shoulders before I can comply, growling when it gets caught on my elbows.
President is still warbling behind us, Press Secretaryinterpreting, This woman and the team of others she will help us find, they shall be the Lord's eyes!
The guard reaches for my satchel, which contains a dozen confidential files. If even one of them falls out, he'll be fired. Or worse. I drop the handles and off comes my taupe linen jacket into his thick hands. The files stay where they are.
They shall see the corrupt! They will call down the power of God on their heads and these traitors among us will be no more!
The guard flops my things roughly onto a conveyor belt that should have been changed months ago. Its black rubber is pebbled with ink stains and there are long sections where it's been worn down to the white netting. Once my jacket disappears into the scanning chamber, it will be ruined. A Christmas gift from Mr. Weigland, too. Gone.
"Move on through. Now ."
Press Secretary Johnson continues behind me. And with an army of prophets such as these, there will be nowhere for the impure to hide!
I walk under the archway scanner, noting my temperature and heart rate as I walk by. Ninety-eight degrees. Sixty-eight beats per minute. The information gathered from my slate will be shown on a screen posted to the back side of the machine. If one were to print this two-second grab of downloaded information, the resulting document would be a thousand pages long. Through this band of metal worn in my neck, the Confederation knows where I've been and how long I've been there. Every word I've spoken. In some ways, the most important ways, every thought that's entered my head.
I go to the end of the possessions belt and watch my jacket tumble out its end, one seam torn open. A black spot on the lapel. I stare down at the violated linen, sad to the core of my soul. There are only so many forms of loveliness in this world. My favorite linen jacket was one of them. I would have stopped this were it any other time. But Candace has just been killed. I feel guilty about how much this ruined coat wounds me. Comparatively, it's nothing.
"There a problem?" The guard comes through the archway behind me.
I hold up my jacket, pry open the broken stitches with a fingernail. "It tore."
The guard smiles. He opens his mouth to relieve himself of a little pent-up hostility when another guard vaults over the gate. His name is Jones. He's been here for years and knows who I am.
So will this new guard in about twenty seconds. When my identity is posted on the rear-facing security screen, this sorry young man with his brand-new gun and pristine green suit will go red.
"Can it, Simmons," Security Guard Jones shouts at the young man. Tenderly, he pulls away my ruined coat. "Sorry about this, Alpha Monitor Adams. I'll call Purchasing and get you a replacement." Jones points the other man to the rear-facing monitor. At my image just now coming up. "I think you owe Alpha Monitor Adams an apology."
On the screen's right side is a rotating picture of my face, last updated the day after my divorce. My hair is unbrushed and falls in snarls down my back. My eyes are ringed in insomnia black. My skin is ashy and broken out. The left side of the screen holds my most vital statistics. Name, address, age. Position. Office. Rank. It's as far as the young guard cares to read. He turns to me, red from the bill of his hat to the bulb in his throat.
Security Guard Jones pulls the young man close. "Apologize to the lady, soon-to-be former security guard Simmons."
A pause. "Alpha Monitor Adams . . . I apologize."
I take back my jacket from Security Guard Jones. Throw it away around the corner.
There are seventy-two High Priority, High Security files in a slumping pile on my desk, none of which I can reissue to other Monitors. I throw my purse into a drawer and take myseat. Kick the drawer shut with a little too much force and it bounces open again. I reach down to
President is still warbling behind us, Press Secretaryinterpreting, This woman and the team of others she will help us find, they shall be the Lord's eyes!
The guard reaches for my satchel, which contains a dozen confidential files. If even one of them falls out, he'll be fired. Or worse. I drop the handles and off comes my taupe linen jacket into his thick hands. The files stay where they are.
They shall see the corrupt! They will call down the power of God on their heads and these traitors among us will be no more!
The guard flops my things roughly onto a conveyor belt that should have been changed months ago. Its black rubber is pebbled with ink stains and there are long sections where it's been worn down to the white netting. Once my jacket disappears into the scanning chamber, it will be ruined. A Christmas gift from Mr. Weigland, too. Gone.
"Move on through. Now ."
Press Secretary Johnson continues behind me. And with an army of prophets such as these, there will be nowhere for the impure to hide!
I walk under the archway scanner, noting my temperature and heart rate as I walk by. Ninety-eight degrees. Sixty-eight beats per minute. The information gathered from my slate will be shown on a screen posted to the back side of the machine. If one were to print this two-second grab of downloaded information, the resulting document would be a thousand pages long. Through this band of metal worn in my neck, the Confederation knows where I've been and how long I've been there. Every word I've spoken. In some ways, the most important ways, every thought that's entered my head.
I go to the end of the possessions belt and watch my jacket tumble out its end, one seam torn open. A black spot on the lapel. I stare down at the violated linen, sad to the core of my soul. There are only so many forms of loveliness in this world. My favorite linen jacket was one of them. I would have stopped this were it any other time. But Candace has just been killed. I feel guilty about how much this ruined coat wounds me. Comparatively, it's nothing.
"There a problem?" The guard comes through the archway behind me.
I hold up my jacket, pry open the broken stitches with a fingernail. "It tore."
The guard smiles. He opens his mouth to relieve himself of a little pent-up hostility when another guard vaults over the gate. His name is Jones. He's been here for years and knows who I am.
So will this new guard in about twenty seconds. When my identity is posted on the rear-facing security screen, this sorry young man with his brand-new gun and pristine green suit will go red.
"Can it, Simmons," Security Guard Jones shouts at the young man. Tenderly, he pulls away my ruined coat. "Sorry about this, Alpha Monitor Adams. I'll call Purchasing and get you a replacement." Jones points the other man to the rear-facing monitor. At my image just now coming up. "I think you owe Alpha Monitor Adams an apology."
On the screen's right side is a rotating picture of my face, last updated the day after my divorce. My hair is unbrushed and falls in snarls down my back. My eyes are ringed in insomnia black. My skin is ashy and broken out. The left side of the screen holds my most vital statistics. Name, address, age. Position. Office. Rank. It's as far as the young guard cares to read. He turns to me, red from the bill of his hat to the bulb in his throat.
Security Guard Jones pulls the young man close. "Apologize to the lady, soon-to-be former security guard Simmons."
A pause. "Alpha Monitor Adams . . . I apologize."
I take back my jacket from Security Guard Jones. Throw it away around the corner.
There are seventy-two High Priority, High Security files in a slumping pile on my desk, none of which I can reissue to other Monitors. I throw my purse into a drawer and take myseat. Kick the drawer shut with a little too much force and it bounces open again. I reach down to
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