Until I came to Toronto, finding my father alive seemed like the best thing that could possibly happen to me. I used to lie awake and wonder what sort of person would think to plant a micro-dot inside my arm.
—From the victim statement of Blake Raintree
When Prospero agrees to help me with Sparrow, my dreams about the Tribe stop. By Monday, I feel rested and ready for whatever comes next.
“We’re going to the East End Detention Centre today,” Erica says at breakfast. “Maybe a field trip will make it easier for the Justice Council to work as a team.” She smiles without humour at her own bitter joke. “Oh,” she adds, “don’t forget about your appointment with Code Scanning this morning.”
I’m amazed. “I’d completely forgotten. Do you think I should bother?” Finding my father seems like such a childish idea now, like imagining he might be Prospero.
Erica stares at me. “What’s gotten into you, Blake? This time last week you could hardly wait for that appointment.”
“I know. Last winter, finding my father seemed so real, but now we’re here, I realize how unlikely it is. Maybe I won’t go.”
Erica pats my hand. “Do what you think best. At least the ID codes building is near Queen’s Park.”
“That’s right,” I say, “it is.” Which would give me a chance to scout around where Sparrow lives. “Maybe I’ll keep that appointment.”
When we arrive at work, a prison vehicle is already waiting for the Council members. It’s unmarked, but somehow we know. It makes me shudder. “You’ll have a much nicer time today,” Erica says, “starting on those holo-projections. I’d love to be with you.” I wish I could share her enthusiasm.
I find Kayko alone in the media conference room, looking as dismal as I feel. “So, today I begin my career as a holo-projectionist,” she says.
“Won’t you be able to work with us?”
“After I get things going I will. Griffin wants to run two holograms at a time, which makes sense. We’ll divide into teams of two, and I’ll join one when everything’s set up.”
“Sound like you’ve got it all worked out.”
“Griffin and I met over the weekend. He insisted.” She sounds mildly annoyed.
Mention of the weekend reminds me of Sparrow. Should I tell Kayko about my arrangement with Prospero? She’ll need to know if she’s going to help me. But while I hesitate, Griffin, Astral, and Luisa enter carrying boxes. Griffin practically bounces into the room.
“Please, everyone, have a seat,” he says. “Kayko and I developed a working plan over the weekend, but we welcome your input and questions.” He holds up the box he carried in. “These micro-disks contain holo-projections of protest rallies, meetings, government press conferences, anything newsworthy in the years before the technocaust. We have the media reports that go with the raw footage. We’re going to go through the material in chronological order, of course. The technocaust didn’t start until 2353, but we’re going back a little farther, to 2352.”
“Why is that?” Luisa asks.
“The exact cause of the technocaust is still unclear,” Griffin says. “We know that violence against people with technological skills began late in 2353, but we don’t know exactly why. It may have started with ordinary people, but it’s clear that the Protectors condoned it.”
“Condoned it?” Astral says. “Who built the concentration camps those techies died in? The Protectors orchestrated the violence. They created it.” He sounds furious, but Griffin only nods.
“So we’ve suspected for years. Now, we get to find out.” Griffin leans forward. “Anything I’ve been able to piece together about the technocaust will pale in comparison to what we can discover here. This is very important work, no matter what becomes of the Justice Council. Think of yourselves as detectives, unravelling a huge mystery. But it isn’t going to be easy.
“Luisa, give everyone their folders, please. The hard copy may seem a bit retro, but I find it’s easy to work with. And, of course, you’ll have identical text on your scribes if you need to search. This is information about the ones we’re investigating, our persons of interest.”
Astral interrupts Griffin again. “That’s ridiculous. ‘Persons of interest’ is too awkward to keep repeating.”
Griffin is not offended. “What would you suggest?”
“How about ‘suspects’?” Astral says.
“‘Suspects’ is a nice, straightforward term,” Griffin says. He sounds cautious.
“Suspect” makes this sound like a criminal investigation.
Kayko leans forward to argue, then stops herself. I can guess what she’s thinking. If Astral is going to be difficult, she can’t afford to fight about something as trivial as wording.
Griffin seems determined to ignore our differences. “Identification of these suspects may be difficult if people aren’t named in a projection. Some of the photos in our files are recent, and fifteen years is a long time. I suggest we spend the rest of the morning familiarizing ourselves with the contents of these files.”
Griffin has managed to inspire us, in spite of Astral’s hostility. I sense intense concentration in the room as we silently work through the files, trying to absorb all the information we can. These middle-aged men and women look so ordinary. But one of them might have signed the warrant for my father’s arrest.
The alarm on my scribe beeps. I can’t believe how quickly time has passed. “I’ve got an appointment,” I tell the others. “I won’t be gone long.” I leave my bag, taking only the appointment card and my residency card.
I’ve given myself extra time. The ID codes building is just around the corner, but I walk away from it, into Queen’s Park. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. The park is almost empty. I don’t see Sparrow or any of her Tribe. I cross the road at the traffic light and enter a maze of tall buildings across the street. The road that circles Queen’s Park is always busy, but there’s little traffic on these side streets and the sidewalks are empty. Alleys run beside the buildings. Mid-block, I duck down one to see what’s behind.
There’s no sign of homeless people here, confirming to me that is the territory of a Tribe. The Tribes don’t let stray homeless people squat on their turf. Children are absorbed and adults are beaten off. Or up, as the old man with the fuel cells almost was. The alley connects to a longer one running behind the buildings, the length of the block. I can see traffic on the busy streets in the distance at either end. I decide to walk farther west, then circle back to keep my appointment.
“You looking for something?” The voice is so near, I startle. A girl steps out of a doorway at the top of a concrete staircase under a fire escape just behind me. It’s a good hiding place; I walked by without seeing her. She’s young, about twelve, but she’s done up like a fully initiated Tribe member. Her black jacket and pants are ripped in patterns. Her cheeks are ruddy with makeup, her eyes lined with black and highlighted with glitter. Tribes like makeup. Anything that makes them stand out. But underneath, this girl looks like a pinched, pale child. I know why she’s here. She’s a sentinel, on the lookout for anything that might threaten the Tribe, or be useful.
I should have said something by now, but I froze when she spoke. I thought I’d be braver. I was when I lived on the streets. The girl jumps down and gives me a quick look, head to toe, assessing, but there’s nothing threatening in her manner. “You looking for something?” she asks again. “Because, if you are, I can find it for you.”
“I—I don’t know where I am,” I say. Strictly speaking, this is true.
She smiles. “Where do you want to be?” I can’t tell if she’s mocking or friendly.
I dig the appointment card out of my pocket. “I’m looking for this building,” I tell her. “I thought it was around here.” As I hand her the card, I remember most street kids can’t read. I’m making a complete mess of this. “See?” I say quickly, pointing to the words. “The ID codes building, on Grosvenor.”
She peers at the card as if she could read it, then gives it back to me. “Sure. That’s near here. I’ll take you.”
“That’s all right. You can just point me in the right direction. “
“I said I’ll take you.”
I know better than to argue with that tone. I can only hope she’s not planning to lead me into some kind of ambush. At least she can see I’m not carrying anything valuable. But even if she’s honest, she’ll expect payment for this. I reach to the bottom of my pocket as I put the appointment card away. When my fingers touch a few cash tokens, I feel giddy with relief.
“How did you end up back here?” she asks as she leads me back to the street.
“I have a really bad sense of direction,” I lie. “Do you live around here?”
She points ahead. “In the old subway station. We all crash there.”
This makes sense. Tribes like everyone to sleep in the same place. It makes it harder for kids to run away. A subway station would probably be big enough.
“What’s your name?” she asks. She sounds friendly and curious.
With my real name, her Tribe might be able to trace me after I get Sparrow away. “Blay,” I tell her, my street name, from before we found out who I really am. It seems fitting, somehow.
“I’m Spyker,” she tells me proudly. Most Tribe members never give their names to strangers. She should know that by now. I glance at her, sidelong, as we walk. Maybe I’m wrong about her age. By twelve, most street kids are hardened. There’s an openness about Spyker that makes her seem younger.
“Here you are,” she says. She’s delivered me safely to the ID codes building. I’m sorry the walk went so quickly. I would have liked to learn more.
I pull the tokens from my pocket and give them to her.
“Thanks,” she says. She actually waves goodbye. She’s the strangest Tribe member I’ve ever met.
My encounter with Spyker makes the visit to Code Scanning unreal, as if my past life has come back to distort the present. I wait twenty minutes for the thirty seconds it takes to scan my micro-dot, then wait another twenty minutes for a download of the number I already knew. In the Code Tracking office, I realize I should have brought my scribe with the forms I was supposed to submit with my number, so that takes twice as long as it should. Lunchtime is almost over when I finally leave the building.
Walking back to work, I pass an entrance to the old subway station, a stairway in the sidewalk leading down, the broken remains of a shelter around it. It’s pitch-black down there. A gust of foul air sweeps up out of it, making me walk faster, my old life chasing me back to the new.