Episode 3, Part 6

“It’s so nice having company. I didn’t know if you’d make it tonight, after all that’s happened.” A girl’s voice escapes into the tunnel along with the rush of air. The partially-opened hatch blocks my view of the voice’s owner.

“Nonsense. You should know a few piddly attacks on the perimeter wouldn’t keep me away.” Centavo strides into the room, his arms open wide, until he too disappears behind the metal door.

Stepping forward and craning my neck, I’m baffled by what I see. A tiny girl, possibly thirteen, has her arms wrapped around Centavo’s neck. They’re hugging. Not knowing what else to do, I gawk and wait to be noticed.

Over Centavo’s shoulder, the girl spots me. Squeaking, she jumps backward. “You kept your word!”

Centavo mocks offense. “You sound surprised.”

“Well, not surprised. It’s just—”

“You didn’t think you were worth it,” Centavo shakes his head. “I will not always be here to remind you of your extreme value, and not just to me. You are special, Zorrah. You cheat the world by not believing this.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.”

“Do not apologize to me. I am one of the few lucky enough to call you friend.”

Wondering if I was supposed to wait in the tunnel, my attention drifts about the room. Lit by fluorescent lights, the space is as cramped as the records room we passed through. Instead of files, the shelves are cluttered with completely alien electronic and mechanical garbage. Strangest of all is the presence of a solitary young girl.

“Speaking of, let me introduce the two of you. Zorrah,” Centavo steps out of the way, “meet Calli Bluehair.”

I wince. Centavo’s use of my acquired name still stings. Self-conscious about the ragged bald spot on the back of my head, I step forward wearing a strained smile.

The tiny girl stares at the floor as she reaches across to embrace my forearm. “It’s really nice to meet you.” We lock forearms for only a second. “Uncle Centavo has told me about the beautiful clothing you dye. It must be so rewarding to—” she gasps and shrinks away.

I glance at Centavo with a raised brow. I’m about to question him about the title ‘Uncle’ when Zorrah continues in a whimper.

“Your braid? I’m so sorry.” She looks to Centavo, “I didn’t know.”

“You couldn’t have. It just happened.” He rests a hand on each of our shoulders. “And obviously, it was not part of the plan.”

“Wait a minute,” I pull away. “Plan? What plan? And when did you have time to tell her about me?”

Zorrah retreats to a work station littered with blinking lights.

Centavo sighs. “Yesterday morning at my apartment, if you will recall, I mentioned my eagerness to meet you.”

I nod, half of my attention on the old man, the other half on Zorrah’s desk.

“That was very much the truth in more ways than one. It has long been my plan to introduce you to Zorrah. Both of you will be registering for the academy in three days time. Zorrah, while supremely talented in many discreet ways, is not blessed with your fortitude. I believe a relationship between the two of you will be mutually beneficial.”

Suspicious of multiple parts of his explanation, the one that strikes me as least plausible is Zorrah’s age. “Masa Academy?”

“Is there another?”

“Are you altering her file as well?”

“No,” he smirks.

“So?” I wait for him to explain.

“You suggested I be more concise in my answers.”

“For the love of—”

“In this case I believe a demonstration will be more helpful.” He proceeds to Zorrah’s work station. Standing over her, he places one hand on the edge of the table and the other on the back of her chair. “Don’t worry,” he consoles the tiny girl, “I’ll take care of the braid. All I need you to do is rewrite the files as we discussed.” Centavo pulls a piece of paper out of his tilmàtli, unfolds it and places it next to Zorrah’s elbow.

“I’m ready. I’ve already talked it over with Icpitl One and Two.”

My curiosity gets the better of me. As I approach the workstation, it appears Zorrah is silently crying. I wonder if my aloofness has hurt her feelings. I didn’t mean to be callous, but finding a young girl behind a metal hatch beneath the government complex, after dark and all by herself, isn’t what I had expected. And besides, I thought Centavo had brought me here to fix my citizen records, not stage an academy mixer.

“You’ve prepared them.” Centavo moves a hand to her shoulder. “They will be safer in the wild.”

“I know,” Zorrah trembles. “It’s just that, well the system is so big, and expanding every day. I hope they don’t forget me.”

“Again, you undervalue yourself. I promise, you will see them again.”

Relieved I’m not the source of the girl’s grief, I still have no idea of whom she and Centavo are referring. I clear my throat. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. Who are Icpitl One and Two?”

“My best friends!” Zorrah shoots me a piercing look.

I retreat a step.

Centavo taps the sheet of paper, returning the girl’s attention to the workstation. “You might not have known it at the time, but this is what you made them for. You must let them discover their full potential.”

Zorrah sniffs, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “I know.” Straightening the paper, she sets it down directly in front of her and places her hands on two blinking metal boxes.

For several seconds she’s quiet. When I realize she’s reading, I shift subtly for a better view of the paper. I recognize enough to know it describes the phony records Centavo has cooked up for Olin and me. Our names are the same. Our parents are different, still alive. We live with them somewhere in District Eight—free of any possible connections to Centavo.

“It’s done.” Zorrah breathes deeply.

“Wait, just like that?”

Zorrah glances in my direction, “What do you mean, just like that?”

Centavo intercedes. “Icpitl One and Two are digital life forms. At the moment, they live within these boxes. Zorrah has fed them the information for your new records and explained to them what to do with it.”

“So they’re machines?”

“They are not machines!” Zorrah jumps up, balling her tiny fists at her sides.

I hold up my hands in apology. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“They are intelligent programs, as fully self-aware of their individuality as you or me.” Zorrah squeezes her eyes tight. Opening them, she sighs. “I’m sorry. I know you didn’t mean anything. I’m sorry, really.” She stares at the floor.

“No harm done.” I try to get her attention, to let her know that I’m fine. She won’t look up, so I continue, “I understand. You’ve taken care of them their entire life—protected them, kept them safe. Now you’ll no longer be there for them every step of the way.”

Surprise in her eyes, Zorrah looks at me and nods. “You do understand.”

“I feel the same way about my little brother.”

“You mean Olin?” She raises her eyebrows, revealing her oversized eyes and creating even more of a doll-like effect.

“So, Uncle Centavo has told you about him as well?”

“Not really. I read the fake record, but I guess most of that isn’t true.”

Centavo clears his throat. “I knew the two of you would get along, but I’m afraid there is still the matter of releasing the icpitls.” His voice is kind and patient.

Briefly I wonder if I’ve misjudged Centavo. Am I really that difficult, or is he shifty enough to maintain completely different personalities with different people?

“Calli and I have another stop to make after this one. And while your parents may not notice whether you return home tonight, they certainly aren’t expecting to find you here when they clock in.”

Zorrah nods. “I suppose I should get it over with.” Snatching a cord from a hook on the wall, she attaches the first two boxes to a third. “From this terminal they’ll have access to the entire system.” Trembling, she places her hands on the two boxes containing the digital icpitls.

Naming the programs after the bioluminescent insect whose strobing animates summer evenings causes me to imagine the programs as winged, electrical impulses flittering along the length of the chord.

 Seconds later Zorrah’s shoulders sag. “They’re gone.”

The moment the words leave her mouth an alarm reverberates from a nearby section of the complex.

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