Chapter 10

Dinner will be served in four minutes and with a crowded room, my stunt will have the biggest impact. I stand against the wall, near the end of the food line and wait for the residents to filter in. They collect their trays and seat themselves with soggy meals. Tables start to fill up.

Jaela and Jacobo enter the room and look at me quizzically from the doorway. I wave them off and they take their food to a table in the center of the room. I haven’t seen Rosalin yet.

When the room is three quarters full and there’s no one left standing by the dispenser, I crouch in the corner and lift mouse from my pocket. I place him on the ground and stand up quickly, before I attract attention.

I know it’s risky leaving mouse alone in this room. I’m banking on the fact he’s been savvy enough to avoid that fate until now and he’ll find a secure hiding place in the building.

“Good luck mouse,” I whisper to him and then join my friends at their table.

“What are you up to?” Jaela asks. “You’re grinning like a maniac.”

“You’ll see,” I say and that’s when we hear the first shout from the front of the cafeteria. The shouting spreads and someone screams.

“It’s a mouse! A mouse!”

Girls start jumping up on their chairs and trays tumble to the floor. People are either rushing to see the little creature or climbing onto high enough surfaces to avoid it.

“How’d a mouse get in here?” Jacobo asks and look straight at me. I smile. He rushes off to see it for himself.

“Where did you get a mouse?” Jaela asks. She seems content to stay seated at our table and ignore the ruckus.

“I have my ways,” I say.

The room is in complete disorder when Head storms through the door.

“What’s going on?” he shouts.

“Mouse!” a girl screams. She’s standing on top of her table as minors crowd around her.

Head strides to the table and pushes people out of the way.

“What are you talking about?” he says. “There are no mice in here.”

“Look, there!” a boy shouts and I see mouse scurry from under the table and across the room. He reaches the far wall and bolts along its edge until he finds a small crack in the wall. He wriggles himself inside and disappears.

“Quiet!” Head bellows and the room drops into silence. He glares at us and I’m delighted to see his face is flushed with anger. He hates when things are out of his control.

“There’s no reason for this pandemonium,” he says. “The eradication unit will deal with it.”

“Don’t kill him!” a boy shouts and Head turns his black eyes toward him.

“Vermin must be eradicated,” he says and I’m not sure if he’s talking about the mouse or the boy standing in front of him.

Rosalin finds me in the hallway heading to afternoon class.

“What did you do?” she hisses at me.

“What do you mean?”

“You let mouse go in the cafeteria.” Her voice is shaking and I realize she’s furious. “How could you do that? What if something happens to him?”

I lean back away from her anger.

“Rose, he’ll be fine,” I say. “He’s a mouse. He couldn’t live in our draw forever.”

Rosalin looks at me with disbelief.

“I can’t believe you,’ she finally says. “You’re heartless.”

“Rose,” I say and reach out to her, but she whirls around and storms away.

With TWOC still in commotion from the appearance of mouse, it’s easy to slip away after class. My fight with Rosalin burbles in the back of my head but I ignore it. I’m not familiar with the tang of guilt I feel buried in my stomach. It’s easier to pretend it’s not there.

To distract myself, I take the monorail to the library and jog down the stairs to the locker room in the basement. I collect the tablet device and take it to the rooftop. It takes me thirty-two minutes to connect to the network this time. I’m being careful to disguise my entry. I really don’t want to evade another monitor-bot today.

I navigate to the allotment subfolders and start perusing the records. There are six departments:

Government and Policy

Programing and Technology

Emergency and Guard

Energy and Community

Education and Medicine

Horticulture and Textile

These are the essential industries required to keep Osiris running smoothly. Every graduate is assigned to an allotment and trained in that area for four years before they become a full citizen. Once allotted it’s unheard of to change, which means you have approximately one hundred years doing the same work day in and day out. Even if you love your allotment, that’s a long time doing the same thing over and over again. I fantasize for a minute about my parent’s allotments. Were they both mathematical or did I get that from my father? Were they in Programming or Education? Maybe my mother was in Medicine. I’m sure neither one of them was in Government or Policy. I wonder how I’m like them, what traits I inherited and which ones I’ve developed independently. I miss them fiercely for a moment and then I give myself a mental shake. I have a job to do.

I open the Horticulture folder and choose the recruits file. It’s a long list of names but I don’t see Rosalin’s. I check Textile and there she is, third on the list. She’s technically in the right department but the wrong section. I erase her from the Textile file and add her to Horticulture, making sure my digital signature is almost undetectable. I smile when I’ve completed the task. Maybe she won’t hate me forever.

I browse the rest of the files. The twins are listed under Education and Medicine. Not bad choices for either of them. I don’t see my name on the list anywhere. I consider adding it to Programming but decide it would give Head too much time to change it back to unassigned. I’m better off waiting until the last minute when he won’t have time to counter my move. It will also make him suspicious if he sees a sudden allocation, and he’s suspicious enough already.

I consider browsing through the photos again but decide I have another area to explore in my limited time.

I shut down the tablet and tuck it into the waistband of my pants. I have some exploring to do before I return it to the locker.

I cross over to the library and head to the eighth floor. I know I should stay away from this room but I can’t help myself. I have to see the paintings again. I slip inside and close the door closed behind me. I use my illuminator to examine the sweep of color and artistry. I crouch in front of a tall vertical canvas, almost five feet high and wonder how someone could transport a painting this large without being detected. It’s a portrait of a woman. She’s standing at the top of a curved staircase, wearing a deep blue gown. The material looks so real I’m surprised to feel dry oil paint when I touch it with my fingertips. Her blonde, almost white hair is piled on top of her head in an elaborate arrangement of knots and twists. Crystal drop earrings frame her jaw and catch the light. Her face isn’t beautiful in the conventional way, but her lips are full and her eyes are large and sensual. She looks dangerous and some how familiar.

“What are you doing in here?” A deep voice demands from behind me. I shriek in surprise, spin around and shine the illuminator at the voice. A man is standing arms length away from me, his face creased by a scowl. His blonde hair is close cropped and his long nose casts a dark shadow across his face. He’s a foot taller then me and I have to look up at him.

“What are you doing in here?” I snap back.

“You don’t get to ask the questions,” he says and glares at me. “How did you get in? This building is restricted.”

“It can’t be very restricted if I have access can it?”

He tightens his lips. “You’re out of bounds. You know that?”

“Aren’t you?” My back is to the wall and he’s blocking my exit. I’m considering the best options to get around this stranger. If I rush at him and he tries to stop me, he would overpower me easily. He’s not a large man but he’s tall and he’s angry. I inch to the right.

“I have access privilege,” he says but the way he says it makes me think he’s not telling the truth. “You’re trespassing.”

“According to who?” I say.

“It’s Conservationist policy,” he says.

“How do you know?”

“I just do.” He takes a step toward me and I move sideways, out of his reach. “Tell me how you got in here.”

“No.”

He lunges for me and I click the illuminator off, plunging us into darkness. I feel his hands clutch at my left forearm, but I twist away from his grip and launch myself at the door. My hands slap at the access pad but before it slides open he grabs me from behind, one hand catches in my belt and the other tangles in my hair. I scream as he jerks my head back and I sweep my arm behind me. I feel it connect with something solid – his shoulder? His head? – and he grunts in pain. The hand falls from my hair and his grip around my belt loosens enough for me to pull away. As I lurch through the doorway, the tablet slips from my waistband and falls to the ground with a thud.
“Stop!” he shouts. I hear him fumble with something and an illuminator clicks on. A circle of light spills across the corridor. He must have turned it off earlier to sneak up on me.

I don’t turn around. I keep running and enter the stairwell at a sprint. I take the stairs two at a time until I’m outside. I run to the end of the block, round the corner and press myself against the stone wall to catch my breath.

The curfew alarm goes off and I swear. I’ve lost the tablet and with it the access to change my allotment. I have to get it back, but not today.

I turn my back on the library and return to TWOC.

I’m standing inside the service entrance of the library trying to blend in with the shadows. I’ve waited for a total of four hours and fifty-six minutes in the last five days and my attacker hasn’t shown up. I’m starting to worry he’s abandoned this building and isn’t coming back. Maybe he knows I’m waiting.

I glance up at the perimeter. It’s surface looks brighter today, a shimmering silver, and I have to squint my eyes against the glare. The air isn’t cold but it’s cool enough that I tuck my hands under my arms to keep them warm as I wait.

I’m starting to feel sleepy, and the familiar ache has returned to my feet, when I catch movement from the corner of my eye.

A green-jacketed figure is striding along the street, the collar flipped up to hide his face. It’s him. I lean around the edge of the doorframe and watch him use a white key card to open the door to building 947. I desperately want to follow him but know that he’ll be able to corner me if I do. I wait impatiently, tapping my feet to keep my blood moving and my limbs loose. I need to be ready to run.

He emerges from the building thirteen minutes later with a briefcase-sized object under his arm. It’s wrapped in a tan cloth and he carries it carefully. Something valuable.

Instead of going back in the direction he came from, he heads further west, away from the monorail station and closer to the wall. I wait for him to gain a half a block before I start following. It would be safer to keep a two-block distance but I’m afraid of losing him. This might be the last time he returns to building 947.

He passes Ninth Avenue and stops to look over his shoulder. I duck behind an old fire hydrant and hope he doesn’t see me behind the rusting hunk of metal. I peek out a moment later and he’s nowhere in sight. I sprint to the street corner, looking left and right. I catch a flicker of movement at the corner of the next block and run after it. My breathing is heavy from the unexpected exertion and the muscles in my calves twinge in protest. I skid to a halt by the building edge and duck my head around the brick façade. I see him walking twenty feet away. I sigh in relief. I follow as quickly as I can, as we make our way along Ninth Avenue. We’re almost to the wall when he turns and takes the stairs up to the entrance of building 972. It’s a narrow, black stone building with wide glass windows, six stories high. An old bicycle is chained to the front stoop, it’s seat missing and the paint chipped from its frame.

He pauses at the entrance and pulls the key card from his pocket. The door slides open and he disappears inside. I wait for three minutes and then I follow. The access pad gives me trouble for a minute and I’m forced to improvise my key code four times before it beeps and the door slides open. I wonder if he’s tampered with the security system.

The entryway reveals a narrow strip of tiled floor with a spiral staircase at the opposite end. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling and I stop in amazement. The weak light filtering through the windows is enough to catch the crystals and send sparks of color across the room. I’ve never seen such an extravagant use of glass. Most light fixtures in Osiris are simple plasti-mold dishes that give off a uniform glow. This is so beautiful and unexpected I feel my lower jaw unhinge.

I realize I’m losing time and I tear my gaze from the chandelier. I approach the staircase. Its spiral loops twice and disappears into the entryway’s ceiling. I crane my neck to look up and see a glass atrium six flights up. There’s enough light from above for me to see there’s very little dust on the steps and the handrail has been wiped clean. Someone is taking care of this building.

There are no tracks to follow but I know I’m going to the top. There are exits at each floor but I ignore those and keep climbing. When I reach the fifth floor I slow down and creep up the final steps, until I can peek around the edge of the banister.

The entire top floor is an open room with high windows on each side, crowned with a domed roof made entirely of meter wide glass panels. The light looks brighter up here. It cascades over the clutter of benches and easels, the scatter of oil tubes and brushes. Paint splatters cover the wooden floor and stacks of scrap metal and wood are piled in one corner. A scent of turpentine and something sharp hangs in the air. I’ve never seen a room like it, so colorful and disorderly. A half finished canvas is propped in the center of the room. It looks like a beach or a lakefront, a great stretch of water and blue sky take up most of the picture.

Movement draws my attention and I see the man locking a trunk and pocketing an old fashioned silver key. He turns to the center of the room and I duck out of sight. I hear his footsteps cross the room and I panic for a moment thinking he’s headed back to the staircase, but they stop and the room is silent for long moments. My heartbeats boom in my ears during the gap and then music bursts to life in the room. I jump a little and my foot slips from the step. I grab at the banister to stay upright and hope he hasn’t seen me. He’s playing the music so loud, a great orchestra of strings and flute, so loud he certainly didn’t hear.

I wait for two minutes and ease my head around the banister a second time.

The man is standing in front of the canvas with a brush in one hand and a palette dabbed with oils in the other. I watch as he dips the brush into an indigo pigment and strokes it onto the canvas in smooth, rhythmic movements. He’s sharpening the delineation between water and sky, adding details and texture. I watch him coax oils onto the canvas, completely absorbed as the piece evolves from a two dimensional picture into something vibrant and forceful. I’ve never seen a body of water but I can almost smell the salty tang and hear the susurrus of the waves. My internal clock is ticking down but I can’t bring myself to leave. I forget for a moment why I’m here.

It’s not until he stands back from the easel that I realize he’s not collecting the artwork.

He’s making it. The paintings in building 947 are his.

I feel cold at the realization. Osiris has no artists. It’s an impractical skill, and while it’s not illegal, it’s highly discouraged. Citizens should be dedicating their time to community building, not expressing their views through an interpretive medium. He’s risking a lot, spending so much time on a frivolous hobby.

The curfew alarm goes off and the man looks up at the ceiling, as if judging the light level. He lingers in front of the painting for half a minute and then moves to the bench to clean his palette and paintbrush, leaving both resting among the other clutter. By the time he’s finished the perimeter is dimming. He turns the music off and I know he’s headed for the stairway.

I back down the steps and take the exit onto the fifth floor. The hallway is dark and I slot myself behind the already open doorway so he won’t see me. I listen as his footsteps pass by and keep going. I wait until I hear the front door close before I jog back up, taking the steps two at a time. I dash to the trunk at the far end of the room and crouch in front of it’s heavy wooden bulk. Metal strips line the edges and when I try lifting the container, it sits solidly against the floor. I won’t be able to force my way in. I examine the lock. It’s an old fashioned padlock, its thick pinkie-finger sized shackle looped through the metal clasp. I tug on it a few times and try prying it open. It doesn’t budge. I smack the top of the trunk in frustration. I don’t know how I’m going to open this without an access pad or a hacking program. I need that key.

Next Chapter: Chapter 11