SOPHIE
The second the front door closed behind Julie and David, Sophie dived for her phone. She didn’t trust anything this important to even their most secure message boards, let alone a call or a text. Her message to Gabe the night before had read simply, Coffee. Tomorrow ten a.m. Hugs.
Hugs meant “urgent.” Urgent coffee meant to meet at the anarchist coffee shop; they’d move on from there. She kept her phone muted so her moms wouldn’t hear it, but checked it repeatedly until she fell asleep. He hadn’t responded, but now she saw a message had come an hour before. Hugs. See ya.
She glanced at the time: nine thirty. Great. Yesterday’s clothes back on, and she didn’t have time to spike her hair, so she made do with gelling it straight back into a narrow ponytail. She ran out the door, then realized she’d forgotten to take her pills. Back to the kitchen to slam the meds, but it threw her timing off; her bus sped past the intersection as she sprinted toward the corner.
“Dammit,” she said, slowing to a walk. No sense in rushing now; the next bus would be twenty minutes. She had used the code for “urgent” and she was going to be late to her own damn meeting. She stood in the empty bus shelter and fumbled for her phone to text an apology. She didn’t think her lateness inconvenienced Gabe too much, but she didn’t want him to think she didn’t take things seriously.
A car honked, and the passenger window lowered. “You’re from the meeting, right? The other night?”
She stooped to peer into the open window. It was the kid from a few nights ago. She had guessed he was fifteen, but he must be sixteen at least to be driving. Still a kid. What was his name? She tried to come up with it but drew a blank.
“Dominic,” he said, rescuing her. “And you were Sophie, right?”
“I still am.”
“Do you need a ride somewhere?” The door unlocked.
She hesitated for only a second. “Yeah. I’m late to meet somebody, actually. You heading downtown?”
That was a stupid question, since his car was already pointed in that direction, but he nodded. She slipped into the front seat, squashing her backpack on top of her feet. A zipper dug into her shin and she smoothed it, then buckled herself in. “Thanks. I’m supposed to be at Stomping Grounds in twenty minutes and I missed my bus.”
“No problem. That’s where I was headed, too.”
Sophie didn’t know cars, but this was a pretty luxurious one. The seats were leather, and the interior was roomier than her parents’ electric cars. The dashboard looked like a spaceship’s. She held her head away from the seat back in case her hair stuff stained it. Her clothes felt grubby all of a sudden, and she hoped she didn’t smell.
“Do you live around here?” she asked.
“A couple of neighborhoods north. In the county.” He waved a hand in the direction he’d come from and made a face. “As soon as I graduate I’m moving to the city.”
“Graduate? Are you a senior? I thought you were way younger.” She shouldn’t have said that; people took her for younger all the time because she was short.
He made another face. “Sophomore, but I’m seventeen. I got held back for not having a Pilot.”
“What’s your story?” Sophie asked. “Why no Pilot?”
“Paranoid grandparents,” he said. “They were the ones who suggested I go to the meeting—but don’t get me wrong; I think they’re probably right to be paranoid. I just haven’t decided yet.”
“That’s reasonable. Too bad more parents don’t let their kids decide for themselves.”
“Yeah. That mandatory thing you were talking about at the meeting was pretty crazy, but I feel like things are headed that way. I mean, driving tests are all geared for people who are Piloted now. I barely got my license. They expected me to know what was in front of me and behind me at the same time.”
He didn’t have trouble driving, despite the complaint. The car weaved smoothly in and out of lanes, avoiding a squirrel and then a woman with a baby carriage. A few raindrops spattered the windshield, making her grateful she’d accepted the ride.
“So what did you think?” she asked. “Of the meeting?”
He flashed her a smile. “It was pretty interesting. I mean, there’s so much going on. I don’t know if I’m ready to be an activist— I haven’t made up my mind if maybe I should go with the crowd on this after all—but you definitely gave me a lot to think about.”
“Good. All we want is to show you there’s an option not to have one. It doesn’t matter if you want to be an activist. Though we’d love to have you . . .” She blushed and was momentarily glad he didn’t have a Pilot and wouldn’t see the color in her cheeks. He was older than she’d thought, but still too young for her.
The coffee shop was on the corner of a main street and a block of boarded-up rowhouses. The busy street was parked up, so Dominic turned onto the abandoned one, which had several empty spots. He parallel parked pretty well for a county kid, if Sophie was any judge, though the fancy car gave him guidance, some of which he listened to and some of which he ignored. He got it right the second time.
She got out, then waited for him in the rain as he set a gear lock on the wheel.
“My grandparents insist,” he said.
“You’re lucky,” she said. “I bet most grandparents wouldn’t let you park a car that nice within a mile of this place.”
He scratched his head and beeped the car a second time, as if he wasn’t sure if he’d done it already. “Yeah, um, they don’t exactly know I’m here. I meant they insist when I drive anywhere.”
“Gotcha,” Sophie said.
Stomping Grounds was the type of coffee shop that attracted only the truly dedicated: dedicated to caffeine, dedicated to revolution, dedicated to spending long hours hunched over a computer. It made no concessions to attracting commuters. There were no fancy coffee drinks, no flavor shots, no blenders. Nobody would have etched art in your foam, even if you had foam. They had the basics: coffee, assorted loose-leaf teas, scones, and muffins catering to a range of tastes and intolerances.
The music, when there was music, was dealer’s choice, usually a barista’s band, or the barista’s friends. Two public computer terminals sat in one corner, tribute to the old world order; the manager who maintained them was an expert on Net privacy. An actual working phone booth occupied another corner, with a landline phone. This was less for countercultural purposes than for the few old-school radicals who had refused cell phones. A sign taped above it read we don’t think this phone is tapped, but like any technology, use at your own risk. Below that, someone had added, educate yourself, and below that, someone else had written why do you think i’m here? Subsequent graffiti digressed into metaphysical issues.
It took Sophie a moment to adjust to the dim interior, though the day outside wasn’t particularly bright. She brushed the rain from her eyes and searched the room. Several barstools were occupied, as were most seats at the communal tables. She recognized some occupants from various meetings; others looked like homeless guys trying to escape the rain. On closer inspection, one of the homeless guys was actually Gabe with his locs tucked under a stained cap. He waved, and she waved back, holding up her index finger to tell him to wait a second.
“Hi. Herbal tea to go,” she said to the barista, digging her travel mug out of her backpack. The barista motioned toward the teas, and Sophie spooned some Lemon Mint into her mug’s infuser. The barista filled it with hot water, and she headed for the door.
“Mind if I tag along?” asked Dominic, grabbing a disposable cup. Sophie had forgotten he was behind her. “I was supposed to meet a friend, but I don’t see him here.”
She looked at Gabe, who shrugged. “Your news, your decision.”
She debated for a second. How secret was her news? Anybody could find it out if they wanted to. She motioned him to follow.
The rain had slowed, thankfully. The Grounds was a pretty safe place to talk, but you never knew who was listening; better to walk around. This was one of those spitting rains that would soak them slowly, in increments, like boiling a frog. She was glad for the heavy canvas of her Army jacket and her boots. They were comfortable and reminded her of her brother, but best of all they were practical.
Sophie took a sip from her mug as they walked, burning her tongue. She took another sip anyway, then a deep breath. Gabe was waiting. He didn’t like drama, and she wasn’t trying to be dramatic. Just careful.
“You know my brother?” she began. All in.
“The soldier. We never met.”
“Yeah, exactly. He came home last night. He said he was leaving the military. And get this? He got a job at Balkenhol.”
Gabe stopped walking and stared at her. Dominic, a pace behind in what seemed like a misguided attempt to be unobtrusive, collided with Gabe’s back, sloshing his drink on himself. Gabe ignored him.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No. For real.” Sophie knew she’d done the right thing in telling Gabe. This wasn’t drama. This was important.
“Think of the access,” Gabe said, walking again, faster now. Sophie jogged to keep up.
“Not that it’ll be easy,” she warned. “It’s not like he’ll leave his passwords around.”
“No, but I’m sure you’ll hear things. Maybe you can ask for a take little sister to work day.”
“I am not playing a kid card,” she said sharply.
He slowed. “Yeah. Sorry. Getting ahead of myself. We’ll figure something out. This is definitely useful intel. I apologize. Just thinking how to get you into the building.”
“I guess I could say I’m interested in an internship or something,” she conceded, now that the sting was gone. “I can play a role if we need me to.”
“Nah. He knows you’re not interested, right? He’d get suspicious if you suddenly wanted a tour. And I don’t know if Balkenhol would consider someone for an internship who didn’t have a Pilot. We’ll use this in another way.”
“They don’t,” said Dominic, speaking for the first time on the walk. “Balkenhol doesn’t take interns without Pilots. Why would they? We’re inefficient.”
Gabe eyed him. “How do you know that?”
“My grandfather worked for a defense contractor before he retired last year. He tried to get me in for an internship and they said no. We went through his whole list of contacts, but nobody would hire me. He said it’s the last legal line of discrimination.”
“Your grandfather is right,” Gabe said. “How do they get away with it? ‘Most qualified applicant’ my eye.”
Once he got onto this topic, there was no stopping him. Sophie was usually right there with him. This time she let him rant on his own. She hadn’t thought far enough ahead to have a useful suggestion ready. How could she capitalize on David’s position? She’d have to think about it. This was not an opportunity to be squandered.
They’d never gotten this close to Balkenhol before. Imagine what they could learn, given the right access; she’d have to start with making amends with David. Maybe she could lull him into forgetting she had a cause? Fat chance. At least maybe he’d be too preoccupied with the new job to notice her fishing for information. It was worth a shot, in any case. She ran her burnt tongue over her teeth, thinking.
On David’s first day of work, Sophie made sure to be waiting in the front room for him when he got home. She had a tablet in front of her, open to the anti-Pilot boards. It was work that needed to be done, whether or not she was setting a trap for her brother; meetings needed advertising, and the letter-writing campaign still needed more letters. She answered some messages, posted a template, hooked it to the local captains to spread.
When the door opened at six thirty, it took her by surprise. So much for her trap.
“Hey,” he said without looking in Sophie’s direction.
The old David would have kicked his shoes into the corner behind the door, but this one sat on the bottom stair to unlace his shoes and remove them. He placed them neatly beside the coatrack, in line to the millimeter, then headed for the kitchen.
Sophie locked her tablet and tossed it on the couch. She closed her eyes and listened. The fridge opened and closed, followed by the snap and hiss of a beer can. She counted a full minute before joining him.
When she came around the corner, David was already looking in her direction. Sometimes that was eerie. She remembered trying to sneak up on him when he’d first gotten his Pilot. It hadn’t worked then, and it certainly wouldn’t work now that he was so well trained.
“Do you want one?” he asked, indicating the beer.
“I’m nineteen, dummy,” she said.
“So?”
“So, my seizures are mostly under control these days, and I like to keep them that way. It’s not like I’ve never had a drink. I just don’t want one.”
He looked chastened, as if he’d forgotten about her seizures entirely. Good. One point for her. She pulled out the chair opposite his and reversed it so she could lean over the back.
David tipped his head and drained the entire beer. He tossed the can, and it made a perfect arc into the recycling bin. A few drops sprayed out as it went, but he acted like he didn’t notice. Sophie knew that was an act; he noticed everything. He opened the fridge, grabbed another can, and turned his chair to mimic hers.
“How was your day?” she asked.
He shrugged. “First day. All paperwork, then more paperwork.”
“As much as the Army?”
That one got a smile. “You remember me saying that, huh? Yeah, I guess today could give Army bureaucracy a run for its money. At least I think it’s temporary in this case.”
“Did they give you a badge? Are you official BNL?”
David reached in his shirt pocket and flashed an ID card at Sophie. “Official. Now people won’t stop me every two seconds to figure out if I belong there. That was a pain all morning ’til they hooked me up.”
Sophie mentally filed that information. She tried to get a look at the badge and whether it had a bar code or a chip alongside David’s face, but it was back in his pocket before she could gather any further details.