My name is Dexon, and I worked in this Complex for ten years. My Social Index was never high enough for any of the sealed urbs, and I'm guessing you have the same problem or you wouldn't be here. And obviously they never fixed the leak or you wouldn't have found this message. Try unclogging the drain first.

It started like this.

I was crouched in a dusty corridor, hastily eating some stale protein chips I'd stolen and trying to figure out a solution to an increasingly desperate problem that could get me killed, when I noticed the smell of mold, old and sour. I felt a stab of fear--if the safety committee found mold our team would get a toxic health hazard fine, and I was dangerously close to permanent reassignment as it was. Of course the monitors claim they want us to have a healthy work environment, even if they won't give us the equipment we need to actually do work.

So I did everything a good Mindful Citizen should do--signed out a set of safety gear on my task pad and went to fix the problem before they noticed anything. I put down "repair work" as the reason. That was vague enough to cover anything I needed to do and I knew the safety committee monitored equipment usage. I was supposed to be doing cleaning and maintenance anyway so it was approved immediately.

The smell was strongest in a section of the Complex that had been built before the Fourth War, possibly before the Third. They used a strange, compressed chalky substance sandwiched between thin sheets of fiber for interior walls back then. I pulled away furniture and storage cabinets until I saw it--a mottled black stain spotting the surface near the concrete floor. The chalky part of the wall had turned to a slimy, sticky mess, but I eventually got enough pulled free to see something was blocking a drain. It looked like a pile of large leaves, and I was surprised when they came out all together, as if they were attached.

The leaves were rectangular, and had writing on them, most of it still legible. Not interactive like a task pad, just marks on the surface, and I wondered how it had been done. Reading further I figured out this thing was called a magazine. One article was titled, How to make a pencil--what we don't know about technology. If you are unfamiliar with the term, a pencil is a device that makes marks, for writing, but doesn't use electronics. So it can't be traced. Ever. And it can be erased, too.

You can see why I thought this might be useful.

Enough of the article was legible to let me know I needed wood, graphite, and clay. I think it was the mention of wood that really started me thinking. It wouldn't be enough to just have something to write with; it would need to be easily concealable too, and I had an idea. I picked greenspace cleanup for my mandatory volunteer hours that week. The greenspace here is large enough that no matter where the job router defined my section, there would be some kind of shrub in reach. Then I saved a handful of dead branches of the right thickness and brought them back in with me. Not something you could hide, and I didn't try. I put them in an old metal container I'd found elsewhere in the Complex, made a few "leaves" from broken circuitboard and put it in the Mindfulness niche of my personal space. The Social Index evaluator gave me so many biopoints my index actually went up.

Graphite I tracked down in the lubricants cabinet, strangely enough. It's used where volatile hydrocarbons would contaminate a processor, or to gain biopoints for the Complex. Clay was much more difficult. Eventually I went back to where I had found the mold and used the chalky white powder from the old interior wall. Then it was just a matter of drilling a long, thin hole down the center of a piece of branch and carefully packing it with a paste made from the graphite and powder, mixed with a little water. Since my "pencil" still looked like a piece of branch, I could hide it with the other branches in the niche and no monitor would even think to examine it. They had approved of it earlier, after all.

Of course I needed something to write on, too. Something easily hidden, or that could be mistaken for something else. It would be dangerous to leave a message where the monitors might find it. One of the processors on the lower level makes big sheets of plastic film--they use it in the urbs, I have no idea what for--and the trimmer leaves odd bits and pieces behind. Dipped in microchip rinse solution, the film becomes frosted and rough enough for the pencil to work, and with a little effort it looks just like a piece of beancake wrapper. Another thing the monitors wouldn't notice.

Have you noticed yet how freeing this message is? I'm communicating with you, directly, without any evaluator program involved. No monitoring. No one else knows. It's just like the bird...no, I'll explain the bird later. I can say whatever I want here, and just to you. They had a word, long ago, to describe this. I read it in another part of that magazine I found. Private.

This message is a permanent record of my thoughts, but independent of me. I could even be dead by now, but my words still live in your mind as you read them. I didn't go to all this effort for you, of course. I don't know who you are. Certainly I wouldn't risk erasing my entire Social Index and reassignment to a permanent punishment post for a stranger.

I did it for Jessen.

She arrived at the Complex three years ago, just in time. I was almost completely broken at that point. They never fed us enough--hence the stolen protein chips--and I didn't have enough Index points to earn even the lowest comfort privileges. In other Complexes I had been able to find some way to get enough extra points for stimulants or entertainment tokens, even though I wasn't very good at pretending to think like a model Mindful Citizen. Not here. The monitors only cared about meeting production goals, and when we couldn't do it everyone got fined. How that was supposed to fix broken equipment was never clear to me, but that's the monitors for you. I was barely staying ahead of the fines to keep my minimum index score above the punishment detail level. It wasn't that I wanted to die, but I didn't really want to live either.

The remote monitor actually came online and spoke to us personally at assembly to tell us Jessen had volunteered in order to "re-dedicate her commitment to being a Mindful Citizen and to work on improving the community service component of her Index." Jessen stood in front of the assembly, her expression as empty as ours were and her eyes humbly downcast, but I saw her chin lift up just a little at those words, the muscles in her jaw tense. Not enough for the monitor to notice, fortunately, but it was as good as a shout to a fellow rebel like me. Somebody else was fighting, and seeing it gave me strength to keep fighting too.

Then I noticed...little things. A "good day" used to be getting fresh beancake instead of old, rancid stuff, but now it was a day when I saw Jessen. Or heard her voice. Or even saw her name on the duty roster. It meant she was still here at the Complex, still alive. Everything about her was mysterious and wonderful to see, even the faint freckles just under her grey-green eyes, or the way her sandy hair curled under at the end except for one stubborn strand. Her very existence made my burdens easier to bear. And sometimes, when our eyes briefly met, I could almost imagine a trace of emotion there. That maybe, possibly, she was glad to see me too.

Of course as soon as I realized what had happened I panicked. If anyone had noticed, had thought I had committed any of the Unwelcome Behaviors, the fine would be large enough to zero out the social component of my Index. I didn't think I had, but you know that's no excuse. I struggled for over a year, even thought about how I could improve my Index to the point where I could petition for contact--but she might say no. I couldn't be sure. Also, the things I wanted to say, to ask, were too dangerous to be said in the presence of the Safe Contact monitor.

Then I tried to find a way to communicate with her that the evaluator programs wouldn't see. But everything is watched, every means of communication that uses the network. Our task pads sound an alert if they get too close to one another, and an automatic investigation is started. Any job requiring more than one person is monitored, and non-essential conversation fined. We only meet in groups for assembly, and that is monitored too. Our personal spaces are sealed at curfew, and the viewscreens check that you are present for the daily lecture then. I couldn't find a solution.

But then I found the magazine with the pencil article. I was desperate enough to try anything to make contact with Jessen. If I could do it in a way that wouldn't put her in danger...then I would know. She would know. It was worth the risk. Oh, don't shake your head. I hope you find someone someday that will be worth the risk to you.

My desperation was fueled by a fortunate but temporary circumstance. In the usual quarterly randomization of personal spaces, Jessen had been assigned the space next to mine. Knowing she was so close, and yet still out of reach--well, those were some very long nights. I could hear her move about, hear the creak of her bed, even, sometimes, her breathing. And I could not speak. The end of the quarter would move her away again. I was desperate to do something, anything, to end the agony.

I wrote a message. Short but to the point. "Want to communicate? Make a hole in this if you do." It's easy for me now but then I had to struggle to remember what letters looked like on a screen and then make them with this rough twig with a dark tip instead of a keypad. I rolled up the plastic film, tied it to the end of a long string with a metal washer at the end for weight, and when the lights dimmed for sleep cycle, I shoved it between the ceiling tiles and the wall divider with another section of branch until it dangled on her side of the wall.

My heart was pounding so hard I felt dizzy. Had the monitors heard the noise? Had Jessen seen the note? Would she understand what I was trying to do? I felt a small tug on the string I was holding in my sweaty hand, and I could barely breathe. She might denounce me. She might be afraid to reply. I had done all that I could do.

After an eternity I felt a stronger tug on the string, and I slowly pulled it back. The plastic looked a bit odd in the dim light, and when I unrolled it I saw why. Jessen had bitten a hole in the film. Savagely.

I took that as a "yes."

Over the next few days I sent her some pieces of plastic film and a pencil. We ended up just leaving our messages in the space above the ceiling tiles, always when the lights were dimmed. By the time our spaces were moved apart we had figured out other safe places to leave messages. Since we had a way to communicate that the evaluators couldn't detect, we could also figure out places to meet in person, during the work day. No, we didn't find a way to turn off the task pad proximity sensors. We didn't need to. In the better-maintained Complexes you are required to keep them in physical contact if you aren't in your personal space or it sets off another alarm, but here they had to turn that off because we are constantly repairing equipment in tight spaces and task pads are expensive to replace. This place also doesn't have surveillance everywhere, because of all the old, strange buildings they enclosed in the Complex. If it was clear of sensors, we'd leave our pads in our duty areas and the monitors never knew we had moved away from them.

At first we didn't dare spend more than a few minutes together, and we'd only speak in hushed voices, but it was worth it. Worth it to actually touch another human being, even if briefly. I didn't dream about escaping by dying any more. I dreamed about Jessen and the way her warm breath traced across my cheek when she whispered in my ear, the scent of her hair, the comforting sensation of her hand entwined in mine. When the rations were short I would remember things she had said, her fleeting smile, and hunger felt less sharp.

Even the writing itself was a strange pleasure. I had not realized the act of creating letters by hand would be so individual, but Jessen's writing was as distinctive and recognizable as her voice. Although we usually erased old messages, for security and to reuse the film, I kept the little slip where she first wrote "I love you," because it was like keeping her by me even in the days we couldn't see each other. Days of separation built on each other to create an unbearable ache, so we found ways to stay together longer when we did meet. Which created a new set of problems, and the reason you are reading this.

We didn't have any plans then. We were barely staying alive. Free, unmonitored communication was new and overwhelming, and so was physical contact. I suppose we thought we would eventually be discovered and it wouldn't matter in the end. We didn't think about survival, just getting one more moment together. We got better at it, using the system of isolation for our own purposes. I guess we became overconfident, and as I said, we weren't thinking very far ahead.

We were good at hiding, after living all our lives in this world you are still, for now, a part of. But some things can't be hidden. At first it didn't make sense when she told me. I guess I thought pregnancy could only happen from a Sanctioned Contact. I remember how at first I felt completely numb. I was going to die. They would know. Jessen would be taken away from me. Then I realized someone else would be taken away, and I was filled with a cold fear and determination I've never felt before in my life.

Everything that had once been important changed in an instant. All the old excuses I had used before vanished. Jessen and the baby had to live, and I would do whatever was necessary to make that happen. Now I had a reason to fight, something to fight for. I knew what my decision meant. We could not live in the Complex, which left only one option. We had to go into the Waste.

It terrified me, but we had no choice. We couldn't stay--and even if what they said about the Waste was true at least we would die together. We had to leave so our child would even have a chance to live. We would use violence, yes, and even kill to do this. I don't expect you to understand, not yet. I wouldn't either in your situation. Just remember what I have told you, and there will come a time when you will.

We didn't have much time--Jessen figured maybe a month before it became noticeable. Our messages now were all about finding food and supplies to take with us, hiding the fact these things were missing until we were gone, caching everything where we could grab it quickly and without detection. With my maintenance job I had the perfect excuse to go all over the Complex, looking for a way out that wasn't watched--and I found it. They tried to seal the joins between the old buildings when they built this Complex, but they didn't always do a good job--or check the old buildings completely. I found a hatch that led to a hidden part of a roof, and from there, a series of ladders and bricked-off balconies that went all the way to the ground. I'll try to cover our tracks so they won't find it when we're gone. Might be useful to you.

That reminds me...the roof is where I saw the bird. Sure, you've seen pictures, maybe even a brief video, but that isn't anything like seeing them in flight. They keep them out of the greenspace somehow, maybe a mesh net. I'm beginning to think that's another thing they do to keep us from getting ideas.

See, the ability to fly requires the freedom to fall. Shield someone from any possibility of harm and there is no chance of joy. Sometimes the birds swoop and dive for no reason I could see, maybe just for fun. Because they can. The monitors say we must be watched so we can't say or do anything harmful to each other. Maybe so, but what do they allow us to say that has meaning? No one else needs to hear me tell Jessen I love her. The only permission I need is hers. They won't let us fall, but we aren't allowed to fly either.

By this time we will have left the Complex, one way or another. I don't know what they are saying about us; traitors, selfish anti-social bigots, individualist saboteurs? Or have they made no mention of our crimes at all, afraid that even mentioning them would create more rebels?

You're one of us now, whether you want it or not. Unsanctioned thoughts are in your mind. Dangerous information in your memory. You can turn this message in if you want, but it won't save you. Your Social Index is gone once they find out, never to return. Destroy this if you must; there are others hidden where the monitors will not find them. You can try to go back to your life in the Complex, try to live like you did before, if you can call that living. It's your choice. I don't think you will. It only takes one taste to realize how hungry you are for real human contact. For communication. For touch. It's worth it. Worth escaping. I'm not going to write down how I figured it out, just in case they do find this, but all the stories the monitors have told us about the Waste being impossible to live in? Lies. More lies. I've already been outside the Complex, and returned unharmed.

When you decide to leave, write your own message for those who follow. Tell them your story, help them escape. Leave a record that will outlive you. Come and find us, and discover what happened after I sealed this message for you to read.

Don't be afraid. You already know how to hide to survive, and now you have something to live for.

And I left you a pencil.

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