I watched in silence as she swapped her old yellow laces for the purple Zongs. Once done, she stood and looked me in the eyes. I may have blinked, but can't say for sure. My operating system was still buffering.
One second passed. Two seconds. Suddenly, she turned and sprinted to the back wall. At the racks, she hit the bottom row at full speed—planted a foot and exploded upward. She scaled the wall in seconds, hands and feet finding holds between the multicolored spools. At the top, in the ceiling, an open vent waited. She pushed off the rack and caught the lip with one hand. She hung there, high over concrete, and slowly turned to look at me again. Smirking, she gave me a little wave. Then she pulled herself up and was gone.
I gawked at the empty vent, trying to process what I'd just seen. Was I in a simulation? Was this a test? I scanned high corners for cameras.
"ONE HOUR TO SHUTDOWN," my circ blared between my ears, erasing all thoughts except make it stop. "YOU ARE 2,641 METERS FROM YOUR HOME."
Perfect—more running. The closer it got to 6 p.m., the more frequent—and louder—the alarms would become. The Cryo Frosts would have to wait. I burst out of the factory, cut left at Magpie, and raced toward home. Slight detour to avoid the butcher shop—quick learner—then right on Ōtori Drive, the homestretch. Ten minutes later, I crashed through my apartment door, seconds before the half-hour warning. Glad I avoided that one. We called it the dome wrecker.
"Again, Marco?" my father said.
He stood near his bedroom door, holding his reading glasses and a Proddy mug.
Bent over, wheezing, I raised a finger. Need a minute, Dad. Maybe two.
"Not my fault," I squeaked. "Got jumped. Meat bucket. Cecil. Window."
He crossed the room and rested a hand on my head. "Sure, son."
He turned and was halfway back to his room when I blurted it out.
"I saw a girl! A real one!"
He stopped. I waited for him to turn. He didn't.
"That's not funny, Marco."
"It's true! She had purple hair, and she climbed this giant wall of shoelaces, and she—"
My father's door closed quietly behind him. I stared at it, willing it to reopen. The light beneath the door went out.
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