But if I’m honest with myself, I can’t deny there’s one more reason I want to go to Xavier’s. I can’t get the image of Raine out of my mind. I pictured her over and over again last night as I walked home, and then again first thing when I woke this morning. I see her climbing up the side of her apartment building, and then I hear Dot whispering, Escapee. Is this another odd hobby of Raine’s, or does she have something she’s trying to escape from too?
I shake my head and down the rest of my coffee. Thank God for Xavier’s invite. I can’t spend the whole day and night thinking about the complications of Raine’s privileged life when I have plenty of my own.
A Bot Named Dot
I take a cab for part of the way there. Not because I need to. According to Xavier’s directions it’s only about three miles away—in just about the same deserted section where the Network hid me and Kara in the basement when we escaped from Gatsbro. I’d rather walk the whole way there after being stuck in the apartment all day, but I’ve been in Boston for five days now and haven’t done one of the most important things I came here to do.
I didn’t need Miesha’s reminder. I remember Dot. She’s with me every day. It’s hard to forget someone who gave their— What do you call it? A life? She was a Bot. A half Bot at that. But she had hopes, dreams, she wanted to become more. I guess she didn’t realize she already had.
It’s risky for me to hail a CabBot. I know that. I could get an infiltrator as Dot called them, but her story has to be told so it can be passed on just the way she wanted, the way she hoped it would be. I owe her that much.
“Where to?” the CabBot asks.
“Just head toward South Boston. I’ll tell you when I want off.”
“Yes, sir.”
I immediately see he’s not chatty the way Dot was. I hope I made the right choice and he’s not a CabBot in search of a bounty and legs.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“BobBot#124, sir.”
“Mind if I just call you Bob?”
“That would be fine.” He glances at me suspiciously in his rear viewing glass.
“Did you ever meet a CabBot named Dot Jefferson, Bob?”
His brows rise and he hesitates. “No,” he finally answers. He knew her. But it could be he’s afraid to admit it—or he’s planning on turning me in for points, but there’s no going back now.
“There’s a story I heard about Dot. You might like to hear it?”
“If it pleases you. But we’re quickly nearing your destination.”
He’s right. Traffic has thinned. Cars headed toward this part of Boston are few. “The story won’t take long,” I tell him and I jump right in. “Dot used to drive for Star Transportation just like you. She was DotBot#88 but said she hated that name so she named herself Dot Jefferson. The way I heard it, one day she got a customer who needed to Escape. She decided to help him even though it meant she might be released or even recycled. You ever hear of Escape, Bob?”
“No, sir.”
“Really? That surprises me.” He doesn’t respond. “Well, Dot had and she risked everything to help this customer she didn’t even know because she understood what it was like to have no future. She retooled her cab and drove him and his friend halfway across the country but Star Security found the cab signal anyway and disabled the vehicle.”
“They got her?”
At least I know he’s listening. “Almost, but the guy she was helping couldn’t just leave her in the disabled cab after all she had done for him so he yanked her out and gave her some temporary wheels to get around. She continued on the journey with him and then went off in another direction to act as a decoy. She saw more of the world, more than she said she ever hoped to see—Texas, Mexico, California. When she met up with this guy again, she told him about seeing the mystic orange sunsets of Santa Fe, and the jewel blue sea of the Gulf. Jewel blue. That’s just how she described it. Can you believe that?
“She told him a lot of other things too. She told him she had hopes and dreams. She said as a CabBot she had always imagined where her customers went and what they did. She imagined their secret worlds and dreamed that those worlds would one day be hers too. She told him that Escape was not about moving from one place to another but about becoming more. She said she would do anything to help an Escapee—that it was her chance to be somebody too—the most she could ever hope to be. She said she would be able to share the story of Escape with others like her, and if for some reason she didn’t make it, then stories would be told about her because it might help other Escapees. That’s what I’m doing now, Bob, telling stories about her just like she wanted.”
“She didn’t make it?”
I shake my head. “Her last act was to save this guy and her last words were, ‘Mission accomplished.’ She was buried beneath a tree and given a marker with the full name she chose, including her title. Officer Dot Jefferson, Liberator.”
“A marker for a Bot. That’s quite a story,” he says.
“Yes. It is.”
“Have you told this story to anyone else?”
“No. You’re the first, Bob.”
He stops the car and swivels in his seat to look at me. “We’re at your destination.”
“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”
“That’s all.”
I reach into my pocket for my money card. I’m not sure anything I said sunk in or if the story will be passed on, but there are other CabBots. There have to be others like Dot. I’ll find them.
I lean forward to wave the card over the scanner and he grabs my wrist. I freeze. The last time a CabBot grabbed my wrist, I tore off his arm. Restraint, Locke, but I keep thinking of Karden’s knife in my pack on the seat beside me and how fast I can get to it. Our eyes are locked on each other. I’m not sure what I’m seeing. “Are you going to let go of my wrist?”
“I suppose I’d be a fool not to, wouldn’t I?”
He knows. Somehow, he knows. Whichever side of the Network he works on, the news of the severed arm has traveled fast. He slowly loosens his grip and pushes my card away.
“What do I owe you?”
“No charge. I like a good story.”
* * *
Xavier was clear. Don’t walk in a straight shot. Double back. Watch. And make sure it’s dark. No one’s following me. I’m good at memorizing faces and crowds now. I looked over my shoulder all the way from California to make sure that what was left of Gatsbro’s goons weren’t on my trail. I spotted Xavier a mile off when he followed me to the cemetery. No one is following me tonight. It’s nearly dark when I arrive at the street Xavier told me about. The neighborhood appears to be deserted. It’s an area of run-down row homes and apartments that I think date back to my time. Most look like they’re ready to fall down with a good wind, but I’m guessing the real estate around here is free for the taking and that’s probably the right price for Non-pacts. Some of the lots contain nothing but mounds of rubble and weeds, like the earth is swallowing up the decaying neighborhood in gradual bites. I walk down the middle of the street to avoid the dark shadows on either side. This is where Xavier lives?
He said to turn right down an alley when I reached the four-story brick building. I see it ahead, like a looming black monster. This is a long way to go to share a can of beans with someone who’s lousy at conversation. I stop at the end of the alley before I walk down. It looks like a dead end ahead. I hate dead ends. I might be strong but I can’t jump four-story walls in a single bound. I walk, slowly and deliberately, tall like I own the planet, like thinking it will make it so. This has to be the blackest, most depressing place anyone could live.
Halfway down the alley I hear murmurs and music and when I reach the brick wall at the end of the alley, I turn left and find myself looking into a huge open area bordered on all sides by more tall brick buildings making it a private courtyard. Dozens of people occupy it. At least sixty. Scavenged chairs, sofas, and crates form a circle around a bonfire in the middl
e. Children run on the perimeters, laughing and playing tag. I take a few steps closer. Slabs of meat cook on an open grill in one corner, and in another three men and a woman play a violin, a guitar, a flute, and something that looks like a small harp. A little farther over, three old women laugh, trying to persuade some young children to dance with them. A younger woman stands near the fire in the middle, telling a story to a few who are sitting close by, her hands expressive, chopping the air with punctuation and passion. The sounds of all the activity bounce off the surrounding walls and blend together in a pleasant rumble.
I scan the group, looking for Xavier, and finally spot him on the far side of the fire ring. He’s sitting in a low chair, patting an infant on his shoulder, and talking to a small child standing next to him. I watch his lips, Go get your mother, and the child races to an open doorway.
I can’t move. I can hardly think. I just watch until Xavier spots me and waves me over. Heads turn. A young girl with long braids squeals and runs and grabs my hand like she knows who I am and she drags me over to Xavier.
“Locke’s here!” she says over and over until we reach him. A woman approaches and takes the baby from Xavier and he stands. In an instant, he looks different to me. Stronger? Younger? More formidable? He hides things well. Especially all of this. He hesitates for a moment like he’s trying to gauge my reaction and finally says, “Welcome.” He turns to the small group that has gathered. “Everyone, this is Locke.”
I feel a hand on my shoulder. Someone grabbing my hand to shake it. Shy faces, smiles, whispered welcomes, a cadre slipping close to take a first-hand look. They say a word, two words, then more, spilling of eagerness.
Thanks, thank you, thanks for inviting me, nice to meet you too, yes, it smells good. Hello.
I’m Em. I’m Jane. Leon. Caran. Fretta. Jacob. Erina. Lou. A dozen more names I can’t remember.
I’m led to a chair and another pair of hands push on my shoulders until I’m seated. This is the best seat, especially for someone your size. The small crowd slips away as quickly as it came upon me, and they go back to their preparations, conversations, and music.
Xavier and I sit beside each other in chairs, both of us silent.
“You have children,” I finally say.
“Two.”
“I didn’t expect this.”
“You thought I lived in that basement? And only ate stale nuts? Non-pacts have lives too.” He motions to our surroundings. “Such as it is.”
“Is Livvy here somewhere?”
“She lives in a different neighborhood a few blocks south of here.”
“And Carver?”
“Same as Livvy.”
I watch him survey the courtyard, like he’s trying to see what I see. Such as it is. We mumble an occasional word to each other, usually me asking a question about one person or another, but mostly I take it all in. The squalor is impossible to ignore, but there’s still something compelling about it all. Some sort of energy that’s impossible to extinguish. It swirls in the aroma of a meal about to be served, the frenzy of last-minute preparations, the clanking of pots and platters, the calling of this child or that to fetch something, and then unexpectedly, grace. They say grace. One by one a hand is outstretched to the next, one by one, until a circle of hands that include mine is connected. I bow my head. My chest aches. It’s been so long.
Food is spread out on a long table and everyone helps themselves. It’s simple but good. Roasted vegetables, hot bread, fresh greens with sliced red onions, grilled meat, smoked fish, pickled eggs, an amalgam of foods brought from different households to share. It reminds me of the potlucks my relatives used to have, only this one is bigger. No one takes more than their share. Maybe less. I’m careful with my portions.
We eat from plates in our laps and older men tell stories with full mouths and children finish their meals first and return to their play. Each of my forkfuls is watched as it enters my mouth and when I nod in approval at the taste I see a smile on the person who provided it. I acknowledge every morsel. My mother would be proud.
When meals are done and dishes cleared, the music resumes. It’s not just the three old ladies dancing now. Couples, women with women, men with men, children, everyone dancing together. The woman who took the baby from Xavier at the beginning of the evening comes and grabs his hand now and drags him into the circle of dancers. I see a ring on her finger. His wife. He doesn’t protest. He’s a different Xavier, soft putty in her small hands.
It’s not long before a thin old woman grabs my hand. I can’t dance. Especially not this dance, but I go along. I don’t think I really have a choice. I do my best and my missteps provide laughter for everyone—plus a couple of bruised toes. A few of the girls are closer to my age, maybe fourteen, and seem embarrassed when we occasionally end up as partners. I really make an effort not to step on their toes. Occasionally everyone steps back and claps as a few of the more accomplished dancers step forward and entertain everyone with steps that amaze me. I’m surprised to find myself laughing and hooting along with everyone else.
It’s way better than sitting alone in my quiet apartment studying files, and right now nothing is required of me except to enjoy myself. It’s a feeling I haven’t had since some of my nights looking up at the stars with Jenna. That already seems so long ago. My thoughts jump to Raine, who seems to transform under a night sky and stars. I wonder if she’s on her roof now?
A new dancer enters the center of the circle, but both Xavier and I turn our attention somewhere else at the same time. Bright lights illuminate the walls of the alley where I entered. Xavier steps forward and holds both of his hands up and the music stops and everyone’s quiet. It’s a signal they recognize. We hear a vehicle coming down the alley just seconds before it appears—a long white van. Xavier looks at me with some desperation, glances to the surrounding buildings and back to me again. “Too late to hide you,” he whispers. “Sit in that chair, don’t talk, keep your head down.” I follow his instructions, moving to the closest chair around the fire ring. A few others follow suit. An older woman throws a shawl over my head and stands in front of me.
The van pulls into the courtyard and two men wearing uniforms get out. I recognize the badges on their sleeves. Security.
“We need some workers,” one of them says. He’s tall and broad-shouldered and looks like he could handle any kind of work by himself.
Xavier steps forward. “It’s late, friend. We’ve already put in long days. We’re about to retire for—”
“Looks like you’re just getting started to us,” the shorter one says. “You can’t spare a few strong backs for some unloading at the docks?”
Non-pacts must be cheaper labor than Bots. No one responds.
“Maybe these Nops are so rich they don’t need work anymore.”
I grip the arms of my chair trying to remain seated. Last time I heard that term for a Non-pact I almost flew across a plaza at the man who said it. These two guys are clearly outnumbered and yet no one moves. The one guy is big—as big as me—but I could take him. At least I’d like to try, but the tension in the air tells me there’s more at stake here than insults. His words drip with authority and threat. Do this or you’ll never get work again. Or maybe worse.
“Wait.” An elderly man steps forward. “I’ll go.”
The tall thug brushes past him nearly knocking him over. “We said strong, old man.” He motions at the fellow who had been playing the violin. “We’ll take this one.” He walks around the group looking them over. They are no more than cattle to him and he’s shopping for the strongest. “And this one.” He looks around at some of the others like he’s disgusted. Non-pacts tend to be smaller and thinner than most people.
He spots me. The shawl shadows my face and disguises my shoulders, but he can still see that I’m sizable. “And him.”
Xavier rushes over and steps between us. “You don’t want him. Can’t follow instructions.” He taps his head like I have jelly for brains. ??
?He’s simple.”
Come on. Push it. I’d love to work for you.
The thug shakes his head in disgust. “Which of you aren’t?” He points out two other men near him and says, “Let’s go. We don’t have all night.”
The men load into the van and they’re gone. That fast. The party is over. Of those who remain, most return to their homes in the surrounding buildings. A few return to the chairs by the dying embers of the fire, perhaps not wanting the further desolation of empty dark apartments. Xavier sits in the chair beside me. A vein that crawls across his temple is raised like hot lava is flowing through it.
“We could have crushed them,” I say.
“We will,” he answers. “When we have Karden.”
Turning Out the Lights
I spend the rest of that night and the next three days studying the files back at the apartment. Suddenly it’s not a chore. I know the entire hierarchy of Secretary Branson’s staff, from LeGru all the way down to his driver, who is a Bot named Gor. I know the days of the week he visits the Old Library Building and how long he spends there. I know who delivers groceries to his apartment and how many bags they carry. I know how many times the Collective has met at the Branson apartment in the last three months and who attended. What I don’t know is how the Network observed all this without detection, but I do know I’ve underestimated them.
Each night I turn out the lights and close the window coverings to block out all light. The first night I can only manage the complete blackness for a few seconds before I turn the light back on. The room is still there. I breathe deeply and try again. I know I’m not trapped in that small cube again, but my body still reacts. Sweat beads on my forehead. My lungs flatten like there’s no air in them. I repeat Jenna’s words to myself. Change doesn’t happen overnight. It’s molded by people who don’t give up. I try again and again and each time I picture the Security thug shopping for Non-pacts like they were tools in a hardware store. That image fuels me to withstand what I hate.