productivity bonuses depended on it.
But on Frost Nights, there wasnât a police officer in sight.
In theory.
She was drawing close to the next entrance point: a couple of concrete steps down from the raised conveyor belt, a simple archway in the glass shelter. One hundred yards, entrance to entrance. About forty paces beyond that, sheâd be breaking the law.
Driving her frozen hands deep into her pockets, Jude drew a long, tremulous breath.
She remembered this night very well. Remembered going eight paces beyond the entrance point, then ten. And hesitating. Thinking about the cameras staring down from the lampposts. Her motherâs proud grin as they accepted the lease on the apartment in Block 24. The empty grey box that had been their last home.
Another step. And another â
And then, sheâd turned and fled. Running like a maniac, ignoring Lazy Jayâs screams of triumph and promised retribution; bolting up the stairwell and fumbling the entry code at the apartment door, tiptoeing past her mother, asleep in the chair, to hurl herself into bed and sob shamefully into her pillow.
The next day, four of the Electric Volunteers had caught her alone in a school corridor and broken her nose with a monkey-wrench. And that was only the beginning.
She didnât know what all this had to do with her present time dilemma, but it was pretty obvious what sheâd come back here to do.
Shadows danced in the arc of light cast by the SideRide entrance, startling her. But it was only the Volunteers. She recognised Kohl, the dumpy Austrian boy with the full, feminine mouth and a rumoured fascination with womenâs underwear. And Kali Peitrino, shipped off to Juvenile Detention last year for an almost fatal cyanide-bomb attack during Advanced Chemistry. Sheâd been back in the Bankside for a few weeks now, thought not in school. Run away from Juvie, probably. People said the guards turned a blind eye to escape attempts, if it was someone theyâd be glad to see the back of, and she could well imagine that applying to Peitrino.
They, and the younger, shyer members hovering at their backs, were just here to watch tonight. Ranged on the outer steps, muffled up, blocky and unreal against the light.
âWhere you going, Jude?â
Drawing level with the entrance, Jude paused to try out that raffish curl of the lip sheâd copied from some monochrome movie star last weekend.
Only ancient films were available on Free-TV, real museum pieces with fuzzy soundtracks and edit marks. She resented that for a long time. But eventually, sheâd grown to like the sharp, shadowy black and white Daily Classics â and even the evening diet of tearjerkers and transparently obvious murder mysteries. They gave her a whole new repertoire of heroes, an endless private world of quotes and allusions and knowing smiles that none of the other children could understand.
They gave her a window on the past, and, though no one at school seemed to understand, she knew that was important for some reason.
âGonna phone your mam, Drosser. Tell her youâre outside, playing bad games.â
âPhone your own while youâre at it,â Jude responded. âMaybe theyâll let her out of prison to come fetch you.â
Peitrino spat at her, though she was too far off to make much of a target, and began rattling something metallic in her pocket.
There didnât seem to be any point hanging around.
Ignoring the hoots and yells of derision from the Volunteers, Jude strolled off down the pavement.
It was familiar enough territory. She knew kids in Blocks 22 and 21, though sheâd normally have obviously taken the SideRide to visit them. The police were always around, and seizing an eight-year-old for sidewalk violations was an easy way for them to get back to the station and waste an afternoon on the paperwork, indoors, where they were slightly less likely to get shot at.
In the bleached
But on Frost Nights, there wasnât a police officer in sight.
In theory.
She was drawing close to the next entrance point: a couple of concrete steps down from the raised conveyor belt, a simple archway in the glass shelter. One hundred yards, entrance to entrance. About forty paces beyond that, sheâd be breaking the law.
Driving her frozen hands deep into her pockets, Jude drew a long, tremulous breath.
She remembered this night very well. Remembered going eight paces beyond the entrance point, then ten. And hesitating. Thinking about the cameras staring down from the lampposts. Her motherâs proud grin as they accepted the lease on the apartment in Block 24. The empty grey box that had been their last home.
Another step. And another â
And then, sheâd turned and fled. Running like a maniac, ignoring Lazy Jayâs screams of triumph and promised retribution; bolting up the stairwell and fumbling the entry code at the apartment door, tiptoeing past her mother, asleep in the chair, to hurl herself into bed and sob shamefully into her pillow.
The next day, four of the Electric Volunteers had caught her alone in a school corridor and broken her nose with a monkey-wrench. And that was only the beginning.
She didnât know what all this had to do with her present time dilemma, but it was pretty obvious what sheâd come back here to do.
Shadows danced in the arc of light cast by the SideRide entrance, startling her. But it was only the Volunteers. She recognised Kohl, the dumpy Austrian boy with the full, feminine mouth and a rumoured fascination with womenâs underwear. And Kali Peitrino, shipped off to Juvenile Detention last year for an almost fatal cyanide-bomb attack during Advanced Chemistry. Sheâd been back in the Bankside for a few weeks now, thought not in school. Run away from Juvie, probably. People said the guards turned a blind eye to escape attempts, if it was someone theyâd be glad to see the back of, and she could well imagine that applying to Peitrino.
They, and the younger, shyer members hovering at their backs, were just here to watch tonight. Ranged on the outer steps, muffled up, blocky and unreal against the light.
âWhere you going, Jude?â
Drawing level with the entrance, Jude paused to try out that raffish curl of the lip sheâd copied from some monochrome movie star last weekend.
Only ancient films were available on Free-TV, real museum pieces with fuzzy soundtracks and edit marks. She resented that for a long time. But eventually, sheâd grown to like the sharp, shadowy black and white Daily Classics â and even the evening diet of tearjerkers and transparently obvious murder mysteries. They gave her a whole new repertoire of heroes, an endless private world of quotes and allusions and knowing smiles that none of the other children could understand.
They gave her a window on the past, and, though no one at school seemed to understand, she knew that was important for some reason.
âGonna phone your mam, Drosser. Tell her youâre outside, playing bad games.â
âPhone your own while youâre at it,â Jude responded. âMaybe theyâll let her out of prison to come fetch you.â
Peitrino spat at her, though she was too far off to make much of a target, and began rattling something metallic in her pocket.
There didnât seem to be any point hanging around.
Ignoring the hoots and yells of derision from the Volunteers, Jude strolled off down the pavement.
It was familiar enough territory. She knew kids in Blocks 22 and 21, though sheâd normally have obviously taken the SideRide to visit them. The police were always around, and seizing an eight-year-old for sidewalk violations was an easy way for them to get back to the station and waste an afternoon on the paperwork, indoors, where they were slightly less likely to get shot at.
In the bleached
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