The Rebel Code

Chapter Eight

There's nothing left to do but drive, so we drive. I'm not even sure they ever realized we'd left. John jumps in the driver's seat, and we head east down the highway.

"Did you get what you came for?" asks Mo.

John nods. "There was a freeboot trucker at the plaza. He gave me this," he says, holding up a small black chip.

"And what's that supposed to be?"

"Coordinates. We're going to a safehouse where, hopefully, I can get access to a good computer and erase us all."

Erased. I feel the word pounding through my skull. It's a freeboot trick that's saved John countless times, and an unusual paradox. Hacking citizen databases isn't easy, since they're a part of Criterion, but once it's done, Criterion is the first to lose any memory of the person. Not only will we cease to exist, but we'll never have existed at all, and anyone who says otherwise will be contradicting Criterion itself.

It's the re-writing that's the worse part. I've never had to do it, but Mo's done it once, and who knows how many times John's had to. It's creating a new identity, name, and history for yourself. It's carefully constructing a believable story, from where you were born to your job history. It's fabricating records and researching until even you start to believe it.

It's why we can't believe anything we see on TV about freeboots being killed. Because the erasure process gives Criterion a digital brain-fart, and it can only determine that the person has been captured and executed. It's why the Cyber Police have executed freeboots who look so identical to past executions, but nobody can question it, because to suggest that Criterion might be wrong about something is high treason.

I'm still not sure about Mr. Bosman, but I don't want to get my hopes up. The Cyber Police aren't completely incompetent, and every now and then they get their man, when someone just isn't fast enough.

I wonder what Malina will think, once I'm declared dead.

"Are you okay?" asks John, even though he's asked me a few dozen times already. He gave me cold water for my scrapes, but that's about all we've got until the safehouse.

"Fine," I say. "I'm fine."

Mo smiles. "Nice shirt."

"Thanks. I thought I'd do some shopping before we hit the road. Do you want a Tropical Flavor Blast?"

We drive without stopping for hours, Atticus and even Mo occasionally taking the wheel when John gets tired, and as we drive I wait for whatever's just happened to hit me. I know what I've lost. I know we're never going to see that town or any of its people for as long as I live. I know that the future is uncertain, but instead of a crushing wave of realization, I just kind of feel numb, like there's a dull emptiness inside of me. I wish I would just cry. Crying always makes me feel better, but I just don't. Then I realize that I've been crying a little bit ever since they took Mr. Bosman, ever since this whole mess started. Now there's nothing left.

After about three hours in the van, I start to feel tired. I grab my watermelon bag as a pillow and throw the souvenir towel over my shoulders, but every time I start to fall asleep, the engine's vibrations jolt me awake again. I have to satisfy myself with lying awake in a heap on the floor, staring out the window at the night sky.

"When we relocate," says Mo wistfully, "I want a bigger yard. I think it would be fun to have a garden or a dog or something. No more subdivisions."

"That would be nice," John agrees. "How about you, Jenny? Any wishes for the next one?"

I try to think, but I've never lived in any house besides our old one. I wouldn't know what I wanted even if I wanted it. "I'd like a smaller school, maybe. Port Carina Tech was huge."