The peoples library, p.6
The People's Library, page 6
Echo convinced herself she could make it through one meal without an issue, so she agreed. She was so thrilled when the menu that came up didn’t display the prices. But near the end of the meal, one of the ad screens showed the number 999.
“I think we should close by three on Fridays, give everybody more time,” a member of the staff was saying, but the number nine evoked purple for Echo. The “drama number,” Mom had called it.
“Why don’t you just take the whole day?” Echo had snapped. “Or maybe Thursday too?”
She was ramped up enough to keep going, but the looks on their faces stopped her. Echo excused herself, went to the ladies’ room, and practiced her breathing.
“I’m sorry,” she said, back at the table. “I don’t feel well—” She stopped herself. “The truth is, I have a condition that makes me sensitive to numbers. And sometimes it makes me say things I don’t mean.”
“We knew it was something like that,” Carmen said. “You think we didn’t know something was up?”
They’d accepted her that day, but she’d yet to accept herself. So, more often than not, she declined their invitations. They’d never stopped trying.
“Five minutes,” Ada announced.
The last of the patrons waved as they too left.
“Want me to walk you out?” Walter had come up beside her unnoticed. “I don’t mind waiting.”
“No, you go on ahead,” Echo said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” All she wanted was for this exhausting day to end. She didn’t want to be rude, but to discourage any further talking, she walked over and stood near the panel where she could close the door.
Walter masked his disappointment with his easy smile. “I’ll have my list for you then.”
Echo counted to one hundred, to give him and anybody else hanging around long enough to put some distance between them. Just as she was about to leave, someone else stepped inside.
Echo’s mouth opened but nothing came out, not even a breath.
The figure was covered in black from head to toe and was about her height, but it was the mask, shockingly similar to the one she’d seen on the escaped virtu, that sent her stumbling backward. There was something familiar about the person that Echo couldn’t place, until . . .
Eyes the color of black jeans that had been run through the washer one time too many.
“Gina, call security—no, the police, call them now.”
The figure advanced. Steps appearing as if walking through knee-high mud. So focused was Echo on the mask that it took a moment for her to register the hilt of the knife, the blade buried in the center of the stranger’s chest. The drip-drip of blood, shockingly red against the pale flooring.
“Fuck!” Echo was a pendulum, swinging between wanting to rush over and help and wanting to haul ass right past her and out the door. In the end, her mind blanked and the only thing she could do was back away. Her gaze darted between that knife and the open doors, willing Walter to run back inside. But only the golden-hour hush and a howling wind stood witness.
Echo dropped her tote bag, and its contents spilled out onto the tiles.
The trespasser staggered deeper into the lobby. Then, with Echo’s horror mounting, a slender, trembling hand, a woman’s hand, her wrist encircled by a gold-cuffed wearable, reached up to the knife and slowly pulled it from her chest. The weapon clattered to the floor.
The woman collapsed, arms splayed out on either side, her face hidden. Echo had the good sense to go over and kick the knife away. Her heart was a wrecking ball inside her chest. It took a full minute standing there, waiting for the sound of a siren before she could make herself move. She nudged the woman with her toe, fully expecting her to leap up and wrap her hands around Echo’s neck.
Nothing.
Echo lowered herself to the floor, and passages from every crime novel she’d ever read warned her against touching the woman or moving her body, but she couldn’t help herself. That mask. A finger on the neck confirmed there was a pulse. She gently turned the woman over. A dark patch of wetness spread across her chest. Echo turned her attention to the mask.
She probed the edges, looking for a way to remove it. Finally, she found two clasps, one at each temple, and released them. She took the mask off. It was the same woman who had doused her with what had looked like blood: Navy Suit. Her eyes found Echo’s. Her lips were moving, but her voice was too faint. Echo leaned over. “Who did this? What are you trying to tell me?”
The woman licked her dried lips and blinked hard, like she was losing consciousness.
“Gina, where are the police?” Echo growled. “Call an ambulance too.”
“I’m on it, Echo,” Gina said. “Please stay calm.”
“Don’t tell me to stay calm.”
The woman coughed and Echo refocused. “Zero,” the woman sputtered. “It all begins with nothing.” Echo hadn’t seen the number but knew its association well enough. Zero represented the color black for her, an infinite blank canvas, full of promise.
The sound of sirens wafted in on the afternoon air. Echo shook her head. “I don’t understand. Who are you? Who did this to you?”
Echo quickly picked up the mask. The underside pulsed with a constellation of white lights, zigzagging across the surface before settling into a pattern she recognized. It was the symbol for an atom. Without thinking, she held it up to her own face. A jolt momentarily blurred her vision, while the feel of a thousand needles danced across her skin. She yanked it away. “What is this thing?”
At the sound of footsteps and voices, Echo reached over and grabbed her bag. Then she stuffed the mask inside. The police rushed into the lobby.
“Ms. London, I take it?” The voice was urgent, sounding in control. He took her arm and guided her away from the body. “I’m Detective Donovan Reid. Are you hurt? Do you need medical assistance?”
Like Echo, Detective Reid was what the kids called a traditionalist. An older man, he clung to the perceived authority of a tan blazer but opted for a plain black shirt, open at the collar, and matching jeans. Echo stood, ignoring the stiffness in her back. “I’m unharmed,” she said, and that was true, physically speaking. Mentally, it’d take a month of Sundays to unpack this day with her therapist. “She’s the one who needs help.” She gestured to the woman on the floor.
Paramedics rushed in then. With swift precision, they quickly had her on a gurney and out the door.
“Mind if I ask you a few questions?” Detective Reid said.
Lying wasn’t so hard when you put your mind to it. All it took was a certain determination and incentive. This time, Echo had both.
“Had you seen this woman before today?” Reid asked her.
Echo shook her head. “Do you have any idea how many people visit the library in a week?”
“Point taken,” the detective said.
“Wait,” Echo said. “That’s not right. She said that she was a regular at the library where I used to work, Lewis, and that I recommended some book to her, but I don’t remember it.”
Detective Reid nodded. “What about at home? Think about places you frequent near . . .”
“Ohio City,” Echo supplied. But this disturbed her. She hadn’t given any thought to the possibility that she had been a specific target. The thought of someone watching her, knowing where she lived, set her heart racing again. “And I haven’t seen her before. I’m pretty sure of that.”
“Walk me through what happened.”
There wasn’t much to tell, but Echo relayed it all with a detachment that surprised her.
He didn’t respond immediately after she was finished, just watched her. A tactic that Echo had used so often herself, she almost laughed out loud.
A team came through the door then, wearing the symbols that marked them as forensics.
“Wait here,” the detective said and went over to confer with them. Echo watched as the professionals got to work, marking off the area where the woman had been. She’d never seen something like this in person before, and she watched with open interest.
Detective Reid came back. “I’m not one to draw conclusions without all the evidence, but based on the history you’ve had here at your library, this looks like Human.exe is escalating.”
“I mean, why?” one of the forensics technicians said. “It’s not just the library; they’ve hit tech companies all over the city too. Do they think they’re going to get everybody to close up shop and take their AI with them?”
Echo surprised herself by answering. Hadn’t she had the same feelings? “They don’t want another Reclamation,” she said, referring to the 2035 uprising that had started with a self-immolation in front of a data center. “We don’t have to agree with the way they go about it, but all they’re trying to do is advocate for us. So that the corporations never think about replacing us again.”
By the time Echo had finished her little speech, all the technicians had stopped working and were gaping at her. Detective Reid chuckled. “They should hire you as their spokesperson, maybe put that shit on a billboard or something.”
Echo didn’t join in their laughter. He asked her a few more questions, most of which she couldn’t answer. No, she didn’t know the woman’s name. No, there hadn’t been anyone else with the victim. No, she didn’t need any help getting home.
A chime notification told her Gina had a message. “Excuse me a moment,” Echo said to the detective.
“This probably goes without saying, but nothing to the press,” he stated. “And no visuals—to anyone.”
Echo nodded. “What is it, Gina?”
“Mr. Grafton has called several times; would you like me to put him through?”
Of course, Percy had heard about this by now. “Yeah, but audio only.”
“Can we get through one day without another disaster? What happened? Where are the police? I need to see what’s going on there.” When Percy was scared, he spoke fast and his accent thickened. Echo didn’t fool herself into thinking that the sentiment was all for her. It was also for the library.
“I’m fine, thanks so much for asking,” she said.
“I’m aware of that, because you’re there and the other party is heading to an operating room over at Cleveland Clinic,” Percy said.
Good thing this was only audio, because Percy wouldn’t have liked the expression on Echo’s face right then. “The police and forensics are here. The detective says I can’t show anyone the crime scene.”
Percy sputtered. “How . . . who? Fine. If this woman dies, this story will be so much worse.”
Hard to believe Percy was on the Citizen Governance Council side of the library association. Sometimes he could be such a politician.
“Go home,” he said. “The library will obviously be closed tomorrow. The staff will be alerted—you don’t have to worry about that.”
“I can be here. I have work to do,” Echo countered.
“Stay home until further notice,” Percy said. Then, more tentatively: “Take care of yourself, okay?”
Echo agreed and signed off. She gathered her bag and, with the detective’s okay, got out of there. Once she was far enough away, she turned back to look at all the lights, all the people, and she thought oddly of Jesse Cooper and the other virtus she’d met in recent weeks. She hated to admit it, but she would miss selecting a new one to interview if she couldn’t come into work tomorrow. She’d have nobody to talk to.
Echo thought for just a moment about going back and turning in the mask. But she headed home, taking the solarway this time because she couldn’t trust her legs.
She couldn’t explain why she’d lied to the police, a big no-no, but she had to figure out what was going on with this mask, and if she turned it in, they wouldn’t let her touch it ever again. She turned over the woman’s last words. Zero. It all begins with nothing.
That was where she would start.
Chapter Ten
Twice on the way home and at least one time since, Echo had tried to throw the white mask away. Less prominent, but still there, was the thought of calling the police and turning it in. Wouldn’t it be easy enough to say that she’d accidentally put it in her bag with her things that had spilled on the floor when she’d dropped it? Or . . . or she could go back and plant it somewhere outside so they could find the mask later.
Halfway to her apartment, Echo doubled back to the library. She was worried that there would be a swarm of spectators and even more cops, making her task that much harder. She was surprised that only Detective Reid’s car and the forensics van were there. Her spine tingled uncomfortably. She backed away, and this time, she went straight home.
Her commute of less than two miles from the library was made easier by the network of solarways. Echo hopped off at her stop near West Twenty-Fifth Street. She passed several restaurants, overflowing with diners and smells that on any other day might have drawn her in to pick up some takeout. But she had no appetite and continued on to Bridge Avenue with low spirits.
She walked up the stairs of her quad and closed the outside door just as the evening service bell sounded at Saint Patrick’s Church.
After the murkiness of the encroaching evening, Echo’s apartment was comfortably lighted with the automatic ambient bulbs placed around the palatial seven-hundred-square-foot space. She closed the door, hung her bag and blazer on the wall hooks, and leaned her back against the door.
For a moment, she breathed in the scents of citrus and clove, her choices for this week. The scented eco-crystals sat in bowls on the entryway and living room tables. She could tell they’d need to be recharged soon and grabbed a handful and placed them on the windowsill.
At least here, everything was in order. Her bed piled with decorative pillows. The comfy chair that gave her a view of the street, waiting with a soft blanket draped carefully across the back. A love seat in the center of the room, a pile of books stacked on the coffee table. Candlesticks in varying stages of burning, wax pooling.
Echo stepped into the small, galley-style kitchen to her left and drank a sip of water. She didn’t want any of the clothes she had on to touch her things, so she took off her shoes and placed them in their spot on the rack hanging on the closet door. Then she stripped right there and tossed everything in the wash before she went into the bathroom.
Echo piled her braids on top of her head with a scrunchie and secured it all with a silk scarf. The shower stall was still damp from when she’d had to rush home to wash off earlier. The ten-minute allotment was an afterthought, though the intelligence-controlled environment didn’t even let her build up a good steam. What seemed like a half hour later, she stepped out, oiled her skin, and slipped into her robe.
Even after all that, she still didn’t feel clean.
Dinner consisted of a piece of buttered toast and a cup of coffee. Both ended up unfinished on the dining table. It was impossible to relax. Echo paced the narrow strip between her living room and bedroom so many times that she began to feel like a trapped animal. And then there was that mask. Before she knew it, Echo went and got it from her bag and placed it on the little mantel above her electric fireplace.
Sit down. She snatched a throw blanket from the chair and plodded to the love seat. Despite her nerves, she managed to doze off for a few hours. But when she awoke, the day’s events flooded right back in.
That personal attack that had ruined her favorite shirt; an injured person in the lobby that she was going to have to walk through every day; even losing her old job at the Lewis branch. Everything that had gone wrong in the last couple of years was because of technology.
But. Being analytical was a benefit most of the time, but not when you wanted to be wildly emotional and feel sorry for yourself. Slowly, the other side of the story revealed itself. Technology had its benefits, didn’t it? Medicine for sure, research. Tech had given her the library and the virtus. As much as she’d resisted in the beginning, she’d quickly come around. She’d had better conversations with those digital impressions of people than the real things.
Echo glanced up at the mask, watching her like a judge ready to hand down her sentence. She got up and took one step before she once again banged her shin on the coffee table. It had always been too big for the space, and the scab that hadn’t healed since the last time she’d bumped into the table was open again with fresh blood.
The sight took her back to the library, the knife in the woman’s chest. The mask looked like something a mime would wear painted on their face, made real. She weighed it in her hands. Initially, she’d thought it was ceramic or made of plaster. But it was too light. Not paper light, but more like cardboard. She looked more closely and, in the end, decided she had no idea what it was made of.
The constellation show on the underside had blinked out, and she couldn’t see any pinprick indentations that would reveal how the lights had worked in the first place. But she’d memorized the symbol. What does someone do when they need to research something they don’t understand?
She laughed as the answer came to her. They . . . she . . . would go straight to the People’s Library and ask her friends.
Four in the morning was not the ideal time to be out walking the streets by yourself. Not in any city, not in any neighborhood. When Echo had asked, just that once in high school, to go to a party that ended at one, her father had responded: Nothing good happens after midnight. He had then proceeded to regale her with stories of all the horrors that had befallen him and his friends to prove the fact. Her parents kind of tag-teamed her in raising her that way. They rarely flat out told her no but would present a laundry list of everything that could go awry if she made the wrong choice.
Echo had always leaned more analytical than emotional, so when presented with what she saw as her only chance at becoming part of the in-crowd, she’d hesitated. She’d been asked to go to a high school house party by the only person who’d ever given her the slightest inkling at wanting to be her friend. But Echo had considered her dad’s words and heeded the warning. In the end, she didn’t go to the party, which had ended at about half past midnight in a brawl that sent half the kids to the hospital.
