When We Wake (12 page)

My second apology went like this.

Me, pretending not to notice half the class openly staring at me:
“I’m really sorry about that. I made a stupid mistake.”

Abdi, barely looking up from his computer:
“Okay.”

He didn’t look as if it was okay, though; he looked as if he was bored of the situation and wasn’t planning to be my bestie anytime soon.

I sat down and got on with my day. The right edge of Zaneisha’s lips creased slightly, which I interpreted as wild joy that her charge was finally in the place she was supposed to be.

I’d read about the school’s teaching methods in the infocasts, but it was different seeing them in action. Most of the actual teaching was done on the tubes, and students could access them whenever and wherever they chose. Assignments had to come in, and assessments had to be made. But other than that, students could do pretty much what they wanted, when they wanted.

Bethari was squashed into a beanbag in the corner, chatting with a red-haired boy as they went over a statistics assignment. Soren and his cronies were playing a game in the corner that had something to do with physics, and at least a quarter of the class was listening to music, either routed through their EarRings or under cover of sound shields. Joph wasn’t even the only one napping.

At my old high school, the teachers had ranged from angry-at-everything to nice-but-useless to occasionally-pretty-cool. None of them would let us eat in class, much less sleep or
play. I liked learning, but I’d always found school to be a long grind, and some days it had been slow torture waiting for the minutes to tick over and for my real life to start again.

Maybe I could get used to Elisa M.

I wasn’t staring at him or anything, but I did notice that Abdi wasn’t listening to music, taking a break, or interacting with anyone. He was staring into his computer, working steadily.

The classroom facilitator, Just-Call-Me Eden, gave me the rundown on the school’s policies of everything, but before I could get any work done, I had to have access to the school network. She frowned at Koko and muttered for a while, then enlightenment struck. “Oh!”

“Oh?”

“This computer is in kinder-mode! No wonder I can’t get you in.”

My computer was set up for babies. My cheeks burned. A huge drawback of pale skin is that everyone can see you blush.

Eden leaned over and tried a few commands until she got the hang of my model. “All right, Tegan. Spread your fingers here, and repeat after me.”

I did. “I identify myself as Tegan Marie Oglietti, registered owner of this device, and I authorize adult mode interaction.”

My fingers buzzed. Koko’s screen went dark, then lit up again. Then six different kinds of music started playing, all at top volume. To make matters worse, Koko was blasting the noise through my EarRing. I clawed off the mobile phone and dropped it on my desk, but the sound continued.

I saw Eden’s lips form the word
mute
, but her voice was swallowed in the cacophony. I caught fragments of other voices as I frantically waved my hands in the
go quiet
gesture.

“—satisfying your partner? Try Dr. Tantric’s—”

“—memory fabric! Your cut, your way! Hafiza’s—”

“—Danish prince with access to ten billion kroner. Dear friend—”

Koko wasn’t paying attention to my gesturing. Her screen was shooting 3-D images at me, overlaying them in a complex collage of color and form, and when I lost my head and folded her over, trying to enclose the images inside, they just switched to her “back.” Even scrunched into a ball, the computer chattered and flashed.

“Quiet!” I yelled. “Oh my god, shut up.”

Most of the class was laughing or cringing. Eden was no help whatsoever, and Bethari was still struggling out of her beanbag.

It was Abdi who got there first, while I was squashing Koko against the desk in a futile attempt to stifle her shouting with my hands.

He put a hand on my shoulder. “I assert my rights as outlined in the Advertising-Free Zones Act 2098,” he said clearly, right into my ear. “Repeat it.”

Voice shaking, I did.

There was stunning, miraculous silence, and the images winked out. Koko showed the cheerful glow of her start mode, peaceably awaiting instruction.

“What was that?” I whispered.

It had been to myself, but Abdi heard me. “Advertising,” he said quietly. “It can be a shock. If you’re not used to it.”

“Yes,” I said. My hands were trembling, too, and I sat down before my knees gave out. “Thank you.”

He examined my face. Those light brown eyes were expressionless, but his mouth was pursed. “You’re welcome,” he said finally. “I will see you in music.”

He returned to his seat at the front of the class and went back to ignoring me as steadily as he did everyone else in the room.

Joph lifted her head from her arms. “What happened?” she asked. “Did something just happen?”

I was wondering that myself.

Fortunately for my state of mind, Bethari and I were doing only a half day at school. The whispering stopped, eventually, and by the time Bethari got up and nodded at the door, I was almost in a decent mood again.

I even remembered to let Zaneisha go out the door first.

“Gregor’s bringing the car around,” she reported in the corridor. “Media waiting at all exits.”

I sighed, but I’d been expecting it. Bethari looked intrigued.

Zaneisha continued. “Head down, don’t make eye contact, ignore the bumblecams, and—”

“I know. No comment.”

Master Sergeant Gregor Petrov was my other bodyguard. He smiled more than Zaneisha, but I got the feeling he was laughing at me and my inevitable confusion. He was waiting just inside the door and nodded at Zaneisha as we got close.

“Go,” Zaneisha said, and for the second time that day, the world exploded into noise and color.

This time, I knew what to expect. The journalists weren’t allowed onto the school’s private property, but nothing stopped them from shouting questions from the street. Their bumblecams swarmed above them, no doubt getting pixel-perfect shots of my face. I was concentrating on looking blank. I’d never really tried to cover up my emotions before, and it was harder than I’d thought to pull my frown into a neutral line and smooth out my forehead. Maybe Zaneisha could give me lessons on that, too.

I saw Carl Hurfest’s red hair but managed not to give him the finger or stick my tongue out for the cameras, which filled me with pride. One of the journalists, in plain linen wear much like mine, was standing at the back of the crowd. He stood out because of his calmness. He probably thought he could entice the shy Living Dead Girl to him as if I were a stray cat.

Good luck, buddy.

Whatever their tactics, shouting or standing back, they weren’t going to let up. And what Dawson had said was true; it took only one slip. Now that they knew I could be caught, they were going to do their very best to catch me.

I couldn’t blame them, but I could hate them, and I did.

“Is that Abdi Taalib?” I heard someone say. “Abdi! Abdi! What do you think of Tegan?”

“We have reports that there was friction between you and Tegan this morning. Any comment?”

“But you later assisted her. Are you two friends?”

“Do you have a lot in common?”

“What’s your connection?”

Twisting in Zaneisha’s grip, I caught one glimpse of Abdi. He was standing in the doorway, looking horrified beyond belief.

But his voice was clear, that lilting accent distinct over the hubbub. “We have no connection.” Then Zaneisha shoved my head down and hustled me into the car. Bethari ducked in behind me, the door slammed, and for a long, lovely moment, everything was silent.

I fumbled on my seat belt and slumped against the seat as Zaneisha started to move the car, and the flock of bumblecams fell away behind us. “I hate journalists.”

“Thanks,” Bethari said.

She didn’t sound offended, though, so I waved my hand. “I’ll hate you later. You’re not one yet.”

“Of course I am,” she said, blinking at me. “Didn’t you look at my ’casts?” She reached for her computer.

Bethari’s tubecast node was an interesting mix. There were a few reviews, of music and fashion, with a lot of focus on headscarves and shoes. A lot were opinions on other news stories, all of them sharp and pithy. There was a big category called
NO MIGRANT? NO WAY!
that had gathered a lot of comments, some of them really nasty. And there was a small section of arty vidcasts, taken on a bumblecam that swooped around Bethari’s cheerleading squad as they somersaulted and soared, behaving as if gravity were an occasional inconvenience instead of an undeniable force.

There was absolutely nothing about me.

I made a mental note to check out the node later in more detail. But right then, what I really wanted was gossip.

“So,” I said, drawing out the word slyly, “what’s the ontedy on Joph? She seems to like you a lot.”

Bethari rolled her eyes. “Ex-girlfriend.”

“I thought you didn’t screw the crew?”

“I don’t now. It was awkward after we broke up. She has a knack for home creation, which is fine and everything, except then she started spending all her time in her lab. She missed dates, she was acting like a total spacer, she slept through class or just didn’t bother to turn up, and I swear she was lying to me. So I broke it off. We’re pretty much friends again now.”

“Wow. Her parents didn’t notice?”

“Oh, they’re thrilled. Chemistry firms are dying to recruit her.”

“Wait. Drugs are legal?”

“Well, sure. Why—oh! Right. Yeah, about forty years ago. They’re tested and controlled, subject to advertising and enviro standards, like everything else. Perfectly legal for sixteen and up. I don’t take them, of course, but I don’t care if others do.” She shrugged. “It’s just that she’s the smartest person at Elisa M, and now she spends most of her days drifting around looking at the pretty colors.”

“So you try to look after her?”

Bethari snorted. “I don’t want to be anyone’s mother. But… I don’t know. No one’s really worried about Joph, you know? Just what she can do. She’s a genius; she could do anything, but instead she’s going to waste all those brains on making happy
pills? That’s not right.” Her voice firmed. “I’m going to be the most viewed ’caster in the world. My content’s going to make people think, make them change. I want that No Migrant policy gone.”

“But if Australia really can’t support all those people…”

Bethari’s face was fierce. “Australia has the resources to support every single person in those camps. Rising oceans, rising populations, diminishing food production, and a wealthy world superpower won’t accept
any
refugees, because people are clinging to what they’ve got and refusing to share? That’s disgusting.”

She reminded me, right then, of Dalmar. Not his looks, but his quiet passion for justice. And Alex, too, who was anything but quiet, who thrust herself to the front of every protest and happily talked to strangers on the street, getting people who tried to avert their eyes to see her, to see the issues.

I was fine throwing myself off heights or jumping narrow gaps, but I really envied that kind of bravery.

“I’m so glad you’re my friend,” I told Bethari.

“Me too,” she said, and we hugged in the backseat, stretching our seat belts to their limits.

As I sat back, a little bit teary, I saw the church over Bethari’s shoulder.

I hadn’t seen the Catholic basilica on the way to Elisa M. I’d been so stressed about school that I hadn’t paid attention to anything out the window.

But I saw it now—the dome, the earthy yellow-gray of the sandstone it was made from, nestled between the skyscrapers on either side. Although no sunlight could reach it through its
tall neighbors, the stone seemed to glow with its own warm radiance. I didn’t think about it; I just lunged for the back of Zaneisha’s seat and stuck my head into the driver’s section.

“We have to go back!” I said. “I want to go to that church!”

Zaneisha’s jaw twitched, but her gloved hands were immobile on the wheel. “That’s not in my instructions,” she said.

Bethari was leaning over the backseat to catch a glimpse of the church. She turned around. “Are you denying Tegan her right to free worship, as outlined in the Constitution of the Republic of Australia?” she inquired. She didn’t sound angry; she sounded politely curious.

“I’m denying Ms. Oglietti her wish to walk into an unsecured area with no notice,” Zaneisha said, equally polite.

“That’s fascinating,” Bethari said, yanking me out of the gap between the front seats. I fell back, watching the way Bethari’s pretty face sharpened, like a fox on the hunt. Her computer was in her hand, squished into a tiny ball and held through the gap. It wasn’t quite a bumblecam, but I was sure it was recording just as well; Bethari would have the best media apps. “Sergeant Washington, would you like to tell my viewers more about your opposition to the free worship of Ms. Oglietti?”

“No comment,” Zaneisha said automatically, then, “Put that away.”

“Are you also in favor of suppressing the free media?” Bethari asked innocently.

“I could confiscate that computer under the Media Safety Act and have your credentials revoked.”

Bethari flinched, but her voice was steady. “I could report the confiscation to Media Monitor,” she said.

Muscles jumped in Zaneisha’s jaw, but at the next set of traffic lights, she reached for her EarRing. “Gregor. Change of plans. Ms. Oglietti’s going to church.”

Bethari settled back and grinned at me as we made the turn.

Okay. Maybe I didn’t hate
all
journalists.