25

　　The next morning, exhausted¹, Juliette arrived late at her desk, her legs and back sore from the climbdown to IT and from not getting an ounce of sleep. She had spent the entire night tossing and turning,wondering if she’d discovered a box that was better left unopened, worried she might be raisingquestions that promised nothing but bad answers. If she went out into the cafeteria and looked in adirection she normally avoided, she would be able to see the last two cleaners lying in the crook² of ahill, almost as if in one another’s arms. Did those two lovers throw themselves into the rotting windover the very thing Juliette was now chasing? The fear she’d seen in Scottie’s eyes made her wonderif she wasn’t being careful enough. She looked across her desk at her new deputy, greener even atthis job than she, as he transcribed³ data from one of the folders⁴.

　　“Hey, Peter?”

　　He looked up from his keyboard. “Yeah?”

　　“You were in Justice before this, right? Shadowing a judge?”

　　He tilted⁵ his head to the side. “No, I was a court assistant. I actually shadowed in the mids’ deputyoffice until a few years ago. I wanted that job, but none came up.”

　　“Did you grow up there? Or the up top?”

　　“The mids.” His hands fell away from his keyboard to his lap. He smiled. “My dad was a plumberin the hydroponics. He passed away a few years ago. My mom, she works in the nursery.”

　　“Really? What’s her name?”

　　“Rebecca. She’s one of the—”

　　“I know her. She was shadowing when I was a kid. My father—”

　　“He works in the upper nursery, I know. I didn’t want to say anything—”

　　“Why not? Hey, if you’re worried about me playing favorites, I’m guilty. You’re my deputy now,and I’ll have your back.”

　　“No, it’s not that. I just didn’t want you to hold anything against me. I know you and your fatherdon’t—”

　　Juliette waved him off. “He’s still my father. We just grew apart. Tell your mom I said hi.”

　　“I will.” Peter smiled and bent⁶ over his keyboard.

　　“Hey. I’ve got a question for you. Something I can’t figure.”

　　“Sure,” he said, looking up. “Go ahead.”

　　“Can you think of why it’s cheaper to porter a paper note to someone than it is to just wire themfrom a computer?”

　　“Oh, sure.” He nodded. “It’s a quarter chit per character to wire someone. That adds up!”

　　Juliette laughed. “No, I know what it costs. But paper isn’t cheap, either. And neither is porting.

　　But it seems like sending a wire would be practically free, you know? It’s just information. It weighsnothing.”

　　He shrugged⁷. “It’s been a quarter chit a character since I’ve been alive. I dunno. Besides, we’vegot a fifty-chit-per-day allowance from here, plus unlimited⁸ emergencies. I wouldn’t stress.”

　　“I’m not stressed, just confused. I mean, I understand why everyone can’t have radios like wecarry, because only one person can transmit at a time, so we need the air open for emergencies, butyou’d think we could all send and receive as many wires as we wanted.”

　　Peter propped⁹ his elbows up and rested his chin on his fists. “Well, think about the cost of theservers, the electricity. That means oil to burn and all the maintenance of the wires and cooling andwhatnot. Especially if you have a ton of traffic. Factor that against pressing pulp¹⁰ on a rack, letting itdry, scratching some ink on it, and then having a person who’s already heading that way walk it up ordown for you. No wonder it’s cheaper!”

　　Juliette nodded, but mostly for his benefit. She wasn’t so sure. She hated to voice why, but shecouldn’t help herself.

　　“But what if it’s for a different reason? What if someone made it expensive on purpose?”

　　“What? To make money?” Peter snapped his fingers. “To keep the porters employed with runningnotes!”

　　Juliette shook her head. “No, what if it’s to make conversing¹¹ with each other more difficult? Or atleast costly¹². You know, separate us, make us keep our thoughts to ourselves.”

　　Peter frowned. “Why would anyone want to do that?”

　　Shrugging, Juliette looked back at her computer screen, her hand creeping to the scroll¹³ hidden inher lap. She reminded herself that she no longer lived among people she could implicitly¹⁴ trust. “Idon’t know,” she said. “Forget about it. It’s just a silly thought.”

　　She pulled her keyboard toward her and was just glancing up at her screen when Peter saw theemergency icon¹⁵ first.

　　“Wow. Another alert,” he said.

　　She started to click on the flashing icon, heard Peter blow out his breath.

　　“What the hell’s going on around here?” he asked.

　　She pulled the message up on her screen and read it quickly, disbelieving what she was seeing.

　　Surely this wasn’t the way of the job. Surely people didn’t die this often. Had she simply not heardabout it before, with her nose always buried in some crankcase or under an oil pan?

　　The blinking number code above the message was one she recognized without even needing hercheat sheet. It was becoming sadly familiar. Another suicide. They didn’t give the victim’s name, butthere was an office number. And she knew the floor and address. Her legs were still sore from her tripdown there.

　　“No—” she said, gripping the edge of her desk.

　　“You want me to—?” Peter reached for his radio.

　　“No, damn it, no.” Juliette shook her head. She pushed herself away from her desk, knocking overthe recycling bin¹⁶, which spilled all the pardoned folders across the floor. The scroll from her laprolled into them.

　　“I can—” Peter began.

　　“I got this,” she said, waving him away. “Damn it.” She shook her head. The office was spinningaround her head, the world getting blurry¹⁷. She staggered for the door, arms wide for balance, whenPeter snapped back to his computer screen, dragging his mouse with its little cord behind, clickingsomething.

　　“Uh, Juliette—?”

　　But she was already stumbling out the door, bracing¹⁸ herself for the long and painful descent.

　　“Juliette!”

　　She turned to find Peter running behind her, his hand steadying the radio attached to his hip¹⁹.

　　“What?” she asked.

　　“I’m sorry— It’s— I don’t know how to do this—”

　　“Spit it out,” she said impatiently. All she could think of was little Scottie, hanging by his neck. Itwas electrical ties in her imagination. That’s how her waking nightmare, her morbid²⁰ thoughts, craftedthe scene of his death in her head.

　　“It’s just that I got a private wire and—”

　　“Keep up if you want, but I’ve got to get down there.” She spun²¹ toward the stairwell.

　　Peter grabbed her arm. Roughly. A forceful grip.

　　“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m supposed to take you into custody—”

　　She whirled on him and saw how unsure of himself he looked.

　　“What did you say?”

　　“I’m just doing my duty, Sheriff, I swear.” Peter reached for his metal cuffs²². Juliette stared at him,disbelieving, as he snapped one link around her wrist and fumbled²³ for the other.

　　“Peter, what’s going on? I’ve got a friend I need to see to—”

　　He shook his head. “The computer says you’re a suspect, ma’am. I’m just doing what it tells me todo—”

　　And with that, the second link clicked around her other wrist and Juliette looked down at herpredicament, dumbfounded, the image of her young friend hanging by his neck unable to be shakenloose from her mind.

 

点击收听单词发音