“Any questions, Locke?” she asks, demanding that I become engaged in our conversation.
“They’re arguing,” I say.
She shrugs and whisks some V-files back into their folders. “What else is new? It’s nothing for you to be concerned with.”
But I am. “Not a good sign for two guys on the same team.”
“Their differences are smaller than their mutual goal. That’s all that matters.” She stands. “Come on. It’s time for Mother and Son to go for a walk in the city. You need to be up to date on that too. We can’t have you gawking at changes like you’re an alien who’s just landed.”
As far as I know, no real alien life has landed, so I’ll assume she means that figuratively, but I can’t help but feel there’s some hint of implication in her remark too. “What about your health? According to the files, you aren’t well.”
“According to the files, I’m also rich. I guess for now, we’ll have to ignore the files because I guarantee neither one of us will be spending any money.”
As we leave, Carver and Xavier are hunched over large sheets of yellowed paper, running their fingers along faint lines I can barely see from across the room. It looks like they’re viewing maps or very old architectural drawings. They both shoot us dark glances while they bring their voices down to barely mumbled whispers. But I can still see their lips.
wait till he leaves
can’t trust
not time
And then they both lean forward, their hands casually tucked just beneath their noses, guarding their mouths.
Livvy pushes me through the door and shuts it behind her. Who can’t they trust? Me? Each other? Livvy?
She leads me down Charles Street toward the Boston Public Garden. “How did you get around town when you lived here?” she asks.
“I walked or took the T.”
“You were familiar with the T, then?”
“Sure. I had to take it to school. Pretty much everywhere. I lived off the green line. My school was on the red line, my grandparents the blue. Other family on the orange. I had a pass so I used them all. Are we taking the T where we need to go?”
“There is no T anymore. At least not usable trains. It was abandoned long ago. But the tunnels still run under the city.”
“No T?” I shake my head. I can’t imagine Boston without the T.
“It’s been replaced by Personal Automated Transportation. You do have your new ID on you, right?”
I nod.
“Then let’s take PAT for a spin.”
We walk down steps at the corner of Charles and Beacon to a brightly lit cavern with a revolving platform. Like the T, the PAT is only steps beneath the city, but unlike the T, it doesn’t go down several stories. It’s a sleek network just below the surface, sometimes even passing through basements of buildings, not much more intrusive than a ventilation duct. The pod cars are small and streamlined, only meant to hold one to two passengers. I’m dubious when I see their size and don’t see how Livvy and I will both fit into one pod. They circulate slowly on an oval track by the platform until a passenger steps in.
We approach a pod with its hatch open waiting for a passenger. “That one,” Livvy says, and pushes me toward it. “Just get in and lie back. The pod does the rest.” Livvy jumps in and I follow. The hatch closes and the seat molds around me, holding me securely around my head and hips. A voice asks us for our destination. “Quincy Market,” Livvy says. We’re spit out of the revolving track and into the PAT Network. I feel the thrill of speed, like I’m in a race car, lights flashing past me, a high-pitched hum peaking as the pod accelerates. My body is pressed back in the seat, my stomach fluttering with the velocity. It’s like a ride at an amusement park, and the closest thing I’ve had to fun since I left California. I don’t want the trip to end.
The pod voice begins a countdown. “Destination, forty seconds, thirty seconds…”
“Can we keep going?” I ask.
“New Destination PAT: Fenway,” Livvy says.
The pod makes a series of turns and we are speeding in the opposite direction. When we are almost there, Livvy lets me try redirecting the pod. “New Destination PAT: Faneuil Hall.” The pod spins and we head back in the other direction.
When we’re almost there I try to make another request, but Livvy stops me. “Third strike and you’re out. You can only redirect three times without exiting. They don’t want kids tying up pods for joyrides.” I forgot, kids aren’t supposed to have fun here.
We exit and walk up the stairs to Congress Street and then over to Quincy Market, just behind Faneuil Hall. I’m excited when I first see it, feeling a familiar rush, remembering all the times Jenna, Kara, and I ate ourselves from one end to the other and then I sat in the food court with packages and my cell phone while Kara and Jenna continued to shop, but as soon as we near the front steps, I stop.
It’s almost as though I’ve run into an invisible force field. I stare at the crowds, the carts, the kiosks, the entire world that has shifted from the one I knew. It’s all slightly off, like I’m watching a slow-motion movie of a sister city, one that’s trying to imitate the place where I used to live, like every person walking past is an actor on a set. Everything is a degree off, even the smell of the salty air. A chill crawls up my spine.
It’s not that things have changed—I expected that—but even what I thought would be familiar is foreign now. The people walking in front of me aren’t the ones who are actors. It’s me. I’m the actor. A visitor. Worse, an alien. Is there anyplace left in this world now where I truly belong?
“Locke?”
I look at Livvy. She’s turned, waiting for me to follow her. I do. I need to get this Favor over with. The sooner the better. We spend the next two hours walking through the market. She’s friendly with shopkeepers, even those who are Bots, dropping our names, making sure they know I’m her “son.” We walk from one end to the other, and then back down the other side again. We take the free offerings of samples, roasted squab on a stick, candied carrots, spiced curly protein strips, but we don’t buy anything. I have a money card in my pocket that Miesha gave me, but it’s clear that money is in short supply so I don’t waste it on market trinkets or snacks.
After Quincy Market we walk back to the PAT. Livvy is quiet, occupied with other thoughts, perhaps wondering how she got stuck with the job of being my mother. She’s a small, thin woman, her dark brown hair clipped short, a razor-straight line of bangs cutting across the top of her forehead. She’s articulate, driven, and focused, and seems like she should be carrying a briefcase into a courtroom instead of hanging out in basements with the likes of Xavier.