Read Fantasy & Science Fiction Mar-Apr 2013 for Free Online Page B

morning school, instead.
    "Hey, Beck!"
    It was Thor, waving me over to his booth. Seeing a friendly face gave me a jolt of hope and relief—a sense that everything would be okay, maybe. I slid in across from him. "You look a little frazzled," he said.
    "Yeah. My father kicked me out. He said I could come back if I agreed to 'act like his daughter,' which I think probably means spy on whoever he wants me to spy on, and tell him anything he asks."
    I wanted to sound tough and defiant when I said this, but looking at Thor's face—which was worried and concerned and sympathetic all at once—broke my resolve. I started to cry. Thor moved over next to me and put his arm around my shoulders as I sobbed.
    "Hey," he said. "Beck, it's not that bad. You can go to California, right? And live with your mom."
    "I don't want to leave." I tried to explain, but I could tell from the noises he was making (the sort of "uh-huh" that means, "You can keep talking, I'm still listening," not the sort that means, "I totally agree with you") that he thought I was nuts.
    "I can't wait to go back," he said. "If I had a parent on shore who wanted me, I'd be in the embassy right now saying, 'Get me out of here!'"
    "Shore's home for you, though," I said.
    "I asked Tyrone—you know, the guy at the Citizens' Services Bureau—about whether I could become an emancipated minor. He said no, probably not, at least not yet. But the day I turn eighteen, he said he can help me. I might enlist."
    "Enlist?"
    "In the military. Which admittedly is a little like being a bond-worker, since you can't quit, but they pay for everything . Housing, food, clothes, all your medical care.…"
    I had seen a few movies where people were in the Army. I pulled away and looked at Thor, trying to imagine him with all his pretty curls shaved off for boot camp or whatever they called it these days. I must have made a face because Thor laughed.
    "Anything but the Navy," he said. "I've had enough of the ocean."
    He put his arm around me again and I leaned my head against his shoulder.
    "Go to California," he said. "That way when I get there in two years, I'll have someone to visit."
    But I didn't want to leave. I didn't want to leave Thor . And I knew from the way his arm tightened as he said "go" that he didn't really want me to go, either.
     
I GOT MONEY from my underground off-the-official-books bank and went to Miscellenry to buy the stuff I needed most urgently—a toothbrush, a towel, a change of clothes. A second blanket. A charge cable for my gadget. A flashlight. Jamie took my money and avoided my eyes. I could feel my father's influence as if he loomed over Jamie's shoulder, glaring at me. I thought about asking Jamie if he wanted to hire me back—he'd said just the other day he'd hire me back in a second—but I was afraid I'd start crying again when he said no. So I didn't ask.
    "I need a cash-basis water card," I said.
    Jamie looked over his shoulder, like he really did expect my father to be standing there, and said, "I don't sell those," a little bit too loudly. Then he pulled one out from under the counter and slipped it to me. "Don't tell anyone," he whispered. I reached for my wallet and he shook his head. "It's on me."
    I tried to calculate how long my savings would last, paying for bed, food, water, and all the things I was probably still forgetting to account for. Not long, was the answer. Maybe a month. And then…what?
    For now, I decided, I wasn't going to worry about it.
    It was supposed to be my first day back at school, but I was pretty sure I couldn't go—if my father was cutting me off, he'd surely have canceled with my tutors. The day stretched out in front of me, empty, so I went for a walk, Min to Rosa to the far edge of Pete. I didn't go to Pete very often, because about the only thing I can say in Russian is, "Sorry, I don't speak Russian." (I had a Russian tutor for a while when I was little, but then my father got pissed off at some collective