Seneca Rebel

MY MOM HAD take-out waiting from my favorite neighborhood taqueria. Carne asada tacos, a cheese quesadilla and the best salsa verde in America. I vacuumed it. Barely chewed. It was too good. She updated me on her regular patients that I’d grown close to and all the people from Café Firenze, but mostly we just enjoyed the heavenly food and each other’s company. She loved watching me. She knew how much it meant to me. Even though I was in the dire Aboves, I felt safe again. There was nothing quite like being with my mom, who loved me unconditionally and did things for me out of the goodness of her heart. I’d really missed that. And then I wondered... “Aren’t you going to ask me about my trip?”

“There will be time for that. I know all of this took a lot out of you, and I just want you to have a breather. Relax on your first night back and don’t think about any of that.”

There was something slightly off. My mom was being so vague— with no mentions of reform school, Seneca, Ellen Malone, or anything about where I supposedly was... at all. “Okay.” I wanted to tell her everything, but I also knew that they could be listening. Let’s not be naive, they were definitely listening. My mom’s flexer wasn’t safe. She was right. There would be time for that, but right now I had some important stuff to do. First things first, I had to find Dom.

“Crazy long day, Mom. I’m beat.”

“Of course you are. Why don’t you get some sleep, and when you wake up, come by Firenze for a mocha?”

Even thinking about that brought the comfort of a long, warm hug. For a split second I could smell that Café Firenze mocha. Then I thought about Ellen Malone. I wondered how much she knew about what had happened to me. If only she had the chance to reunite with her little boy, Connor, just like my mom and I were doing now. It didn’t make sense to keep people who loved each other apart. There had to be a way to make space for that, even in a place like Seneca. Especially in a place like Seneca.

“I love you, Mom.”

“I love you, Doro. You have no idea how happy I am that you’re home.”

“Me, too.” I wanted to tell her my plan to take us to Seneca. That this wouldn’t be our home much longer. But for now, I stayed mum on logistics. All we needed was love.

“Sweet dreams and I’ll see you in the morning... or afternoon.”

Man, was my room a sight for sore eyes. My mom hadn’t touched a thing. Everything was exactly how I had left it. Killer was on my feet like socks. He wasn’t going to let me out of his

sight. My eyes lit up when I saw the seat at my desk. My seat. I’d spent many a late night planted right there. I ran my finger along the smooth plastic arm, and shoved it just enough for it’s wheels to roll a few inches. This had been my dad’s office chair when I was a little girl. I used to go bug him in his office, beg him to push me around in it. Nostalgia always took me away to another place, no matter what was going on.

It was already nine o’clock, midnight on the east coast. I took a seat. I hadn’t lied to my mom— I was beat. But sleep is for the weak, and my night was just getting started. I had to stay strong. S.O.I.L. had confiscated my flexer. Even if they had tracked my Veil and tried to take the whole freaking thing down, they would have had their hands full. I had location scramblers out the wazoo on that thing. Good luck to whomever would have been given that challenge.

I powered up my computer, while simultaneously counting my blessings that the F.B.I. hadn’t confiscated it. The sound of electronics coming to life set off a familiar excitement in me and pumped energy into my veins. Like a fan in the stands at a packed stadium, the rush of what was to come surged through me. The darkness of my room soon shifted to my favorite brilliant blue glow. I was in my element and ready to rock out. One thing was missing. I scooted across the room in my seat and flipped through some vinyl. I was in the mood for something that screamed victory with beats. Heart pounding, deep bass beats. Slipping my headphones over my head, I hit spin and lightly dropped the needle on the Endless Horizon record.

A few minutes short of a couple hours later, I’d done what I’d set out to do. I’d located Dom in a neighborhood in Manhattan, set up a nice little virus on the Seneca mainframe that would trigger on my command, and checked on my Cayman Islands accounts.

I was tickled green. While I was away, I had become a billionaire– a 2.3 billionaire, to be exact. It didn’t fully register. How could it? It wasn’t like I could use this money in Seneca. They were on a completely different system that wasn’t exactly monetary like America per se. They’d described the economic structure of Seneca in my Seneca Civics and Ethics session. The opportunity to live safely in the lap of luxury with everything your heart could desire was not granted free of charge. Scientists, doctors, business people, inventors, you name it, signed over patents, licenses... entire companies to Seneca’s corporate wing, Senecanomics, in order to be granted citizenship. For example, B3′s Julian Hollenbeck had provided libraries of media content dating back well into the last millennium, and signed over all of his licensing revenues from the Aboves. This cash flow made it possible to do everything in Seneca from maintaining agricultural productivity to providing citizens with toiletries.

Even with this unique economic structure in place, something else was the source of power in Seneca. Something bigger. I knew it wasn’t a system of pure equality, no matter how much certain people wanted us to believe that. It was true that we all had access to the best of everything. The best food, the best entertainment, the best health care, you name it... but at what expense? There had to be a trail back to a motivation beyond living the good life.

I wanted to hit the sheets before I hit the streets, but my mind was too far out of frame. No time for R.E.M. For a moment I wondered if the trinity of my mind, body and soul would ever be in sync, or if I was destined to a lifetime of serving one at a time, but never together. If I looked at my dad as an example of what was to come, my path would be the latter.