Accessing the Future: A Disability-Themed Anthology of Speculative Fiction (11 page)

I made myself drag up the video of Sana Tayadi’s speech before Congress again. The peak moment of Visibility, just three days before the legislation was passed.

Tayadi was held in a moment of time, forever before the podium, balanced against her mobility frame as she spoke. Her hands had a constant tremor that broke through the neurological controllers of the day. The screen set up on the podium before her—tiny and crude compared to the ones of today, and not yet portable—showed the impulses of epileptic seizures firing in her brain and being diffused by the controllers. Her voice was clear and had the edge of anger that had caught my attention the first time I heard it as a kid, and left me never able to ignore it no matter how many times it was recycled through school and the evening news.

We will make the invisible disabilities visible. You will not be able to pretend we don’t exist. We will be here. We have always been here. But you will see us, each and every one of us. All of these lifetimes you have been telling us to speak up, to make ourselves heard if we want to be counted. No more. We will be seen, we will be known. The burden will be on you to believe your own eyes. Not on us.

Tayadi’s speech was a watershed moment. It was amazing. Everybody agreed; it was right there in my assigned reading. What else could I possibly have to say about it?

“Hey, kiddo.” My dad leaned over my shoulder, squinting at the screen. “Again? Didn’t you write about this last year?”

“Every year.” I tapped the screen to pause it. “It was a big deal, though, you know? The major civil rights victory of our time. Your time. I guess it was before my time.”

He pursed his lips and stepped back a little. “I wouldn’t call it a cut and dry victory, Ellie.”

“Why don’t you like it?” I’d been hearing him and Mom fight about this for years, but I had never asked him. “Why are you against visibility?”

“I’m not against visibility at all.”

“You’re against screens.” I waved my hand at the tablet. “You don’t think this was a victory.”

“It was absolutely a victory. But not a cut and dry one. It’s more complicated than that.”

“What’s complicated? Explain it to me.”

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Do you remember your grandmother?”

She died when I was four. I had vague impressions at most, but I couldn’t tell him that. “Yeah, of course.”

“She had multiple sclerosis. Do you remember that?”

“Kind of.” I remembered the words more than anything, hearing my parents say them. I didn’t really learn what it meant until Visibility Enhancement in fifth grade.

“Well, your grandmother was a very private person. She would never have wanted anyone to know how much pain she was in on a given day, much less every random stranger who walked by.”

“But why not? If people know how you feel, they can make accommodations. They can help.”

“They can also be intrusive and judgmental.” He folded his arms across his chest, still looking at the paused video. “When people can see things, they have a tendency to think that’s all there is, and they stop listening. Stop letting you speak for yourself.”

“Well, you don’t have to speak. It’s right there.”

“There’s something right there. But not everything. There are… unquantifiables. Things we only find out if we talk to each other like people, instead of thinking seeing is knowing, all the time.” He sighed and turned away. “But maybe you’re right, Ellie. Maybe I’m just out of touch and you and your mom and the school are right.”

I felt like I’d done something really wrong, though I didn’t have any idea what. “When is dinner?”

“Twenty minutes or so. I’ll let you know when it gets closer.” His footsteps faded down the hall and I sat there, looking from the video to my half-started essay. Probably no one would notice if I turned in last year’s essay all over again. If Dad was right, they would see what they wanted to see and think it was all there was.

I knew that wasn’t how he meant it. I sighed, tapped the screen to start the video again, and started typing.

The next day at school, my dad’s words were still following me around. They got louder at lunch when I saw Stella sitting by herself in the far corner, face blank, still without a screen.

I walked over and sat down next to her without knowing what I was going to say, or if I was going to say anything. She looked up, her face tightening. I stared at the scabs below her collarbone where her leads had gone in. Scabs and faint bruises. Our screens really showed our insides. Breaking the link left marks. I could never do it.

She stared at me, her eyes unreadable, her lips parted just a little. I could see her teeth. I cleared my throat twice before I managed to talk.

“Hey, Stella.”

She didn’t answer, just tilted her head a little in an unspoken
What?

“How, um.” I cleared my throat again. “How are you doing?”

The silence stretched out for a really long moment. I could feel other eyes across the room drifting toward us, and I knew my screen was starting to flare with embarrassment and discomfort.

Stella knew it, too. Her eyes narrowed and her lip curled. “Fuck off.”

My screen lit up brighter and I heard the laughter start up somewhere across the room. I stood up and hurried away from her, stunned by how little I understood of what had just happened. What Dad said made me think that she would be secretly glad I asked, grateful. How was I supposed to tell if she was, deep down? How much could you hide when knowing things relied on everybody really paying attention? It wasn’t fair.

“Why did you do that?” Becca asked, frowning past me at Stella. “She’s not worth getting humiliated over.”

“Just forget it.”

Becca looked at me and her eyes widened. “Wow. You’re, like, actually upset. Over
her
? Why?”

I folded my arms over my screen and shook my head. “I don’t even want to talk about it. Let’s go outside, come on.”

She looked at me for a moment longer, frowning, but with my arms over the screen, I was invisible to her eyes.

“To the Pitch” by L.E. Badillo

Previous Page:

An old, bald man and young boy with short hair are in a residential garage that has a workbench and “everyday” tools hanging on the wall. There is also a window looking out on to a yard. The young boy is on the right side of picture. He is smiling and looking down at a soccer ball that he is kicking. On the left side of picture, the old man is sitting on a chair, making adjustments to his prosthetic right foot. There is an oil can and two ratchets on a cloth in front of him. He is holding a ratchet in his right hand and his shoe in his left hand. He is happily looking at the boy.

A Sense All its Own

Sara Patterson

Bren leaned forward, adrenalin surging as the final seconds of the battle clock ticked down.

3. 2. 1. Fight!

“Let’s go, Fang!” Bren cried. Her droid, Ivory Fang, added a metallic howl to Bren’s. Then they were surging across the battle zone in a blur of silver and gunmetal. Bren barely had to touch the accelerator. Her droid was just as eager for the hunt. In this way and others, Fang was a different kind of droid. Just as Bren was a different kind of pilot.

On Bren’s main display, one of Fang’s targeting scanners flashed a reading. Bren’s fingers moved across the controls with ease, magnifying the image to her preferred extra-larger-than-average specifications. A hundred yards away, her opponent piloted his tawny raptorin behind a jutting ridge of rock. Luring Bren into the small space gave the more heavily armored raptorin an advantage. But Bren still had a trick up her sleeve.

Canid droids—normal factory-standard ones—weren’t built to climb. But Fang was a hybrid, built from scratch with a more creative design. At Bren’s command, Fang leapt headlong towards the cliff. Bren tapped a customized button on the controls. Small compartments on the tops of Fang’s toes opened, releasing the spring-loaded claw-blades that Bren had installed. For a few seconds, Fang clung to the cliff, the motors in its joints straining with discomfort. Bren felt her droid’s resistance then—just the faintest hint of a tremor. A reminder that, yes, Fang still had traces of feral programming and could, if it chose to, disobey Bren’s commands. Even kill her.

“I know, Fang. Just bear with me a little longer. Soon, we’ll get to face some worthy opponents, just like I promised. But now, if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not lose my first audition match to some noob and his clunker.”

Her droid
harummed
in response and the controls slackened once more.

Bren pushed the accelerator, urging Fang up and over. More button pushing prepped the mounted rifle between Fang’s shoulders. The raptorin pilot was holding position in a narrow gap on the other side. Judging from the number of weapons he was powering, he hadn’t expected Bren to thwart his brilliant strategy by climbing directly over his cover.

Atop the ridge, Bren eased Fang forward, so that its head peered just far enough over the side to get a visual on their opponent. Only when they got there, Bren couldn’t seem to find him.

That couldn’t be right. Fang’s sensors were picking up the raptorin’s core readings directly below her. Fang was snarling. Urging her on—

Realization dawned, filling Bren with fury.

It’s my damn eyes.

Alarms blared, “Incoming projectile.”

Bren dodged aside, more out of instinct than skill. The sound of a rocket whizzed past—bare inches from Fang’s left optical sensor, and the reinforced glass-alloy that was Bren’s only protection from the battle.

She swore again. Bullets accosted her. The raptorin pilot was hoping to hit a vital point in Fang’s armor. But Bren still had the cliff for cover. And now, thanks to her opponent’s desperation, Bren had his location, too.

“Time to end this.”

Fang gave a metallic snarl of agreement. A hatch opened above Bren’s head, lowering a scope. Bren fitted it over her left eye, which was only marginally better than the other. She magnified the view with a custom lens until she could see the distinct blue glow of the raptorin’s core flickering in its chest. She aimed a little to the side. Enough for her shot to immobilize the droid without breaching its core.

This was just sport, after all.

Inside Dome Central, the weather simulators were working overtime. The sky-image was clear and cloudless, the temperature a comfortable 72 degrees—perfect conditions for Audition Tournament shopping.

Pilots hunting for deals on droid parts crowded the area. Bren was no exception. Fang needed repairs. She turned down a double–wide street, a metal basket of various doodads in each hand. This particular street in the Business Quarter was called “Mechanics Lane.” The mechanics and their garages were organized by quality—in a convenient (and strategic) descending order.

Though still a novice pilot, Bren was not as naïve as other noobs. She was a Gipson. And Teresa Gipson, rest her soul, didn’t tolerate sloppy work in
her
garage. So Bren moved on, ignoring fancy displays and their so-called “deals” for first-time auditioners.

She passed by an impressive garage with huge windows. The Victor team crest glowed in bright neon on every wall, giving the place a showroom quality. Inside were three of the four Victor brothers’ droids—all glistening, perfect, and incredibly rare—being tended by at least a dozen mechanics.

Bren started to move on, not realizing the youngest Victor was outside pacing and talking on his palm pad.

“‘Attacked?’ What do you mean ‘attacked’? Won’t be here until
when
?” He turned sharply, clipping Bren in the shoulder. “Owf—hang on! Watch where you’re going, you clumsy bi—” He froze.

Bren caught a distinct whiff of nervous sweat as he jerked away.

“You.”

“Heya, Aiden,” Bren said, curling her mouth into a wicked smile. “Been a while since your last challenge. I was starting to think you’d finally given up piloting. Can’t say I blame you, considering how I nailed your ass to the wall last time.”

“Shut up!” Aiden yelled, then realized he still had the palm pad to his ear. “No, I didn’t mean you—damn it.” He made a shooing motion. “Get lost, Gipson. I don’t have time to deal with you and your mongrel droid. I’ve got a tournament to prepare for.”

Bren smiled wider. “Oh, I didn’t realize you were auditioning this year. What happened? Daddy’s friends at the Droid Battle Committee couldn’t bend the rules and put you on a team?”

Aiden glared.

Bren knew she was being reckless. Here, in a Dome full of droid pilots and other folks in the industry, she had to be extra-mindful of how she presented herself in public—lest someone catch on that her eyes weren’t quite as good as they should be. But with this one pilot, Bren couldn’t help herself. Gipsons didn’t let go of grudges easily, and Aiden Victor had spit in her face twice.

Not literally, though Bren was sure he wanted to right now. The first offense was three years back when the Victor brothers had paid a visit to her mom’s “quaint” garage for tune-ups. A cocky Aiden, then fifteen, had slid a hand down Bren’s backside and offered to pass the time “tuning up” in a different sense. Bren had bloodied his nose. Aiden’s second offense came in a battle zone when he’d offered his father’s money in exchange for her surrender. Bren had refused and defeated him in record time.