everything I had to keep my mouth shut. This was court. My Mech representative would speak for me, unless someone asked me a direct question.
A man sat high up in the middle of a long row of seats, a glossy black counter in front of him. He rested his arms on it and stared down at me with a look. The don’t-mess-with-me kind. I hated him immediately.
Projection screens filled the wall behind him, and he kept glancing down at something. Probably another list of my broken rules.
Next to me, Jag’s Mech-rep lifted a significantly bigger briefcase and plugged two feeds into the silver podium. Jag’s picture appeared next to mine. His jaw was strong and square, in contrast to my rounder features. His skin was colored by the sun, while mine remained pale as eggshells. Our hair was practically identical, and my stupid lips curled up again. He had wicked hair too.
Several more projection screens lit up with pictures of Jag, each different. In one, his hair had the black all washed out. His white smile and bleached hair clashed with his brown skin. For some reason, he laughed beside me.
The Greenie in front of us frowned. Another of Jag’s pictures showed him with his hair all shaved off. What little remained looked brown, and I wondered if that was his naturalcolor. His shirt was open at the throat, the short sleeves exposing his bare arms. His blueberry eyes sparkled like he’d heard something funny.
My traitor mouth betrayed me again.
“Something amusing, Miss Schoenfeld?” the Greenie asked.
While I tried to straighten my lips out, Jag chuckled again. The quiet sound echoed off the high walls of the courtroom. My Mech-rep looked at me. “Answer him.”
“No, sir,” I choked out. Another picture revealed Jag passing out phones to Goodies, easily recognized by their umbrella hats and long sleeves. And then I knew. Jag was from the Badlands, and he’d been caught here, distributing illegal tech.
But … why was he at my hearing?
“Let’s get on with it,” the Greenie said. “Full council convening in thirty seconds. Mech-749? Your recommendation?”
Mech-749 had obviously been assigned to me, because it spoke. “Removal, your Instituteness.”
“Mech-512?” the Greenie asked Jag’s Mech-rep.
“Unrehabilitational, your Most High Institute.”
“Not worth the time?”
“No, sir,” both Mechs said together.
I had no idea I’d have to learn lame Mech-language to understand the conversation, but the man up front didn’tseem confused. I seriously needed to scratch my arm, but my hands were bound in tech cuffs, which sent a shiver of current through my bones.
A door behind the “Most High Institute” opened. Ten green-robed men walked in. They moved behind the MHI and settled into seats on his right. Ten women entered through a different door—decked out in the same green Institute robes—and took the seats on the left.
Yikes, twenty-one Greenies in one room. Whoever this Jag Barque guy was, he was in deep.
In unison, they looked at built-in projection screens on the counter, the glow illuminating their faces.
“Violet Schoenfeld?” they asked in chorus, like they’d rehearsed it a dozen times before.
Then I knew. I was the one who was in deep.
“Miss Schoenfeld,” the middle Greenie said. “Do you have anything to say?”
I looked at Mech-749. Did I have anything to say? What kind of stupid question was that?
“Not really,” I said. “I was just walking in the park with a friend.”
“A boy,” a woman said, leaning forward.
“Yeah.” I looked at her. “Zenn’s my match.” Surely being with Zenn wasn’t against the rules.
“This is the”—the middle Greenie glanced at his p-screen—“seventh time you’ve been apprehended.”
I counted quickly in my mind. Eighth, actually, but I wasn’t going to bring it up. My first crime happened before I’d turned twelve and wouldn’t be on my Official Record. Not sure if I was supposed to speak or not, I opted for
A man sat high up in the middle of a long row of seats, a glossy black counter in front of him. He rested his arms on it and stared down at me with a look. The don’t-mess-with-me kind. I hated him immediately.
Projection screens filled the wall behind him, and he kept glancing down at something. Probably another list of my broken rules.
Next to me, Jag’s Mech-rep lifted a significantly bigger briefcase and plugged two feeds into the silver podium. Jag’s picture appeared next to mine. His jaw was strong and square, in contrast to my rounder features. His skin was colored by the sun, while mine remained pale as eggshells. Our hair was practically identical, and my stupid lips curled up again. He had wicked hair too.
Several more projection screens lit up with pictures of Jag, each different. In one, his hair had the black all washed out. His white smile and bleached hair clashed with his brown skin. For some reason, he laughed beside me.
The Greenie in front of us frowned. Another of Jag’s pictures showed him with his hair all shaved off. What little remained looked brown, and I wondered if that was his naturalcolor. His shirt was open at the throat, the short sleeves exposing his bare arms. His blueberry eyes sparkled like he’d heard something funny.
My traitor mouth betrayed me again.
“Something amusing, Miss Schoenfeld?” the Greenie asked.
While I tried to straighten my lips out, Jag chuckled again. The quiet sound echoed off the high walls of the courtroom. My Mech-rep looked at me. “Answer him.”
“No, sir,” I choked out. Another picture revealed Jag passing out phones to Goodies, easily recognized by their umbrella hats and long sleeves. And then I knew. Jag was from the Badlands, and he’d been caught here, distributing illegal tech.
But … why was he at my hearing?
“Let’s get on with it,” the Greenie said. “Full council convening in thirty seconds. Mech-749? Your recommendation?”
Mech-749 had obviously been assigned to me, because it spoke. “Removal, your Instituteness.”
“Mech-512?” the Greenie asked Jag’s Mech-rep.
“Unrehabilitational, your Most High Institute.”
“Not worth the time?”
“No, sir,” both Mechs said together.
I had no idea I’d have to learn lame Mech-language to understand the conversation, but the man up front didn’tseem confused. I seriously needed to scratch my arm, but my hands were bound in tech cuffs, which sent a shiver of current through my bones.
A door behind the “Most High Institute” opened. Ten green-robed men walked in. They moved behind the MHI and settled into seats on his right. Ten women entered through a different door—decked out in the same green Institute robes—and took the seats on the left.
Yikes, twenty-one Greenies in one room. Whoever this Jag Barque guy was, he was in deep.
In unison, they looked at built-in projection screens on the counter, the glow illuminating their faces.
“Violet Schoenfeld?” they asked in chorus, like they’d rehearsed it a dozen times before.
Then I knew. I was the one who was in deep.
“Miss Schoenfeld,” the middle Greenie said. “Do you have anything to say?”
I looked at Mech-749. Did I have anything to say? What kind of stupid question was that?
“Not really,” I said. “I was just walking in the park with a friend.”
“A boy,” a woman said, leaning forward.
“Yeah.” I looked at her. “Zenn’s my match.” Surely being with Zenn wasn’t against the rules.
“This is the”—the middle Greenie glanced at his p-screen—“seventh time you’ve been apprehended.”
I counted quickly in my mind. Eighth, actually, but I wasn’t going to bring it up. My first crime happened before I’d turned twelve and wouldn’t be on my Official Record. Not sure if I was supposed to speak or not, I opted for
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