I’m about to finish up when my arm dies. The metal bucket clanks to the floor, spilling filthy water halfway down the corridor.
“Crap.” The word bounces off the walls and echoes throughout the barren hallway as if mocking me. I throw the broom into the brownish puddle before shoving my right hand between my thighs so I can pry the rubber glove off.
My left arm is weighing me down and there’s nowhere to put it, but I can’t just spread this mess everywhere; I’m a human island in a sea of dirt. Thankfully, the screen embedded in the underarm is still on, so I grab it by the wrist and hold it up.
“Show recent event log,” I demand.
A bright window opens with a list of requests for routine checkups, with an angry red line at the bottom reading “Network Error: Failed to download hardware drivers. Update process terminated.”
I groan in defeat. I’d hoped it wasn’t the drivers. The developer of the software that powers my arm went bankrupt three months ago, and now, each time the dead servers fail to send an update, the arm decides no drivers is better than an outdated one and bricks itself.
The fix failed, then. It’s supposed to prevent the arm from sending further update requests, but I guess the forum user who suggested it had a slightly different model. I decide not to tell anyone. Last time I brought it up, my parents’ pitiful looks clearly suggested I buy a new one. The hardware won’t support a newer OS without serious upgrades that will cost practically as much as a new arm.
But we can’t afford that — the kids’ college funds are still incomplete, and this would put a huge dent in our efforts.
Besides, the arm itself still perfectly functional. I can’t justify getting a new one in good conscience.
It takes a minute for it to restart and reinstall the last working drivers. Once the low hum in my shoulder returns, I tentatively flex the fingers. The yellow rubber glove squeaks like a startled rat.
Alright, arm’s back — now to undo the mess and redo my work.
“Everything cool?”
I start and the other glove, the one clamped between my legs, flops straight into the puddle.
It’s Anthony, the night guard, peeking around the corner with a hesitant smile on his face. I return it awkwardly. He’s here thirty minutes before his shift begins … again.
“My arm malfunctioned,” I say sheepishly as I bend down to pick up the glove. “I was almost finished, too.”
“Need any help?” He sounds a little too eager.
“Piss off,” I say, except it sounds like, “Thanks, but I’ll be fine.”
Anthony nods, smile faltering for a second, then returns to assume his post behind the reception desk. I breathe out quietly and focus on finishing up so I can get home before dinner gets cold. And before Anthony works up the courage to, presumably, ask me out. He has that expectant yet fearful look, like a masochistic deer longing for the bumper of an 18-wheeler.
The TV in the foyer blares to life. There’s a familiar voice following the obnoxious musical intro of Good Evening, Astria, offering a distraction from the tedium of repeated floor-mopping.
“Good evening, Astria! I’m Renata Chancellor, and tonight is a very special episode of the show. To start, I am joined by Royal Spokesman — and personal friend — Beau Thorpe.”
I’ve always wondered if Renata Chancellor is actually a very convincing android created as a part of some psyop. The camera seems to wonder the same, since it’s so closely zoomed in on her face it might as well be hunting for pores in her artificially perfect skin. As for the guy, I think he’s some sort of famous show host. I suppose the royal family has no business appearing on talk shows, so they gave him a promotion.
“Have you heard about this?” Anthony hollers over the applause.
“What, Good Evening, Astria?” I reply.
“No, the competition! It was announced earlier this week by the queen. Something about the prince finding a wife? They called it the Royal Roulette or something stupid like that.”
He keeps talking but I’ve already begun spacing out. It’s not his fault, I just don’t care about some fancy boy’s search for a wife. Especially not when the fancy boy in question is … Oh, what’s his face? Brett? Bront? I’m pretty sure he sprung fully formed out of a test tube wearing a designer suit.
“Now, no doubt many of you have seen the announcement made by Her Majesty Queen Cressida Fontaine and are eagerly waiting for updates, but let’s take a moment to recap it for those who missed it,” Renata says after exchanging pleasantries with Beau.
I glance up. The footage shows Queen Cressida standing behind a gold and mahogany podium somewhere in the royal palace, surrounded by gaudy stone ornaments and wearing a geometric white dress that makes her look like she’s part box on her mother’s side.
“Dear citizens of Astria …”
I finish the second round of cleaning this half of the corridor and dump the bucket of dirty water into the ground floor staff toilet.
Anthony stares expectantly as I tidy up, but he doesn’t have enough sense to offer help this time. He’s too busy building up the courage to ask me out, while I build up the courage to bolt through the nearest exit. Once I manage to shove the cart back into the broom closet at the end of the main corridor, I lock the door and stick my hands deeply into my pockets as if that will somehow make me less visible. Anthony’s standing by the glass doors and holding up my jacket.
Here goes nothing.
“Thanks,” I say as I try to wiggle my arms into the sleeves without touching him.
“Hey, I was wondering if you—”
“I’m really sorry, but if I don’t catch this bus I will have to wait another hour! See you next week!”
“Oh, but —”
I hurry outside before he can answer and start jogging to the bus stop across the road. I can’t help but feel bad — poor guy arrived to work early just to catch me and I didn’t even say bye. But I’m going to miss the bus if I don’t hurry, and I never asked him to waste time like this, so I’m not really doing anything bad. I hope.
The only good thing about working late is the travel back home. The buses are empty past rush hour, and it’s almost cozy to sit there and stare blindly into the darkness, getting only a vague idea of where everything is based on the lights in the distance. It’s at times like these that living in Viera doesn’t seem so bad. When the bus pulls up to the stop near our apartment complex, I exit feeling almost happy to live in the country’s poorest province.
I reckon it’s only relief of finally being close to my bed and some lukewarm grub, because it can’t be the sight of this place. My family and I live in a two-room apartment on the second floor of what used to be a motel. The original building is a slab of concrete with a dozen mobile studio units dumped unceremoniously next to it, which someone in charge must’ve considered a valid enough interpretation of an apartment complex. The frame where the name of the motel had once been displayed is still on the roof, a rusted skeleton just itching to pulverize a pedestrian.
The lights are on at home. Weird. The kids are usually asleep by now. Mom and Dad better not be letting them watch a horror movie again.
I scale the stairwell as fast as I can without risking serious neck-breakage and slide the keycard through the slit before punching in the 8-digit code. The metal buttons so worn out you could easily guess what the code is, but nobody’s stealing from people like us.
Our “apartment” is actually two former motel rooms with the separating wall removed, where one has been dubbed a living room and the other a kitchen. The old door that once led to the other room from the outside is badly covered up, and we have to stuff the cracks with bath towels to keep out the cold, but at least it’s not a hole in the wall. Silver linings.
Mom’s the first person I see when I enter the kitchen, heaping food onto a plate. Dad and Simon sit on the ancient sofa and gape at the TV, which is probably the weirdest thing I’ve seen this month. Sheridan, my youngest sister, is doing homework on the kitchen table.
Katrina is nowhere to be seen, but that is to be expected of a cranky sixteen-year-old. She’s rarely home at this hour, especially now that she’s found herself a cool and totally parent-upsetting biker boyfriend. Except our parents are far too lenient and accepting to be upset, which means I have to be upset on their behalf, and that annoys Kat even more because now she doesn’t get to have her rebellious phase and her older sister is sticking her nose into her business. It’s a miracle she comes home at all in these dismal conditions.
“What’s going on?” I nearly shout to be heard over the TV.
“There you are, sweetie,” Mom says. Not an answer to my question, but still better than the others, who are all ignoring me in favor of … is that Renata Chancellor again? Does that lady ever rest?
“Here. Nice and hot.”
Mom hands me some chicken curry. It’s a TV dinner, but she likes to heat and plate those like they’re homemade; mom-made, as she calls it. Which is also false.
I meet her eyes in confusion — they’re the same shade of green as mine.
“Can someone explain to me what’s happening?”
“We’re just watching TV.” Mom’s voice is an octave higher than usual.
“But we never do that,” I retort.
Her lips twitch into a stiff smile and she sits down next to Dad, “We are now.”
Both of them proceed to ignore me.
Anxiety sparks in my chest — they’ve done something.
I drop down at the small folding table opposite Sheridan and start shoveling food into my mouth.
My parents have always been like this, coming up with some wacky new thing to surprise us kids, but being so obvious about it and so stubborn to keep it “secret” that it becomes frustrating.
Sheridan is concentrating on her work despite the noise. At least Mom and Dad have enough sense to let her do that instead of forcing her to rot her brain with garbage talk shows.
“Hey, is that a new math book?” I lift up one of Sheri’s textbooks, not recognizing the cover. It seems to be for eighth-graders.
“Yeah, got it today,” she replies without looking up. “Mrs. Ellis said I could work as a tutor for extra credit in a few months.”
“Sheri, that’s amazing! I’m so proud.”
“Yeah yeah, don’t get sauce on my equations,” Sheri says, but there’s a little smile on her face.
I don’t want to distract her further, so I turn my attention back to my food and can’t help but listen to the TV.
“Well, thank you for coming here and sharing this with us tonight, Beau. Give a warm applause to Beau, everyone! Now that we’ve heard about the human side of the Royal Roulette, I’m sure everyone is very excited to hear about the logistics of it, and I’m happy to announce that we here at Good Evening, Astria have exclusive access to brand-new information, presented by one of the minds behind it! If you have just joined us for this two-hour special, tonight we’re here to discuss the developments from Cerise! As many of you might know, two weeks ago, our king and queen announced that His Royal Highness Prince Rhett, everyone’s favorite dreamboat, is looking for a wife! And not just any wife: but any wife!”
The crowd laughs and Renata snickers to herself. Whenever she emphasizes a word for no reason, it feels like I'm getting flashbanged.
“That’s right, young ladies: you can become the future Queen of Astria! If you are between the ages of twenty and twenty-eight — naturally the age range most appropriate for our dear prince — you can get a chance at winning his heart. Yes, even though the lottery tickets have sold and sold fast, there’s still time to apply! Of course, you have to be single and childless to participate, and there are other limitations to consider ...”
I catch Mom’s gaze with sniper-like precision. She looks away quickly and I zoom in on Dad, who’s likely aware of what I’m doing and staring at the TV to avoid looking at me.
Oh. I get it. It all makes sense now.
“You guys can’t be serious,” I mutter.
“There’s no harm in trying,” Mom says pleadingly.
“She said lottery tickets. The harm involves losing money for a fraction of a chance, a fraction that’s probably fake anyway since there’s no way they’ll let some country bumpkin from Lennel put her peasant hands all over the prince!”
“That’s enough of a chance to at least try!”
Mom looks suddenly guilty and I groan. She’s already brought the darn ticket, hasn’t she?
Why? These people raised me and I know better than to put any hope in the royalty or the propaganda machine that passes for our media. Isn’t it enough that our tax money pays for their yachts?
My hand is shaking and the food in my mouth feels thick and tasteless, and for once the TV-dinner quality isn’t to blame. I manage to swallow, but don’t have it in me to say more.
They’ve already bought a ticket, so it’s too late for arguments, anyway. That’s why they’ve kept it secret until now — they knew I’d disapprove. I take deep breaths and pray that the ticket was cheap.
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