Linger

The phone slipped Lydia’s fingers and crashed onto the concrete. Mierda. Her hands trembled. From her patch of floor she could see through the handful of others to the barrier, which remained shut. It had continued to taunt the staff who tried to enter, as it snapped shut the moment they approached. A healthy group of staff, security, and even a few onlookers were gathered in the public lobby.

“No se atreverían,” she said under her breath.

“They wouldn’t dare what?” One of the assembled sat with their back to hers, and in fact they were all clustered this way. Watching each other’s backs. Some with arms linked, others keeping theirs free to defend themselves.

“Do anything drastic.” But nobody had entered. In the seventy-two hours since the sit-in began, the only people coming or going had been the protesters themselves. Lydia had not permitted herself to leave at all, choosing to use the makeshift modesty tent for any bio needs, and otherwise surviving on the good will of others who brought protein bars, sport drink, maybe the occasional dram of whisky or can of Modelo.

“Drastic like what?” The discussion had started to ripple through the crowd. People tended to watch Lydia’s movements, her discussions, and certainly her phone calls. Not many outside this room had been issued a phone from their stock in the first place. Fewer still would bother her during the sit-in unless they were damn sure it was urgent.

“Would they hurt us?”

“That only hurts them.”

“Are you sure?”

“Who was that?”

Lydia cleared her throat. “You know who that was.”

“What did they say?” The murmurs became a low static of questions and fear.

“It couldn’t have been good. Look at her.”

She rested her palms on her knees, pulling herself into a tighter ball. She had never asked to be this person to these people. She’d just had the idea.

“They’re coming in, aren’t they?”

“They mean to hurt us,” Lydia whispered to the woman at her back, with whom her arm was linked. She turned her head, and could nearly observe a shock of buzzed chestnut hair. “They mean to kill us.”

The woman at her back inhaled, but said nothing.

“Everyone deserves to know.” Lydia raised her voice and began to push herself up off the floor. “I’m told they mean to kill us. Every last one of us. Because we won’t leave.” She stood upright and stared across the barrier at the collected faces, the faces of the staff of the company that had just threatened to end her life, and the life of her friends. What stared back was a mix of curiosity, expressionlessness, and boredom.

“They won’t do it,” rose a shout from the far corner of their encampment. Lydia spun on the spot and met his eyes. It was a boy even younger than herself, maybe eighteen or nineteen. He had a gaunt, ashen face.

“They might.” Lydia’s voice was stronger now. It felt as if she had borrowed it from someone else. She fought the strong urge to sit back down. “We don’t know. We don’t ever know what happens. How could we?” Her eyes drifted back to the Magenta staff, observing them as if they were a social experiment. “They control everything we see, everything we know.”

“They won’t,” boomed a familiar woman’s voice. The screens on the wall had flickered to life, and they were once again faced with the well-manicured visage of Ms. Rebecca Prue. “They won’t be able to, if you walk out right now.”

Her appearance had quieted the room. Lydia looked out over the room with confusion. These people had jeered every prior appearance, every announcement, every missive from this woman as if she were a pantomime villain. But this time it was total silence. Was it the threat? No, Lydia realised. It was because she had spoken directly to them.

“I have no wish for further escalation,” Ms. Prue continued. Her tone was warm and soft, her skin perfect. She was framed so you could see just the top of her immaculate suit, which popped against the neutral tones of the well-staged bookcase behind her desk. Her hair had a satin sheen and flowed in a mesmerising pattern with every movement of her head.

Lydia blinked, forced to look away. Rebecca Prue’s perfect, serene visage was a physical assault. A beautiful, unimaginable horror. “Then shut down SkyTie.”

Ms. Prue laughed, and a hand came up to cover her smile. “Lydia, of course you understand the catastrophe that would cause. Actions like that have consequences. It would do irreparable damage.”

“We don’t care.” She still couldn’t bear to look at Rebecca’s untempered countenance. What little resolve she had would falter in an instant. A hand gripped her shin and she shot a look at the woman she’d held her back against for the better part of three days. Their eyes locked and the woman nodded. Lydia stared for a half-second longer and saw the tears in her eyes.

“Lydia,” Ms. Prue continued. “You don’t want this, do you? Haven’t you thought about what you’ll lose? Wouldn’t you rather be home with a bottle of Modelo, curled up under a blanket, watching a new episode of Ruffle Those Feathers with your novio, Samir?”

“What?” Lydia’s face went flush. Her eyes darted around manically. “What the fuck? Shut up.”

“You’ve scored a powerful victory here. You’ve gotten your message out. You’ve launched a movement. Look at me.” The pause arrested Lydia’s attention more so than the words. Her gaze fell to her shoes. “Lydia, look at me.” She jumped as the voice boomed louder than before, and her head tilted straight at the screen. Rebecca Prue’s green eyes pierced right through her. Lydia’s heart began to pound. “You knew it would end like this, didn’t you?”

“I…”

“Lydia. Ask them to leave. Ask them to leave with the victory you’ve achieved here together. Can you please do that for me? For them?”

The hand gripped her calf now. She felt a squeeze several times in a panic, and once again looked at her companion. The woman was nodding, her eyes red and wet. She could hear the onlookers shuffling forward on the other side of the plexiglass, hungry for a better view.

“Let’s go, everyone.” A wave of mutters crashed onto the group again. Lydia raised her voice in hope of being heard. “We’ve proved our point for now.”

“I’m so grateful for your cooperation, Lydia. You should know that everyone at Magenta respects your right to protest. Your voices have been heard.”

Ms. Prue remained on the screen, her face one of clear relief. She seemed to observe as people got to their feet, collected their things, and began to file out of the atrium.

Lydia remained behind, observing each person as they departed. It had grown to a respectable number, though it had shrunk to a couple dozen or so in the last couple of hours. She noted what each left behind as they slipped out. Some abandoned everything, even their tents. Otherwise just a bit of rubbish. Some took care to clear it all away. This liminal space still deserved their respect, in their view, or maybe it was just a habit. It did make her smile. This was Magenta, of course. Automated sweepers would appear from their hidden places and erase any trace of their protest within an hour of their departure. It would be as if they had never been here.

Someone somewhere might tap their earpiece and whisper to Aida: show me what the protest at Magenta headquarters looked like? And Aida would reply that she didn’t feel it would be appropriate to discuss that. But most wouldn’t even bother doing that. They’d just take whatever Aida offered. Algorithmic complacency.

Click. Lydia lowered the camera. One last photo. The empty room, the tents, the bits, the rubbish. And Rebecca Prue, still observing from the screen on the far wall. It would put a nice bow on the collection. The next issue of the Gazette would have a bounty of photos, any of which would be a great lead. But one of which, the right one, might well spark a revolution.

She tidied the camera away into her rucksack, took a last look out at the room, and approached the gates. They swiftly closed, stopping her cold. There was a stillness now that made Lydia uneasy. She could see through the outer lobby and out onto the street. The staff, and the onlookers, had all gone.

“Hello?” She shoved the gates. They ignored her. “Let me out, please?” She shoved again, and rattled the plexiglass divider for good measure.

“Lydia”, said Rebecca. “I’m impressed by your organisation and focus. I can’t come down, but I think it’s only fair for you to come up here. You have earned it.”

She paused. “Qué?” The sound of the lift arriving sent her spinning around.

“Come and join me on the sixtieth floor.”

She cast her eyes out toward the lobby, hoping she could still catch a glimpse of her ally the past few days, or of anyone who might be a witness to this. But it had already cleared.

“What is this?” She was nakedly sceptical, but with good reason. What good would it do for this woman to speak with her?

“Isn't this what you wanted, Lydia? Are you not at least open to a dialogue?”

The doors slid closed with nary a sound. She had the rucksack gripped in her hand, the camera safely inside. She knew Samir was somewhere in the building, with Virginia. Had he gotten through? Had they arranged this?

“Three, five, seven, nine.” The lift ascended so rapidly, Aida didn't have time to announce each floor.

But this had been the goal, Lydia assured herself. A dialogue with Virginia was just meant to be the stepping stone. If they could've turned an insider, if they could've shut down SkyTie even for a moment, just to show what they were capable of, to show that San Francisco had been pushed too far. To show they deserved a choice, and if they weren't offered a choice, they'd simply take the control back.

“Seventeen, twenty-three, twenty-eight, thirty-two.”

Lydia could feel herself trembling from the inside out. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, she struggled to control her breathing. If he were here, Hector would put a hand on her shoulder to soothe her, or to rile her further, to remind her that Magenta were lucky they hadn't chosen violence. She was proud that they hadn't. Direct action like that had only strengthened Magenta's resolve in London—dispatches in the Analog Gazette had made that clear. It was a stupid decision anyway, Lydia thought. Violence didn’t work. Not really. Not anymore.

“Forty-two, forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven.” The lift had begun to slow as it approached the top.

Samir. She could just call him! She could just ask. He might be standing in Rebecca's office right now! She stuffed her hands into her pockets, her fingertips feeling for the phone. Mierda. Still on the floor in the lobby, she realised.

“Fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six.”

She gave herself a smack on the face and let out a yelp, in hope of hyping herself. Surely they'd seen that, but no matter. It gave her an edge. Ms. Prue, I'm Lydia Rosales, and I'm here representing the forgotten working class of this city. She repeated it again in her head: I'm Lydia Rosales, and I'm here representing the forgotten working class of this city. They've asked me to deliver a message. We want the choice, Ms. Prue. We want to opt out.

“Fifty-nine.” The lift had slowed to a crawl. “Sixty.” With a gentle chime, the doors slid open. She inhaled, put on her best neutral face, and stepped out into the foyer. It was warm, with an old-world elegance in the copper Magenta logo affixed to the wall above a sofa in their trademark purple. A large empty marble desk stood on the opposite side of the room, seemingly for a receptionist, though none was present and there was no obvious place for one to sit. And at the back of the room, an unassuming wooden door that bore a nameplate:

Rebecca Prue. Chief Executive Officer.

Lydia stood in the middle of the room, unwilling to sit and wait, though also confused as to whether she should simply barge in. Shouldn't I? But should I? She grappled with herself as the door loomed. Behind her the lift had shut, and audibly departed. “Hello?” The sound of her own voice made her jump.

“Lydia,” said Rebecca. Her earpiece had activated, along with a quick vibration from her Ring. Rebecca was speaking directly to her.

“Ms... Prue?”

“Come in, please.”

Lydia approached the door, which had the distinctive metal handle of an office building from long ago. She rotated it and pushed the door open. At once she recognised what was before her: the backdrop.

Rebecca’s iconic, perfectly-staged bookshelf stood against the left wall, a desk in front of it, and directly ahead of Lydia, the San Francisco skyline through a massive window with heavy tint. A circular purple sofa occupied most of the rest of the floor space, with more earthen tones in geometric patterns decorating the other walls.

“I... what?” Lydia looked around several times, even going as far as to peer down to see if perhaps she had crawled under her desk. But Rebecca wasn’t there. Nobody was in the room at all.

“Please, sit,” said Rebecca in the earpiece.

Lydia grimaced as she dropped onto the sofa, facing the desk which had no occupant. “You step out?”

“Behind you.”

She realised the voice wasn't coming from the earpiece—it was coming from somewhere in the room. From everywhere, really. It was acoustically perfect, as if Lydia was hearing her own thoughts in Rebecca's voice. She spun around on the sofa to see Rebecca's image on the screen, with the same backdrop.

Lydia looked quickly between the desk and the screen. It appeared to be a perfect, live image of this exact room. On the screen, Rebecca Prue sat in a smart, modern office chair behind her spotless oaken desk. But in the room there was no Rebecca, and there was no chair. “¿Qué chingadas haces!”

“Lydia, I appreciate you coming up to meet me.”

“You weren't even here,” Lydia seethed. She flailed her arms in a mock display of helplessness. “The fuck are we even doing.”

Rebecca chuckled. “There’s a quote I like. I find it helpful in a situation like this one. Can I share it with you?”

Lydia's eyes were locked on the screen. “I came all the way up to the sixtieth floor to talk to a fucking dop. Is she even in the building?”

A sudden chime from the foyer made her jump. The lift. Lydia felt she might snap from the tension. She tried to peer out the door from where she sat, but couldn't quite manage.

“The dead mustn’t linger, and mustn’t bother,” Rebecca said with a whimsical air, a faint grin on her face. “That's the quote.”

Lydia jumped off of the sofa and shot a look out the doorway. The foyer was as grim and empty as it had been, and the lift doors were closed. “I don’t know what the quote’s from, dop.”

“I don’t either,” Ms. Prue admitted. “But I’ve always liked it. I learned it from a friend long ago. I’ve never known what she meant by it, either. But I can tell you what I think it means. I think it means history holds no sway over the present. The mistakes of the dead mustn’t be allowed to dictate a particular future.”

“That’s nonsense.”

“You disagree?”

“I do.” Lydia could swear she heard something behind her. She quickly checked over each shoulder again, but it once again proved to be nothing.

Ms. Prue laughed. “I’m afraid I don’t have time to ask why. But there’s another meaning I like. I’m not sure my friend would’ve meant it this way. Would you like to hear it?”

“Fine.”

“The best way to kill an idea is to kill the person spreading it.”

Rebecca Prue nodded, her expression unchanged.

Lydia heard a rhythmic swish-swish sound, like stiff canvas, directly behind her. She tried to move, but a strong arm appeared from nowhere and wrapped around her waist, holding her steady.

She felt a sharp, cold prick in her neck.

A fire spread down her chest, into her arms, cries of pain trapped in her throat.

Her body went limp, her vision narrowed. The pristine office, the desk where Rebecca Prue wasn’t, the cloudless San Francisco sky.

The fire extinguished. Only an intense cold remained.

The arm at her waist dropped away.

Samir. The camera. She couldn’t breathe.

Not enough air, and so thirsty.

She just wished.

She wished.

Her head hit the hard wood, and then, nothing.