plays

“First thing’s first,” she says, taking a cylindrical digicam out of her pocket.  She aims it at me and pops the top open.  When she presses the button a disproportionate flash of light blinds me and leaves an iridescent fog to slowly clear.  “You are under arrest under provision 906/b3 of the Arnold Act.”

            So it’s over.  My first second as a counter-revolutionary, not even enough time to grow interesting facial hair configurations, and I’m nabbed, by my inductor no less.  While she completes the formalities, retinal scan, inner-cheek swab, I reflect on futility and credulousness.  She completes the arrest capsule and drops it into a police tube at the corner.  I wait for the sirens.

            “Come on,” she says, and starts walking off like nothing has happened.

            “Are you taking me in yourself?” I ask.

            “You’re not going in, stupid.  I’m not in, am I?”

            I have to admit this causes a little cognitive dissonance.

            “Be prepared, when that capsule is scanned they’ll activate your beacon.  You’ll get zapped but good.”

            I rub the hard spot on my shoulder.  They say when it’s activated you can make it blink green through your skin by pushing it; so private citizens can tell that it’s off.  The first time it’s turned on it zaps you so you know.  Can’t have private citizens tracked.  It’s all bullshit though, they can turn it on whenever they want, everyone knows.  They just zap you for fun. 

            We’re about to enter a tram station but she holds me back, says we’ll wait for my zap so I don’t look suspicious.  I wait.  A watched pot never boils, and it’s in the millisecond my mind wanders that I suddenly feel all my muscles constrict as the current passes through my body.  I grit my teeth and my eyes water, I shake for a few seconds after it’s over.  Clears your sinuses.

            “They should use that for social control,” I joke.

            “They do,” she says.  That shuts me up.  Momentarily.  We go underground.

The tram skids along silently on its cushion of air.  We’re nearing the hub of the system.  I don’t know what’s going on.  Finally our car clears out and I can ask, “Where exactly are we going?”

            “Where we were going.”

            “It’s on?  Or is this some big dragnet to get a lot of people like me at the same time?”

            “Yes and yes.  But we had to register you first, you can’t go on a mission without the proper clearance.”

            “Clearance from who?” I ask.

            “Who gives clearance?  It’s not exactly a rebel term.  Look, before, you were under suspicion.  There was a file on you.  Time was spent tracking your activities, your movements.  They determined you would be a good recruit for the resistance project.  You were making them nervous, all subversives do, they wanted to lock you in, one team or another: no subversion, only support or opposition, and only criminal opposition.  Now they can almost relax, the capsule gives them enough evidence to deport you or lock you up indefinitely.  They need you pulling the trigger.  Then you’re theirs, and when they can take you whenever they want, they’ll disappear, and you’ll be free.”

            “Free.”

            “More free than you’ve ever been.”

            “Then what?”

            “Then we do anything we can to topple the system.  On our own or on assignment from them.”

            She slips off her bra and for a second I start to feel like a superspy, but then she peels up the inside fabric and I see the padding is plastic explosive and I feel like the sidekick again.  She pulls out an underwire and sticks it into the plastic, takes her watch off, binds it to the thing in some way I don’t understand, wraps the bra around it and double hooks it closed, smears some adhesive on it and slaps it to the bottom of her seat.  The train stops, one exit from the main interchange.  As we get off she nods at the surveillance monitor aimed at us.

            “Smile for the camera,” she says.

            I’m not sure I feel any more free.