Gifted (7 page)

Esther bites the side of her mouth. “Song pirates are like little mosquitoes buzzing around Chanson Industries's head. A few don't matter, but too many will drain us.”

“Calliope's not a song pirate, though,” I say.

“True,” says Esther. “She's another kind of parasite looking for a payoff.”

I shake my head. “She wants more than blood,” I tell her, then quickly hush when Dad stomps into the kitchen for a refill on his drink, too.

Ara comes in the opposite door and Dad bellows, “Didn't you just have an ASA?” which makes Ara jump. She nods, looking terrified. “Which one?” he demands as the BevvyBot mixes him up another bourbon and lime.

“Music, of course,” she says.

“Am I your patron?” he asks as if there is any other option in the western hemisphere.

She nods again.

“Good.” He takes his drink and narrows his eyes at her, no doubt calculating profits. “Then our PromoTeam's doing an excellent job. She looks great, don't you think so, Esther?”

“Jeez, Dad!” I complain. “She's my friend. Not your commodity.”

“Now she's both,” he says with a dismissive little shrug.

I can't hide my disdain.

“Don't give me any crap, Orpheus.” Dad slams his glass down on the counter. “ASAs cost a lot of money and my job is to make sure they pay off for people like Arabella here.”

“But not for Calliope Bontempi?” I snap and immediately regret it. There's no reason to bait my father except the Juse hasn't quite worn off, so everything that pops into my mind falls out of my mouth.

He scowls at me. “That girl will be sorry she ever crawled out from whatever Plebe rock she's been living under.” He points at Esther. “Hire private detectives. Turn over every stone. Do whatever you have to because I'm going to destroy that little con artist and whoever broke into my LiveStream.”

“I'm already on it,” Esther says.

“Good.” My father turns back to me. “And you. What are we waiting for? All your classmates, including Ms. Lovecraft here, have gotten their ASAs and started their careers. So chop chop. I don't want a lazy moocher for a son much longer. It's time we schedule yours.”

I shake my head, tired of the same old argument. “Tell that to Mom,” I say, expecting him to blow a gasket.

Instead he cuts his eyes to Esther then says, “Don't you worry. We'll take care of your mother.”

I cross my arms and stare at him. “With you, Dad, there's always a reason for me to worry.”

 

VERSE TWO

ZIMRI

Every day in the
warehouse is a Picker Symphony. Ticka. Ticka. Ticka. Ticka. Boom ba boom ba boom. With my HandHeld strapped to my palm and an earbud in place, laying down the backing tracks of bings and bonks like the hi-hat and the bass, hitting me between my shoulder blades and down deep below my belly button. It might not be a secret concert on a hidden stage, but when I find the music in this job, I can dance ten miles of aisles under one giant warehouse roof without losing my mind.

I slide across the concrete floor, then stomp stomp stomp. Clap my hands above my head when the first item pops up on my HandHeld screen.

Girls panties, three pack, size 6x

Aisle 14Q

Unit 24

Bin AA

The earbud chirps numbers in my ear. “Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen…” I improvise a line over the melody. “Countdown,” I sing. “Counting down now here we go!” And I'm off, basket in hand, running through the wide center aisle of sector Q. When I hit Row 14 a BING signals for me to turn—odd numbers on the right, evens on the left. I dash down for Unit 24 (25 units per row, so second to the last). Another BING, different tone, C natural? Right on time. Ten seconds to go. I find column A of Unit 25 (columns are in alphabetical order so I move far left) and reach up among the grid of bins (AA top left, AZ bottom right). And there they are. Girls panties, three pack, size 6X.

I scan them with my HandHeld. Wait for the PING! A high F#. The sound of happiness. Forever the note of success. “I got you, babe,” I croon as I toss the panty pack in my basket along with the other items I've already gathered for some nameless, faceless Plute.
Da blomp
goes my HandHeld and I know the order is complete. I have a few seconds before the basket's due to hit the conveyor belt so, since nobody's around and I'm out of the sight line of the security cams, I press against the shelving unit and slip out the permanent market I keep in my pocket. I take one more quick peek over each shoulder to ensure that I'm alone, then I scrawl
Nobody from Nowhere
across the panty package, the tissue box, and the bag of six disposable umbrellas. With marker stowed, I skip to the end of the aisle and attach the basket to the conveyor and watch it travel up and up, where it will be carried overhead to the packing line and boxed up by human hands (Dorian's perhaps? Will he see my secret message? Or will it go unnoticed as usual?). Then finally, within an hour of the order being placed, it will be plucked from the rooftop by a drone and flown off to a delivery chute somewhere in the City.

Levon passes by. He presses his hand over his heart and mouths,
Thank you.
I nod then I high-five Merle—one of the few human forklift drivers left. He knew my dad. It's a small miracle we haven't been replaced by A.N.T.s yet, but we all know it's only a matter of time before automated nanotechnology takes over and all ten thousand of us navigating these aisles will become obsolete. The others grumble about the inevitability of that day but I know it will set me free, which is probably why I'm the only one here dancing.

And so … Ticka. Ticka. Ticka. Ticka. Boom ba boom ba boom. Countdown, here we go! Another order up.

*   *   *

At 10:25 a.m. we get our first tenner. Before Brie got demoted, we'd always grab a bevvie from the bot or head outside to the river for ten minutes of fresh air. Without her here, though, I don't bother. Instead, I hit the bathroom and drink straight from the faucet. The water bites with chemicals, but it's wet, as Nonda says, so it'll do. I sing as I slurp.

Veronica, Rhiannon, and Jolene come shuffling through the door, chattering and nattering away like squabbling squimonks. They've been this way since we were small. Veronica, forever the nicest of the three, is the only one to say hello.

I shoot water through the little gap in my front teeth. Jolene harrumphs at my misbehavior then clump clump clumps across the floor to ratchet down a paper towel and rip it from the dispenser. I like that sound, ratchet ratchet bzzzzt. Scratchy paper against tiny metal teeth. Jolene takes no notice of me repeating it. She's like a little bulldog, all head and chest with spindly legs. No wonder her times are so bad. She isn't built to be a picker. You have to be nimble and lithe—a rubber band ready to spring. I get my own paper towels. Two of them. Ratchet ratchet bzzzzt. Ratchet ratchet bzzzzt. Then I rub them together to get the shup-shup-shup of an old soft shoe beneath a melody I improvise.

“Can it, Zimri,” Jolene chufs, tired of my noise.

Spoilsport! Always has been. I crumple up the towels and toss them in the trash.

“What's that song?” Veronica asks me.

“I don't know,” I say. “Just something I was singing.”

“Probably made it up like all her weird stuff.” Jolene pushes past me to a toilet stall.

I see
Nobody from Nowhere
written in block letters on the outside of the door, but it's not my handwriting and that makes me grin.

“Can you believe what happened during Geoff Joffrey's LiveStream last night?” Rhiannon asks as she tucks a spiral of hair beneath her cap.

“That was insane,” Jolene calls.

“What?” I ask. “Did he fall on his face?”

“Where were you? You didn't watch it?” Veronica asks.

“I had better things to do,” I tell her with a smirk.

“Oh, girl, you missed it!” Rhiannon says. Then she and Veronica hem me in on either side, both nearly quaking with excitement. “Just as he was launching into his new song—”

“‘Your Eyes,'” Veronica says, looking dreamy, then they break into a pitchy rendition of the chorus, “Your eyes shoot right through me like a laser beam! A laser beam!” and I clap my hands over my ears. It's bad enough that that song is in the Stream all day. I have to hear it here?

“Some crazy person in a black mask broke into the feed!” Rhiannon squeals.

“What?” The floor falls out from under me and I back up against the sink.

“Some girl was on a stage screaming like a lunatic,” says Jolene as she busts out of the stall.

I straighten up, offended. “What do you mean, screaming?”

“She was singing,” Veronica says, “but the sound was all messed up so you couldn't make out the song.”

“None of it?” I ask.

“Nope,” they say.

“How long did it last?” My legs are weak and shaky with excitement.

Rhiannon shrugs. “Not long. Like a minute or so.”

I swallow hard as sweat pools under my arms. “Who was it? Does anyone know?” I can barely speak above a whisper.

“Brain activists probably,” Rhiannon says.

“Or just some random nutjob,” says Veronica.

“Whoever it was, they almost ruined the LiveStream,” Jolene says. “Everybody was like, Wha…? And then all of the sudden, poof! The screaming girl was gone and there was Geoff again.” She sighs. “He's so cute!”

“We missed almost all of the song,” Veronica complains.

“Yeah, but…” I look from face to face. “Was she any good?”

“Was who any good?” says Rhiannon.

“The girl who broke in?” I bite my lip.

“Who knows? The whole thing was dark and fuzzy and distorted, which is lucky for her because if she ever gets caught…” Veronica shakes her head.

“Bzzzzt!” Jolene says and pretends to zap her own brain. “She'll wind up a drooling idiot in a MediPlex.” Then she laughs maniacally.

I turn away, shaky from the news. My mind reels through the possibilities of how my video feed made it onto the LiveStream at the Strip and whether anyone could have traced the signal. I have no idea how the whole thing works. I have to talk to Tati and I should warn Dorian. I hurry out of the bathroom. If I run, I'll make it to the break room by the packing line and grab him before the tenner's done, but as soon as I'm on the floor, Jude shouts my name like I've been hiding from him.

“Dammit,” I whisper and slow myself down. “Hey, Jude. What's up?” I do my best to look normal even though my stomach's in my throat.

Jude scowls at me from the driver seat of his little electric car idling in the aisle. “Someone's here to see you.”

“Who?” I ask, hand pressed against my chest to keep my heart from leaping out because no one comes to the warehouse unless there's bad news or you're in trouble.

“How should I know?“he grouches at me. “Two women from the city. I got a ping to send you up to the main office, that's all I know.” He scrunches his face like the whole ordeal is giving him indigestion.

My heart pounds and my head spins. Could they have tracked my signal or used voice recognition even though Veronica says the audio was messed up? Did someone recognize me from the video? Or did someone at the concert squeal? Can I deny it? After all, my face was always hidden. At the very least, can I protect Dorian if they can finger me?

“Get in,” Jude demands. “The quicker you get to the office, the quicker you're back on the floor and the less our times suck today. I don't have to tell you that corporate's been breathing down my neck for better times, do I?”

“No,” I say, resigned. It's his favorite threat. We don't make our times and A.N.T.s will replace us all. “Guess I have to face the music,” I say, then laugh at my own dumb pun as I climb in beside him.

We speed off through the aisles as everyone floods back onto the floor, eyes wide as we pass by, no doubt wondering why I'm being hauled off by our boss. Jude takes a sharp left, sending me sliding across the seat. I stop myself from crashing into him. Then he stops short next to the office. I brace myself against the dash.

He turns to me and waits. I know the procedure for unsanctioned breaks. I take out my earbud then unstrap my HandHeld. He overrides the system to program in an additional tenner. “Make this snappy, would you?”

“Like this?” I try to snap my fingers but they're too shaky at the thought of who's behind the office door.

“No,” Jude says because he's devoid of humor. “I mean take care of it in a hurry. I need your times to up the average. With Brie off the shift, we're sucking bad.”

“Bring her back,” I tell him.

He shrugs. “You know the rules,” he says and takes off.

“Well, well, well, if it isn't Zimri Robinson!”

I turn to see Medgers in her security guard uniform step out from the shadow by Jude's office door and I know things must be bad. She's had it in for my family ever since my mom skipped bail and never returned. Over the years, she's hit Nonda with every PODPlex infraction she can muster. Her favorite accusation is “improper use of company property.” Hang your wash out the POD window to dry—improper use of company property. Plant a patch of mint and basil in the dirt behind your building—improper use of company property. Paint your walls yellow to bring a little sunshine into your life—improper use of company property. And yes, those are all infractions Nonda has received. Not that she cares. We still sip fresh mint tea in our yellow POD while the laundry flaps in the breeze.

“What's going on?” I ask.

“Don't play dumb,” Medgers says then grabs my elbow and yanks me into the office.

Inside, two women in fancy suits sit at the table. They motion for me to take a seat across from them. “I'm Private Detective Smythe,” the one with dark brown hair says and holds out her hand, which I cautiously shake. “And this is my associate, Detective Beauregarde.” The blonde nods then looks down at her screen, exposing black roots at her skull.