Chapter 3

Of note:  The Emperor's son, who was introduced in chapter 2, has been renamed.  Going forward, he will be known as Sage.  

The bathroom was not much bigger than a broom closet, but the surfaces were clean and the room was warm. Macy sighed in relief as Dean shut the door behind him and exited the room, and turned to inspect the contents of the cardboard box.

True to his word, Jesse had gotten her all of the toiletries she had so long been lacking. She found properly sized clothing, soap, deodorant, shampoo and conditioner, razors, a hairbrush, toothbrush and toothpaste, a fluffy pink towel and several blankets, among other items. She sighed in satisfaction and began to shrug off her many layers of clothing, piling the raggedy garments in a corner of the room.

As she stepped into the shower and felt the first drops of hot water splash against her skin, Macy relaxed completely. The water cascaded over her shoulders, washing away weeks of filth and restoring her skin to a healthier tone. She took her time as she scrubbed her body, carefully removing every trace of dirt to the point of rubbing her skin raw; who knew when she'd have the chance to shower again?

At last she felt clean and almost human again, and she reluctantly turned off the water and exited the shower. She wrapped the fluffy pink towel around herself and stood dripping for long moments, relishing the refreshed feeling travelling through her limbs and the sensation of the clean bathroom rug beneath her. She wriggled her toes delightedly. So wonderful!

She would have stood there a few more minutes, enjoying the rare and intoxicating experience afforded her through bathing, but a grumble in her stomach reminded her that there was more her body needed. Selecting a pair of blue jeans and a warm green sweater from the box, she dressed with a deepening sense of appreciation. It seemed that Jesse had, in fact, thought of everything she could possibly need or want. She sprayed herself with a bit of perfume for a final touch, then cast a disgusted look at her old clothes on the floor as she stepped toward the door. They looked like a pile of rubbish, and smelled twice as bad. She decided to deal with them after she'd eaten, and exited the bathroom to be greeted in the hallway by the smell of cooking food. Her mouth watered, and she hastened her steps.

Entering the living room, she found Jesse grinning up at her. "Hey, stranger!"

She returned his smile a bit self-consciously and searched her brain for words to express her appreciation. "Hi, Jesse. Thank you so much for all you're doing. I can't even begin to tell you how much it means."

He waved off her words in a depreciating manner. "No problem at all. I'd want someone to do the same for me if I were in your shoes. And if I were in your shoes, I also know I'd be hungry," he rose and took her elbow gently, leading her to the kitchen. "We're cooking some pizza, but if you don't like pizza we can always get something else for you."

"Pizza's great!" she answered, genuinely enthused. She hadn't had pizza for quite some time, and the very thought of it brought a wave of nostalgia. The normalcy of pizza was an inviting notion, and she found herself rubbing her hands together in anticipation as Dean pulled the pizza from the instawave.

Jesse pulled three plates from a cupboard and gave one to Macy with a flourish. "Ladies first."

She was too hungry to protest, and grabbed three slices, shoving the end of one of them in her mouth. "Oh," she groaned involuntarily as the flavors filled her mouth. For a moment, as she hungrily devoured the pizza, she felt she was in heaven. Then she noticed how Jesse and Dean were looking at her and she struggled to slow down and eat with some semblance of manners. Too soon, however, her pizza was gone. She wished that she was bold enough to request another slice (or three) but set her plate down with a sense of resignation.

"Hey, don't you want some more?" Jesse asked her, concern apparent in his voice. "You can have as much as you want, you know."

She almost said no, but for the moment she was still a slave to her hunger. She lifted her plate and loaded it again, muttering a quick, "Thank you!" between bites. Jesse and Dean both beamed at her, and then turned their attention back to a conversation about some new technological breakthrough. She could not keep track of what they were saying, what with the pizza at the center of her focus. She was grateful, though, that they were no longer gawking at her as she stuffed more and more food into her greedy mouth. After emptying her plate a second time, she was sated, and she pushed back from the tiny wooden table. "That was fantastic!"

Jesse looked at her in appraisal. "Are you sure you're full? We can always get more pizza if you'd like..."

"No, thank you," she smiled. "I do believe I've made enough of a glutton of myself for one day. And I also believe that the two of you have some questions. Ask away," she prompted.

Dean leaned forward with anticipation, opening his mouth to speak, but Jesse placed a hand on his chest and pressed him back into his seat. Before Dean could rouse sufficient protest, Jesse told her, "We do. Lots of questions. But the truth is, they can wait."

Dean gaped at Jesse as if he'd just lost his mind. What was he thinking? But Jesse ignored him and continued, "I think you could probably use some rest, am I right?"

Dean was visibly crestfallen at Jesse's words, but Macy felt a twinge of hope at his offer. She was, truth be told, exhausted from months of staying under the radar, roaming from place to place, tolerating every kind of weather and the worst odors imaginable. She was clean for once, with a full belly, and the prospect of a real bed was incredibly appealing. Yet she owed these kind strangers, and the answers to their questions were the only thing she had to offer. While she was still thinking it over, her head dipped forward and sleepiness won.

Chapter 2

The throne room of the palace was bustling.  It was Saturday, which meant that many of the Nobles, decked out in bright, decorative (and mostly gaudy) clothing had come for an audience with the Emperor.  They were lined up before the throne, each waiting to address him concerning mundane matters they deemed crucial.

At present, a Noble woman was speaking to him in ingratiating tones, but he could scarcely pay attention.  He was taking in her dress, which looked very much like it had been in a vicious fight with a peacock.  The finishing touch was a purple hat impaled by peacock feathers.  He tried to force himself to listen to what she was saying.  “I was hoping that Your Highness might consider making an exception in this case?”

The Emperor sighed.  “I understand your frustration, but if I make an exception for your daughter, I will have to make an exception for everyone who feels their placement is incorrect.  Special treatment erodes the fairness that we embrace as a society.  Your daughter is free to pursue any career path within her classification.  There are many vocations available to the Laborers, and there is much room for advancement.”

Every year, after the aptitude tests were administered, the families gathered to petition him for changes.  And every year, he declined these requests.  Still, they persisted, year after year, and were turned down, year after year.  They begged, they pleaded, they cried.  And usually, they were escorted out by the palace guards, still blubbering.

While she continued to plead, a white-robed attendant approached the throne and leaned down to have a word with the Emperor.  Turning his attention to the attendant, the Emperor flicked his hand dismissively toward the woman, and guards began to escort her out.

 

“Sir, there’s something you need to see,” the attendant spoke in an urgent whisper.  The Emperor bristled as he caught a note of panic in the man’s tone.  Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.  He rose from his throne and followed the attendant to a nearby control room.

Together they approached a monitor, one of many within the room.  On it, the Emperor could see a group of boys engaged in the aptitude testing required of all graduates.  The tests, he knew, would identify the boys’ strengths and weaknesses, determine their placement within society, and suggest a suitable career path.  The class placement was mandatory; the career path was merely offered guidance which the student was free to discard. 

He scanned the screen, trying to locate the issue.  The boys were sitting at a table, motionless, staring forward into virtual environments the screen did not display.  All but one of them, he realized, stepping closer to the monitor for a better look.  One boy did not possess the glazed look of a VR user.  He was fidgeting as he looked around the room uncomfortably. 

“Why isn’t this boy taking his placements?” he wondered.  “Has there been some sort of malfunction?”

“That’s what we thought at first,” the attendant told him, “but when we tried to pull up his BOSS file, we realized he doesn’t have one.”

The Emperor’s gaze shifted from the screen to meet the attendant’s eyes.  His glare was hard, calculating.  “So he has come into contact with the anomaly,” he surmised.  “Why are you bringing this to me?  Kill him, and use the lead to close in on her.”  His tone was dismissive, and he turned to leave the control room.  The throne room was still full; he had Nobles to pacify.

“It’s not that simple,” the attendant answered before he had time to exit, and the Emperor stopped without turning to listen, his patience swiftly fading.

“A blood test has shown that he does not possess self-replicating technology.  In fact, no traces of nanotech can be found.” 

For a moment the Emperor stood statue-like, his hand frozen in its grip on the door handle.  Slowly he released the handle and turned, visibly paled, shock and anger evident in his features.  “That’s impossible.”

“Yes, Sir, it would seem to be,” the attendant agreed, “but the tests are conclusive.  He is your son.”

He was waiting in the east wing of the palace, in a guest room, surrounded by more finery than he’d ever encountered in his life.  The furniture was trimmed with gold, the bed covers were silken, the decoration ornate.  He was perched on a delicate chair, afraid to shift his weight lest he break the expensive wood from which it was made.  He found his environment both fascinating and wastefully overdone.  One knob from the dresser could pay to feed all of the boys at his school for a month, he realized.

He was surprised to find that this moment held relief rather than panic.  He was resigned to whatever fate awaited, knowing that his secret was finally out.  That he stared at silent, dead screens, while others watched them with interest, laughing, sighing, gasping or gaping at something he could not see.  That while the other boys saw ads on billboards, he saw blank, white surfaces.  That at monthly visits to the museum, the boys would crowd around exhibits that simply did not exist in his world.  That the daily announcements were relayed to him by the only boy who’d earned his trust enough to know the truth:  he was different.  Not just different, frighteningly different.

The doorway to the room opened, and without the slightest fanfare, the Emperor strode into the room.  “They call you Sage?”

The boy managed a tight nod, awestruck, as he stood up and regarded the world leader deferentially.

The Emperor’s eyes scanned him skeptically, taking in the sloping nose, firm jaw line, slightly off-center jutting chin, dark complexion, and wide, gentle eyes.  The face was unquestionably his own, just a bit younger.  But the eyes, they were his mother’s eyes.  Doubt faded from his expression, to be replaced with wonder.

Abruptly the Emperor called to someone outside the room, “Get in here.”

The attendant quickly entered the room, positioning himself just inside the door, and awaited instruction.

“He looks like a pauper,” the Emperor said in a voice tempered with disdain, though his eyes betrayed affection.  “Get him cleaned up.”  He stalked from the room, motioning for the attendant to follow.  Once he was certain they were out of Sage’s earshot, he issued a few more commands.  “Arrange a meeting with the headmaster.  I want to know why this was not caught before now.”

The attendant nodded assent.

“And find Sage’s mother.  I’d like a word with her.”  The threat in his voice was unmistakable.

Chapter 1

Jesse kicked off his boots and sprawled on the couch, the grease stains on his clothing creating new grease stains on the beige surface of the furniture that suddenly looked diminutive under his weight.  "If anyone finds out, you're going to be in deep."

Dean laughed as he shook his head.  "Nice try, but it was your idea.  No, this one's all you, brother."  He pretended to ignore the blazing glare Jesse had suddenly trained on him.

"My idea?  I said it as a passing thought," Jesse protested.  "Only you would have taken such an idea seriously."

"My point exactly," Dean said as if they were in complete agreement, looking up from his laptop long enough to meet Jesse's eyes.  "If you wanted your 'thought' to be taken lightly, you'd have shared it with someone else.  My theory is, you wanted this.  Otherwise, why speak up?"  He paused for a moment and then nodded to himself, satisfied his point had been made and turned back to his computer.  Almost as an afterthought, and not without a snicker in his voice he added, "So when does this homeless individual arrive?"

"Still don't believe me, do you?  Then please, tell me where she came from.  Enlighten me as to how she got here.  Why she doesn't have a BOSS file, genius?" Jesse's voice, dripping with sarcasm, informed Dean he was gearing up for yet another debate, and Dean decided to play along.  They'd had the same conversation repeatedly, each making the same points, differently worded, over and again.  They were both fighting a losing battle - scrawny Dean trusted in his mental prowess and refused to have his mind changed by someone he rather openly referred to as a bumbling buffoon.  For his part, Jesse was as hard and stubborn in personality as he was in body, and refused to back down from an issue firmly based on what he saw as common sense.  Nevertheless, they'd turned the subject over and over between them as if each had an actual chance to change the other's mind.  As it was, there was nothing interesting to talk about aside from the new stranger, so they continued their verbal battle as much out of boredom as anything else.

Dean was quite ready to launch back into the subject yet again.  He closed his laptop without bothering to shut it off, leaned his head back to let it rest on the gray armchair beneath him, sighed deeply as he stared at the ceiling, managing to send the impression that he was exasperated by the argument (though in truth, he was delighted) and began again.  "Fact one:  Homelessness was eradicated decades ago.  Fact two:  The Bureau Of Societal Safety has successfully logged every living being on the planet - people, cats, dogs, iguanas, sheep, lions, panda bears - everything.  From time to time, someone tries to give the system the slip, but you can't evade a system that's airtight for long.  Fact three:  You can't buy food without a BOSS code.  You can't use public facilities.  You can't shower or wash your clothes.  You can't do anything without a code, so she's got to have one.  Which leads me to fact four:  this whole thing has got to be a prank."  He raised his head to look Jesse pointedly in the eyes as he smugly added, "And only a buffoon would fall for it."

Jesse shrugged, his hard head allowing the argument to flow around his brain like so much water around a rock.  Rather than bothering with a detailed response, he merely grinned and said, "You'll see."

After a pause, Jesse decided to speak again.  "Why, then?  Why do you want her to come here if you think it's all a prank?"

Dean pondered the question for a moment.  "I guess curiosity.  I want to see the person who has fooled you so completely."

"And if she's who she says she is?"

"Right," Dean chuckled.  But then he allowed, "I don't know.  I just want to see for myself that she isn't logged.  And if she's not, I want to know why."  Realizing how he must sound, he quickly continued, "But she's logged.  I guarantee it."

"Okay, if you're so sure then let's make a wager," Jesse suggested.  "Loser cleans the apartment for the next year."

"As if I were going to be living with you a year from now," Dean cracked, but in truth he knew he would.  Jesse, oaf that he was, would be his roommate for the foreseeable future, a fact with which they were both happy.  They were not blood-related, but each claimed the other as a brother, and they joked, fought and coexisted as only brothers ordinarily would.

Considering Jesse's wager, Dean felt it was an easy win.  "You're on."

His friend grinned fiendishly.  "Awesome.  Now if you'll excuse me, I've got an hour's credit in VR calling my name."  And with that, Jesse closed his eyes and propped his head on a couch cushion, abruptly vacant.  The nanotransmitters in his brain activated at his internal command, linking him to an online world in which he could walk, talk, touch, taste, hear, and smell.  

Dean shook his head - VR-free, thank you very much - and allowed himself a laugh at his friend's expense, knowing Jesse was already far too gone to hear him.  "Some things never change," he muttered, flipping his laptop closed again, and wondering for the millionth time if he should simply give in and get a VR package.  It seemed too close for comfort, such technology tampering with his brain, an inescapable escape.  He was worried he might land in a group home, drooling his life away in a virtual imitation of the real thing.  Or that the technology could malfunction, trapping him in his mind.  Or that he'd err in some way, and find himself in the most realistic nightmare possible rather than the dreamy getaway he wanted.  Or that he'd be unable to handle the input and land himself in the looney bin.  Or, or, or... the list went on and on, and when he thought about it, he couldn't help but wonder how those who embraced VR could even function, let alone be happy.

And it was creepy.  Being in the room with someone using VR was weird - like being alone with a corpse.  Not that he'd ever been alone with a corpse, but he felt lately that he had a good idea of what it might be like.  The only difference was that the VR-user would be reanimated, coming to life as if waking from a dream.

No, he didn't want VR.  But he also knew that as VR began to dominate communication and entertainment, his choice could affect his career path.  He was good at writing computer codes and had, in fact, even written codes for VR use.  He could program anything electronic, and here he was, terrified of the very technology he was helping to create.  It was strange, but then, Dean was strange.  He sighed, and wondered if he'd ever be able to get over his fears in relation to VR.  He also wondered if such fears were justified.  He felt that he was smart enough to avoid spending long hours on a VR program, and knew that he did not have an addictive personality.  He was good with coding, so it was doubtful that he'd have trouble using the technology.  He knew that the procedure was inexpensive, quick, and virtually painless (a single shot of nanotransmitters administered via hypodermic needle).  He knew that VR was the future of many (if not most) functions of society.  And he, a computer programmer, was behind the times.  Becoming obsolete...

Suddenly Dean's reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door.  So deep in thought was he that the sound caused him to jump.  Jesse was out cold, and Dean had almost completely forgotten about their expected visitor as he reviewed the pros and cons of VR.

A bit shakily he arose and walked to the door, mentally preparing himself for this guest.  He would need to hold tightly to his skepticism, as this was almost certainly a prank.  Still, he wondered.  Though he considered Jesse a bit naive, the man was not a complete dolt, or even close to it (though he'd never admit that to Jesse).  This woman must be extremely convincing for Jesse to believe her.

He took a deep breath, ran a hand through his thick, dark hair, hastily trying to tame it, and opened the door.  Standing before him was a decidedly disheveled young woman.  She couldn't have been much younger than he - maybe 19, 20 at most.  Her eyes were an intelligent, sparkly green and her mousy brown hair hung to her shoulders.  She wore several layers of tattered, smelly clothing which may have once been brightly colored, but were now a dingy, nondescript hue.  Her fingers were partially hidden in a pair of tipless green gloves, and they were twined together at the bottom of the drooping front of her zippered hoodie, playing absently with the frayed material.  She was so thin that she may have even been emaciated under the multiple layers of clothing which she wore, and her cheekbones stood out with the measure of her starvation, lending her an almost regal appearance by the fineness of her features.  She was pretty, he realized.  But smelly.  And for all appearances, she was homeless.  Dean was speechless.

Realizing that he wasn't going to say anything, but rather stand there gawking and crinkling his nose, the woman softly cleared her throat and prepared to break the silence.  He cringed at the sound, and she thought better of speaking.  Jumpy, this one, she thought to herself as she wondered where Jesse was and why he had not come to her rescue.  He had promised to be here.  She considered just turning around and walking away, but she was hungry.  She was tired.  She was cold.  The offer of food, a shower, a night's lodging... she could not compel herself to leave.

For his part, Dean was swiftly regaining his composure.  He regarded the young woman who stood before him.  She looked so insecure, like she was on the verge of turning and bolting from the door.  She also looked hungry.  He knew he was not making a good impression - but the smell! his brain protested - and yet he realized that he did wish to make her feel welcome.  Food, a shower and a change of clothes would cure this waif before him of all maladies, and these things he could provide.

It was his turn to clear his throat.  To her credit, the young woman did not seem startled at the noise.  He forced a smile and opened the door in invitation.  "Please come in.  You must be Jesse's friend.  I'm Dean."

She returned his smile, though it looked just as forced, and refrained from stepping through the doorway.  "Is Jesse here?"

"Sort of," Dean answered, looking over at the big man lying like a brick atop the couch.  No, he corrected himself, bricks weren't useless.  Currently, Jesse was.  "He's, er... using VR."

The young woman shuddered at the words, and Dean's smile was suddenly less forced.  "I know, right?  It's just creepy."

She relaxed visibly as she nodded in agreement, glad to find she had something in common with this stranger, and chose that moment to introduce herself.  "I'm Macy."  Then she hesitantly stepped into the apartment.

Dean smiled encouragingly and motioned to a cardboard box on the floor.  "Everything you need should be in that box.  Jesse picked you up some clothes, a toothbrush, almost anything you could think of."

At the mention of Jesse, Macy's eyes flickered to the still form on the couch.  He looked as if he could be sleeping, but she knew that he was far from it.  She briefly wondered where he might spend his virtual time, then almost as quickly dismissed the thought.  Her mind turned to a shower, to food, to creature comforts.  She watched as Dean hefted the cardboard box and started down the hallway, and followed him to the bathroom.