Owen swiped the City Seven Health Organization approved meals across the code scanner, each beep a bullet to his bank account. Beep. Beep. That was the sound of his life fading away. Beep. Beep. It synchronized to the tick of an imaginary clock. Beep. Beep. He gave another credit to the faceless Mega Mart overlords in their corporate towers. Beep. Beep. Not on life support, but barely alive.

  The clean white packaging had a blue Health Org stamp of approval in the corner, the only adornment on the otherwise bland boxes. Thick black print on each side identified the items. MEATLOAF. CHEESE. PEPPERONI PIZZA. Frozen sustenance for the masses. He stopped scanning at a bottle of LEMON SODA DRINK. His bank account was in the low double digits but his rent was paid and he had enough food to last the week with rationing. Life was good.

  The beeping of automated checkout stations faded as he walked past a pair of peacekeepers scanning shoppers for signs of theft. They carried their electric compliance devices in their hands instead of on their belts. A single zap would put a shoplifter on his ass. Their uniforms bore the Mega Mart double M logo right beneath their badges and current discounts flashed across their full-faced visors.

  At two in the morning the low city streets blazed with artificial light from a thousand adverts plastered across tenements kissing the polluted sky. Dealers peddled the newest chemical concoction from darkened alleys while wide eyed junkies covered in sores scurried like cockroaches away from the glow of neon white. City Seven’s nocturnal denizens moved to and from their shifts with their heads down, living cogs in the ever churning machine.

  Balloons and firework scrap littered the street, byproducts of the annual Founding Day parade held in the High City. Screens not rotating ads for products played the ending of the parade live in front of Callahan Tower. The heart of City Seven was lit up with drones and window screens arrayed to display pop star Laura Laura singing and dancing to her newest hit single on a rainbow cloud float. The high lifers enjoyed their celebration while the lowlifes enjoyed their garbage.

  A dim section of ads caught Owen’s eye. A dozen posters were brazenly plastered over wafer thin screens, posing a single question to the lowlifes of City Seven.

  WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU SAW THE SUN?

  It was a good question, one he couldn’t answer right away. Owen’s shift started before sunrise and ended well after sundown. He spent his day off at the night market hunting for good deals or his tube enjoying government approved entertainment from a subscription package that saved him credits in the long run. Who needed the sun when ads lit up the street?

  Owen didn’t have time to think about it. The imaginary clock ticked away as his next shift approached. A pair of indentured street cleaners in Black Hill Penitentiary jumpsuits removed the posters, adding them to the motorized trash cans full of parade garbage. Ad light returned to the street and all was right in the world again. Whoever put those signs up had a serious mental defect to risk a fine for tampering with government approved ad space.

  The streets were less crowded past midnight. Owen could almost breathe despite smog from factories choking the world. He experienced something close to relative silence on these walks home despite the constant blaring of car horns and the cacophony of ads playing around him. His mouth watered at the thought of warm PEPPERONI PIZZA with some tepid LEMON SODA DRINK to wash it down.

  Owen stopped in front of a closed bike shop. Only sex stores and strip clubs were still open so late, but when the bike shop was open on his way to work he could see the merchandise. How many minutes on the invisible clock would he get back if he could move just a little bit faster? The shop window served as a screen that played ads for a variety of instant food booths when the store was closed, so he couldn’t see the beautiful machines hidden within.

  He pressed his face against the screen and cupped his hands over his eyes. The screen was so thin he could almost see through the rotating ad glass. The vague outline of those pedal powered beauties made his heart beat fast and he remembered learning to ride when he was little and he remembered his mom and dad laughing before the accident. He couldn’t remember the last time he thought about them.

  “You can’t stand there,” a modulated voice growled. Owen jumped at the voice, instantly recognizing the owner as a peacekeeper. “You can’t stand there. Move! Do it now, citizen.” The PK pointed to where Owen could stand. A four-legged-drone with a clamp mouth scanned Owen with a large eye as red and blue lights lit up on its back. “Hands where I can see them.”

  “Sorry,” Owen said. He didn’t have many encounters with PKs or their hounds. He kept his head down and minded his business like a good citizen. Only criminals worried about PK attention and he wasn’t a criminal so he didn’t need to worry.

  “Crossing government approved ad space carries a two hundred credit fine.” The PK pulled a compact scratchpad off her belt and tapped the glowing screen. Her badge read BAKSHI AUTHENTIC CURRY. “Blocking government approved ad space carries a three hundred credit fine.”

  “I didn’t mean to.” Owen shook his head. He could barely see the faded yellow paint that separated citizen approved walkways from ad space. “This is a misunderstanding. I didn’t see the line. I’m sorry.” Owen nervously smiled as he waited for the PK’s reply.

  “Arguing with an appointed peacekeeper carries a four hundred credit fine. Provide identification, citizen.” An ad for half off DADDY MULLIGAN’S FRIED CHICKEN TENDERS flashed across the peacekeeper’s closed visor.

  “Owen Lamb,” he said. He pulled his scratchpad from its plastic belt holster and the peacekeeper scanned it for his personal information. His entire life was in that scratchpad. His address, city identification number, travel data, and every search he made on the city’s network.

  “Owen Lamb," the PK cocked her head and was silent for a second. "Where are you going?”

  “Home. Tower four four seven.”

  “I know where it is. Do you have any weapons?” The peacekeeper cocked her head and put a hand on her electric compliance device. An ad for the City Seven Fighting League flashed across his visor, current champion Jake Callahan’s smiling face taunted Owen. “Face the wall, citizen.” She stowed the scratchpad and forced Owen to turn without crossing ad space. “Hands behind your head and interlock your fingers. Spread your legs.” She kicked Owen’s legs apart as Owen complied. The hound opened its serrated clamp jaw and prepared to bite if Owen resisted. His groceries sat unattended in their bags while the PK patted him down and Owen worried someone might snatch them.

  “This check is for my safety,” the PK said. “Do not move. Do not look at me.” The PK’s hands moved over Owen’s body. She squeezed his pockets and checked inside his legs for illicit materials. Owen hadn’t been searched before. He held his breath as the peacekeeper went over his body a second time, exploring places no other human touched in search of another charge. “Put your hand on the scanner, citizen.”

  Owen obeyed. Beep. The digital handprint represented his acceptance of his guilt and the corresponding fines. The printer on the peacekeeper’s belt beside her ECD clicked and stuttered as the fine printed.

  “You have one week to pay your fines in full. Failure to pay your fines within the allotted time period carries a five hundred credit fine and a mandatory sixty day stay in a labor penitentiary.” She handed Owen the fine. “Stay lawful, citizen.” The PK walked away with purpose, hound at her heels.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Owen swallowed as he stared at the fine. It was two weeks of rent with a little left over for food. He didn’t have the credits, not even close. They’d haul him off to a labor penitentiary to work off his debt. He’d lose his job and his tube all because he wanted to look at some bicycles.

  He saw the cycle of criminality playing before him. Break the law, earn a fine. Can’t pay the fine, go to penitentiary. Fail to find housing after release, get a fine for vagrancy. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

  “You okay?” a woman standing in the shadows of a nearby alley asked. Owen could barely see her face in the dark. She took a drag from her cigarette, the cherry glowing in her eyes as she stared at him like a hungry animal. “Saw the whole thing. I thought that hound was going to take a bite out of you. I’ve seen it before. No growl, no bark. They just grab hold of you and start crushing. Fines are a bitch.” She stepped out of the shadows smiling. Tattoos lined her weathered face and her scalp was clean shaved. “Judging by that look on your face you really can’t afford one, and my friend you have three.” She blew smoke and looked Owen in the eyes. “You need to make some extra credits? Who the fuck am I kidding? You need to make some extra credits.” She waited for Owen to speak. “Not a very talkative lowlife are you?”

  Owen swallowed. Citizens weren’t so friendly after midnight. He wasn’t worried about being robbed because he didn’t have anything worth taking but thrill killers and snuff manufacturers existed in the ad free shadows of alleyways. She didn’t look like a junkie about to ask him for some spare credits. What were spare credits?

  “I don’t have anything,” Owen said. He tried to walk away, but she cut him off and grabbed his arm. He considered running.

  “Where you going?” She tossed her cigarette and reached into her pocket. Owen swallowed. “I like to help people. I really like to help people.” She pulled out a business card with curled edges and slapped it in Owen’s palm. “Let me help you out.”

  “I don’t have time for a scam.” Owen took a step away but she held his hand.

  “Not a scam,” she said. She tapped the card. “This is the real deal.” She pulled Owen a little closer to the alley. His instincts screamed for him to run for the safety of ad light. “Got all my info on that card,” she whispered. “I work with some real good surgeons that pay better money for the extras parts you were born with. You get what I’m saying?”

  “Yeah,” Owen said. He stuck the card in his pocket. “I’ll think about it.” She let him go and waved as he scurried away. Selling an organ wasn’t on the top of Owen’s list to make credits. The News Network talked about the harvesting epidemic plaguing the low city and that’s how the harvesters got their donors. Desperate assholes like Owen were easy targets.

  The unwritten rules of the low city were simple. Stay away from peacekeepers and gangs. Keep your head down, mind your business. Stay safe, stay alive. Never carry more than you’re prepared to lose and don’t trust anyone. Those rules kept Owen alive and the second he stepped out of line he fucked himself.

  Owen returned home, his fine stuffed in his sweater pocket with the harvester business card and his thoughts on impending imprisonment. A week wasn’t enough to pay the fine. Two weeks maybe, then he’d be Mega Mart lean until he got paid again. He rubbed his face in frustration. How could he be so stupid? He should’ve seen the ad lines! He broke the law and he had to pay for it but paying for it was going to fuck him dry. Owen had the urge to punch a wall but violent activity was strictly forbidden under punishment of another fine.

  Owen’s tower was one hundred stories tall and packed wall to wall with shops and residential space. He pushed into one of four tower elevators and hit the button for floor sixty two. Beep. They were packed inside the elevator like CANNED MEAT, flickering ad light from faulty screens briefly illuminating exhausted citizens.

  Owen barely noticed the stink of after work sweat permeating the elevator shaft anymore. The tower’s musk was a mix of instant food booths and recycled air from the lower levels. Citizens stared at their scratchpads, fingers dancing over cracked screens to click a new video from their favorite entertainers on their short elevator ride. Beep. A child threw a tantrum in the corner while his mother played a game. Beep. The elevator stopped at every floor as citizens piled on and off. Beep. Owen glanced up from his scratchpad as the number above the elevator door increased and it finally reached floor sixty two. Beep. The doors slid open and Owen pushed his way out.

  He was so lost in his own self pity he barely noticed a family of four being evicted from their residential cube by a trio of security agents. Their belongings were scattered on the concrete floor and he dodged toys and clothes while he wallowed in his own misfortune. He ignored a man being stunned by peacekeepers for obstruction. He didn’t even flinch at a tube being removed by a lift, the occupant dead inside. None of it was his business.

  Owen got his tube after leaving the City Care Facility on his eighteenth birthday. All eighteen square feet of that tube belonged to him for five years. He unlocked his tube hatch with a tap of his scratchpad. He crawled on his hands and knees to get inside his single occupant tube and dragged his groceries in behind him. The refurbished micro kitchen fridge near his feet took up precious living space but kept his food fresh.

  He had enough room to lay and sit on an inch thick mattress but not much else. A small screen was built into a movable arm that could be positioned above and beside him and was included with the rent. A pair of mini fans kept fresh air cycling and the temperature control panel worked after giving it a light tap.

  Owen turned on the tube screen. A fire patrol blasted a smoking bank with high pressure hoses while the City Seven News Network’s most popular reporter, Aimee Reynolds, interviewed Chief Peacekeeper Victor Knowles. Owen knew they were inside the neighborhood of Callahan Heights due to the lack of traffic and cleanliness of the streets. He could only imagine what it was like walking those streets of gold.

  “What can you tell citizens about the bombing?” she asked the chief with her trademark smile. Owen couldn’t imagine a more perfect woman. Ruby red lips, dark brown eyes and adorable dimples. She tucked loose strands of hair behind her ear to show off a sapphire earring. “Are the citizens of Callahan Heights safe?”

  “Of course they are,” Owen said to the screen. Callahan Heights was the safest district in the city. There were no residential tubes, no ads, and it was rumored that peacekeepers patrolled without their body armor. Owen had only seen Callahan Heights on the screen. He doubted anyone in the high city knew what an overdosing junkie looked like.

  “Of course Callahan Heights is safe,” Chief Knowles said. His thick mustache twitched and he blinked hard. His helmet was tucked under his armpit, the ad screen on his visor off for the time being. He coughed. “Emergency Services responded to an explosion, but I can assure the citizens of Callahan Heights there was no bombing. We’ve already determined that a faulty gas valve caused the explosion. I’m sure we’d all appreciate the truth in this matter, Ms. Reynolds. We don’t need to sensationalize something that has a simple explanation.”

  “This isn’t the first suspicious explosion this year. Four banks, one architectural firm, and a warehouse in the industrial sector.” Aimee’s smile never left her face as she faced the dour Chief Peacekeeper. “The citizens of City Seven deserve to know if there is a terrorist on the loose.” She held her microphone to the chief’s mouth and he yanked it from her hand.

  “Let me be clear, Ms. Reynolds,” Chief Knowles said sternly as he snatched the microphone and looked into the camera. “There are no terrorists. These alleged bombings are no more than accidents caused through neglect of facilities. My peacekeepers will enforce all applicable penalties and make the required arrests.” He tossed the microphone to Aimee and donned his helmet. “This interview is over, Miss Reynolds. I have a job to do.” An ad for a new Conolin jacket flashed across his visor before Chief Knowles stormed away.

  “That was Chief Peacekeeper Victor Knowles with the City Seven Protection Agency,” Aimee said. “Back to you in the studio, Dave.”

  Owen changed the channel to Star Quest before Dave Marsh’s slimy face graced his screen. He hated the anchor’s sharp features and the way his shoulders filled out his tailored jacket. And he hated most of all how Dave was engaged to Aimee Reynolds. He had credits, looks, and the most beautiful woman on the News Network. Owen couldn’t even afford a haircut. Dave Marsh had everything Owen wanted and more. He bet Dave slept in a real bed in a real house with Aimee next to him every night. He lived in a nice neighborhood and didn’t eat shitty food from a Mega Mart and he didn’t have to worry about paying his fines because he had a good job.

  Owen let himself forget about the fines for a few minutes as he watched Amber Callahan prance around the screen fighting aliens. He owed nine hundred credits to the city for violating the law. Seven days. He had seven days to earn the credits and couldn’t do it sitting in his pod watching Amber strut around in a skin tight space suit. Owen turned off the tube screen and slipped outside. He could skip sleep and the night market was still open for business. Maybe his boss, Luther, could help him.