Lost Places, page 5
“Don’t say it, Lexi.”
I shut my mouth. I’d offered a drink to a colleague. If she wanted to have that drink in a bar that broke the law, if she trusted me enough to take me to a place like this, she didn’t want me pointing out the obvious.
“What are you drinking?” I asked instead, faking nonchalance.
She pointed to the last tap handle, a cheap local lager. I motioned the bartender for two, while Maggie shrugged off her coat and chose a table.
She raised her glass when I handed it to her. “To killing people and notifying their families by phone.”
“Jesus.” I sat without removing my jacket. “I can’t drink to that.”
“Sorry. It was an awful day. How about ‘to another day closer to retirement’?”
We toasted, even though she was way closer to retirement than me.
“What is this place?” I asked.
“It’s the only bar within walking distance where I can have a drink without having to watch the day’s Flag reruns.”
“Maggie,” I lowered my voice. “It’s illegal not to have a Flagscreen.”
“I’m not stupid. I know that. But I’m not going to sit here and watch someone die for the second time today.”
“Jesus,” I said again. “We’re not supposed to discuss that where anyone else can hear.”
She had to know that too.
“Look, I know you believe in what we do—”
I had to interrupt. “You don’t?”
“I don’t know what I believe anymore, but I thought—when you offered to grab a drink with me this time I thought maybe you felt the same way I did. Like maybe this isn’t how it’s meant to be.” She took a long drink. “Do you know what that husband said to me tonight? He didn’t cry or yell or curse at me. He thanked me, Lex. He said ‘the risk is worth the service.’ Is it, though?”
“Of course. Nobody is forced to enter the Flag lottery.”
She looked at me. “But how many understand there’s a chance they won’t survive it?”
“That’s a tiny risk compared to the benefits. When did this happen last? She could’ve been hit by a car or gotten food poisoning, or slipped on ice, but those wouldn’t leave her family with a lifetime stipend without a lot of litigation. They’ll be fine. Think of the respect they’ll get when people find out.”
“Respect and an empty chair. I’m sure they’re thrilled.” She lifted her beer again. It was almost empty; I still hadn’t touched mine beyond the sip when we toasted.
I stole a look at the other patrons. They were drinking in a bar without a Flag. Maybe we wouldn’t get in trouble, but I couldn’t risk losing my job or my own chance at being Flag someday.
“I’m sorry, Maggie. I know you had a rough day, and I wanted to commiserate, but I think maybe I need to get going. Next one’s on me too, okay?”
On my way out, I paid for a third beer, wishing as my chip passed the reader that I carried cash, so there wouldn’t be evidence I’d been here.
My Metro ride home took a full hour, thanks to a delay to remove a woman for complaining about the President without a free speech permit. For a moment I thought it was Maggie, though I’d left her at the bar, and she lived in a different direction. My local feed flashed the names and faces of the patriots in the next car who had turned the woman in, along with her name and transgression. We all applauded.
While the train sat, I watched the Flagscreen beside the system map. It was still early in the rerun; she hadn’t died yet. She looked young and vibrant and healthy, her skin rippling in red, white, and blue, her screensuit too. Her eyes had that look from when the Stars drug kicks in: fever patriotism, pride, like she had waited her whole life for this moment, which she probably had. She kept repeating, “I am my country” and “beautiful, beautiful.”
The autopsy would say what had gone wrong; an undiagnosed heart condition, I was guessing. I could still picture her face when she died: peaceful, happy, high. That led me to Maggie on the phone with the husband, the husband thanking her, the fact she’d found that more upsetting than crying. I wanted to understand.
My stop was the last on the line, and it was another ten minutes’ walk from there. Sometimes I thumbed a ride in bad weather or close to curfew, but the night wasn’t cold for January. As I left the Metro station, I stole a look up the Flagscreen above the entrance. She wouldn’t die again for hours yet.
Pounding music greeted me through thin walls as I approached the apartment, courtesy of my louder roommate. When I flipped the foyer light switch, the Flagscreen came on full blast too. Usually we kept it muted, but a roommate must have turned up the volume.
I tried to catch the Flag’s words now that she was talking. She hadn’t spoken much at all, not in prep or on the platform. Hopefully she hadn’t said anything unbefitting a flag in her last moments. I’d been watching her stats at that point, not her mouth. Nobody said anything negative while on Stars, though. Who could, feeling that good? I wished I knew what it felt like. Retired Flags always reported this perfect-day feeling, a lingering gladness, something to look back on and smile.
I considered what I’d do with the money and prestige if I ever got chosen. Get an apartment on my own, without roommates. Thicker walls. I’d keep my job, of course; the Flag payment wasn’t enough money to go without work, just enough to live a little better for a while. Visit Charleston, let my parents get a little reflected glory. Someday, maybe.
Back at work the next day, Maggie didn’t mention what had happened, and neither did I. The day’s Flag was a talkative one, bridging our silence. A middle-aged white trucker from Dayton, as opposite the previous day’s grad student as possible. She hadn’t said much through the whole process, whereas this guy couldn’t shut up.
“I had to buy white pants and a white shirt. I don’t own anything white—I spill on myself the first time I wear it, and then I can never get it back to how it was. When I pulled the pants on this morning, I noticed a tiny smudge on the thigh, and spent fifteen minutes scrubbing. Almost made myself late, and I couldn’t even call, since we’re not supposed to carry anything but our ID. I didn’t know which would be worse: the smudge or the lateness. I kept picturing some reserve waiting to take my place, all spotless and timely.” He went quiet for a moment, and I realized he was waiting for reassurance.
“You did the right thing,” I said, still concentrating on assembling my trays and lines. We got a lot of nervous talkers. “Better a tiny spot than arriving late. I can’t even see it. In a minute I’m going to start the Colors. You’ll feel a tiny jab.”
He looked relieved. “I’d hate to get stuck back in the hopper. Do you even get re-entered if you blow your chance, or are you eliminated forever? Ow—
“Anyway, it’s what, a one in three hundred fifty million chance of being chosen, minus the people who are too old or too young or need to opt out or whatever, or the however many thousand people who’ve been chosen already. I’m no mathematician, but the chance of my name going back in and then getting picked again?—I’ll be damned.”
That last was said gazing at his hand as the nano-ink spread out from the injection site.
I passed him the relay. “This goes around your wrist.”
“Fitness band?”
“Similar. It sends us your vital signs, so we know how you’re doing.”
Maggie started her procedure next, while I checked that the nano-ink Colors and the relay conversed with each other and my monitor. Everything looked fine.
She held out the screensuit. “I’m going to need you to remove your clothes and put these on. You can change behind that curtain over there.”
He looked surprised for the first time. “Why did I have to buy new white clothes if you’re not going to have me wear them?”
“People get nervous if you tell them they’re going to have to take their clothes off. More nervous than the needles or the nano. Better for you not to dwell on it. Didn’t you feel proud today, marching in here in those crisp whites? They’ll be waiting for you when you come down, and everyone will recognize you on your way back to your hotel tonight. There you go. I’ll hand you the uniform and help if you need me to. This goes first. I know it looks like a diaper, but it’s called a MAG. A Maximum Absorbency Garment, like astronauts use. Astronauts are cool, that’s it. Now this one. The opening is in the back, like a hospital gown, but it’ll close, I promise. I’ll help you close it. It’s delicate, so take your time. Don’t tug.”
It amazed me how her patter calmed them. Maggie helped him in that no-nonsense way she had, making it clear she wasn’t touching him, she was making sure it was put on right. It wore like a not-quite-sheer body sleeve. Silky, but warmer than fleece in winter and cooler than cotton in summer. When she turned it on, the e-ink began its flag course, matching to the Colors in his skin.
“Cool!” he said, recovering from the indignity. “And soft. Can I buy this to wear around the house?”
We didn’t have any mirrors or reflective surfaces in the room, a lab disguised in soothing spa colors. Flags got weirded out seeing their lumps and bumps in this setting; better to look at the recording we sent them home with, well-lit, color-corrected, filmed from a discreet distance. Still, this was always the moment where they stood a little taller and smiled, imagining what they’d look like up there, shining.
Maggie opened the next container. “These are special contact lenses to protect your eyes. It can get bright out there. Can you put them in, or do you want me to?”
The Flag frowned. “Would you mind? I’m not big on eye stuff. Always had perfect vision.”
She washed her hands again, put on gloves, put the contacts in.
My turn. “The next thing I’m going to do is set up an IV line. It’ll have two things connected to it: fluids, for if the monitors say you get dehydrated, and the Stars.”
He stayed silent, but held out his arm for me to start the line. He had easy veins, close to the surface. As I stepped forward, he pulled his arm back. “Does anyone turn it down? I’m not much for drugs, to be honest. Smoked a little this or that in my day, but it’s not my thing.”
Before I could start my spiel, Maggie interrupted. “You don’t have to take it if you don’t want. It’s not mandatory.”
“No, it’s not mandatory, but Stars enhances the experience.” I glared at Maggie. “It’s not addictive. It doesn’t give you feelings you don’t already have, but if you’re feeling patriotic for doing your duty today, it’s going to flood you with all those great emotions. If you’re nervous, it’ll calm you down. It’ll make the day pass a little quicker, too. You may not think you need it, but trust me, it’s a long day without it.”
He nodded.
“Can you repeat that out loud?”
“Yes. I’ll take the drug.”
He’d already signed the consent forms and waivers, but verbal acknowledgment was required. It helped with something like the day before, I supposed, so if anyone reviewed the prep vid it would show we hadn’t coerced her into anything.
“Here we go.” I checked the levels on the pump and started it going. “Can you recite the Pledge of Allegiance for me?”
Stains spread at his armpits and chest as he began, but Danny Mtawarira could edit that out in post if the garment didn’t dry fast enough. By the time he got to the Republic he was grinning and glassy.
“Here we go.” Maggie took his hand; he followed her like a child.
“Flag walking,” I said into my two-way as I followed them with the IV cart.
“Flag walking confirmed,” came three more voices: installation, camera, post. Installation met us at the hall’s end. It was their job to get him out there and secure him. Their job to hide the IV stand in the pole itself, and, once everything was settled, to raise the platform. I watched my monitor for the go light.
At sunrise, the anthem began to play, and the platform rose. The Flag wept as he ascended. I checked his levels to make sure I hadn’t overdone the drug but he was just an emotional guy.
“This view,” he shouted when the anthem ended. “Nobody mentioned the view!”
He gave a ragged, joyful scream. Not the most dignified Flag; he’d settle in a moment.
“Check me out, Granddad!”
Or not.
Given the Flag’s age, I assumed his grandfather was deceased. His grandfather probably would’ve been surprised we had one daily human Flag now, instead of zillions of cloth ones and bumper stickers and hats and boxer shorts that devalued the symbol. That’s what I’d learned, anyway, between school and job training. Somewhere in those in between years, a flag representing the people had become a Flag that was literally the people, with the right to say anything they wanted while they were up there.
I remembered my own excitement when I turned eighteen and got my automatic voter registration and Flag registration in the mail. It said I could opt out, but who would? A lifetime’s stipend. A chance at a reckoning between yourself and your country, sixty feet in the air, overlooking the country’s greatest monuments. The day my registration arrived, I considered the astronomical odds, and decided that if I’d likely never get chosen, the next best thing would be to work in the Flag Center and watch other people take their turn.
So here I was, watching a man talk to his dead grandfather, watching his body sort out endorphins and synthetic Stars and everything else, and wondering again how Maggie could complain about this glorious experience we got to make happen.
I looked over at her. She was frowning.
“You seeing a problem?” I asked.
She had one eye on the suit readout and one on the realtime screen. “Nah. It’s not that. Are you listening to him?”
“I tuned him out, sorry. Thinking. Why? What’d he say?”
“He’s chatting away. I—did you hear that thing he said in prep?”
“Which thing?” I tried to rewind the prep in my head, but nothing stood out.
“He still owes twenty thousand on the semi sitting in his driveway. The last company hiring human drivers shifted to self-driving, and they promised to retrain him, but they keep cancelling the trainings. That’s what he should be saying up there. Not babbling.”
“He can say whatever he wants. That’s what’s beautiful. A whole day to say anything he wants.”
“Except he’s drugged to his eyeballs and can’t get those words back.”
“His choice, Maggie. I did everything by the book.” It didn’t sound like an accusation, but it still felt like she was leaving me blame for something, between this and the day before.
“His choice, but when was the last time someone chose to go without Stars? Everyone talks it up, this amazing non-addictive high, and that’s the thing getting people excited, instead of the chance to speak to the entire country.”
“It would be a rough day without it, Mag. All those hours, the indignity, the diaper. They’d say whatever they wanted to say, and they’d still have an entire day to get through. We’d watch their stress levels rise without the ability to adjust them. They’d get hungry and thirsty, the IV would itch, they’d flinch when birds landed on them. This way they spend the day feeling amazing, and they go home knowing it was an amazing day.”
She sighed. “I get what you’re saying. It just seems like this isn’t what was intended. How many even know they have the option to address people? When was the last time somebody did it?”
“The Flag and the Stars both came in at the same time. It’s always been a choice.”
“But was anyone ever encouraged to take the opportunity? It’s a waste to do it for a high.”
I was getting frustrated. “It’s not just for a high. You know that. They get paid well. They get press when they go back home, so if there’s something they didn’t say up there, they can still say it if they want to.”
“To their hometown news, if their hometown still has local news outlets, and if anyone’s paying attention. That’s not the same platform. And who knows what will make it to air?”
Neither of us was going to convince the other. I pretended I needed the bathroom and called for a tech to watch my monitors. She didn’t say anything more when I returned.
The Flag made it through the day in the usual fashion. When he got back to us, he was quieter than he’d been in the morning. The drug was wearing off, and he’d worn his voice ragged singing through the afternoon. Still more talkative than most.
“That was quite a thing,” he rasped. “Quite a thing.”
“Yes, sir,” I said as I drained the Colors. “You’re a lucky man.”
“A lucky man,” he repeated. A lone tear rolled down his cheek.
“Are you okay, sir?”
“Yeah. I . . . you’re right. I’m lucky. Lost my job a few months ago, when my company automated. Haven’t been able to find anyplace willing to let me and my old Kenworth haul anymore. This money’s going to make a huge difference.”
I shot Maggie a look that said “See?” but she was giving me the same look.
We didn’t talk while he showered, and then we both busied ourselves checking him over one last time before the driver took him back to his hotel. I cleaned my station, and when I looked up, she was gone.
The next day was Friday, the start of our three-day weekend. The four-three-three-four schedule had always been a nice perk. On the longer weekends I sometimes drove home to see my family. The shorter breaks were good for relaxing, playing games, exploring the city. I tried to forget the argument with Maggie, since I still didn’t entirely get it.
