Authors: Ryan Hunter
My father used to tell me to save my thoughts for solitude. When I asked him what he meant, he gave the sign of silence and said that it’s best to meditate alone.
It didn’t take long for me to understand this meant
to voice my opinions in the wilderness, leaving the home for trivialities and nonsense. I hadn’t thought much about it then, but after my encounter with Cray, I wondered if every word I’d spoken in my own home had been listened to, monitored and critiqued. So, if that were the case, what about school? Were the school sessions recorded, our conversations with our friends listened to and analyzed? What I still hadn’t figured out though, was what they were listening for.
The darkened classroom had entertained my thoughts, allowing me time to drift away to a world of spy technology and government dominion. The history lesson had only fueled my growing imagination, and I knew that if anyone in the room could have read my thoughts, they’d have told me how crazy I sounded. Because it was crazy talk, I told myself. My brain responded that it wasn’t. I
was
being listened to and so was everyone in this classroom. That was creepy and upsetting.
I turned off my PCA as the front wall of the auditorium faded back to white and the teacher’s face disappeared. Our advisor stood and walked to the center of the enormous classroom and clasped her hands behind her back.
A podium just large enough to hide the advisor from the waist down sat center stage. She didn’t touch it, simply stood behind it and rocked back on her heels as she always did after a lesson.
I shifted in my seat, the cushion worn so thin springs nearly burst through the fabric.
Couldn’t my last class be excused a few minutes early?
As if hearing the thought, my advisor glanced at the clock at the back of the room and waited thirty seconds to be sure she stalled us long enough for the bell to ring. “To reiterate,” she stated, crisply, clearly. “Read sections 497 through 582. Your quizzes will be ready at the start of class Friday and must be submitted before you leave the classroom.”
One second passed—the bell jarred all the students awake.
I shoved my PCA in my small backpack and stood with the rest of the students, filing out of one of the three doorways of the mathematics room. As I stepped from the hallway, my advisor caught me, motioning me back inside the classroom. My heart pounded but I obeyed, standing just inside the doorway until the others had vacated the space.
Her black hair was slicked back in a bun like all the girls in this academy, her clothing starched so that I thought it
could stand on its own. She couldn’t be any older than my mother but her stern expressions had always made me assume her older. She pursed her bright red lips together and clasped her hands behind her back. “You’re distracted,” she said.
My mouth gaped but somehow I made it work and replied, “My father was shot through the head last week.
Am I supposed to pretend it didn’t happen?”
Her face pinched
, and I waited for the reprimand. Instead, she took a calming breath and said, “There are people watching you, Miss Aberdie, people who want to see you score well on Friday’s test. It could have a significant impact on your job placement.”
I’d received the lectures
before, and I’d already made up my mind to pass but not excel. Neither my advisor nor my hologram teacher would change that. Still I knew she had to believe in me so I said, “I’m coping with grief, but will try to put my schoolwork into perspective. Maybe it’ll help me forget, at least for a while.”
The lines in her forehead eased and she shifted her weig
ht, her earrings swinging like a pendulum with the motion. “I’ll post updated notes on the study page. Access it from your PCA in about an hour. It’ll help you catch up for the days you missed.”
I nodded my thanks and waited to be excused. She had more to say—her body shouted it in the way she stood, the way she leaned forward at the waist, her mouth poised on the verge of speech. She threw her shoulders back, dropped her hands to her sides and said, “Good luck on Friday’s test then.”
I rushed from the doors, checking the time to see how much I’d lost while caught in that dreaded classroom. If I rushed I could possibly still make it onto the first bus home. I picked up my pace and squeezed past the kids who complained about scoring well on the upcoming exams. Their parents counted on them to score well enough for good job placement. Mine used to caution me not to let them see how brilliant I truly was.
I’d at least have to scan the page my advisor was posting for me so they wouldn’t get suspicious if I got the answers correct. They
monitored all the studying to see who took their schooling seriously, and I suspected they checked to see who could do the work without studying at all.
Knowing PCAs were monitored
was obvious, and from somewhere deep inside I realized I’d known about public buildings as long as I could remember, but our own homes? I shifted my backpack strap higher on my shoulder. No wonder my father always said there were more ears than people. I thought he’d just been reciting useless clichés again.
I shoved through the crowds, anxious to get home long before my mother returned from work. If I took the bus, I’d have an hour alone. If I walked, I’d likely only get ten minutes. I broke into a jog down the wide hallway, bursting out the front doors to the bus stop.
I swiped my hand across the sensor to board the bus, students piling in behind me, cramming four people into seats built for two.
After filling the aisle with teetering students, t
he bus rolled forward, silent except for the whispers of the students surrounding me. Could I really find anything that indicated we were being monitored in our home in under an hour and even if I did, how would I identify it?
I considered my PCA but knew an online search for listening devices would be flagged.
T would know but I couldn’t contact him again yet, and how would I even ask him without getting us both onto some sort of watch list?
Nervously, I rubbed the skin between my right thumb and forefinger, the sensor
protruding underneath the folds of skin. That sensor not only made it possible to have a secure PCA, it made it possible for the Alliance to know every search term I used, when I got on my PCA and what I typed in my messages and to whom. My thoughts slipped further, thinking of the bus and how the Alliance knew every time I stepped aboard one, where I was coming from and where I was going; each time I purchased lunch at school and what I ate; all those times I saw the doctor. Even the food and clothing we bought required a swipe. I’d never thought much about it before now but they even recorded every swipe to get into my own home.
M
y head pounded as I considered every meal I’d eaten out, every movie I’d seen, every friend I’d ever messaged. All of that was contained in a computer somewhere condensed into a file named Brynn Aberdie’s Inconsequential Life.
“No,” I muttered.
The blonde next to me stopped smacking her gum and asked, “What?”
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
Not
inconsequential,
that I knew for a fact. The Alliance had sent me on a vacation overseas for a reason. They did everything for a reason. So why had they chosen me? And why had my father been the target of terrorists?
The blonde elbowed me in the ribs and my head shot up in time to see the bus doors closing. I shot from my seat. “Wait! This is my stop.”
The doors reopened and I rushed down the steps, the whispers evident behind me, talking of my dead father, how I’d become withdrawn.
Of course I’d become withdrawn. Not only had I lost my fathe
r but I just realized I’d also lost my freedom. When had that happened?
CHAPTER 6
I didn’t remember the walk from the bus stop to my entry hall with my mind so focused on my next hour. I had to make my time count before my mother came home and I lost my solitude. I’d have to look everywhere for the Alliance listening devices but I had to be careful to make it sound natural and I had to remember to log into my study page within the hour. Nobody could know I’d caught on or that I’d changed my normal after-school routine, even for a day. With my father’s death, I had a feeling they listened closer now, monitoring our reactions and grief-stricken conversations. At least I knew I’d said nothing compromising since my father died as my mother had barely noticed I still lived in the same home.
My spine tingled and I stopped at the door, glancing right, then left before reaching for the handle. The arm that wrapped around me came from nowhere, snaking around my torso while a second arm wove from the back and clamped over my mouth. The body yanked me around the side of the entry hall away from street view as a scream lodged in my throat. The t
ight arms engulfed me, drawing me against a firm chest. His shallow breathing was all I could hear from the man behind me until he whispered, “Don’t scream.”
I nodded.
“Promise?”
I nodded again.
His lips brushed my earlobe when he spoke again and it sent shivers to the tips of my toes. “Please turn off your PCA and speak to me in whispers.”
Tears stung my eyes but I tried my best to show him
that I agreed. I pulled my PCA out of my backpack and switched off the power.
His fingers relaxed and his hand pulled away
only to return long enough to force a round, hard object into my right hand. “Please hold onto that.”
I nodded though my hand shook hard enough
that I thought I may drop it. “What is it?”
“A jammer.”
I caught my bottom lip between my teeth, not understanding why someone would be doing this, what they wanted. Crime benefitted no one in One United … and this—abduction—was unheard of anymore. I thought of the scream and imagined the noise I could make if I wanted but knew it would do no good. With the houses being underground, it was doubtful anyone would hear me anyway. I’d have to fight this one out on my own. Maybe if I got him talking—
“
What’s a jammer?” I asked.
“Shhh.” H
is arms loosened enough to turn me toward him, his fingers skimming my shoulder before moving up to my cheek. “I’ve missed you, Brynn,” he said softly and my heart ached.
Sun-bleached hair drooped over T’s forehead, dark eyes made
even darker by the framing of thick lashes.
I
flung my arms around his neck, nearly dropping the jammer. “T,” I whispered.
The hug ended too quickly when he unwound my arms from his neck and
held me at a distance, his eyebrows drawn together, with his forehead creased. “I know why we were chosen.”
I wiggled one arm free and tucked a stray hair behind my ear
, disappointment thick in my throat. “What are you talking about?” I just wanted to hold him again, pretend we were back on that beach in Greece. Then his words began to make sense, speaking of our trip together, the Alliance—
“One United has all but stopped international travel, so why do you think they sent us out of the country?”
I shrugged, my heartbeat accelerating. I flicked my tongue across my lips.
“They had to be sure we didn’t share the same beliefs as the people we’re spying on.”
I shook my head, trying to pull away but his hand tightened. His eyes seemed different somehow, his voice harsher, his grip harder, nearly to the point of pain. “I’m not spying on anyone,” I argued.
He gave me the same sign of silence as Cray had used a few days prior before his hand slipped down my arm and his fingers intertwined with mine. He tugged gently, pulling me toward the hills outside of town.
I lifted my hand, the fabric between our palms distracting me enough I had to see what he’d done. A gauze bandage wound around his right hand across his palm, between his thumb and first finger.
“Are you
hurt?” I asked.
He shook his head and continued walking without speaking.
I gave into him freely, knowing that until we left the neighborhood, everything we said could be overheard.
We reached the worn trail between the cottonwoods and T took my backpack
, stashed it in a dense bush and ducked off the trail. “I don’t have a permit,” I said, thinking how silly I must sound. T arched an eyebrow, one corner of his mouth rising as if he thought the comment funny. “Seriously, Brynn?”
I’d strayed from the trail several times with my father, so what was the difference?
I followed him, checking often behind us to make sure we weren’t seen, just as I’d always done with my father. Brush tugged at my slacks and scuffs appeared on my loafers. I tried going slower to ease the damage done, but it didn’t help so I jogged to keep up instead until T figured we were a safe distance from town. He slowed, scanning the hillsides and our back trail before he stopped and took a seat on a rotting log. He’d grown taller since Greece, his muscles more defined even as they hid beneath his shirt. But I sensed more than physical changes, something deep and disturbing that I couldn’t quite identify.