not.
“Violet, you are aware that many on this council find you unrehabilitatable.”
“That’s a long word,” I said, which roused a low chuckle from Jag.
The Greenie creased his eyebrows and scowled at the counter. He typed something that couldn’t be good for my case. “It means that you no longer fit in the Goodgrounds.” He spoke each word with care, so softly the sound didn’t echo in the courtroom. It took several seconds for them to sink in.
I glanced down the row of Greenies, trying to decipher their cold glares and tight lips. “What?”
“When did you stop plugging into the transmissions?” A bald man at the end of the row leaned forward and stared at me, unblinking.
“I plug in,” I lied. Another projection screen jumped to life. Not sure what all the red lines meant, I tried to calm my heart and breathe normally.
He smiled like an indulgent parent does when they catch their child eating a chocolate TravelTreat. “Not for a year, I believe.”
“Check the records,” I challenged. “My comm is linked in every night. Mandatory eight hours.”
All twenty-one Greenies touched their p-screens and clicks echoed through the ridiculously huge hall.
“She’s right,” a woman said. Her voice was low and her eyebrows high. “Still, such a Free Thinker …” She made a face like she’d tasted something sour and typed into her notes.
“What happened to your hair?” Another woman fixed her tiny black eyes on me. Her long silver hair lay like a frozen waterfall of tech filaments against her dark skin. She had a large nose with high cheekbones. She looked like a hawk.
“My mother made me cut it,” I lied again.
“Why?”
“She didn’t think I was plugging in either, even when I showed her the printouts.” A projection of the evidence in question replaced my picture on the wall behind the Greenies.
As if. Like I listened to the transmissions. I quit maybe a year ago, maybe longer. I’d figured out how to disconnect my communicator. So technically, I did plug my comm into the transmissions every night. I just wasn’t listening.
After that, I wasn’t in Their control—but I was tired. Ididn’t sleep well, living in constant fear that somehow They’d find out. Brainwashed before I could speak, I was terrified of Them. Even now.
“Miss Schoenfeld?” the Hawk prompted.
I glanced at my Mech-rep. “Pay attention. She asked why you had to cut your hair.” The robotic voice did nothing to settle my nerves.
“Umm, my mother used perma-plaster to secure the link in place. It got all caught in my hair.”
That brought a belly laugh from Jag, and the middle Greenie threw him a furious look. The sound died instantly, but the echo remained.
“So I had to cut it.”
“Then you had to dye it?” the Hawk asked.
“Yeah.” I stared back at her, daring her to ask another stupid question.
They all started typing like crazy. Whatever. It’s my hair. At least that’s what I told my mother. As much as I didn’t want to, I wished she had come. As much as I wished it wouldn’t, my throat burned with unshed tears.
“Mech-749? Do you maintain your recommendation?” the middle Greenie asked.
“Yes. Badlands.”
Several of the Greenies nodded, and I wondered whatthat meant. Would I have to go there to serve my sentence? I didn’t even know the Badlands had prisons.
“Jag Barque?”
“Yeah,” he said lazily. I looked over, but our Mechs stood in the way, so I couldn’t see his face.
“Your opinion has not changed, I presume?”
“Nope.” Jag acted like he’d been here countless times before. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his hands hanging loosely in their tech cuffs. I wished for his calmness; my heart kept trying to bust through my chest.
“You are required to appear before the Association of Directors,” the Greenie said. “In Freedom.”
A moment of silence passed, a definite threat hanging in the air. Then Jag said, “I will not,” and I
“Violet, you are aware that many on this council find you unrehabilitatable.”
“That’s a long word,” I said, which roused a low chuckle from Jag.
The Greenie creased his eyebrows and scowled at the counter. He typed something that couldn’t be good for my case. “It means that you no longer fit in the Goodgrounds.” He spoke each word with care, so softly the sound didn’t echo in the courtroom. It took several seconds for them to sink in.
I glanced down the row of Greenies, trying to decipher their cold glares and tight lips. “What?”
“When did you stop plugging into the transmissions?” A bald man at the end of the row leaned forward and stared at me, unblinking.
“I plug in,” I lied. Another projection screen jumped to life. Not sure what all the red lines meant, I tried to calm my heart and breathe normally.
He smiled like an indulgent parent does when they catch their child eating a chocolate TravelTreat. “Not for a year, I believe.”
“Check the records,” I challenged. “My comm is linked in every night. Mandatory eight hours.”
All twenty-one Greenies touched their p-screens and clicks echoed through the ridiculously huge hall.
“She’s right,” a woman said. Her voice was low and her eyebrows high. “Still, such a Free Thinker …” She made a face like she’d tasted something sour and typed into her notes.
“What happened to your hair?” Another woman fixed her tiny black eyes on me. Her long silver hair lay like a frozen waterfall of tech filaments against her dark skin. She had a large nose with high cheekbones. She looked like a hawk.
“My mother made me cut it,” I lied again.
“Why?”
“She didn’t think I was plugging in either, even when I showed her the printouts.” A projection of the evidence in question replaced my picture on the wall behind the Greenies.
As if. Like I listened to the transmissions. I quit maybe a year ago, maybe longer. I’d figured out how to disconnect my communicator. So technically, I did plug my comm into the transmissions every night. I just wasn’t listening.
After that, I wasn’t in Their control—but I was tired. Ididn’t sleep well, living in constant fear that somehow They’d find out. Brainwashed before I could speak, I was terrified of Them. Even now.
“Miss Schoenfeld?” the Hawk prompted.
I glanced at my Mech-rep. “Pay attention. She asked why you had to cut your hair.” The robotic voice did nothing to settle my nerves.
“Umm, my mother used perma-plaster to secure the link in place. It got all caught in my hair.”
That brought a belly laugh from Jag, and the middle Greenie threw him a furious look. The sound died instantly, but the echo remained.
“So I had to cut it.”
“Then you had to dye it?” the Hawk asked.
“Yeah.” I stared back at her, daring her to ask another stupid question.
They all started typing like crazy. Whatever. It’s my hair. At least that’s what I told my mother. As much as I didn’t want to, I wished she had come. As much as I wished it wouldn’t, my throat burned with unshed tears.
“Mech-749? Do you maintain your recommendation?” the middle Greenie asked.
“Yes. Badlands.”
Several of the Greenies nodded, and I wondered whatthat meant. Would I have to go there to serve my sentence? I didn’t even know the Badlands had prisons.
“Jag Barque?”
“Yeah,” he said lazily. I looked over, but our Mechs stood in the way, so I couldn’t see his face.
“Your opinion has not changed, I presume?”
“Nope.” Jag acted like he’d been here countless times before. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his hands hanging loosely in their tech cuffs. I wished for his calmness; my heart kept trying to bust through my chest.
“You are required to appear before the Association of Directors,” the Greenie said. “In Freedom.”
A moment of silence passed, a definite threat hanging in the air. Then Jag said, “I will not,” and I
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