Bright's Light (14 page)

“Do you remember where we’re supposed to go?” asked Fon.

“Left at the skinny tree, wherever that is.”

They drove for several more minutes before she spotted a tree that had a few pokey branches on one side. It was so bare and plain that Bright wished she could put a scarf on it. The poor skinny thing. That was it! The skinny tree!

She turned the wheel hard to the left, and the cart bumped off the path. The ground was uneven now, and Bright felt the jarring all over her body, but particularly in those areas where she’d had surgeries. She increased their speed anyway.

“Urp!” cried Fon.

“Your hair looks beautiful in this light!” called Slater, and Bright hoped he was talking to her.

Clouds of dust rose up around them like a bad tease job. Bright tried not to run over any of the patches of green that poked up here and there in the pale dirt. When they reached their mystery destination, maybe she would get out and touch some of that green. Or maybe not.

The cart tires made squeaking sounds as they drove over small rocks and sand. Bright heard a noise coming
from Fon’s direction and glanced over. “Are you
singing
?” she asked incredulously.

Fon put her hands on the dashboard. Her smile was wide. “Fun!” she sang. “This is really fun! Here we come, House of It!”

Despite herself, Bright joined in the song, and so did Slater, and soon the three of them were singing louder than the most awesome party. “House of It! House of It! You’ll get fit at the House of It. From rockin’ sooooo hard!”

The cart jounced and bounced until the path was far out of sight. No one ever went off the path at the Natural Experience—or anywhere else, for that matter. But in that moment, they were wild singers and free drivers.

They sang so loud and drove so hard that Bright didn’t notice a deep cleft in the hard, dry ground ahead. When the speeding cart hit it, all three were ejected over the windshield like globs of Fab Foam out of a busted can. It seemed to take them a long time to land.

Grassly didn’t know where all the personal support staff had gone. The water on the Choosing Room floor was over eight feet deep, and he’d knocked down the officers who made it up the slide. They’d fallen like wet sisaliik, the slimy, black reptiles he used to play with in the swamps of the Crihln, where his family had a country house before his mother went to join their Mother. Although weakened by the Store diet, he was still far faster and stronger than any ancestor. 51s knew how to maximize the power of their minds and their bodies. Therefore, it was not difficult for him to throw the officers who made it up the swing rope back over the railing. He tried to toss them in such a way that they wouldn’t die on impact. He hoped not too many had drowned. He was, he reminded himself, still on a Sending. He was supposed to save the ancestors, even the ones who were making his job difficult.

But now, all the PS officers had disappeared. He was grateful for the reprieve, but their sudden absence made him nervous.

After he confirmed that no PS officers had snuck onto the tenth floor, he returned to the filtration room. The House of Splash favours, superb fun-havers that they were, had managed to direct one of the speakers from the hallway into the filtration room. They’d cranked the volume and were dancing. Some danced in unison. Others freestyled. They’d taken the awkward moves he’d shown them and created a rhythmic and nearly hypnotic dance.

Remarkable, thought Grassly. The ancestors were ridiculous and sometimes horrifying, but at least they were never boring. And Mother, could they dance!

He quieted the music.

“Please. May I have your attention?”

They slowed to a stop like so many brightly coloured, misshapen particles coming to rest.

“The safety drill will continue for another … until I tell you it’s over. You are free to continue to dance. When you get tired, you may retire to your rooms.”

“But what about our shifts?” asked a favour whose swim fins made a sucking noise each time she lifted them from the floor.

“We are undergoing renovations so that the party can continue better than ever. You will each be given ten credits for the shifts you miss.”

This precipitated an outbreak of grumbling.

“I make more than ten credits before I get halfway down the pole,” complained a favour in an elaborate silver merman costume.

“Ten credits seems fair,” said a favour whose highly
structured, full-coverage bathing costume was an obvious attempt to disguise a crater-like cave-in on her torso.

“I don’t know how many credits I usually make,” said a favour wearing a tiny bathing costume and fat pink water wings. “Math isn’t really my thing.”

“Everyone will make ten credits
per shift
,” clarified Grassly. “Whether you were scheduled or not.”

“I think that might be socialism,” complained the merman.

“What?” asked another.

“It’s a swear word. Look it up or whatever,” said the merman.

“When you’re done dancing, go to your pods,” Grassly said. “Have a sleep drink. Watch some updatemercials. Put in your orders. Whatever you do, stay away from the Choosing Room floor.”

That was all the time Grassly had. If any favours fell into the water and drowned, or somehow got out of the House of Splash and were released by the PS staff, it would not be his fault.

He stepped out of the filtration room and considered where to go next. He had to find out what the PS staff were up to and what the commander’s next move would be, and he needed to get back to his workroom so he could program the lights in peace before things got any more out of control. He slipped the link that kept him in touch with systems on his ship out of his pocket and checked a status report.

Estimated time remaining until seal failure: 23.07 hrs.

He stared at the message, sure he’d read it wrong. The
seal would fail in less than twenty-four hours? How could that be?

Grassly wanted to lie down and weep. He wanted to talk to his Mother or, more precisely, to hear her voice in his head. She would tell him he was a wonder-filled child of the universe with the wisdom of the Mothers guiding him. She would tell him he was perfect the way he was. For the first time ever, he doubted her words. He wasn’t perfect at all! Despite his superior physical ability, he couldn’t even do the slip slide with a triple twist, which was child’s play for even a standard favour.

No. He would not allow his sense of self to be eroded. He was a 51 on a Sending, and he would get the job done.

Grassly stepped onto the View Walk. The air was full of moisture and dread. His black turtleneck clung to his neck like a wet towel, and he pulled it away from his skin. The swing rope hung within reach. So did a lift. He took the lift. This was no time to waste energy.

It took Bright a long, painful moment to understand what she was hearing. The noise rose and fell like an alarm system on a broken bot. Then light stabbed her eyes and there was pain and heat, and something rough touched her skin where it was pressed into the—

Her skin!

She jerked upright and carefully touched her hand to her face. It was going to take three resurfaces to … Her fingers touched something sticky and thick. A cut.
There was a cut on her face
, and it wasn’t a little cut, either. Her stomach roiled. If there’d been anything other than the distant memory of her last nutri in there, she might have gotten sick.

She jerked her hand away from her face. That was the first rule all news learned at the Party Favour Training Centre. Fingers weren’t meant for faces! That’s why the Deciders had invented makeup applicators.

Her eyes adjusted and Bright could see the cart, jammed nose-first into the gash in the earth. The noise had stopped, and she realized she’d been making it. Then she remembered Fon and Slater.

When she tried to swivel her head, pain shot through her neck and shoulders. Slowly, she looked around her.

Fon lay a few lengths away. She was face-up, spread-eagled, and fully exposed to the sort-of-sun overhead.

Skin damage! SKIN DAMAGE! SKIN DAMAGE! The thought howled in Bright’s head.

Every party favour learned about the wrinkle rays and other bad things that existed outside the Store. In the permanent night of the Partytainment District, everyone wore 450 SPF just in case sun vitamins leaked through the roof membrane. Really responsible party favours drank 300 SPF to prevent wrinkles from starting on the inside.

Bright started crawling over to shade Fon’s face. Then she paused. If Fon got wrinkly, she wouldn’t get so many credits. Maybe she wouldn’t get into the House of It. But no, letting someone get wrinkles was practically murder, and Bright wouldn’t do it, no matter how powerful her will to win. She looked for something she could use to cover Fon. That’s when she noticed Slater.

He sat cross-legged, staring at a round shape about the size of a three-person bouncer that bulged up against the black skin of the Store.

“What
is
that?” she whispered, mystified. She had a feeling it had something to do with the strange PS officer and the light. Was this the destination he had in mind when he said to turn left at the skinny tree and go straight until they came to the right place? Were they supposed to reach this round thing? Which reminded her, where was her light?

Bright looked around until she saw the parachute bag, which had been thrown clear when they crashed. She limped over to it, trying to ignore the pulsing in her head, the injuries to her face and hands, and the overall unfunness of everything, and untied the string at the top. She pulled out the helmet and saw that the light was unbroken, then put the helmet on her head. She wouldn’t turn it on or anything. She just wanted to keep it close and have her hands free.

“Not enjoying this,” she muttered. “Not enjoying this one bit.”

What was she supposed to do now? For seventeen years, Bright had known what to expect every minute. Now everything was different and she hated it, and hate was not a flattering look.

You are the hottest thing in the Store, she told herself, especially now that Fon is going to get wrinkles. You can earn the best credit scores ever. You are a super-elite party favour, and you know HOW TO HAVE FUN.

She marched over to Fon and arranged the empty parachute bag over her dressing-mate’s face. “There,” she said. “That’s better.”

Then Bright bobbed her head as though listening to great music, even though all she could hear was nothing. She pretend not to notice the large, bulging shape and Slater sitting in front of it. “Doo, dee, do,” she sang, trying to soothe herself and to appear adorably unconcerned.

Fon stirred under the parachute bag. “Are we singing again?” she asked, her voice muffled. “Is someone from the House of It here?”

Bright didn’t answer. Instead, she busted out of a few of her newer dance moves and tried not to groan when her bruised hip protested.

“I want to dance and sing too!” said Fon, still under the bag. “Why’s it so dark in here?”

Bright puffed out an exasperated breath. Then a thought came to her: the round thing pressing against the skin of the Store was probably the secret doorway to the new location for the House of It! That was why the nice PS officer had said to bring Slater here. The House of It was even more cutting edge than she’d imagined. People were going to party right next to the Outside, which would be ten times scarier and more exciting than partying in a glass room!

She couldn’t let Fon know that they’d reached their destination. No one from It seemed to know they were here, and the more Fon knew about where It’s hot new location was, the more likely Fon was to get called up with her—or worse,
instead
of her.

“Keep your eyes closed,” Bright told Fon. She dropped to her knees beside Fon, grabbed the parachute pack and held the opening wide. “Now sit up for a second. But keep your eyes closed.”

Fon did as she was told, and Bright slid the pack over her dressing-mate’s head and twisted halo and pulled the drawstring snug around her neck.

“Perfect. That looks awesome!”

“Really?” said Fon. “Because I can’t see very well.”

“It’s totally gorgeous,” said Bright.

“Can I breathe?” asked Fon.

“Of course,” said Bright, figuring Fon wouldn’t still be talking if she couldn’t breathe.

Slater was still staring at the round shape. It
did
look sort of like a doorway. Yes, that’s what it was—the new entrance to the coolest house in the whole Store!

“Slater? Are you okay?” Bright asked.

“Nearly home,” he said. “In the beautiful light.”

“That’s right,” said Bright. “Looking good, and you deserve it.” She hoped she deserved it too. If she and Slater were both promoted to this new, even more super-megaelite House of It, maybe they would be dressing-mates. A happy, inappropriate shiver passed through her. She tried to imagine what that would be like, but it was hard because she wasn’t used to imagining things.

She and Slater would be getting ready and putting on all their pre-release outfits and tints and—hey! Who would help her get ready? She’d need Pinkie! Normally, bots stayed with the house when favours moved on, but Pinkie was special. Not competent, really, but Bright felt better when Pinkie was there and less good when Pinkie was not there. What if some new favour was being moved into their dressing room and taking over Pinkie! What if some favour who thought she was all that was asking Pinkie to do stuff for her? That person might not understand that Pinkie was special, even though she was clumsy and made a lot of mistakes. What if that someone sent Pinkie to be reprogrammed, or worse, recycled!

That wouldn’t do at all. Bright was going to bring Pinkie to the House of It if she had to transport the bot herself.

“Come on,” Bright told Fon. “We’ve got to go get Pinkie.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I have to have Pinkie in order to be all that I can be.”

“But she’s a
bot
,” said Fon.

“She’s
my
bot,” said Bright. “And she likes having Peaches with her. So we’re going to get both of them and bring them back here.”