Escape to New Atlantis

9 Just Handle It

Sawyer

The school hallway is narrow and, between classes, unbelievably crowded. I find a corner where I can stop for a moment and process what it means to be part of this crazy little floating country. It's isolated, rich, and offers freedom from the plagues devastating the planet. Without doubt, there are people right now plotting to make New Atlantis theirs. Maybe evil people; maybe just desperate ones. Probably both.

Anyone attacking would know they face a strong, well-funded defense—rich people take care of their own. So they'd attack with their strongest, stealthiest technology, coming from every direction, including above and even below. The disastrous scenario Catalina, Benedict, and I faced in the armory VR chamber is completely believable, and those robots could have even entered New Atlantis through the floor of Pizza da Vinci.

I don't know why, but something deep inside tells me I have a special responsibility for keeping this place safe. Yes, I need to start by getting competent with my M-1 but, not meaning to brag, I could do much, much more. As in developing technology to make our defenses impenetrable.

With a smile, I rejoin the flowing crowd to find my way back to Mr. Fix-It's workshop to tackle another of my nine roles, this time the domestic role through the mysteries of "home maintenance."

"Back again, Landry?" Mr. Fix-It shakes his head as he gestures at the students struggling to hoist old-fashioned vacuum cleaners up onto the workbenches. "Honestly, I don't have a good slot for you until we finish this appliance repair segment. Tell you what, for the next couple of class periods I'm just going to have you straighten the shelves in the supply closet. Our next segment will involve individual projects, and I promise you can have first pick." He directs me to a door in the back.

The closet is huge: shelf after shelf of gadgets and gizmos that support all the different classes Mr. Fix-It teaches. Everything's clearly tagged, and most stuff is exactly where it should be. A few heavy items are on the floor in front of their shelves, some have gotten a bit scrambled with their neighbors, and some are turned so their labels don't show. Yep, I'm facing the essence of a boring, make-work ordeal.

On the communications equipment shelves I see some of the items Catalina is working with in her project. Hm. I wonder if Mr. Fix-It might also have the other components she'd need to contact Watt Boudreau and earn her A+ for "summoning Watson." It takes a little digging, but I think it's all here: a broadband connection module, a universal connection interface, and all the necessary dongles and cables. I put the stuff into an empty box that I hide behind a carton of disposable gloves. Catalina is going to love this!

I've been in this closet for most of a lifetime when Mr. Fix-It steps in. He takes out a key and is about to unlock a drawer when he notices me and jerks around. "Oh, Landry. I forgot you were in here." He slides the key back into his pocket. "Uh, you must not have heard the bell ring back among the shelves. Son, class ended ten minutes ago."

I fly through the classroom to the hall and... hey, I have nowhere to go. I just wander the corridors until I happen onto a vending machine. It takes me a while, but I finally figure out how to use the chip in my head to snag me a bottle of orange juice and a bag of Zingies, which, by the picture, may be turnip chips. Funny, but I kind of miss quarantine. Right now, silly old Nemo would be serving me fish and chips with a moon pie for dessert. I peer again into the vending machine—nope, no moon pies.

Taking my so-called lunch to my library carrel, I munch on Zingies, which the bag divulges to be "rutabaga crisps," and wade back into the morass of Bard's sonnets. When the time comes, without even leaving my seat, I enter my online fourth period class and take my first stab at my expression role with "App Aesthetics."