Jenica Jessen

          For a full day of work, I don’t have much to show. After a thirteen-hour shift, all I want to do is get home and get some sleep.

          It’s a grayish afternoon, starting to get chilly, with the sun hidden behind a flat sheet of clouds and the looming profiles of ancient skyscrapers. Skrimp Market sits in one of the rougher parts of town, in the intersection of several older streets. Hemmed in on all sides by crumbling buildings, the market is full to bursting with people.

          I wrap my coat tightly around me as I walk. There’s row after row of stalls along the walkway, selling items like thin pots and secondhand shirts. People are coming and going, occasionally bartering with each other, mostly keeping to themselves. Everyone is wrapped up in brown or gray or faded cold-weather clothes.

          I adjust my red scarf. It’s bright—much brighter than I’d like. I feel like I’m calling attention to myself. But it was cheap when I bought it, and I’d rather be just a little bit warmer than take it off.

          Normally at the market there’s a lot more action, a lot more noise. But today there’s a lot of police out. Not sure why; maybe they thought Skrimp needed a spot check. It’s got people quiet, subdued; they aren’t hanging around, they aren’t chatting with each other. I see some sellers darting nervous glances as officers come their way.

          I keep my head down and just walk. I have to pick up dinner before I get home. With the eight marks I made today, I’ll probably have enough for a few potatoes and a pound of beans. It’ll keep me and Rick and Emma fed for another night or two.

          I’m the breadwinner—or would be, if bread wasn’t so expensive these days. Rick hasn’t been able to work ever since the factory accident. I wasn’t wild about the idea of my friend moving in with us, but he lost his job along with his hand and had nowhere else to go.

          I won’t let Emma get a job. Twelve is just old enough that employers won’t ask questions and just young enough that they’ll cheat her out of her wages. I’m not technically supposed to be raising her. If the government found out that she had no actual parents, she’d disappear to one of those state facilities in a heartbeat.

          Dad left shortly before Emma was born—the bastard—and we lost Mom last year. She was on her way home from work and stumbled across a protest. It was bad luck and worse timing; she got shot in the crackdown. Wasn’t even part of it.

          I’m snapped out of my thoughts by a loud whistle that starts low and rises until it’s piercing. A Seeking.

On one of the nearby buildings, a newsscreen flicks to life and displays a face, along with a string of information—name, description, last known location. What they’re wanted for. Reward.

          It’s an effective way of finding criminals. Once they determine responsibility for a crime, they can broadcast the name and face to everyone in the area within minutes. First citizen to find and turn in the culprit earns the reward. At any given time there’s at least one or two Seekings going on somewhere in the city; I’ve never been lucky enough to catch anyone, though.

          Sometimes I’m not entirely sure I’d want to. I’m not stupid enough to think that everyone who’s ever been Sought was guilty. But if I can get a common thief off the streets and earn enough cash to feed us for another few weeks, wouldn’t it be worth it?

          I glance over at the newsscreen to see who this person is. I don’t think I’m magically going to run into them or anything, but it’s worth checking. I also want to make sure that I don’t look anything like them—you can’t be too careful.

It’s a woman, so I’m safe. I relax a bit and keep going, weaving through the crowds. A few stalls over somebody is selling roasted chicken, and the smell makes my stomach grumble. . I have enough to buy a drumstick, but if I did then the other two wouldn’t get dinner tonight. A cluster of police officers passes and I catch a snatch of their conversation—

“…better be careful. He’ll punish the whole division if somebody falls for a fake today…”

          “But we’re in such a hurry! There isn’t really time to check, to make sure…”

          I keep moving and soon the voices are lost in the murmur of the crowd. A moment or two later, there’s another whistle, this one starting high and falling low. They found her.

          I guess potatoes it is tonight. I reach the stall I’m looking for, where I buy three potatoes, a pound of beans, and a tiny packet of salt. I have a mark and a half left over, which I put back in my pocket, saving it for another day.

          All around me, people bustle back and forth. An officer stands on the corner, watching the crowd. Between two stalls sits a beggar, a few coins in his little cup. I wonder how much he’s really collected—everybody knows that you can’t let the container get too full or people stop giving. From what I’ve head it’s actually possible to make a decent living as a beggar.

          I’m not that desperate yet. There are other jobs. Like Seeking. Some people do nothing but track down fugitives—and even if you only pick up one every few weeks, the rewards are sizeable enough that you can make a living. If you can’t get one every few weeks, though, the down times are hard.

          Some people aren’t willing to wait. We call them Criers—like the boy who cried wolf. They’ll find a passer-by who looks like the person being Sought, grab them, and present them to the nearest officer. Once the reward is handed over they vanish with the cash.

          I’ve never been attacked by a Crier, but Rick got jumped a few weeks ago. The cretin blackened his eye and chipped a tooth dragging him to the nearest officer, who believed it. Rick was taken into custody, interrogated, and almost beaten before they figured out they had the wrong person. They dropped him in the street with a sort-of apology. The Crier got away with about two thousand marks.

          There’s suddenly another whistle, and I look up. Another Seeking? So soon?

          The nearest newsscreen shows the picture. This is a young man, skinny, with sandy blonde hair and warm brown eyes. His face is sharp and looks troubled. I skim the information about him—last seen entering this area about twenty minutes ago, thin scar on his cheek, possibly wearing a scarf. When I read that I slip the red scarf off my own neck and shove it deep into my pocket.

          His name is Alan Curtiss. He’s twenty-six years old. His crime is not listed.

          Everyone knows what that means—he’s a dissenter. Curious now, I skim over the rest of the listing. Height, weight, ID number… When I reach the bottom, though, goosebumps break out across my spine. I blink and read the last line again. That can’t be right.

          The reward for his capture is fifty thousand marks.

          That’s enough to feed us for years. To move into a real home instead of two rickety rooms in a half-abandoned building. To get Rick a new hand and Emma a better school and me a real job. That’s enough money to change our lives—

          And it’s more than they’ve ever, ever offered before.

          I notice how everyone is staring at that number and I realize that Alan Curtiss is going to be caught very quickly.

          A dissenter. With a price on his head higher than I think anyone in Skrimp Market has ever seen. And coming immediately after the other woman… now that I think about it, I can’t be sure her crime was listed either. I think of the conversation of the officers, the worry about mistakes and how they’re pressed for time.

          It all flies together in my head. I realize that this is something bigger than just the typical political target—it’s not just an angry graffiti artist or a bar patron who had an opinion too loudly. This is an organization. This is a movement. This is a revolution.

          Or at least, it was. The fact that the members are being Sought right now tells me that the police are in the process of crushing it. They want to do it quickly, before it gets any bigger, without leaving any opportunity for a remnant to survive.

          Judging from the size of the reward, I’m guessing Alan Curtiss is the ringleader. But by now he’s got nothing left to lead.

          I stand there in the street for a minute, imagining what might have been. I wonder how long it’ll be before the dissenters are completely eliminated. I wonder what the lucky finder will do with fifty thousand marks.

          And then I turn and keep walking, because it’s going to get dark in about half an hour and I need to get home. Standing there thinking isn’t doing anyone any good.

          I push through the crowd, keeping a tight grip on my bag of food, with one hand in my coat. The simplest theft protection—you can’t pick a pocket that already has fingers in it. I end up near the edge of the market, where one side of the street is lined with old buildings and the other with merchants’ stalls.

          Vendors are starting to close up for the day, counting their earnings and packing up goods. The commotion of the marketplace picks up dramatically. There’s a few officers patrolling up the street, and somebody curses as they drop a box, and I have to step out of the way of a guy pushing a cart…

          That’s when I see him.

          He’s moving slowly through the stalls, head hanging, inconspicuous in the crowd. Skinny, blonde, brown coat and gray pants. Youngish. Limping a little bit—looks like he got hurt somehow.

          If somebody grabbed him, I’m not sure how well he’d be able to fight back.

          A thought occurs to me and I look at him more carefully. He could be the same size, but it’s hard to tell with the coat on. Which would work to the advantage of a Crier—the more uncertainty, the better. The con depends on convincing the officer quickly and disappearing before doubt sets in. Right hair color, probably the right age. No scarf. I wiggle my fingers a little bit in my pocket, feeling the cheap fabric of my own.

          Fifty thousand...

          And then he turns, ever so slightly, and I get a look at his face. And I stop walking, standing there staring at him, and the crowd surges around us and the police are coming up the street.

          Before I’m even fully aware of it, the decision is made and I’m moving towards him. I pass a stall selling candles, and I reach out and palm a small white one. The owner, busy packing up, doesn’t notice.

          I set my bag down next to a stall—I’ll need both hands—and keep going. I’m close. Maybe fifteen feet away. Ten. I’m coming up behind him, and he hasn’t seen me yet. His eyes are on the officers, directly ahead. But then maybe he senses my gaze, or hears my footsteps, or even just gets a bad feeling, because as I approach, he starts to glance over his shoulder.

          I grab that shoulder, spin him around, and slam my fist into his nose.

          Probably because of the surprise or his injury or some combination of the two, he doesn’t fight back right away. He stumbles backwards, blood spurting, and pushes at me, but I throw myself at him and then we’re both on the ground. I was right. He’s weak. He’s been hurt.

          The blood runs down his face, obscuring most of the bottom half of it. Good. More uncertainty—same principle as the coat. He tries to buck me off him, but he isn’t fast enough as I whip out the scarf and wrap it around his neck. It’s red, colorful, loud, distinctive. One major detail that matches the description, and a distraction from other details that don’t.

          The people around us scatter, yelling. “Officer!” I bellow. “Over here!” The guy knees me in the stomach and I grunt, but I’m on top of him and in charge. I still have the candle in one hand and I drag the corner of it across his face—the white wax leaves a thin line. At a quick glance, it looks like a scar. Classic Crier tactic.

          Then I jerk upright, yanking him with me into a headlock. He struggles to breathe. Can’t speak to defend himself—again, important. I see the police moving down the street towards us, and I drag my prisoner towards them as the crowd parts.

          The one in the middle is a captain, wearing gold braid. He looks cold and intelligent. I angle for him, dropping the candle as I do so. “Sir,” I say. “I’ve found Alan Curtiss.”

          The officers stop and look at me, and for a long beat, there’s no movement. The guy I’ve grabbed has stopped struggling. The people around us are frozen, wondering if the fifty thousand has been claimed.

          The captain steps forward, scrutinizing my face. I try to look earnest. Maybe too earnest. Maybe a bit of guilt is showing through. Maybe I’m overthinking it. Maybe I look like I’m overthinking it.

          Then he looks at the prisoner, the too-loud scarf. The bloody nose, conveniently caused during the fight. The wax scar. He looks down at the ground and sees the candle lying at my feet, one corner worn away.

          Then the captain looks at me again, hauls back, and punches me in the face.

          I feel pain engulf my cheekbone, and I’m falling backwards and I have to let go of the guy, who drops to the ground with me. The captain pulls back again and kicks me across the ribs, forcing me to double up. The crowd stares as I struggle for breath and the man I grabbed just cowers.

          “Trying to claim a false reward is an imprisonable offense,” says the captain, watching me gasp. “Consider yourself lucky.”

          Then he walks away. After a frozen minute the crowd gets back to their business.

          The officers are in a hurry. They’re worried. They’re busy. And they’re too involved with other problems to be concerned about an ordinary Crier. I am lucky.

          I drag myself upright and stagger back up the street. I have to grab my bag of food before somebody steps on it—or steals it. It’s still sitting there untouched. Another stroke of luck. I pick it up, feeling my ribs throb as I bend over. Then I stumble towards an alleyway between two old buildings, squeezing into the dark and narrow space.

          I’m not alone.

          My victim is here, blood drying on his face, leaning weakly against a wall. He dabs a little at his nose, looking up sharply as I stop at the entrance to the alley. For a long moment we just stand there.

          “I’m sorry about the nose,” I say finally.

          “That was one hell of a risk,” he says, voice thick. He wipes at his face, clearing away some of the blood. Taking off the wax. Revealing the real scar underneath the fake one I gave him.

          “Crying wolf?” I shrug. “I figured they were in a hurry. If I’d thought they’d arrest me I probably wouldn’t have...”

          “No.” He straightens a little, wrapping his coat tightly around his skinny body. Looking right at me, sharp face and brown eyes and troubled expression that I recognized from the start.

          “I mean,” says Alan Curtiss, “it was one hell of a risk helping me.”

          I look at him, thinking of the wanted listing, the reward. “I don’t know what you did,” I tell him, “but it must have been quite an achievement.”

          His lips quirk into a little half smile and he nods. “It was.”

          From the marketplace, we hear the distant sound of an officer barking orders. The smile vanishes. “If they ever find out you helped me… it’s treason. They will torture and shoot you.”

          I lean against the wall. “Then they’d better not find out.”

          “No.” He glances at the other end of the alleyway in the distance before starting to take off the scarf. “Here. This is yours.”

          I shake my head. “Keep it.”

          “Sure?”

          “You have to.” I fold my arms. “All they’re going to remember is that scarf. They’re going to spread the word about the inept Crier and the false alarm; right now the guy in the red scarf is the safest person in town. I got you out of the marketplace—now get out of the city before they figure it out.”

          He nods, once, and winds the scarf back around his neck. He’s still weak, still limping, still a wanted man—but I’ve bought him some time.

          It’s ticking away. He needs to go.

          Curtiss turns, but before he starts walking he pauses and looks me in the eye. “Thank you.”

          I nod, hoisting my bag of potatoes. “I do want something in return.”

          He hesitates for just a minute and I hold his gaze. My ribs are throbbing, and I think of Rick, Emma, Mom.

“Make them pay.”

          The smile comes back again. “You got it,” says Curtiss, and then he turns and limps down the alleyway.

          I turn away too, starting for home. Not bad for a day’s work.

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