“At breakfast. So’s nearly everybody else who wants to be naked on the newsgrid. Are you hungry?”
“No,” Jackson lied.
“Good. This would be a good time to get you away, before the reporters really arrive. Most of them went home for the night, and the rest are at the feeding ground. Polls are open from nine to noon. I’m going to duck out the back way to meet Vicki at your car, and then we’re both going to check on the Wellsville tribe. Want to come?”
“If you’re meeting at my car, I guess I’m walking with you that far. Did you eat, Lizzie?”
“I can’t. I’m too excited. Oh, Mama, here’s Dirk—I nursed him already.”
Annie emerged from her cubicle, frowned at Jackson, and picked up her grandson. The frown wasn’t serious. Annie was uneasy around donkeys, but she’d softened toward Jackson when she realized he disliked Vicki. Did he dislike Vicki? He hadn’t seen her in the last week, since he’d kissed her. He didn’t want to see her. Or Cazie. Or even Lizzie. He wanted to find his car, fly home, and have a cup of coffee.
He knew he was lying to himself.
“Morning, Annie,” he said. “Are you headed out for breakfast?”
“Not with them cameras, me,” she sniffed. “Billy, he went to fetch us some good soil and bring it inside. We’ll eat, us, in decent privacy, thank you very much.”
Lizzie hid a grin. She grabbed Jackson’s hand and led him to a small door, so far undetected by the robocams, cut by Billy in the back of the building and hidden behind weeds and bushes. The door was so low that Lizzie and Jackson had to crawl through on hands and knees. Foamcast didn’t cut easily.
“Lizzie, where did Billy get a tunable lasersaw to cut this door with?”
Lizzie grinned back over her shoulder. “I found a way to dip one. Just last month. But I’m not going to tell you how.”
They escaped into the rain, which had lessened to a drizzle. Even so, Jackson was wet and cold by the time they reached the aircar, which was disguised under an opaqued Y-shield. Vicki sat on the shield, smearing mud across it with her jacks-covered rump.
“Morning, Lizzie, Jackson!”
“Vicki! How is everything at Max and Farla’s camp?”
“Fine. Everybody up, dressed in their best clothes and finest jewelry, gathered around the terminal and ready for political immortality.” She smiled at Jackson, who smiled thinly back.
“Fifteen minutes till the poll opens,” Lizzie said. “I guess I’m going to vote at Wellsville.”
Vicki said, “Let’s do it here.”
“Here? How?”
“I’m sure Jackson has a comlink in the car capable of official channels. Don’t you, Jackson? We can sit right here in a donkey vehicle and elect the first Liver politician in decades.”
Lizzie laughed. “Let’s do it!”
Vicki said, “Jackson?”
He looked at all three of their mud-stained, rain-soaked clothing, and decided he must be nuts. “Sure, why not?”
“Oh, I’m so excited!” Lizzie burbled.
He unlocked the car and they crowded in. Jackson activated the comlink, asked for the official government channel, and accessed the polling program. At nine o’clock he looked at Lizzie.
She leaned solemnly forward. “Lizzie Francy, Citizen ID CLM-03-9645-957, to vote in the special election for district supervisor of Willoughby County, Pennsylvania.”
“Citizen number verified. Please place your left eye against the icon for retina scan.” She did. “Verified. The registered candidates for district supervisor of Willoughby County are Susannah Wells Livingston, Donald Thomas Serrano, and Shockey Toor. For which candidate do you vote?”
Lizzie said clearly, “For Shockey Toor.”
“One vote for Shockey Toor. Officially recorded.”
“I did it!” Lizzie breathed. “Vicki, you next.”
Vicki voted. Jackson, not registered in Willoughby County, felt his chest tighten. Lizzie would have her win, but it was the only one the Livers would get. She had no idea the forces that the established power structure could bring to bear once they took a threat seriously. He looked out at the dreary rain-soaked woods. A bedraggled chipmunk darted by.
“Quick!” Lizzie said. “Get a running total!”
“Lizzie, it’s only 9:03!”
“Okay, then, get a newsgrid channel.”
Vicki did. Channel 14 was covering the story. Jackson gazed at a robocam shot of the tribe’s familiar feeding ground, now empty. Everyone must have gone inside to vote.
A voice intoned, “Here on special election day in Willoughby County, Pennsylvania, citizens are voting for district supervisor in an unusual election. One of the three candidates is unused to public office—and perhaps unfitted for it as well. This is the election that has sparked a national debate on the question of who is best suited to serve the public, how voters are registered, and what safeguards the politically innocent have a right to expect against the politically opportunistic. For the first time, our camera is being allowed to hover at the open door of this… ‘community’… to watch its members line up to vote.”
The robocam zoomed toward the building door and adjusted for the dim light within. A wide-angle lens showed the tribe’s terminal at one end of the large communal space, on a table covered with a red, white, and blue cloth. At the other end, the tribe lined up to move forward, one at a time, and vote. A hundred sixty-two Livers shuffled forward, carrying babies, holding hands.
“There’s Mama with Dirk!” Lizzie squealed. “And Billy. And Sharon with Callie. Shockey must have already voted, he wanted to go first.” A moment passed. “Why do they all look like that?”
Jackson leaned closer to the screen.
Lizzie said, “Why do they look so… weird?”
The robocam shifted to zoom. Sharon Nugent, Franklin Caterino, Norma Kroll, Scott Morrison—face after face looked strained, unsure. Brows furrowed, eyes dropped, breathing grew rapid as people glanced toward the camera. Sharon huddled closer to her elderly mother, and then Sam Webster moved closer to both.
“What’s going on!” Lizzie cried. “Where’s Shockey?”
The camera found him crouched in an old lawn chair in a dim corner. Shockey’s hands clasped tightly on his lap. When he raised his eyes to the voters, his face clenched. Jackson could swear Shockey trembled.
Someone swung shut the building door from inside.
“In violation of their pre-election agreement, the Livers have just excluded our camera,” the newscaster said with strong displeasure. “We switch you now to another tribal polling site in the county… No, this building appears to be shuttered as well.”
Vicki said, “Turn it off. Switch to the running totals.”
It was 9:17. Jackson found the graphic on the governmental channel, a silent unadorned chart:
POPULAR VOTE
WILLOUGHBY COUNTY DISTRICT SUPERVISOR—
SPECIAL ELECTION
SUSANNAH WELLS LIVINGSTON: 3
DONALD THOMAS SERRANO: 192
SHOCKEY TOOR: 2
As they watched, two more votes registered for Donald Thomas Serrano.
“It’s cheating, them!” Vicki cried. “We saw people vote for Shockey!”
“We saw people vote,” Vicki said. “We can’t really see for whom.”
“It has to be cheating!”
Jackson thought rapidly. The results made no sense. But Vicki was probably right that the system wasn’t cheating; no one would dare. A system rigged against a Liver candidate today could be rigged against a donkey candidate next time. And the newsgrids would hire top datadippers to find the tinkering. No. Something else was happening.
What? Why?
“Fly home,” Lizzie said. “Oh, go quick!”