Blue Locks

Some day, I’m going to go to college. Shawn says it’s not worth the money anymore – his student loans are the reason he started as a smuggler – but I don’t care. I just want to sit someplace quiet and read for four years …

Story by Wendy Wagner

Illustration by Rebecca Ing

The worst part of rum-running is waiting for Shawn. When I’m sitting there in the dark, fiddling with my tool kit like I’m working on my scooter, every inch of my skin lifts up, the hairs shifting with each passing sound. Every time, I wish I carried a gun. But a gun would be a sure tip-off I’m in illegal business. No gun shop’s going to sell to a fifteen year-old girl. So every time I go out–every Saturday for the last year and a half–I sit here, ordinary sounds like feet on pavement and far away car horns making my lungs stiffen up like they’re holding on to their last breath.

It’s no way to spend a Saturday night, but what choice do I have? Like anybody else calling Dispatch, I need the packages I’m waiting for, though Shawn’s the only one who knows how much. He’s the only one who’s seen Mom doing her crazy thing. If anybody found out how sick she is without the drugs, they’d take her away. And then what would happen to me?

Here in the fog, it’s quiet enough that my thoughts crowd into my head louder than anything else. An aerial drone sweeps over the street, its motor stirring the mist around me into columns of white. It chitters to itself and moves on, leaving silence behind. My ears itch from listening for something, anything besides those thoughts.

I don’t mind remembering Mom like she used to be. I can remember her laughing, telling stories, going to work. But when Calvin turned her in, something inside my mother broke. Maybe it’s because she’d never been betrayed before. No one had ever stolen anything from my mother before Calvin copied all her files and passed them on to Homeland Security. No one had ever taken anything from her, and then Calvin breaks her heart, steals her files–and just like that everything, her office, her boss, her friends, is gone. The first of the Blue Law convictions. At least Mom didn’t serve any time.

When my mother first got the news, I thought she’d get over it. I thought it would be like when my dad died. It was breakfast when she told me, and her whole face shook as she talked, a tiny quivering all over, just like the yolk of the fried egg sitting on my plate. If anything else had happened just then, she would have broke. Everything inside her would have leaked out like yolk seeping out over the edges of the white. But she held it together that day. She didn’t even cry as she pressed me against her heart.

I don’t think she’s ever cried over Calvin.

“Hey, sprout.”

Shawn always finds a way to sneak up on me. I don’t lose my grip on my screwdriver, but my heart speeds into double time. If he’d been a mugger, I’d be knocked out by now.

“Hey yourself.”

“How’s the old lady?” He’s got a cigarette pack in his hand and he plays it cool, leaning against the lamppost and tapping his pack on his thigh to pack tight the tobacco.

“No better, no worse. At least she remembered to fill out the food stamp paperwork this month.” It’s not easy to sound like my mother’s lack of progress doesn’t bother me. I work hard, but she’s not getting any better.

“Must feel good to get out of the house for a while.” He fumbles in his pocket like any guy looking for his lighter. This is the arrangement: Shawn knows the address of the pickup. I have the address for the drop-off. Shawn stays as clean as he can, and hey, I’m a minor. If I get caught, I’ve got a clean record, good grades and blue innocent eyes. Nobody’d believe I know anything about contraband technology.

“You should stop smoking.”

“I’m too stressed to stop smoking. My house needs a new roof and my old lady got laid off–they closed her school.” He flicks his lighter and the flame lights parts of his I don’t usually see. We always meet in the shadows.

“But forget that shit. Let’s take a look at your scooter.” Shawn kneels beside me like he’s looking at my bike. He’s hairier than any guy I’ve ever seen, curly red hair and a giant beard and orange wool sprouting across the back of his hands. He wears an old leather jacket that smells just like my dad’s. When he’s not working the illegal package delivery circuit, he’s an EMT. That’s how we met, the night my mom tried to cut her wrists.

The pharmacy sack appears on the wet pavement like a white rabbit whisked from a magician’s hat. I jam it in my tool kit.

Shawn pitches his cigarette into the puddle by my feet. The butt sizzles and rises to the top, the gold camel on the filter shimmering in the street light. “Well, that ought to do it. Glad I could get here and help, kid. This is a rough part of town.” He says the same thing, or pretty close, every time. When I pat the seat of my bike, there’ll be a square of paper tucked into the seam. Nobody else would even notice it was there.

“Thanks, Shawn. See ya later.” I swing onto my seat and start my engine.

“Lanie–helmet.” He folds his arms, glaring at me until I grab the helmet from the footboard and buckle it on my head. This is routine, too.

Then he’s off and around the corner, and I’m setting off into the fog. I know the address, even if I haven’t been there before. I’ve been hoping to visit the university for years. Some day, I’m going to go to college. Shawn says it’s not worth the money anymore–his student loans are the reason he started as a smuggler–but I don’t care. I just want to sit someplace quiet and read for four years.

The fog thins as I get farther from the river, half-finished condos falling behind me like the dried up bodies of dead bugs. Security cams glitter on every corner now, fixing on my scooter a second before shifting to the next moving target. This is a low-crime district, with no need for drones. Leaving them behind shifts some of the nervousness out of the pit of my stomach.

But knowing I’m headed for the PSU library makes me a different kind of nervous. Because if the worst part of rum-running is waiting for Shawn, the most dangerous part is picking up deliveries from people smarter than you. On a typical night, my job’s about delivering fun: eighty percent of the time, my pickups are just unregistered Xboxes making the party rounds, bolstered with a case of cheap liquor for some underaged drinking.

Tonight’s going to be one of the twenty percent. I can taste it in the last clumps of fog.

*

When I roll into the loading zone, the back door is already propped open, and two guys are leaning against the wall enjoying cigarettes. They go stiff when they see me.

They’re my guys.

I park just like the library’s open and I’ve got a reason to go inside. Hang my helmet off the handlebar, totally casual. The guys go back to smoking. It’s hard to be nervous of girl my size, and that’s the point. They don’t know about the screwdriver in my back pocket or all the time I’ve spent sharpening its blade. Shawn taught me that trick.

The skinnier of the two guys stubs out his smoke and ducks inside. The fat guy looks me over, flicking ashes off the tip of his cigarette until the red ember at the end flips out. He flicks it a couple more times, then fumbles for a replacement. The sodium vapor light stains his long-sleeved tee yellow, but the glow only makes the EFF logo stand out in harsher relief.

My mom once worked with the Electronic Frontier Foundation, back when “secure sites for everyone” was a social priority. Cryptography was king in those days. Now it’s a felony. After all, if you need privacy to do it, you must be doing something wrong.

That logo confirms my fear that this is one of those twenty-percent-of-the-time deliveries. I’m glad I put faked plates on the scooter after I left the house.

“Those cigarettes come in a package?” In my thin voice, the question manages to sound innocent.

“Jason will bring it out.”

I can’t help going stiff. There are no names in this business. But Fatty doesn’t even seem to notice. He flicks his cigarette again, forgetting to bring it to his mouth.

“It’s a big one. Biggest thing we’ve ever gotten our hands on. It could make the Internet anonymous again. Kill all the motherfucking Blue Chips.” He rubs his upper arm with free hand. There are circles under his eyes, deep as the shadows flanking the building. I scan the perimeter as I watch him try to suck smoke with trembling lips.

“I’m ready.” A boy stands in the doorway, a yellow anorak zipped up to his chin. He’s not much older than me, really skinny, with a thicket of white and purple pimples covering his forehead. There’s a box in his hands just big enough for a coffee mug.

A white box sealed in blue tape. Blue tape printed with dark blue padlocks.

I’ve carried bluelocks before, but I don’t like this.

“You’ve got the delivery address?” I put out my hand for the address slip. You always get the address first. Then you take the package.

The boy shakes his head. “I’ll tell you once we get off-campus.”

“No passengers.” This is the most serious rule of the business. It stands before “get half the money in advance” and ranks higher than “Dispatch does not know any addresses.” We’re a package delivery company, not a cab company.

Fatty steps forward, one hand out like a beggar. “Jason’s the only one who knows how to install the program. He’s got to go with the box.”

“No passengers,” I repeat, and my throat tightens around the words like it’s going to strangle them.

“Please?” Jason cocks his head, and I realize that if it weren’t for the zits, he’d be good-looking. “Shawn said this was the best way to do it. We could pass for a couple on a date.”

I take a step back. Shawn said? None of this makes sense, the names, the box, the kid. “There’s been a mistake. I’ve got to go.”

And then there’s a floating light in the corner of my eye, a flicker in the shadows surrounding the library. Drones don’t make any noise, but I know that motion anywhere. There’s a growl, still in the distance, of a helicopter.

The drones have heard enough to send for backup.

“Please!” Jason’s eyes go wide and he looks younger than I ever could, cupping the box to his chest. Branches snap and crackle out beyond the reach of the sodium vapor lights. Any second, I know, a searchlight will snap on and a voice will come out, made huge by the bullhorn. How many times have I seen this moment on the news?

I should be running. But Jason’s eyes pin me in place. They’re huge and dark, the lashes longer than anyone’s I’ve ever seen.

“Come on.” I snap on the helmet and slam the key in the ignition. He jumps on the back as I open the throttle. Even as I’m wheeling back into the alley, that amplified voice fills the air, and a drone pops the first round of tear gas.

But we’re out of there. The scooter has hit her snarling top speed, the motor cutting out the rest of the world as I zig-zag-streak up the alley. This moment is the best part of this business, outrunning everything and everyone on my dad’s old scooter. The wind rakes my cheeks cool. I hear nothing, pure and wonderful silence.

We ride a long time, going nowhere, going fast. We shoot over the Steel Bridge, the river dancing with lights. There’s no traffic at this time of night. Jason’s body hugs against mine, warm and solid and soap-smelling. It feels good, riding with a passenger. There’s no need to think about anything.

But it can’t last. Jason’s tapping my shoulder, pointing to a parking lot in front of a convenience store. The package has to be delivered.

I pull into a parking space and turn off the engine, releasing silence. The soft sounds of night bat at my ears: a train horn, a hint of dance music, the distant sounds of sirens. I slip off the scooter so I can face my problem.

Jason’s cheeks are pure white, his eyes ink smears above his sharp cheekbones. His hair, wind-puffed, almost hides the awful acne. “We have to go to North Portland.” He jumps down from the scooter so he can face me.

“NoPo?” A year and a half as a smuggler and I know just where he means. “You mean University of Portland. Party central.”

“That’s just a cover. Most of those kids really know what they’re doing.” He lifts his chin and squares his shoulders, as if adding height will add years to his age.

“Kids? So you’re what, a forty year-old?” I roll my eyes.

“Hey, I skipped grades. And I’ve been in the trenches the last year, working on this Intel-Blue project.” He realizes he’s said too much and goes silent.

“You work for Intel-Blue?” I unclip my helmet. I want to hear everything he has to say about those fascists.

“It was Dr. Riley’s idea–the fat guy back there. Get a contract, get the info. Ever since DHS contracted with all the big tech companies, it’s the only way.”

“So you’re like a mole.” I don’t mean to ease my foot closer to his, but I can’t help it. Our toes are touching. “You’re stealing classified information and planning to what? Release it over the web?”

“I’m going to transmit the engineering specs of the next Blue Chip–their most powerful keystroke-logging piece of shit yet. But it’s got a flaw.” His shoulders are so close to mine I can hear the creak of the anorak’s coated seams. “They put Blue Chips in every single computer sold in every single store in America. And I can make each and every Blue Chips broadcast false information.”

“That’s a felony. Fucking with Internet surveillance–that’s covered by Patriot Act 2014. ‘Cyberspace is American airspace, too,’ and all that crap.” I know all this stuff too well. Before Calvin, fighting the Patriot Act was my mom’s life.

“Homeland security is just another name for repression.” He stares at me and I realize he’s taken a step backward. “Are you going to help me deliver this package, or do I have to call a cab?”

Everything’s wrong about this moment. The passenger, the package taped up with blue locks. The thought of DHS catching me makes my skin crawl.

I think about calling Dispatch and telling them I failed to make my delivery. It’s a firing offense. Only Dispatch doesn’t write pink slips–your termination notice comes written on a bullet.

I squeeze my fingers into my palms until I feel the jagged edges of my nails against my skin. I think of the pharmacy bag tucked in my toolbox and how much Mom’s going to need a dose in the morning. I think of what she’ll do if I don’t come home tonight.

He’s got me. That package has to be delivered or I’m fucked. “Don’t get your boxers in a knot. What’s the address?”

He tells me and I slide back onto the bike. Jason still feels warm and solid against my back, but the fun has leaked out all over the parking lot, the pavement yellow and slick under the street light, like a plate streaked with egg yolk. No matter how loud the engine growls, I can still hear the choppers moving over the west side of the city.

*

Two blocks from the address, I park under a cedar tree. Its dark branches swoop down over us, a tent blocking out the city lights and the fog rolling up from the river. Under the tree, we could be anywhere. We could be anyone. We could even really be the boy and girl we’re pretending to be, exploring the city, exploring each other.

We stand there a second. It’s eleven o’clock on a Saturday, and we’re in the university district. I can hear music from at least three different parties, the strands of their music spinning out around me and vibrating my skin. My heart beats at its own beat, disco tempo.

We’re close enough I can smell his warm skin scent beneath the soap perfume. I lick my lips. Traveling on scooter dries them out. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Jason pats the bulge of the box beneath his jacket. “The future of the free internet is in this box.”

“You really believe in that?” I don’t remember the last time I used the Internet for anything but checking the weather; every site’s so loaded with spyware and spambots, there’s no point anymore. And of course, the Blue Chips. The only people who don’t mind the Department of Homeland Security tracking their moves online are the old guys downloading porn.

He leans over so his lips almost touch my ear. “Trust me. It’s gonna be good.”

I take his hand, like I really, really am his girlfriend, and I walk him to the delivery address. When we pass under a streetlight, I see he’s smiling. I squeeze his hand, hard. I’m never going to see him after this. It’s Dispatch’s Rule number four: no delivery driver gets the same client twice.

“Have fun at the party,” I purr, just like I should, and I touch the doorbell button.

The door pops open like it’s on springs, but it’s just a curly-haired girl, giggling with her red Solo cup clamped in one hand. “Come on in,” she laughs and staggers aside to make room for us to enter. Music blasts out over the threshold.

I stare into Jason’s eyes one more second. The lashes are so much longer than mine. The corners of his eyes crinkle in another smile. And then he’s in, and I’m closing the door and turning back down the walk.

The tiny snick of a deadbolt makes me turn my head. But like Jason said, the party’s a cover. I shake my head, watching the dancers wriggle through the half-fogged window. Someone leans on the window frame, watching the dancers the same way I’m watching them, like someone who’s always been outside the dance floor and never plans to get on it.

The watcher turns his head. For a second, he looks like Shawn.

I shake my head to myself, grinning as I hit the sidewalk. The idea of that big middle-aged man at a university party is too damn funny. And then the hair rises up on my arms. I have to stop and look back over my shoulder, but he’s already turned his bearded face away from me. He’s busy tapping his pack of Camels on the windowsill.

Then the ground bucks under my feet. I fall even as the house bursts open, spewing flames, black smoke shooting into the sky. I crawl, but I can’t escape the sounds, the screams, which I shouldn’t be able to hear over the ringing in my ears. Everything stinks like hot plastic and maybe barbecue.

There are sirens.

I find my feet and run. I don’t look back. I can’t make myself.

*

I don’t know how long I ride. The streets fill up after a while, a sure sign the bars have closed. Drones slink overhead, scanning the streets but never dropping to face level. Never stopping me. Still, I pull into the lot of a convenience store to switch out the scooter’s plates. On second thought I buy a corndog as a cover. It tastes like smoke.

Why the fuck was Shawn at that party?

I have to drive faster to keep my mind focused on the road. It’s too late to figure out what’s going on. I’m too tired. I can’t stop thinking about the blue locks sealing shut that package, DHS’s special tape. That package was the biggest thing I ever delivered and everything about it was wrong.

Two blocks from my house, I stop beside a dumpster to throw away the rest of the corndog and to plaster on makeup. Loads of smeary eyeliner around my eyes. Red and purple lipstick along my throat like a massive hickie. It’s fake enough, but it will fool the camera over our front door. As far as the government knows, I’m just another party girl with too many boyfriends. That’s an acceptable reason for a girl my age to be out late at night.

I fumble the key in the lock and for once it’s not acting. My hands aren’t working right. There’s eyeliner caked all over my fingers like soot.

The corndog turns over in my stomach and I barely make it to the toilet in time.

*

Hands and face scrubbed free of the blackness, I let myself out of the bathroom. Mom’s still propped in her favorite armchair, her head sagged against the chair back and her mouth cracked open. A little drool sits in the crease of her chin. With her face sleeping-soft, her features look young again, supermodel pretty.

I slip the remote out of her hand and turn off the tv. She doesn’t like any of the shows, but with the sound turned down to a rumble, it keeps her company while she does her puzzles. I have to nudge a sudoku book under the chair with my toe. On a bad day, she’ll build a whole stack of those cheap booklet around her–crosswords, sudoku, it doesn’t matter. Puzzles are her whole world.

“Come on, Mom.” I shake her shoulders, easing her forward in her chair. “It’s bedtime.”

Little sounds bubble up out of her mouth as I pull her to her feet, taking her weight on my shoulder. She doesn’t weigh much anymore.

I sit her on her bed, just a twin mattress next to the tv these days. Since DHS closed the company and Mom can’t get a job in tech, we can’t afford a two bedroom apartment. But this is better–she doesn’t like to feel alone. She’s quiet as I run a washcloth over her face and teeth.

“Go ahead and sleep, Mom. I’m home.”

I have to push her down and line her head up with her pillow. She says something–thank you, maybe–but she just lies where I put her, not tugging at her covers or adjusting her pillow. This is worse than a bad night. I can’t look at her when she’s like this.

I go into the kitchen and make some tea. It’s better in here, quiet and dim. I can’t see Mom or the tv or Mom’s desk in the corner, all set up like she might wake up in the morning and just start writing code again. I can’t see the blue tape stretched around her computer tower, the blue tape she refuses to take off.

When I pass through the living room on my way to bathroom, I can see her eyes shining in the glow of the bathroom light. I shut the door as fast as I can and turn the shower on hot. I stand under the shower head and just listen to its noises, the rhythm-less drum against my head, filling my ears. I wish I could stay in here forever. If I turn off the water, it won’t be long before I hear sirens somewhere, or worse, helicopters.

The water goes tepid. I have to bundle up in a towel, feeling the moisture on my skin get colder and colder. I can’t stop thinking about Jason’s eyes, big and dark and fringed all around with those long lashes. And I can’t stop thinking about what’ll happen tomorrow. DHS and Intel-Blue are going to be looking for their package.

The Blue Laws started as a way for the FBI to reign in piracy, then Homeland Security stretched them to surveillance, and now IT is as scary a business as weapons manufacturing. The newest drones blur the lines between the two. Nobody knows what DHS can do to people like I do. I just look at my mom and I know what kind of trouble you can get in when you fuck with the Blue Laws.

I almost get sick again, but then I think of the man I saw on the other side of that window. I’m pretty sure he was Shawn. And Shawn was my only contact with Dispatch, the only one who knows about me and my scooter and my mom and the drugs he’s gotten for her every week.

Next week, there won’t be any drugs, not without Shawn.

I put my head down on my knees and try not to think about it. I try to just think of the wind on my face when I open up the throttle on the scooter. Even without a passenger warming my back, it’s a damn good feeling. The best.

*

A long time later, I put on my pajamas and open the bathroom door, watching the light play on Mom’s eyes a moment. Then I slap off the light and run to her bed. I wriggle in beside her and pull her arm up around me. It’s cold and limp and unresisting. I lay there, listening to the soft rasp of her breathing and hope that she’s closed her eyes.

Tomorrow, I think I will call her caseworker.