THE MOOD IS one of stunned relief when I show Mum the chip. No celebration. We came too scarily close to a future without it.
The credits have been clocking up this whole time, but we’re still thousands short of the hundred thousand we need to have the chip inserted. Mum goes to visit Dr Ryan anyway, asking if there’s any way we could have the procedure done now and pay the rest back in instalments.
At least the answer isn’t difficult to understand: Payment upfront only.
I’m disappointed when I hear that but it doesn’t slow Mum. As soon as we hear back from Dr Ryan, Mum shifts to her plan B: a veterinarian willing to accept cases like us on the side. The vet is even more expensive than Dr Ryan, but she’s willing to do the procedure straight away. It’s just a matter of paying an extra fifteen thousand credits as interest. I almost refuse to go ahead with it when I hear that; she’s taking advantage because she knows we’re desperate.
But as Mum points out, we are desperate.
On a Sunday afternoon only a few days after I got the chip back, I find myself in a doctor’s surgery in the city. No idea how a black market vet came to have access to this surgery. Of course, I don’t ask.
The veterinarian is tiny, her shoulders so narrow that she reminds me of a child. At least, she would if she weren’t so terrifying. Maybe it’s the way she holds her mouth or the way she talks to the space just above my head, but sitting in that surgery begins to make me feel way more invisible than I’ve ever felt by being off-grid. If I do ever get caught and this insertion is traced back to her, I have no doubt that her blood pressure will stay completely steady as she tells the police she’s never seen me in her life.
Most people would turn away, I guess, rather than watch their flesh being sliced open. But I find myself transfixed, sort of horrified at the blood and the thickness of white tendons, and also amazed at the difference between this and the first time I saw the chip.
It’s only when I’m hit with the memory of cutting that woman’s wrist open that I have to look away from the chip, trapped between titanium tweezers as it’s lowered into my wrist.
How strange. That was the last time I’m ever going to see it. My flesh will grow around the chip just as it did for the woman who died. I’m not just using her credits now. From now on she’s quite literally part of me.
We make an appointment to return in three weeks for the fading procedure once the wound has healed. Then I simply walk out of the surgery, a normal citizen whose wrist has been strapped because of a sprain. No need to look twice; nothing unusual here.
The doors slip open as I approach, no different from when I used to keep the chip tucked inside a pocket, but as I stride through, my steps feel stronger, bedded to the earth.
I’m really here, a citizen. I’ve arrived. The doors shut behind me automatically and I continue to the station, expecting an easy and safe train ride home just like everyone else. I’m happy and relieved but also keenly aware that I’m shackled in a way I’ve never been before. Everything is different now; there’s no going off-grid anymore.
I conjure up my gratitude for everything that’s been made possible by the piece of metal and plastic now residing in my wrist. The best news of all is that I made it just in time for orientation day.
Karoly High is a distance out of the city. I read somewhere that it was designed nearly ten years ago but you wouldn’t know that from walking through the grounds. It’s sleek and modern with triple-glazed windows everywhere. There’s a huge oval with a running track around the outside, and although I know the grass is fake – it has to be – the colour seems so real and it sinks so naturally under my hand when I test it that it’s hard to believe it’s not real, live, water-guzzling grass like they have on display at the Botanic Gardens.
You can tell the kids who are here for orientation, not just from the way our uniforms are spotless and just slightly too big, but also from the way we all stick together, nervously shuffling along in packs.
After the initial tours, there’s assembly and a pep talk from the principal. Then we’re sorted into mentor groups. Kess is in mine, thankfully. I’m not sure what I would have done if we’d been separated; our shoulders have been as good as glued since we climbed on the train at Footscray this morning. I told her that I’ve been injured, that’s why I’ve been out of contact, and she seemed to believe me. We’ve pretty much picked up from where we left off.
The mentor teachers take us through the timetable, study expectations and what to do if we hit any trouble. Then it’s time to visit the specialist teachers. The science block is huge and broken into various departments: medicine, chemical engineering, nanotechnology. A whole corner of the school has been dedicated to crop beds of wheat and vegetables for testing bioengineering techniques. The further into the day we go, the more I keep thinking how amazing it is that I made it here. How close I came to having it taken away.
A bit before lunch break, I’m called in for a full medical check-up, my biggest risk for the day. I’ve already prepared answers about the bandage on my wrist, even practising my ouch if it’s touched. But the medic seems more interested in testing my fitness and metabolism than checking a sprain. She asks a bunch of questions about my sleep patterns so I give her answers based on the way I used to sleep. Before time skipping.
I’ve only just walked out of the med lab when there’s a ping on my compad. A whole heap of files have landed in my school account: when I should go to bed; how much I should eat; times of day that I’ll study best. So many resources focused on me being my best, one of the chosen ones, with the future of the nation resting on our shoulders.
Kessa catches me rubbing the back of my wrist during the lunch break, still tender after yesterday. I’ve already told her it’s a sprain.
‘You okay?’ she asks, a loaded fork hovering. ‘Is it hurting?’
‘No, it’s all right.’ I grasp a can of water with my good hand and gulp.
‘How did you do it?’ she asks and takes a bite of spinach.
Carefully I place the can back on the table, swallow, and summon the words I’ve already prepared about tripping on a tree root.
Before I let them out though, I glance over at Kess and find her watching me so closely that the words evaporate and I’m left only with dry air against my tongue.
How long will I have to fake my answers like this for? My entire life?
A pool of tiredness rises in me and for a second, I let myself imagine how it would be if I dropped a hint, maybe something about a secret. I could start by talking about illegals or something. Test the waters, I guess.
Then I get a flash of the way Mason last stared past me, the distance in his expression, and my mouth shuts. I already have the answer to my question about how Kessa might react. I’ve known for years how real citizens think of illegals.
Kessa’s watching me as she chews, waiting patiently. She’s so open, so quick to trust, that before I realise what’s happening my eyes brim and tears threaten to spill.
It happens so fast that all I can think to do is drop my gaze, saying the words in my mind that I can never say out loud: I can’t tell you what happened, because I have too much to lose.
‘Scout?’ Kess leans close, her fork already on the plate and concern in her tone.
But already I’m pushing it back. ‘I’m sorry, it’s nothing. I just fell.’
‘Don’t be sorry,’ she says softly, and for a moment I imagine that maybe she’s guessed. Somehow. But then she says, ‘It must be way painful, you look wrecked.’
I lift my head, brush my thoughts away. ‘It’s okay. I’m okay.’ She thinks it’s because of the sprain. ‘Should we find a med room? They’ll have a nerve block or something.’
‘No, no.’ Back on track. Finding a smile is easier now.
‘Really? You sure?’
‘Yeah. I’m okay.’
Maybe I can never tell her who I once was, but that doesn’t have to stop me from sharing the person I am now. A citizen, just like her.
Mum’s only just left the next morning when the doorbell buzzes. I’m on the compad in an instant, my hands on autopilot as they swipe straight for the grid. The police?
A second buzz has already sounded when I find two dots, both already tagged. Mason and Boc.
Yesterday’s shirt is slung over a chair. I slip it on, still in my pyjama bottoms, and pause at the disengage button. In my mind I repeat a reassurance: if they were going to turn me in, they would have done it ages ago.
Okay. Holding my head high, I hit the door open.
As soon as I see them standing there I have to step back. Wish there was more of a buffer between us.
‘Hey.’ It’s Boc who comes forward, hands on hips. ‘Get dressed. We want to show you something.’
‘Show me what?’
‘You’ll see.’
I don’t move, questioning Mason with my eyes. What’s going on? He jerks his chin forwards. ‘It’s okay, Scout.’
Okay. ‘Give me a minute.’
They disappear and I’m left scrambling for clothes, pushing away tiny sparks of hope before any take hold. This was how I hit trouble in the first place. I have to be smart about this, stay sharp.
I think about messaging Mum and decide against it; don’t want her worrying any more than she has to. Instead I bring up the grid on the comscreen, complete with firewall and fake browsing bot. Then I set it to track me on the grid. If Mum comes home tonight and I’m not back, she’ll find an instant view of where I am and who’s with me.
It’s a message to her, but only if it’s needed. Here’s hoping it’s not.
Jeans, boots and shirt buttoned almost to the top. Ready to run if I need to.
I make my way out the main entrance doors and find them waiting near the front gate. Mason’s standing a distance from Boc, and it makes me wonder what’s been going on between them. They had the chance to turn me in and decided against it. That counts for something. Doesn’t it?
I make a point of keeping my expression even. ‘Okay. Where to?’
‘Come on.’ Already Boc’s moving, arms swinging as he leads us along the street.
Mason falls into step beside me, his hands sunk deep in his pockets as he glares at the ground just ahead of our steps. They both move fast; I have to concentrate on keeping up.
‘So where are we going?’ I ask Mason.
‘You’ll see.’ No pause, not even the slightest turn of his head.
I’m quiet after that. He’s here, with me, but also not.
Judging from the path we take I guess we’re headed for the train station. We take the bridge to Platform 2, trains out of the city. A train arrives only a few minutes later. There are more seats available than on the trains headed into the city. I haven’t travelled in this direction ever before.
Mason and Boc stay near the doorway, leaning against the rails, silent. We can’t really talk, I guess. Not about time skipping. Not about chips. After hovering nearby for a while, I give up and find a seat.
At one point a guy sitting next to me climbs off. The train rocks into acceleration then smooths out as it reaches top speed. Mason leaves his handrail and makes his way across the aisle to slip in next to me.
Another spark of hope rises and I have to push it back down. Hold my hands in my lap, contained and neat.
‘What happened?’ He raises his eyebrows meaningfully towards my wrist, still in its bandage.
‘Just a sprain.’ I lift my arm and inspect the fastening. Still secure. I can’t help pushing at the bandage on top of the wound, the pain a reminder of who I am now.
‘Really?’ he scoffs.
‘What else could it be?’ I scrunch my nose to mean think I’m going to talk about this in here?
He gets it finally, ‘Yeah. Sorry,’ and finds the space in front of him again.
We stay that way for the rest of the trip, saying nothing.
We reach Seaholme Station and I make a mental note. Have to keep a map in my mind of where we’re going. The pace is slower this time, out of the station and along the main strip until we reach the high steel fence of a school. Kids are crowded into a bare earth quadrangle, using the little remaining space for fitness drills. This class looks like it streams into basic emergency services but part of the skill seems to be dodging all the other kids in there too.
A teacher keeps calling out, ‘Chins up! Chests out! Not long until water break.’
It’s only now that I think to ask: ‘How come you two aren’t at school?’ They aren’t even in uniform.
‘Study week,’ Mason says simply.
I bite at some dry skin on my lip; still no idea what we’re doing here. Usually kids in the mainstream schools get steered into the manual jobs like food prep and cleaning, but I can’t see what this has to do with me.
Boc is focused on his compad, checking a couple of kids in the quadrangle before frowning at the screen again. We’re making our way along the length of the fence when Boc stops and his eyes narrow. ‘Back this way.’
He strides past us, picking up the pace, but this time I decide to stick with him. Boc’s the reason Mason found me out, but I can’t let that get to me. It’s safest if he doesn’t think of me as the enemy. I have too much to lose.
‘So, um … congratulations,’ I say. ‘You’ve learnt to time skip? That’s pretty cool. And you stayed away for over an hour. I’m impressed.’
He’s walking a step or two ahead of me, and pauses to glance back. His chest seems to inflate in recognition.
‘So how did you manage your first jump?’
‘Dunno.’ Hands still on hips, no warmth in his expression, but at least his pace has slowed a little. ‘You taught yourself, didn’t you? I mean,’ he shrugs, and his top lip curls: ‘if you can do it …’
It takes a few seconds for me to realise what he means but when I do, I have to stop walking. If an illegal can do it, then anyone can.
What am I doing here? I’m about to turn for home when Boc looks down at his compad again, then points into the schoolyard. ‘There.’
My last spark of pride is begging me to walk away, but curiosity works its way in. I’ve come this far. Mouth set straight, I turn slowly and track along the line of his outstretched arm.
It’s a girl around my age, her arms heavy with a box that’s about as big as she is. Dirty potatoes are piled so high in it that the lid won’t close.
She’s walking along the edge of the school grounds. We’re on the footpath outside, following a short distance behind.
I turn to Boc and raise my eyebrows. ‘And?’ I’ve heard that school kids do food prep for restaurants in exchange for references. Sort of slave labour but with the chance of a job once you graduate.
Boc’s waiting with the grid already on display. ‘Here.’
I stop walking, and summon the final piece of patience I have left. I’m thinking that maybe she’ll have no dot; that they’ve found another illegal and expect me to watch as she’s caught. Or something like that. So I’m surprised to see a dot moving along the fence line in real time, the grid clearly matching reality.
‘See?’ Boc asks, and points to show that the dot has been tagged with a name.
‘Jaclyn Hurstbridge,’ I read obediently. We start following again, moving slowly as Boc swipes at his compad again, only glancing up now and then from his screen to check where he’s stepping.
Soon Jaclyn drops out of view as she turns a corner. We’re slower as we turn down the side street but I pick her out a short distance ahead. She must be heading to the food prep area.
I glance over at Mason. ‘So who’s Jaclyn Hurstbridge?’
‘Here.’ Boc holds out his compad again to show a list of names, none that I recognise. ‘This is the list of applicants for next year’s intake at Karoly High. Two hundred people were offered places, including you.’
As I keep watching he scrolls past names, slowing at mine – 93, which makes my eyebrows go up – before he continues down. It’s a while before we reach Jaclyn Hurstbridge. Her name is listed beside the rank 201.
As soon as I see it I glance up. She’s still within view but moving slower now, as if the weight of the potatoes is wearing her down.
‘We’re not going to turn you in, okay?’ Mason says.
‘That girl was ranked 201,’ continues Boc. ‘Because you got a place, she didn’t.’
It’s almost too much. For a moment I can’t speak.
I’m not sure which is worse: the way Boc brought me out here to show me this, or the way Mason went along with it. My arms lift in helpless frustration. ‘What do you want me to say?’
‘Just thought you should see for yourself.’ Boc crosses his arms, an air of satisfaction about him. Maybe he couldn’t risk going to the police, but he’ll never forget who I am.
It doesn’t matter that I sat the test fair and square, doesn’t even matter that I scored higher than Jaclyn. She’s a citizen, and I am not. In their minds I’m accessing resources that were allocated to someone else.
Unfairness balls and burns inside me, but my body is still. I won’t give them the satisfaction. I’m holding it back, for now.
Before I can stop myself, my gaze lifts once more to Jaclyn. She’s still within view, just.
My heart slows as she moves further away, growing ever smaller. She doesn’t realise what has happened. What I’ve done.
The life stretching before her is so different from mine. Again the injustice flares, but it’s different this time, cold, somehow, and still. This is the first time I’ve been on the other side. Her choices have all shrunk; her job prospects will be limited because of this school. I’ve always wondered how it feels to be on the inside, what it’s like to be one of the chosen ones.
My eyes drop. Now I know.
‘Come on,’ Mason turns to go. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
They know they’ve hit me hard. I can barely move with the weight of this.
Boc falls beside Mason and they begin along the path with their backs to me. I can tell that I’m expected to follow.
But I don’t.
And I’m not going to either.
They’ve only gone a few steps when Mason turns my way again, waiting. I’ve been practising for a different kind of escape but this will do just fine. My eyes fix on him as I drop into the tunnel.
Anywhere but here.
There is peace inside the tunnel, but I’m already deep inside nothing when I realise my mistake. I’ve lost all control, dropping further than ever before, sinking so fast that I’m tumbling, spinning inside empty space.
No idea where I am. No sense of which way is up or down. It’s not panic I feel but a shifting fog engulfing my mind, invading my thoughts.
Blindly, I search for a way forwards, struggling to remember. There’s somewhere I need to be. The further I fall, the thicker this space becomes. It gets even darker, if that’s possible.
A vague thought comes to me. I should be panicking. How strange that I’m not; all I feel is the bliss of ignorance. No real plan to find my way out.
Only a distant, dimming memory of who I am.