to life in Luzonia, so why don’t we ever do stories on that? Book a plane ticket and submit your invoice to accounting. Don’t make this harder than it already is. Maybe the network will give you another chance.”
But True knows he’s soaked up all his chances and wrung them out. He’s overwhelmed by the injustice. Anger springs him into worthless action, and, before he can stop himself, he slams his fist into the edge of Rush’s table. Ruby-jewel drops trickle down his wrist onto the rug. But it doesn’t hurt; just a dull, electric sensation, as if his body can’t believe he’d sabotage himself.
Rush returns with a wad of toilet paper, tears off some squares. True wraps them around his hand, then drops to one knee.
“Go, Ailey. Get out of here. I’ll clean up your blood.”
True stands, waving toilet paper like parade streamers. Pathetic, he thinks. Rah, rah.
He trudges down the stale hallway to the elevator, and as he pushes the down button there’s a sound of smashing glass and a tremendous explosion. As True covers his face with his arms, the walls and ceiling crack into kaleidoscopes. True is heaved to the floor by a gush of blistering air. Heavy debris rains down. When his eyes blink open, he barely manages to avoid a girder knifing through the floor.
His ears buzz and ring in different pitches. He pulls himself out of the rubble and is, as far as he can tell, unscarred. Wades over to Rush’s, leaping through what was once his doorway. The wind spits inside—there’s no exterior wall. Seared to wall plaster is what’s left of Rush. True stares. A blood-red hologram appears in a swish of air, of True twisting in agony, screaming silently, disintegrating.
He knows he has to get away. He stumbles through the rubble.
CHAPTER 10
True contemplates vanishing into the countryside, or better yet, fleeing the country altogether. He doesn’t dare return home—nothing there worth the risk. Heads to the most crowded section of town, the mall, to lose himself in the throng. At a boutique he buys clothes, a baseball cap, sunglasses. He grabs reflections whenever possible to ensure no one’s following.
It’s also useless. He’s probably under electronic surveillance at this very moment. True ducks into an alley and flips open his wrist-top to monitor communications. As he quickly makes his way through the mall, changing directions, dodging bodies, winding his way through the crowds, he periodically checks it. But can’t isolate any communication patterns.
But this doesn’t add to his security because in the reflective front glass of a store selling artificial eyeballs he spots his tail again. True zoom-scans her image, then runs through the minions, glances back, only to see her follow. She’s talking into her hand. But when he checks his wrist-top, it records no conversation, no radio or any other communication waves. Just the perfect time for a malfunction.
He loses her when he joins a crowd of knotted-kneed tourists. The tourguide: “This, ladies and gentlemen, is Nerula’s Liberation Monument. Constructed out of coral mined from the surrounding sea.” True thinks he should mention that the removal of the coral reefs increased flooding, wreaked havoc with the local fishing industry, and increased soil erosion. He opens the maintenance door and tucks inside. It’s dark, probably the coolest non-air-conned place in Nerula, although True’s still sweating rivulets. He doesn’t think his shadow saw him, but can feel her move inexorably toward him nonetheless. He peers through a tiny porthole. Right outside she stops, standing guard. Or waiting for reinforcements.
True weighs climbing to the top, to maybe jump from the steeple top to the building across the way. Far, but maybe, just maybe. But the trap door leading skywards is blocked. Tries hitting it with all his might, but it’s sealed tight. Only one way out and she’s blocking it. Up higher, a window. He might just be able to squeeze
But True knows he’s soaked up all his chances and wrung them out. He’s overwhelmed by the injustice. Anger springs him into worthless action, and, before he can stop himself, he slams his fist into the edge of Rush’s table. Ruby-jewel drops trickle down his wrist onto the rug. But it doesn’t hurt; just a dull, electric sensation, as if his body can’t believe he’d sabotage himself.
Rush returns with a wad of toilet paper, tears off some squares. True wraps them around his hand, then drops to one knee.
“Go, Ailey. Get out of here. I’ll clean up your blood.”
True stands, waving toilet paper like parade streamers. Pathetic, he thinks. Rah, rah.
He trudges down the stale hallway to the elevator, and as he pushes the down button there’s a sound of smashing glass and a tremendous explosion. As True covers his face with his arms, the walls and ceiling crack into kaleidoscopes. True is heaved to the floor by a gush of blistering air. Heavy debris rains down. When his eyes blink open, he barely manages to avoid a girder knifing through the floor.
His ears buzz and ring in different pitches. He pulls himself out of the rubble and is, as far as he can tell, unscarred. Wades over to Rush’s, leaping through what was once his doorway. The wind spits inside—there’s no exterior wall. Seared to wall plaster is what’s left of Rush. True stares. A blood-red hologram appears in a swish of air, of True twisting in agony, screaming silently, disintegrating.
He knows he has to get away. He stumbles through the rubble.
CHAPTER 10
True contemplates vanishing into the countryside, or better yet, fleeing the country altogether. He doesn’t dare return home—nothing there worth the risk. Heads to the most crowded section of town, the mall, to lose himself in the throng. At a boutique he buys clothes, a baseball cap, sunglasses. He grabs reflections whenever possible to ensure no one’s following.
It’s also useless. He’s probably under electronic surveillance at this very moment. True ducks into an alley and flips open his wrist-top to monitor communications. As he quickly makes his way through the mall, changing directions, dodging bodies, winding his way through the crowds, he periodically checks it. But can’t isolate any communication patterns.
But this doesn’t add to his security because in the reflective front glass of a store selling artificial eyeballs he spots his tail again. True zoom-scans her image, then runs through the minions, glances back, only to see her follow. She’s talking into her hand. But when he checks his wrist-top, it records no conversation, no radio or any other communication waves. Just the perfect time for a malfunction.
He loses her when he joins a crowd of knotted-kneed tourists. The tourguide: “This, ladies and gentlemen, is Nerula’s Liberation Monument. Constructed out of coral mined from the surrounding sea.” True thinks he should mention that the removal of the coral reefs increased flooding, wreaked havoc with the local fishing industry, and increased soil erosion. He opens the maintenance door and tucks inside. It’s dark, probably the coolest non-air-conned place in Nerula, although True’s still sweating rivulets. He doesn’t think his shadow saw him, but can feel her move inexorably toward him nonetheless. He peers through a tiny porthole. Right outside she stops, standing guard. Or waiting for reinforcements.
True weighs climbing to the top, to maybe jump from the steeple top to the building across the way. Far, but maybe, just maybe. But the trap door leading skywards is blocked. Tries hitting it with all his might, but it’s sealed tight. Only one way out and she’s blocking it. Up higher, a window. He might just be able to squeeze
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