Lenora
More and more comments are being Blocked. My personal access was revoked at one point, however Hugo had gone right ahead and un-revoked it. It must’ve been driving Father’s Mediators insane as I keep adding more fuel to the fire with carefully dropped information grenades that have the whole community in an uproar.
People are coming out of the metalwork with stories or experiences they’ve kept quiet about because they’d been too scared to utter them in their own minds, let alone in public. A lot of those stories are hysterical nonsense, people seeking attention or ignoring the plausible explanation for a more sensational one, but there are nuggets of truth too.
“You’ve created a monster!” Hugo laughs, thrilled to be thwarting my father’s efforts to disguise the Evictions.
My father, who abandoned and betrayed me, who chose his station over his own daughter. And where’s my mother? Is she okay? I feel like she’s abandoned me too, even though it’s not her fault her memories were tampered with.
I left the others a block over from Preston’s central market, Bryn waving enthusiastically and Greyson shouting “Good luck” before they vanished into the claustrophobic secret passageways. Jonas had paused, gifting me a crooked smile beneath the modified modes, and said, “Keep in mind what would happen to a dozen flesh-heifers if spooked trapped inside a steel four by four pen. Minced beef. Just saying.” And he disappeared after the others.
“I think he means it would be best to avoid mass panic,” Hugo had said thoughtfully, and I’d agreed wholeheartedly.
It takes us almost ten minutes to push our way through the crowded streets, and twice I find myself pressed against buildings, heart frantic in my chest, as sweat trickles down the backs of my knees. Level Eight is a sweltering hotbox. Hugo helps, emitting a pulse that discourages anyone with a set of modes getting too near, yet it’s obvious quite a few people, although wearing a headset, are actually disconnected.
“Torin Hunt wants to speak to you again,” Hugo says gleefully, the heat not affecting him in the least.
Tell him I’m busy, I smirk, turning down another bustling alleyway that finally opens out into the market.
“With great and irrevocable pleasure!”
The market is a wide-open space the size of a neighbourhood block, packed tight with booths of various sizes and broken into quadrants. North seems to be raw materials, east food packages and meat produce, south is a mixture of recycled goods and packaged items, and west is textiles, heavy coats and hats that are at least five seasons old.
What should I do now?
“This way, there’s some shop selling pre-used chairs. You’re light enough for them to hold your weight if you scramble up.”
Hold my weight? I grumble, yet follow him through the throng, side stepping store holders hawking homegrown vegetables, kids running around my legs in a mad game of chase, and some weasel of a man who refuses to get out of my way when he insists he will buy my modes off me, just name my price.
I’m panting by the time I reach the chairs, stacked sturdily in a mixture of padding and plastic. Ignoring the shop owner, I climb, my balance perfect after years of dancing and gymnastics. I’ve about a metre and a half of clearance over the market, but it’s enough to stand out and already people are looking at me curiously, some clearly trying to place my face. Nothing like seeing stars in the flesh.
“Excuse me!” My voice is swallowed by a steady rhythmic beat. The crowd’s extraordinarily loud, made up of voices and slapping hands, against tables, against shoulders and even against other hands.
“Oi, girly, get off me chairs!”
“Got to do better than that,” Hugo encourages, one brow raised in amusement as the heavy-set chair seller waves his hands at me, fingers flicking in some kind of sign language that’s more than clear in expressing his anger.
“My name is Lenora Rey!” I shout and by chance I catch a lull in every conversation in the market, my voice piercing through. Those closest to me stop, staring.
“The Lenora Rey?” A youth gawps, his heavy modes spray-painted blue and purple to match his dyed skin. His words are the spark, as my name is hissed from neighbour to neighbour, rippling out across the market. The intensity of all those gazes thrills me to the core.
“It true your old man’s trying to Evict you?” shouts a woman in a playpen full of toddlers.
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“Is the Activation system rigged?”
“It’s got to be some elaborate scam, yeah?”
“I’ve come here to warn you.” I project my voice as loud as I can so the people at the back can hear, but I can do little competing against the engines. The kid with the colourful skin perches up beside me, flipping his hands about as I speak and when I stop he flashes me a wide, expectant grin.
What’s he doing?
“He’s translating for you, Nora. So they can all see what you’ve got to say.”
“Have you noticed how warm it’s become?” I shout. “How the doors between other neighbourhoods have become faulty and the pockets of bad air are making you sick?”
There’s nodding, frowning, and a few indignant I-told-you-sos from the crowd.
“I’m sure you’ve heard by now they’re trying to Evict me,” there’s no need to say who they are. “But, it’s bigger than that. The Guardian is preparing for a mass Eviction. Your neighbourhood’s about to be cut off from the rest of the station and then purged. Every person here will be catalogued and Evicted, permanently removed from the station and from everyone’s memories.”
Someone cries out “herd-nuts” and a few others echo the sentiment.
“It’s happened before! Fourteen years ago, the neighbourhood of Ashville …” The crowd grumbles at my words, yet I keep going, “Ashville was destroyed! Cleared to create more space!”
No one’s even trying to hear me anymore. Groups are turning away in disgust, voices raised and arms gesturing, but some have listened. Their faces are creased with concern, especially when kids my age share all the craziness occurring in the Cyberinth, yet it’s clearly a losing battle.
“Okay, looks like we need to pull another trick out of the hat,” Hugo announces, appearing balanced on the seat beside me. “Your modes are a complicated piece of hardware, Nora. You’d be surprised what you can do with them.” He lifts his hands until they waver inches in front of my eyes.
Only half these people have connected modes, what good are they?
“Modes are designed to project a hologram and yes, generally only another person wearing a pair of modes can see it but, with a bit more juice and the fact everyone ever born in the station has a chip inserted into their heads, we can make it visible to the naked eye.”
We can show them the conversation I had with my father. I close my eyes, throwing myself into my internal system and pulling up the argument I had only hours ago. I edit and cut it all in mere moments, easily adding the bit from Jonas and highlighting the important parts. I could do this in my sleep. When I open my eyes, Hugo nods to say he’s ready.
I offer no introduction, barely anyone is paying attention to me now, anyway. Even the kid beside me has settled in to enjoy the chaos rather than offer any help, yet the giant projection across the side of one massive nine-storey building does the trick and I keep my head as still as possible. Hugo brings the image into focus and I start sharing. My father’s voice booms from every available speaker, almost drowning out even the engines, as the image reaches out to grab the viewers’ arms, my arms, and shake hard. “You can’t speak of this!” he growls, his eyes burning and the crowd hushes, heads craning to see better. His body is massive, frightful as he bears down on the crowd and me, and I wince. “Who filled your head with this nonsense? I’ll Evict them! Their whole family should’ve been with the rest of Ashville!”
For the first time in hundreds of years, you could’ve heard a pin drop between the thudding beat of the space station blades.
The image smoothly cuts to the close space of Jonas’ hideout, the edges of the image shadowy, focusing on Jonas sitting cross-legged, looking anguished as he says, “The Guardian is midway through the process of closing off another neighbourhood to be Evicted right now.”
“The target?” A voice asks from the darkness. Greyson’s voice.
“Level Eight, a neighbourhood called Preston.”
People believe me after that. Whether it’s my father’s rage or Jonas’ heartbreak or perhaps the gossip winging around the Cyberinth after I purposefully go quiet, letting my followers speak for me, something resonates and the word spreads.
The appearance of a small squadron of Mediators is the nail in the coffin.
“Lenora, we’ll keep them busy,” says the blue and purple youth, helping me down from the chairs and brushing me off with a familiarity that’s startling.
“Why?” I manage as I’m jostled about.
“Cos you’re you, Lenora.” He gives me a nudge in the right direction, twisting to see the progress of the black clad Mediators. “Hurry it!”
“You have to make sure everyone gets out!” I insist, yet he’s no longer listening. The Mediators are pushing and shoving towards me, bellowing, “Lenora Rey, you’re under arrest for disturbing the peace,” over and over again in a droning litany, however I’m already running and no one stops me. No one even slows me down, parting before me and closing up ranks as I pass.
Why are they not evacuating?
“Trust me, Nora, as soon as you’re out of the way they’re going to hightail it.”
We stop at every street corner, repeating the message until my throat is aching and my voice is almost too hoarse to be of any use. Yet by then my words are being passed from person to person, moving more quickly than I ever could, until the neighbourhood is a roar of confusion.
My warning doesn’t stop at the edges of Preston.
“It’s reached Needlesworth,” Hugo frowns, doing his best to keep me from being bumped into, yet there’s little he can do. My knees are bleeding from a tumble I took earlier and there are bruises up and down my arms from where people shoved past. “And Cockelsdale and Bloomspot. Another ten minutes and all of Level Eight will know.”
It’ll be a mass exodus of the entire level. Skies above, what Jonas warned is coming true. People are panicking and in a space station there’re only so many places people can go.
I duck into a doorway to catch my breath, pressing my hands flat against the warm metal when I see a familiar face. Wally. His tattooed skin catches my attention first and I barely recognise him, especially without seeing his holo-glamour, yet it’s the same ears and mouth and chin.
“Wally!” Wally! I shout. There’s no hesitation, not even a flicker of recognition as he passes me by, his eyes peculiarly blank. He’s moving awkwardly, as though he’s unsure about being in his own skin.
“He feels broken,” Hugo says, concerned. “Like he’s not in control.”
I chase after Wally without a second thought. Preston will sort itself out now. I owe it to Wally to make sure he’s okay, too.
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