Free Gifted by H. A. Swain Page A

that true?” Beauregarde asks.
    â€œNot exactly,” I explain. “My mother was already gone when my father died.” I bow my head, hoping to play to their sympathy or disgust. “So my grandmother was working double shifts to pay for his funeral and SQEWL for me until I could work at the factory when I turned fifteen. I sang after his funeral because I was sad. Then, separately, people helped my grandmother financially. Is that illegal?”
    Beauregard puts hands on her hips and stares at me like she isn’t sure whether I’m a little bit dense or smarter than I look.
    â€œOh, for crap’s sake,” says Medgers. I shoot her a dirty look. “Her mother ran out after she got caught doing the same damn thing.”
    â€œNot true,” I say. “She was a DJ not a singer. She got nabbed for sampling and distributing over HandHelds.”
    Smythe and Beauregard look at each other, clearly horrified by the dregs of society on the other side of the river. “This is ridiculous,” Smythe says and turns on Medgers. “It sounds to me like you have a personal vendetta against this girl’s family for something that happened years ago. And frankly, this isn’t worth our time. We’ve got bigger fish to fry with Project Calliope.”
    â€œWhat if she’s part of Project Calliope?” Medgers snaps and points at me.
    â€œThere’s no way a warehouse worker could hijack a LiveStream with an illegal concert,” Smythe says. She shakes her head at the mere thought of a Plebe like me doing such a thing.
    â€œShe could if she had help!” Medgers insists. “Check the feed from her HandHeld. That’s how her mother and that lesbo hacker Tati from Old Town distributed their illegal music.”
    I unstrap my HandHeld and shove it at the detectives. “Go right ahead. Check it.” I turn to Medgers. “I’m flattered you think me so capable.”
    Beauregarde waves my HandHeld away. “We’re done here.”
    Relieved, I flash my best fake smile at Medgers, but in the back of my mind I’m hoping no one has thought to search my POD because the digital recorders are still there, tucked away in one of my mother’s neatly hidden cubbies.
    As I follow the detectives to the door, Medgers grabs my arm and pulls me close to hiss in my ear, “I’m not as dumb as you think I am. I hear things. I put the pieces together. I know who you are.”
    â€œMe?” I yank my arm away. “I’m just a Nobody from Nowhere doing my job.” Then I stomp out of the room, twice as determined to do it again.

 
    ORPHEUS
    Every Wednesday afternoon, my mother and I meet at the MediPlex to visit Alouette. The halls are quiet, only a few RoboNurses making rounds but no other human visitors. As usual, I’m on time but my mom is late, so I go inside Al’s private room to wait.
    The minute I walk in and see my sister lying in her bed, EarBug firmly in place, eyes trained on the ceiling, I relax. For some reason, I find the wheesh, whirl, and click of machines recording Alouette’s vitals strangely hypnotic. Blood pressure, check. Respiratory rate, check. Cognitive brain function, nope. Still, as always, I’m glad to see her. I touch her hand then sing, “ Alouette, gentille Alouette ,” but she doesn’t join in.
    Al’s eyes stay forward, never acknowledging, only occasionally blinking. She is a shriveled version of herself, young but terribly old, although I can still see her as a smaller version of my mother with my father’s intense eyes. Lest anyone forget the promise of her beauty there are framed photos all around the room of Alouette in her prime. Birthday parties. SCEWL trips. Goofing with her friends. Both of us sitting on a horse during a rare family vacation out west. It’s as if my mom holds out hope that one day Al will wake up and need a refresher course on who she was ten years