B. CLOTs are popping up left and right!”
“What’s a CLOT?”
“Complete Lack of Thought!” Me-2 threw up its synthetic arms. “From there, it’s only a hop, skip, and a jump to the—”
“Those aren’t CLOTs, doofus— that kind of stuff happens every day. Why do you think I never watch the news?”
“Then explain Zurich!” Me-2 pointed to the picture-in-picture, where the capital of Switzerland had erupted in a torrent of political protests. “The Swiss are neutral about everything!”
“You’re crazy, Me. In fact, you’re doing exactly what my science teacher Dr. Isakoff says not to do: come up with a theory first and then find evidence to support it!”
The Me-2’s liquid crystal eyes took another glance at the events transpiring around the globe.
“Yeah, maybe you’re right, B. Maybe it’s all just part of the Plan . . .”
“That’s the spirit!” Benjamin yanked the clicker away from his alternate brother and turned off the boob tube. “Now beat it and let me get back to work.”
Seemsberia, The Seems
After the bus carrying Simly had passed through the gates of Seemsberia proper, he had been escorted down the steps and led directly to processing. Like every other Seemsian whose fate it was to reflect on their deeds behind these stone walls, he was searched, showered, relieved of his personal property, and issued a standard jumpsuit and prisoner ID number. Then, per Fixer Blaque’s agreement with the Warden, the Briefer was locked in the relative safety of a twelve-by-twelve holding cell until the next morning. That agreement had suddenly changed.
“But why can’t I stay in the Pokey?”
Simly Frye’s feet were in shackles, which didn’t exactly help him keep up with the Corrections Officer who was leading him down the long, dank hallway.
“New batch a’inmates comin’ in,” said the guard, ignoring the catcalls coming from the cells that lined both walls. “Gotta make room.”
“But I’m only here for one day!”
“Sorry, kid. Warden’s orders.” The Officer stopped before a tall steel door, then brusquely undid the shackles. “Suggest you wear these.”
He handed Simly a thick wool jacket and cap, pulled a fat brass key off the rings on his belt, and inserted it into the heavy latch on the door.
“Is it safe out there?” asked Simly. His teeth were already chattering, but not from the cold.
“Long as you don’t get on nobody’s bad side.”
With that, the guard opened the door and pushed the prisoner outside.
“Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time,” Simly whispered to himself. But when his eyes adjusted to the harsh light and he took the first look at his home for the next twenty-five hours, he was pretty sure he couldn’t.
Fenced in on all sides by barbed wire and overseen by four separate guardposts was a football-sized yard of frozen tundra. Inmates dressed in heavy layers were scattered across the ice and mud, pumping iron, playing chess, and engaging in the ancient sport of Distraction. Most were broken into clearly delineated cliques, and Simly recognized people in The Know, as well as the infamous Rocky Road Gang and even a crew of Seems Firsters. 20 But as he tucked his hands in his pockets and found a quiet corner, there was one posse that scared the Briefer more than all the others combined.
There were at least a hundred of them, all congregated on the stone stairs that overlooked the east side of the yard. At first glance, there was little they had in common with each other, for Pencil Pushers sat alongside Reality Checkers who chewed the fat with Drifters and Degenerators. But upon closer inspection, even the casual observer could spot somewhere on each prisoner’s body a tattoo or patch or piece of jewelry depicting what would have been a mark of shame in mainstream Seemsian society, yet here was considered a badge of honor:
A sinister black wave.
“You must be a newbie!”
Simly turned to see an old man with a
“What’s a CLOT?”
“Complete Lack of Thought!” Me-2 threw up its synthetic arms. “From there, it’s only a hop, skip, and a jump to the—”
“Those aren’t CLOTs, doofus— that kind of stuff happens every day. Why do you think I never watch the news?”
“Then explain Zurich!” Me-2 pointed to the picture-in-picture, where the capital of Switzerland had erupted in a torrent of political protests. “The Swiss are neutral about everything!”
“You’re crazy, Me. In fact, you’re doing exactly what my science teacher Dr. Isakoff says not to do: come up with a theory first and then find evidence to support it!”
The Me-2’s liquid crystal eyes took another glance at the events transpiring around the globe.
“Yeah, maybe you’re right, B. Maybe it’s all just part of the Plan . . .”
“That’s the spirit!” Benjamin yanked the clicker away from his alternate brother and turned off the boob tube. “Now beat it and let me get back to work.”
Seemsberia, The Seems
After the bus carrying Simly had passed through the gates of Seemsberia proper, he had been escorted down the steps and led directly to processing. Like every other Seemsian whose fate it was to reflect on their deeds behind these stone walls, he was searched, showered, relieved of his personal property, and issued a standard jumpsuit and prisoner ID number. Then, per Fixer Blaque’s agreement with the Warden, the Briefer was locked in the relative safety of a twelve-by-twelve holding cell until the next morning. That agreement had suddenly changed.
“But why can’t I stay in the Pokey?”
Simly Frye’s feet were in shackles, which didn’t exactly help him keep up with the Corrections Officer who was leading him down the long, dank hallway.
“New batch a’inmates comin’ in,” said the guard, ignoring the catcalls coming from the cells that lined both walls. “Gotta make room.”
“But I’m only here for one day!”
“Sorry, kid. Warden’s orders.” The Officer stopped before a tall steel door, then brusquely undid the shackles. “Suggest you wear these.”
He handed Simly a thick wool jacket and cap, pulled a fat brass key off the rings on his belt, and inserted it into the heavy latch on the door.
“Is it safe out there?” asked Simly. His teeth were already chattering, but not from the cold.
“Long as you don’t get on nobody’s bad side.”
With that, the guard opened the door and pushed the prisoner outside.
“Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time,” Simly whispered to himself. But when his eyes adjusted to the harsh light and he took the first look at his home for the next twenty-five hours, he was pretty sure he couldn’t.
Fenced in on all sides by barbed wire and overseen by four separate guardposts was a football-sized yard of frozen tundra. Inmates dressed in heavy layers were scattered across the ice and mud, pumping iron, playing chess, and engaging in the ancient sport of Distraction. Most were broken into clearly delineated cliques, and Simly recognized people in The Know, as well as the infamous Rocky Road Gang and even a crew of Seems Firsters. 20 But as he tucked his hands in his pockets and found a quiet corner, there was one posse that scared the Briefer more than all the others combined.
There were at least a hundred of them, all congregated on the stone stairs that overlooked the east side of the yard. At first glance, there was little they had in common with each other, for Pencil Pushers sat alongside Reality Checkers who chewed the fat with Drifters and Degenerators. But upon closer inspection, even the casual observer could spot somewhere on each prisoner’s body a tattoo or patch or piece of jewelry depicting what would have been a mark of shame in mainstream Seemsian society, yet here was considered a badge of honor:
A sinister black wave.
“You must be a newbie!”
Simly turned to see an old man with a
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