Catch Me If You Can

Chapter 4 (Irene)

“Congratulations on the conference, Irene,” my father’s deep voice rumbled from the other room. “The ratings were higher than they’ve been…keep it up, and I may have to get you to replace me.”

I slammed the door closed behind me, shrugging off my thick dress coat. “The ratings were only high because it was so short, Daddy. Besides, I’d never be able to replace you.”

He appeared in the doorframe, eyes wrinkling as he smiled. Here, in the safety of his own home, his necktie was untied and hung loosely about his collar; his shirt was untucked and wrinkled; the lines beneath his eyes were so much more obvious under this dim, even lighting than in the spotlight. This was the Richard Anderson that I alone knew, Richard Anderson the tired, elderly father figure, while the rest of the country saw only Richard Anderson, the groomed, polished politician, never a hair nor crease nor word out of place.

“One day, Irene,” he said softly, and his gaze grew distant. “You know, you’re nearly old enough now…give it another year or two, and you might even be able to make it to a minor government office. You’d have to come back to run for governor of New York after my retirement of course, but there’s nothing wrong with getting some experience now…”

He was still muttering to himself as I brushed past him, still planning my future for me as I crossed the room, as I ascended the rickety old stairs that rose to the upper floors of the house, and even when I closed my bedroom door and left him far behind me, I could still his voice in my head, telling me of everything I would come to be.

It began two years ago: the dawn of the revolution.

There was no revolution yet, of course. No one yet had the frustration or the courage to stand up to the Bureau of corrupt politicians, to challenge the strength of the Agency that infringed our every privacy. But soon there would be. That had to be Glitch’s end game, after all; his every move, every illegal move and bold call to action, screamed of rebellion, of intent to overthrow. And soon others would follow him.

When historians would look back on what began the Revolution of the Empire, when they tried to analyze its causes and effects and origin point, this is the date they would remember:

December 19, 2163. One o’two in the afternoon, to be precise…right in the middle of a perfectly normal Saturday lunch.

My mother was at the griddle, humming to herself as she flipped sandwiches for me and my younger brother, Thomas. Thomas himself sat beside me, an entire sketchbook’s worth of pages spread across the dining table. On every sheet, there sat a single, solitary item, barely taking up a quarter of the paper: a hairbrush, an apple. An eye, a pair of child’s hands.

My eyes roamed the table, cataloguing every artistic masterpiece, the expertise he used in distinguishing the shadows from the highlights, the care with with he carved out each object with his pencil’s edge. This was Thomas’ gift, and his curse: he was as masterful with shapes and colors as I was with words.

Of course, artistic skill is rarely needed in a politician’s toolkit.

“Irene,” my mother finally sang, interrupting her self-invented song to summon me. “Go tell your father lunch is ready, alright, darling?”

Still wordless, I dropped from my seat to meander towards my father’s office. His office was the most secluded room in the house, tucked in some nook beside the stairwell, where no logical person would think to look for an office.

I reached up to rap on the door. “Yes, I understand,” I heard my father mutter, his gravelly voice grating on my ears. “But can’t you simply turn them off?”