Page 34 of Poster Girl

“You think someone who broke Delegation laws would end up in the Aperture?” Sonya says. “This place is full of loyalists. That’s why they’re in here.”

“Not necessarily,” Nikhil says.

“I think Kevin worked in assignations,” Charlotte says. “Even if he didn’t do anything illegal, perhaps he knows who did.”

Sonya nods, and runs her fingertips over the wires laid out in front of her.

“It troubles you, then,” Nikhil says, giving Sonya a sideways look over the top of his cards.

“The radio?” she says.

“Obviously not,” Charlotte remarks. “Quiet, I’m on the verge of something.”

“You’ve been on the verge of something for three minutes,” Nikhil says.

Charlotte makes a face at him, and lays down a card. Nikhil is ready with his own, matching her just a few seconds later. Charlotte scowls and returns to staring at her hand.

“It troubles you,” Nikhil says, “that Grace is alive.”

“What an awful thing to say,” Charlotte says. “Of course it doesn’t trouble her that the girl is alive.”

“I’m not saying she wanted Grace to be dead,” he says, “just that she believed it was a fool’s errand, and now it isn’t.”

“Better not to be the fool,” Charlotte says, laying down her card.

Sonya selects a wire that looks right, and clamps it to the connector on the old radio, on each end, two sets of needle-nose pliers sticking out of the back. Chewing on her lip, she flips the power switch.

The radio crackles to life.

“Is it?” Sonya replies.

The guard at the entrance—Williams—is ready for her the next morning, a business card pinched between his first two fingers.

“Someone left this for you,” he says. “Gangly fellow.”

The front of the card readsalexander price, department of restoration. Beneath it is an address and phone number. She stares at “Department of Restoration” for a moment, and then flips the card over.Ray and Cara Eliot.The address is in Olympia, which meansshe’ll have to take the Flicker instead of the HiTrain. She’s never ridden the Flicker alone.

A note at the bottom of the card reads—in cramped writing—I let her know you would be coming.She remembers him washing the dishes after weekly dinners, leaned up against the counter with his sleeves bunched around his elbows, whistling under his breath, like even the song in his head was something he wanted to keep for himself. She remembers how she watched him when no one was looking, and it eats at her now, the thought of that past longing.

“He told me he would,” she says to the guard. “Can you tell me where the nearest Flicker station is?”

“Downtown,” Williams says. “Near the Beaver Building.”

Her face heats as she asks, “Do I need credits for it?”

“Not unless you want a fancy seat,” he says. “You can thank the Triumvirate for making public transportation free for all.”

Sonya tucks the business card into her pocket. “Thank you.”

She thanks him every time he opens the gate for her, and he scowls every time.

There are only a few people waiting for her outside the gates today, none of them holding signs. One is a woman with rosy cheeks, who asks her for a picture together. Sonya is too startled to refuse. She watches the woman’s hands shake as she holds up a small camera secured to her wrist with a strap. The woman smells like baby powder. Sonya doesn’t remember to smile.

One of the others tries to talk to her, calls her Poster Girl, asks her if she’s lonely, and she just keeps walking. He follows her, at first, but she doesn’t turn to look at him, and eventually, his footsteps fade, and there’s just the crunch of gravel and paper under her feet.

It’s bright today, the sun gleaming on the pavement and shining on the chrome side of the HiTrain as it pulls up to the platform. She finds a seat alone at the back of the car and leans her head against the glass to watch the city pass by. The buildings shift from low and crumbling brick to towers of metal and glass. When she was a child, she thought of them as giants from old legends, titans and nephilim, Svyatogor atop his massive steed. But the wonder of youth has faded. Now sheknows how many people are stuffed inside every building. The more there are, the less any one of them matters. Who cares about a single blade of grass when you’re standing in a field?

She gets off the train at Rainier Square. The Beaver Building, as Williams called it, stands across the street from the station, a seamless concrete pedestal that arches up to a rectangular shaft, nicknamed so because the bottom looks like it was chewed by a beaver. A sign points her toward Freeway Station, just two blocks east, and she remembers where she’s going.

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