It's Really Coming Down Out There

As detailed in Local Ordinance No. 127, Mondays through Fridays at six a.m., all eligible devices and receivers turned themselves on and tuned to Newton Farms Township’s mandatory corporate bandwidth.

Sora blinked around her bare studio apartment from the discomfort of a hand-me-down twin mattress. The morning announcements blared from her radio, tv, and microwave, beginning the hour-long auditory parade of board-approved soundbites from local owners and shareholders. She couldn’t sleep in even if she wanted to.

And she couldn’t turn them off either. The network hub in the Heritage County Seat pinged registered devices to check connectivity every second. If any device showed as offline for more than 30 seconds, an engineer was dispatched with an officer escort to inspect, repair, or arrest.

Sora climbed out of bed and onto the toilet. She peed, wiped, shut the lid, and left it to mellow, keenly aware of her service provider’s charge per flush. She then brushed her teeth dry, rinsed it in a cup of dingy water, and spit the foam down the mini-sink. She ran out of premium water credits a couple months ago and had already spent all of the free bonus liters she received when she was automatically signed up for Sparkle’s Fresh Tap Subscription. Once a week, she refilled her bottles at the treatment plant, but those never lasted long enough, so she had gotten used to rationing her fluids. She took a swig of a single-use mouthwash bottle from her last dentist visit. She swished it around and listened to the announcements.

The forecast said to expect light to mild precipitation. It’s always light or heavy, never the type of precipitation, but everyone knows what it means. The kids call it “snow,” but even kids know it’s not really. The old-timers chuckle at that, calling it “snow.” At least, most do. Some shake their heads and say they always hated that joke. The grand-old-timers just get quiet and look at you like it’s the last they’ll ever see of you.

After pulling on her uniform (manufactured by Dolly-Dear School and Service), Sora shut the closet, turned around, and sat down at the stool bolted to the kitchenette floor. She zapped a preserved egg in her Lectro-Brand Whizzer and dropped a slice of Composite bread in the Mayflag toaster. All kids her age made their own breakfast and dinner. It’s one of their little freedoms, doled out on a bi-weekly basis according to grades, attendance, and good citizenship. Last week, Sora earned the freedom to purchase laundry tokens. Next month, she’d be allowed to sign up for loans using her student account. Her parents would be proud.

One of her freedoms was walking to school by herself. All of-age children are responsible for getting themselves to and from school. Failure to do so loses a student 25 Newton Farms credits daily until the negative balance is paid back. The credit system saves Callahan Inc. several percentage points per year and instills an independent mindset in the future leaders of America.

The Safeways LLC crossing sign burned the dull orange of dying embers, its hand symbol appearing like coals behind a fade of dust. Sora stopped as traffic passed, mostly Callahan Rovers and trains of Commuter Buses. Younger kids, some a few years behind, others toddlers on their first day walking, gathered around her. The smiling Safeways logo lit up and, a few seconds later, a countdown appeared next to it.

Sora checked both ways and ushered the kids across the street. She warned them about potholes and the weird part of the sidewalk that falls into the road. She always looked after the little ones when their adults were at work. She’d only seen one kid with an adult on her walks, but he must have gotten a promotion because that was more than five months ago. She stayed with the little ones until they made it to the other side and were under the watchful eye of Brockmart’s Neighborhood Watch System (subcontracted through Point Blank Defense). Most of the kids didn’t even notice Sora’s supervision, but she looked after them anyway. Her parents would be proud.

She checked the time and paused to have a brief conversation with a chained-up pitbull named Lucky. They mostly discussed his cuteness and whether or not her was a good boy (he was) while his eyes said that he loved her more than anything in the world and pleaded for any scrap of food she could possibly offer a good boy such as himself. She obliged with half of her daily cracker packet and tummy rubs. A brand-new Callahan Police Rover slid to a stop across the way. The window rolled down and the officer’s helmet flashed at her. She patted the good boy on his snoot and kept walking.

Sora jogged the last three blocks, clutching her bookbag straps like a jetpack as she tromped up to the line for the Huey-Meijer metal detector, paid for via a generous donation from the Haliburton Family Foundation. While Sora waited, she checked her pedestrian balance on her phone and decided to take bigger steps on her way home to avoid the overdraft.

When it was her turn to pass through, the detector scanned her and the light went off. No one was alarmed, though; the guards expected it. Sora pulled out her necklace and let them inspect it. It was made of metal, but it was listed as a “personal freedom” in her consumer profile. It was one of Sora’s first freedoms, to be allowed to keep and wear the locket her parents gifted her on her first walk. The guard opened it, snapped it shut, then handed it back all in one continuous motion. Sora thanked her and sped-walk through the Synanto food court and into Newton Educational Center’s Varner Media Learning Atrium.

She made it to homeroom one minute before the bell, just in time for commercials. Three more weeks and she’d have another full year of perfect attendance. Three more years of perfect attendance and her first college credit would be free. Her parents would be proud.

She stood for the pledge (the America First trademarked version, of course) and said it out loud, carefully enunciating each and every syllable. She always said it out loud because of that one time she didn’t and the principal was very kind to let her off with just a warning. Many of her former classmates were not offered the same level of leniency, given their spotty records and abused freedoms. Student sponsorships are lost over that kind of thing. And Sora was a dedicated representative of the Callahan name.

In between periods, she walked through the hallways of flickering fluorescents, guaranteed energy-efficient by GV Power Associates. Several walls were lined with iron bars, leftovers from Newtown Educational Center’s former life as a correctional facility. Callahan Inc. acquired the building when the median age plummeted after the Congressional Board of Directors passed the Worker’s Freedom Bill. Sora let her hands bounce over the bars as she walked, making the sound of a dull xylophone.

She turned in her homework at the beginning of each class and filled out her planner at the end. M. Parker had her stay after the bell when fourth period let out. She wasn’t in trouble. M. Parker and Sora had a fondness for each other and often discussed their mutual curiosities between classes. The topics they talked about weren’t always approved by the Final Curriculum, so they had to talk in quick three-minute bursts, stretching their conversations out over the course of several days, weeks even.

Sora asked M. Parker about the weather, why it was always snowing and why it seemed like no one ever wanted to talk about it. Their conversation would last nearly three months and it would end with M. Parker being removed from the faculty registry and promoted to a work station in Callahan City on a permanent contract.

Sora didn’t know any of that. She didn’t know that asking those questions would put her Academic Sponsorship at risk or that she effectively ended the career of her favorite teacher. She didn’t know that the companies (and their partners) responsible for the wealth and future growth of her community would gladly sacrifice her and her loved ones for the bottom line.

Sora didn’t know those things. She just wanted to know what was falling from the sky. Weather is just bad small talk, they say, but she couldn’t help herself. The dark clouds overhead drew her in, the unending ocean of vapor, wave after wave after wave washing over her sky.

One day, she will learn that the “snow” doesn’t come from the clouds, that it comes from fields daggered with smokestacks and shadows that stretch far beyond the horizon. She’ll learn that it’s stale ash from retirement centers, pumping out what’s left of expendable workers. After giving their life to the job, the job returns them to their broken neighborhoods, covering the rooftops, filling the empty streets.

One day, she’ll learn that her mother’s productivity dropped after exposure to fumes at Callahan Rover Manufacture and was sent to a retirement center right before her ninth birthday. She’ll learn that her father was transferred to a high security work farm after being found guilty of conspiracy to disrupt market shares. She’ll learn that they were both sent to retirement centers years before she accrued enough time off to see them. Then, after learning all of that, she’ll get to see the plumes herself after her arrest in a condemned library and subsequent promotion to work the incinerators until her brand loyalty to Callahan was proven satisfactory.

The last bell rang and Sora stepped outside the school. The precipitation had grown from earlier. It was really coming down out there. A flake landed on her nose, purged from the body of some unlucky soul and sung on the wind all the way from the burning choir of toil, still holding a little bit of warmth from the hearth it was forged in.

It felt like a whisper, a prayer, a goodbye kiss.

Yes, one day, Sora will learn it all (or unlearn in most cases), but she didn’t need to know any of that now. She skipped all the way home, her cheeks bright with cold as she held tight to the things that kept her warm. A cute dog or a good book. Picking up trash or helping strangers, the surprise of a helpful adult offering a patient explanation. The small acts of good that spring up like weeds from cracks in the sidewalk, that’s what she held on to. Those precious things that can expand to the size of their container or stay small enough to fit in a heart-shaped locket.

No, she didn’t need to know any of it. And that’s okay. She was just a kid and she already knew more than she needed, if only she could stop herself from forgetting. She made her own meals, looked after others, and could walk to school by herself and her parents would be so very proud and she couldn’t wait to visit them over next school break when they’ve all saved up enough paid time off.

And all the while, Callahan Inc. collated her purchases, tracked her spending habits, and weighed her various fiscal responsibilities. They monitored and protected her, as they did for all their student sponsorships, their little investments, or futures, as they like to say.

But unlike her parents and teachers, there was a definite limit to her potential and it was always preceded by a dollar sign.