Page 12

Under the Delegation, the Insight was active, granting a person access to all the information they could possibly need. As a child, she asked it all the questions she might otherwise have asked a parent who didn’t know the answers:Why is the sky blue? How fast does the fastest person run? How do cars work?It supplied the answers visually, or auditorily, depending on her preference. And the Insight was more than that, too. It connected her to people—made it so she could watch an episode ofCluefinderwith her friend Tana late at night when she was supposed to be sleeping, or listen to a new composition of her sister’s just seconds after Susanna recorded it. The Insight walked through life with her.

And when the Delegation fell, it went silent.

The new government linked all the prisoners of the Aperture into a closed system, so the Triumvirate could still see through their eyes at any moment, if it wanted to. And the Triumvirate could send prisoners messages, like the one she just received. But there was no music, no videos, no television. No voice calls, or looking something up mid-conversation to verify it, or assurances of safety when you were lost or in trouble.

She blinks, and the message is gone. She finishes the dishes, leaving them to dry on a dish towel on the counter, and dries her hands. She checks herself in the mirror, heaves the trunk away from the doorjamb, and leaves her apartment.

Medical checks happen annually, unless you have a condition or submit a special request. Dr. Hull for the men, Dr. Shannon for the women. There were no offices for them in the Aperture for some time, but when Alan Dohr of Building 3 died of alcohol poisoning, they turned his apartment into one.

On her way out, she sees Mrs. Pritchard sitting on a bench in the courtyard with Mrs. Carter, both of them knitting. Yarn is in short supply, so most of the time, when Mrs. Pritchard and the others knit, they have to unravel something else they’ve made.

“Hello, Mary, Charlotte,” she says, as she passes through the courtyard.

“Where are you headed?” Mrs. Pritchard asks. She likes to know things.

“My annual,” she says.

Mrs. Pritchard shakes her head. “Terrible, terrible, what they do to you young ladies.”

Sonya doesn’t answer. She walks through the tunnel to Gray Street and turns right. In the center of the Aperture, a group of six is playing with an old soccer ball. They set up buckets for goals on either end of Green Street. Gabe and the others are standing near the outer wall, smoking cigarettes, talking to one of the guards above. Probably making a deal, she thinks, though she’s not sure what Gabe has to offer an Aperture guard other than subpar moonshine.

When she passes through the tunnel to Building 3, she sees Renee, Douglas, and Jack, a graying writer who lives on the second floor, gathered around something. When she draws closer, she sees that it’s a newspaper, spread out on a low table in the corner of the courtyard.

“Sonya!” Renee says. “Come look at this. Yesterday’s news.”

Sonya draws closer, leaning over Renee’s shoulder to see the front-page headline.the analog army claims responsibility for murder. There are two pictures beneath it, side by side: in one, a young man with a swoop of brown hair grins. The caption:Sean Armstrong, 32, found dead in his apartment on Tuesday night.The other picture is a close-up of a note scribbled on a slip of paper, with a safety pin through the top of it. The caption:A note signed with the Analog Army insignia, found pinned to the victim’s chest.The picture is too blurry to read most of the writing. Sonya catches a few stray phrases:designed implant technology... reestablish cloud-saving structure...

“It’s a list of his supposed ‘crimes,’” Jack says, following her gaze.

“The Analog Army,” Sonya says. “This is the terrorist group that bombed that tech manufacturer last year?”

For a time, they had consistent access to newspapers because of that journalist, Rose Parker, who was working on the Children of the Delegation piece. She brought only one copy, most of the time, but people passed each one around the Aperture like it was fine china or gold leaf. Nikhil read them aloud in the evenings to Building 4—to those who cared to listen, anyway. Plenty of people, like Mrs. Pritchard, didn’t want to know what was going on outside the Aperture. Sonya didn’t blame them. After all, it had nothing to do with them anymore. With any of them.

“The very same,” Jack says. “Wish I could get a copy of their manifesto.”

“They’re a bunch of psychos who hate technology,” Douglas says. “What more is there to know?”

Jack gives Douglas a blank look, like he doesn’t even know where to begin.

“Just because you completely lack curiosity doesn’t mean the rest of us do,” Renee says, flipping to the next page of the paper. “I wonder who designs the logo for a terrorist organization. You think they hired someone for that?”

“That logo?” Sonya says, looking at the twoAs layered over each other. “No, that’s definitely the work of an amateur.”

“An Amateur Analog Army Artist,” Renee says, laughing.

“Where’d you get this, anyway?” Sonya says.

“Rose Parker came with that big pack of journalists yesterday,” Jack says. “She handed it over. Apparently those ‘fireworks’ we heard a couple nights ago were actually gunshots.”

“Gunshots,” Renee says. “How did the Analog Army get their hands on a gun?”

“No idea.”

“Can you bring this to Building 4 later?” Sonya says. “I’m sure Nikhil will want to do a public reading.”

“Sure thing,” Jack says. “I’ll bring it by his place.”

“Thanks,” Sonya says. “Gotta go. Doc’s waiting.”