Gifted (5 page)

Just then, the pedestal stops and the 'razzi drones fly off. As Ara comes down the steps, I grab her arm. “Come on. I need to get out of here. Now.”

Ara and I make our escape through a side door of the gallery to avoid the MajorDoormo announcing our departure. Outside, in the loading zone, cars zip in and out. Since it's after nine o'clock, the Distract is lit up like midday with LED displays on every building surface, but without my EarBug, none of the ads can talk to me directly. Above us, a twenty-foot tall Raj, arm-in-arm with Quinby, flashes across the side of the gallery building. Overhead, a hologram of Geoff Joffrey dances across the rooftops. He does a trademark spin, one arm up, then points at all the little people, teeming like ants following chemical trails from hot spot to hot spot, down below.

“Are you okay?” Ara asks, still flushed from her brush with the Buzz.

“Yeah, fine,” I tell her, but it's not true.

“What'd that girl want?”

My Cicada pulls up in front of us. The topside doors open like wings. I glance over my shoulder, making sure Calliope isn't following us. “For me to convince my father to restart her career,” I lie as we climb inside. “Happens all the time.”

“What a pain,” Ara says with an indifferent shrug. “So, what should we do now? Where should we be seen?”

She points at the WindScreen lit up with all the hottest destinations for us to hit tonight.

“The end of the Geoff Joffrey concert at your dad's arena? The first movie from Rajesh's Captain Happenstance trilogy is still playing. Have you seen it yet? Oh, look!”

She touches a pix of a cat in a tux to pull up info on a retrospective called
U Must B Kitten Me
.

“Do you remember that girl Lynna Orkowski from SCEWL? I heard her ASA didn't fully take and now she's totally obsessed with cats. She draws cats, paints cats, makes tiny outfits just for cats.” Suddenly Ara looks horrified. “Oh, god!” she says. “What if that happens to me?”

“Can we just get the hell out of here?” I ask, then tell my car's V2V NaviSystem to take us home. “I can't handle any more
sosh
tonight.” I reach across Ara and open the glove box for my own silver flask.

“Is that a receiver?” She points at a black device tucked behind the flask.

I nod. “I got it from the Plebe Rajesh knows who sells the Juse.” I take a swig. I need another hit after that conversation with Calliope. I know it's dumb to let her spook me. She's just a brain activist with a vendetta against my father. But none of them have ever targeted me. Plus she knew so much about the situation—my parents' divorce that's lingered in the courts for years and my doubts about having an ASA. I can't help but wonder where she's getting her information and it's freaking me out.

“Wouldn't your dad kill you if he finds out you listen to pirate radio?” Ara asks and takes the flask from me.

“Market research,” I joke and feel myself begin to relax as the Juse seeps into my bloodstream.

Since the traffic is slow on the ground, the Cicada prepares to lift off and bypass the congestion. “Windows,” I command. The screens become transparent so we can see outside. I don't like the SkyPath, yet. It's still too new. Of course, my father insisted he be one of the first to have access to that space when it opened six months earlier, but the whole thing feels clunky to me. The car rumbles as the wings unfold, the air pressure in the vehicle changes too abruptly when we rise up, and there's a screechy sound as the wheels retract. I look out at the four other new-model Cicadas that form our self-navigating platoon.

“What do you listen to on it?” Ara asks, still poking at the receiver.

“You can find all kinds of interesting stuff on the waves.” I take it out and turn it on. “Sometimes it's religious fanatics from their bunkers in the wastelands predicting the end of the world as we know it. Or oddballs spouting anticorporate philosophy and saying they want a revolution.”

“Why?” she asks.

I shrug. “Well, you know, they all want to change the world, I guess.”

“As if,” she says, then she leans in close and whispers, “Do you ever hear illegal music?”

“Sometimes you can find a station,” I say, not mentioning that most nights I spend hours surfing the waves, listening to tunes, imagining how I would rearrange the melodies and instruments to give songs a whole different feel. “But my dad's people catch on pretty quick and jam the signal. Not that it matters. The pirates are smart. They move around and find other waves.”

Tonight the stations are crackly and hollow-sounding with all the interference from the Distract, but we catch a few snippets here and there from the handful of audio news streams that cover everything substantive the Buzz would never run.

Factory workers riot over unsanitary conditions.

A warehouse fire in India kills four pickers and destroys three million dollars worth of merchandise.

Corporation Xian Jai says it's considering automating all facilities by 2093.

The Kardashian SCEWL for Future CelebuTantes posted record-high earnings today.

“That's where we went, right?” Ara asks, smiling at the memories coming back.

“‘Give 'em to us and they'll be smart enough to know better when they graduate,'” I quote the SCEWL's motto, and we both laugh until the next headline hits.

Bad day for Chanson Industries. Calliope Bontempi filed suit against Harold Chanson for personal and property damages following the sale of her music contract and a reversal ASA.…

“That's the crazy girl who cornered me in the gallery,” I tell Ara.

 … And an unidentified group momentarily hijacked the LiveStream of the Geoff Joffrey concert.…

“Oh god,” I groan. “My dad's going to be in a foul mood tonight!” I reach to change the channel, but Ara stops me.

“No wait, I want to hear this,” she says.

I take another long drink from the flask.

Harold Chanson is widely credited with changing the music industry by patenting the first Acquired Savant Ability surgery, known as an ASA, that rewires the auditory cortical region of the brain to induce musical genius. Since then, other companies have patented similar procedures for savant abilities in different regions of the brain.

Chanson went on to become one of the most successful music patrons in the world by introducing pay-for-play streaming technology in 2065 that prohibits consumers from downloading and owning individual songs.

In her complaint, Ms. Bontempi claims she underwent a reversal ASA (a procedure for which Chanson Industries also holds the patent) that left her with acquired amusia. “I can no longer sing, hum, or whistle. I cannot read or write music, recognize songs I once knew, or play any of the instruments I so dearly loved. My ability to make a living as a musician was stolen by Harold Chanson when he did not honor my contract, and now my ability to derive any pleasure from music has been erased from my mind by him as well.”

“Enough!” I turn off the receiver. “I can't stand to hear about another person whose life was ruined by my father.”

“That's cold.” Ara leans away.

“Oh, come on! You know how this goes,” I grumble at her. “Art is a cutthroat business and not everybody makes it. Calliope's career failed and now she's bitter. Next she'll say my father is evil and that art should belong to everybody.”

The Juse must have hit Ara hard because this makes her laugh and since she's laughing, I start laughing, too. We howl and slap our knees.

Finally, Ara calms down enough to say, “What a stupid idea. Everybody knows art belongs to the elite.”

 

ZIMRI

When Marley, Dorian,
and I get to my POD, the lights are off and the blinds are down.

“Nonda?” I call. “You here? We have visitors.” When she doesn't answer, I tiptoe in. My shoulder brushes against one of my father's paintings of the river, knocking it askew.

“Could she be asleep?” Dorian asks, clearly hoping for a way out of the awkward situation.

“It's not that late,” Marley assures us.

I command the lights on low and see two pots on the stove. No freeze-dried, premade dinners in our house. Nonda always cooks. The smoky scent of beans and greens still hangs in the air. But the main living space is empty and her sleeping unit is retracted into the wall.

“Maybe she went out?” Dorian says. “We could come back another time.”

Marley, Dorian, and I are all startled, then we laugh nervously when we hear the whoosh of the toilet before the bathroom door slides open and there's Nonda squinting into the bright light. “Rainey?” she calls. “That you?”

I glance over my shoulder at Marley. He knits his eyebrows, same as me. It's weird hearing Nonda call for my mom. “It's me, Nonda. It's Zim.”

Nonda looks sleepy and confused. “Oh,” she says and shuffles by. I notice her clothes are wrinkled and disheveled. Her pants are dirty at the knees.

“Sorry to barge in on you like this, Layla.” Marley steps forward with his arms open for a hug. “It's late and—”

“You hungry, Linus?” she says and Marley visibly blanches. His eyes cut to the artwork hung all over our walls. It's been years since anyone mistook him for my father. “I went to the river today and picked some greens,” she says.

“Is that why your pants are dirty?” I ask, following Nonda closely like a bloodhound sniffing for the trail of her day. “Because you were out picking? Or did you fall?”

Nonda looks down at herself. “Oh my,” she says. “I am a mess!” She rubs at the smudges on her clothes. “Picking is messy business, but you know how your daddy loves them greens. Don't you? I got some watercress for your supper.”

“I know it's been a while.” Marley puts his hand on her shoulder and looks her squarely in the face. “But I'm not Linus. I'm Marley. Remember me?”

Nonda studies him then blinks as if she's concentrating. “Goodness me, so silly. I'm a tired old woman.” She laughs and pats his arm then moves on. “Of course you're not Linus. He's long gone. You all hungry?” she says and opens one of the pots on the stove.

Marley starts to say no but Dorian and I jump in with a resounding, “Yes!”

“Good!” says Nonda and gets a spoon. “And who's this?” she asks, pointing at Dorian.

“That's my boy,” Marley says.

“Nice to meet you … again, ma'am.” Dorian offers his hand.

“I remember you and Zimri running around in diapers,” says Nonda, which makes both of us blush.

“The reason I wanted to talk with you,” Marley says, but Nonda isn't listening.

She ladles out great heaps of beans and greens into two bowls while talking nonstop. “Your parents were a heap of trouble when they were young,” she tells us. I press my lips together so I won't laugh. “Always into mischief down by the river. That was before Corp X started that sham of a so-called education system. Zimri, set the table.”

I push the button so the table unfolds from the wall. “You mean SQEWL?”

“Hmph,” says Nonda, hands on hips. “Special Quality Education for Workforce Life, my butt! Brought in a bunch of RoboNannies to keep you kids on lockdown while we worked. Took the cost right out of our COYN. No art. No music. A travesty, if you ask me!”

Nonda's rant about SQEWL is a familiar one, so I'm glad when Dorian interrupts. “What kind of things did you do down by the river?” he asks his dad as we slide onto the benches across from one another, but Marley doesn't answer.

“Oh, I can tell you stories!” Nonda grins as she sets down steaming bowls in front of us. “Once Marley and Rainey made a boat. Decided they were going to leave.”

Dorian and I snicker. “Where were you going to go, Dad?”

“I don't remember,” Marley mumbles.

“I do,” Nonda says haughtily. “Going to the City to become famous.”

“Famous doing what?” I ask between bites, even though I already know.

Nonda looks at Marley but he stares at the floor and mutters, “Music.” Then he adds, “That was before those genius surgeries and pay-for-play laws and patrons owning musicians.…”

“I never did understand how one person could own all the music.” Nonda settles on the bench beside me. “Seems like a bunch of crap to me.”

Dorian and I giggle. Nonda's always a straight shooter.

“That's not how it works.” Marley slides in next to Dorian. “Artists are like professional athletes and patrons are like team owners. They sign contracts with artists then own the copyright to all their work. In music they make money off of concerts, LiveStream vids, and audio streaming, which is why you can't own any music like you could back in the day. Just download a song and it was yours to keep and play anytime you wanted. Nowadays, the more money a song makes, the higher it moves up the Stream, the more you hear it. Ugh. Same thing over and over. Whatever the masses like best. You try to pull up an old song and they stick it to you big-time with a premium!” He shakes his head, disgusted.

“That didn't stop your mama, did it, Zimri?” says Nonda. “No, sir.
Oh,
Rainey would say,
I don't believe in none of that copyright malarkey
.
Nobody can own ideas or art.
I told her, ‘You better stop messing around with that music. Mixing it all up and saying that it's your own. Putting on shows and expecting people to pay you.'”

“Tati had a hand in that, too,” Marley says and sniffs. “She figured out how to hack the HandHelds so folks could download Rainey's songs, which was dumb since she sampled lots of tunes for remixes.”

“The fat cats in the City didn't like that, did they?” Nonda asks. Marley shakes his head. “And you know what happened to your mama when she got caught.”