“Fine. Go on through, honey.”
The great chrome gate of the barricade hummed and lifted. With one last cheery wave at the comms tower cameras, Pru ducked outside the city limits.
No matter how many drops she made, something about being on the other side of New Columbia’s walls, and miles from the next nearest Barricade city, raised the gooseflesh on Pru’s arms. Superficially, things didn’t look all that different from a Barricade city. You still found the same cloud-kissing skyscrapers, the same full-paneled, holographic storefront displays, the same mechanized vehicular lanes. Even the swarm of people who occupied it all, ebbing and flowing around street corners and sidewalks, looked the same, at first glance.
The second glance, though, gave you pause. Wrought from hunched shoulders and darting, glassy eyes, the crowd seemed perpetually madding, a many-headed beast of thin-lined mouths and barely concealed plasma side-carries. No one ever made eye contact, but everyone always seemed to be looking at you.
One of Pru’s social studies teachers back at New Columbia Prep had called Incorporated territory the new Wild West once. What else could you expect from petty executives who’d sooner slit each other’s throats for a promotion from the Executive General than look after the citizens who staffed their mech factories? Anything could happen out there. Mr. Salisbury had meant it like a joke, but Pru found the quip decidedly less funny when dropping off black market media outside New Columbia limits, no Anabel around to watch her back.
Pru hugged her elbows, pretended very hard to have no regrets about any of her life choices, and strode forward. At least she had the right address. Dick Masterson, small-time businessman and big-time fan of lousy, UCC-censored action comics, was kind of a sleazeball, so far as customers went, but he always paid in full when sufficiently nagged. No funny business with coin transfers or perpetually open tabs. When Pru rounded the corner to Hummel Avenue, the familiar sandy-haired, waistcoated silhouette was already leaning up against a holographic 2-D video game display three times his height. Masterson—decked out in the self-consciously trendy, red-tinted spectacles—made a great show of checking the time on his phone. “Prudence!” he called, without looking up from the scrolling neon numbers. “How good of you to join us. Where’s your hotter twin?”
Pru stuck an arm against the game display, and leaned right up into Masterson’s space. You needed to establish your boundaries with these sorts of customers, otherwise they’d never quit pushing you around. “That joke was a bust the first time you made it, and it hasn’t gotten funnier in the past six months, douchecanoe. Anabel’s at school.”
“School?” Masterson’s pale eyes narrowed behind the crimson lenses. “How wholesome.”
“Gross.”
“I’m just saying, a pair of nice, docile-looking Barricader preppies like you in this kind of side hustle, well.” Masterson whistled. “It’s practically a gateway drug to shadier business, yeah? No one would ever suspect girls like you. Real quiet types, but quiet girls are always the ones who screw you in the end, eh? School. Please.” He chuckled, jerking a thumb backward at the video game display. “You know they make these in 4-D now? Big old virtual reality chambers. We could swing by some time, you and me. Get some quality time in, just the two of us.”
“I’m good, thanks.”
“Aw, come on, the games got remade for the censorship standards, but everyone knows they’re based on the original comics! You know, the ones you been selling me for—ow, jeez!”
Pru lifted her foot from his. “Yeah, say that a little louder. You want to get us both arrested?”
Masterson’s mocking chuckle cracked through the air, whiplike. “You Barricader kids with your high horses and your stereotypes. Enforcement brigades don’t patrol this close to your precious capital city of New Columbia, not with sweet Saint Gabriel Lamarque already in a flutter over these so-called ‘wyvern sightings.’” He clutched at his chest, batting his beady eyes behind those ridiculous tinted spectacles. “After all, the last thing anyone wants is another war.”
Pru flung her hands out, exasperated. “God, first that pretty boy in the library, now you. Is there anyone not obsessed with these stupid wyvern rumors?”
“Aren’t you?”
“I’ll tell you what I’m obsessed with, I’m obsessed with making this drop-off with enough time to hoof it back to school before bio lab. Don’t forget my bonus pay. Headmaster Goldschmidt called a campus lockdown thanks to your wyverns, so you owe me another fifteen percent for all the extra school rules I’m breaking.”
“They’re not my wyverns,” protested Masterson. “I look old or rich enough to be a mech manufacturer to you?”
“You look fresh as a daisy, Dick,” deadpanned Pru, eyeing the crow’s feet half-obscured behind his fancy lenses. Masterson had always dressed younger than he looked. “But still rich enough for my fifteen percent.”
“Yeah, yeah. Anyone tell you you drive a hard bargain?”
“Only every black market book buyer.” One eye on the street side, the other on Masterson, Pru slid the holo-drive into his waiting palm. “You know my account number.”
Masterson clicked his thumb on the short side of the cylinder. A 3-D display sprang forth in a burst of light, Masterson’s chosen comics displayed in lurid technicolor on the slickly animated bookshelf. With a low whistle, he ran his fingers through the options, thumbing through virtual pages to the illustrations inside.
“All good?” Pru demanded impatiently. Her caffeine-addled fingers were still twitching. “Because you need to shut that shit off before a patrol rounds the corner.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Masterson batted a distracted hand at her. “Remote content deletion still available?”
“So long as you’ve got a working phone. Just open the cylinder app and thumb in our usual code, and the whole shelf goes kaput.”
“I’m impressed. You never disappoint, kiddo.”
“Thanks. I’d say it’s a pleasure doing business, but, well.” Pru shrugged. “Mama raised me honest.”
“Funny definition of ‘honest’ your mama’s got.”
“Hey, she’s an author, remember? Enemy numero uno of the UCC Inc. state. ‘Honest’ means something different in the Barricade cities than it does out here in censorship central.” Pru jerked her chin at the drive, now hidden neatly in one of Masterson’s waistcoat pockets. “Never forget that our democratic love of free speech and artistic expression birthed your little black market entertainment economy. You’re welcome.”
Masterson grinned. “Fair enough. I’ll miss those comics.”
“You canceling your subscription?”