CHAPTER ONE

The Bucket

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. Had to get home. Last time I was outside near shutdown, I got tsunamied by alerts. If by some glitch I missed shutdown—nope, pause brain, abort. Didn't even want to think about what happens then.

"Won't fit me," I said. "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 said, trying to slip past Teddy.

He stepped in front of me, blocking my way, then bent and dipped his hand in the bucket.

"Know what you get when you mix lamb guts and pig blood?"

He hovered his slick fingers under my nose.

Gagging, I jerked back. He slapped his hand on my chest, painting my Sync Happens hoodie red.

"I repeat," he said, slower this time. "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—too heavy," I said.

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. Foul gunk 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, Tiny Todd close behind. I wobbled a few steps, fingers already aching. Suddenly, three bratwurst-sized fingers wrapped around the handle.

Up ahead, the others turned right, into an alley just past the Wide World of Socks store. 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. Got in 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 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. He stood there, smiling, in chunky white running shoes, tan pants, and a powder-blue polo. Standard attire for the Circadian Correction Division.

His smile 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 bed last cycle. Must've forgotten it this morning."

The man lowered his hands, placed them on his hips, and chuckled.

"No worries, boys," he said. "I 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 hard-hat-wearing emoji 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," he added. "I trust you'll make good use of them."

I nodded. Todd blinked.

After closing his fanny pack, the man smiled and tapped the Proddy button on his own shirt. He winked.

Then he was 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 were all smiles on the surface. 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.

"What took so long?" Teddy yelled.

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.

"I'm gonna climb up beside Cecil's window with this bucket. You're gonna ping him—get him to poke his melon out," he said, pulling the ladder down.

"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 gumstick-sized glass slide from my pocket and raised it to my mouth. "Quarter-slab," I instructed. The device expanded to a 6-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!

pretend the window is stuck

Beg pardon? Sincerely, Cecil Pips.

life & death sitch here Cec

Very well, shall play along. Cheerio.

By this time, Teddy had reached the landing just left of the window. He pushed his back against the 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 his head back toward the window.

I figured the jammed-window idea would be a win-win. Save Cecil from Moo's mess. Save me from Moo's wrath. Couldn't blame me for a janky window in a century-old brownstone.

Cecil appeared at the window, looking confused but amused. He rattled the window, his face suggesting—like this? Am I doing this correctly? 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 Cecil 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. They were 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 alert channel. Well, nobody but me.

I had modded my slab to send audio-bubs on the same frequency. Implants couldn't handle it. The noise got dumped right in your skull.

I lifted my slab and whispered a command: "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 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. Lamb guts slipped through the gaps. The Todds, also clutching buzzing domes, were directly below. Gravity plus entrails 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 slapped my slab on the lock and barked, "Crack it!"

A hologram of a locksmith holding a ring of keys popped up as my slab 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.

Get outta dome, 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 shoe 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.

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