Resist Page 22

  Director Reichs made a satisfied noise in the back of his throat. “Yes, exactly. A portrait is a portrait. Your work here isn’t that different from what da Vinci created.”

  Penny laughed aloud, once, bitterly. “I’m no da Vinci, sir.”

  “No, no,” Director Reichs agreed. “But your intent, obviously. He painted a portrait of a noblewoman. You are painting a portrait of our leader. There is no deeper meaning to this art. A portrait is just a portrait, no more, no less. And you—what do you want out of this experience?”

  Penny thought for a moment. “I want to get paid,” she said finally. There were other reasons, of course, but it was well past lunch time, and Penny was sick of insta-rations for meals.

  This was clearly the correct answer. “And so did da Vinci,” Director Reichs said. “You’re more like him than you think.”

  PENNY ACHED BY the end of the day. Her legs were no longer used to standing for so long; even her fingers hurt from holding the brush. She stretched, her spine popping, and dimly became aware of Ms. Slunki standing in one corner, waiting for her.

  “Congratulations!” Ms. Slunki said. “You are one of the three.”

  “Three?” Penny asked.

  “Three portraitists selected to complete a painting of the Prime Chancellor.”

  Ms. Slunki turned and left the room, indicating for Penny to follow.

  “But I thought he wanted only one?” Penny asked, jogging to keep up.

  “Director Reichs doesn’t like taking chances. He will select the best of the three to be displayed.”

  Penny thought about this. She wanted to ask if she got paid for her work regardless of the selection, but thought it best not to mention it yet.

  “What time should I return tomorrow?” she asked instead. They had been walking quite awhile, and Penny was a bit turned around.

  Ms. Slunki laughed. “Your needs will be provided for you for the duration of your stay,” she said, stopping in front of an automatic door.

  Penny hesitated, peering inside the room. A sparse bedroom was outfitted with a small desk and table. A wardrobe stood against one wall, and Penny glimpsed standard issue clothing inside. A little door led to a bathroom.

  There were no windows, and the only exit was the automatic door Ms. Slunki stood at, operated via a biometric scanner. The walls were painted white; the bed coverings were white; the furniture was white.

  “You’ll be able to focus better on your work—I mean, your art—in an environment like this,” Ms. Slunki said cheerfully.

  Penny stepped inside reluctantly. She suspected this room assignment had less to do with inspiration and more to do with security. Keep her and the other two artists inside, contained, unable to be influenced by rebels, watched 24/7. Penny looked around the room. There—above the door, beside the bed, to the right of the wardrobe—scanner droids, unobtrusively painted white to blend into the decor, recording everything she said and did.

  “I’ll fetch you in the morning!” Ms. Slunki said cheerfully before locking Penny inside.

  Penny paced the tiny room. She wondered if anyone had told her roommate where she was, or if Billie would wait a bit and then simply get a new roommate. Crime was rare thanks to strong law enforcement, but disappearances were less so. She hoped Billie wouldn’t throw out all her possessions. There was a storage unit in the basement of her apartment where they’d put Billie’s girlfriend’s odds and ends after she went missing. After Sybl, the art world was a dangerous place to live. Penny had a box under her bed of mementos from friends she’d not seen in years. Toni’s toothbrush was in there. He hadn’t disappeared entirely—Penny knew he’d gone into hiding, and why—but she couldn’t bring herself to throw out something of his, even if he’d been an idiot to throw himself into protests after they’d broken up.

  Penny eyed the standard issue clothes in the wardrobe. Sybl had done an art exhibit with them at the school, too—stuffing the one-piece uniforms with sheep’s wool and positioning them with their backs to the library, a sort of fence blocking the building. The student news feeds had said it was to protest the library being closed, but Penny always thought the illegal art installation had been a comment on the students who hadn’t cared about the library—and the information inside it—enough to fight for it.

  Her finger idly sketched an “S” shape on the sleeve of standard issue. Now that she thought of it, there was no sign that the installation had been done by Sybl. There had been no signature on the clothes, no proof that it had been the rogue painter.

  Despite knowing the scanner droids were watching, Penny didn’t hesitate as she lifted her shirt over her head and wiggled out of her pants. She selected a plain white shift and slipped into it. Her fingers brushed against the almost invisible square on her left shoulder. She was glad she hadn’t reactivated her nanobot tattoo. Although it would be nice to play with it now, in this room devoid of anything but the color white, Penny had the distinct impression that showing it to the scanner droids would not be wise. She left it hidden in her skin.

  Penny picked her clothes off the floor but didn’t see a hamper. She heaped them on the chair by the door and went to bed.

  The next morning, her own clothes were gone. There would be nothing for her from now on but the standard issue uniforms.

  IT WAS MS. Slunki who let slip that the first of Penny’s competitors had been let go from the art competition.

  “He was part of an underground sect,” the woman said, her voice a scandalized whisper. “Imagine, trying to be subversive under the watchful eyes of Director Reichs!”

  Penny focused on her painting. Shadows were her favorite thing to paint. Vermeer and the Dutch masters may have loved light, but Penny always loved to dip her brush in taupe and gray, blending away the bright spots into darkness.

  “What happened to him?” Penny asked without turning, her face close to the painting, the stringent oil burning her nose.

  Ms. Slunki didn’t answer immediately. “Oh,” she said, her tone more reserved. “He’s gone now.”

  Penny’s brush stilled. She tapped her wrist, idly, scratching an itch. Then she resumed painting.

  WEEKS WENT BY. Penny wasn’t sure what happened to the other painter, but she gradually became aware of the increased pressure for her to complete the Prime Chancellor’s portrait. Director Reichs frequented her studio. Ms. Slunki was gone. When Penny ran out of ochre paint and put down her palette, rooting around for more, Director Reichs stormed out of the studio on her behalf, shouting for servants to bring Penny anything she needed immediately.

  It was never said, but Penny knew the other artist was gone too. It made her sad, in a way, to not even know who her competition had been. Was the other artist male or female? Had the artist been in Penny’s classes? Her mind scrolled through lists of fellow students, people she knew or even just names she’d recognized on plaques at galleries. It could have been anyone. But whoever it was, was no one now.

  “What can I get you?” Director Reichs said.

  Penny breathed through her nose, channeling her anger at being disturbed. She was close now. The painting lacked only finishing touches, but it was those touches that were the most important. Wide swaths of paint formed the rough shapes—a hand, a leg, a face. But if she didn’t add just that one sliver of white to the iris, the eyes looked dead. Without the little dark shadow under the bottom lip, the smile was false. Without that single strand of gold, the hair was lifeless.

  “Anything,” Director Reichs continued. “We have to stay on schedule. You tell me what you need, and I’ll—”

  Penny whirled around. “I need time!” she said, more passion in her voice. “And no more interruptions!”

  Director Reichs’s eyes narrowed. Penny’s shoulders dropped. “Sir,” she added.

  “Artists can be temperamental,” Director Reichs conceded. “I know that.” He stood there awkwardly. “The unveiling is soon.”

  “I know,” Penny said.

  They stared a
t each other. Penny wondered what would happen to Director Reichs if he failed. The only entertainment aside from painting each day that Penny had been granted was her daily viewing of the mandatory program. The new art museum had been heavily publicized, and the date had been set in stone. The Prime Chancellor himself had issued a statement praising Director Reichs’s aggressive reclaiming of art for the people, framing it as an epic battle between true art and corruption by false artists.

  If this portrait, which was to be the centerpiece of the exhibit, the heart of the museum, the shining example of True Art of the Citizenry—if it failed, if Penny failed, then Director Reichs failed.

  “Get back to work,” Director Reichs said, his voice low but firm.

  “Yes, sir,” Penny said.

  SHE QUIT GOING to the little room they’d made for her. She slept on the floor of the studio; short, fitful naps that were merely pauses between painting. She had never put so much care into a painting before.

  Before, she never thought about who her art was for. She just—made it. It was art for art’s sake.

  But now, Penny was deeply aware that her work would be seen. Not just by people who happened to stroll into the gallery, but by everyone. Literally everyone in the Citizenry. The mandatory program held the eyes of every citizen, and it would be focused on her work.

  “It’s coming along quite well.”

  The voice behind her was soft, a staged whisper. Penny ground her teeth. She hated observers. She’d come to accept Director Reichs’s constant presence, and she could ignore the security guards—they watched the door, not her. But this was someone new. The director had been doing that lately, providing brief glimpses of Penny and her art to the elite. She tried to ignore them, even when she recognized the voices as important people on the mandatory program.

  Penny blocked out the others in the room as she stepped back, inspecting her work. She’d been fiddling with it for several days now, moving slower, methodically layering in the final touches.

  It was nearly truly finished now.

  Carefully, Penny lifted the canvas from the easel and laid it flat on her work table.

  “What’s she doing?” the new voice asked. Penny picked up the small bucket of varnish, stirring the clear liquid with a metal stick.

  Before Director Reichs could answer, she said, “Varnish.” In the old days, an oil painting of this size would have taken months to dry, and then the varnish step would have added a few more days before the painting could be hung. But this varnish was different, enhanced with crystalline stabilizers and nanobots that seeped into the oil, preserving and protecting it forever. Once applied, the painting was, so to speak, set in stone. Penny’s arms strained as she churned the viscous liquid. The metal stirring stick was sharp-edged on one side—necessary to slice through the crystalline stabilizers if they were exposed to air for too long—but Penny was practiced enough in the process to avoid cutting her palm.

  Footsteps. The director and his guest were drawing closer.

  “We should inspect it before you add the varnish,” Director Reichs said, his voice firm. Penny’s hand compulsively gripped her stirring stick, the sharp edges pressing into her skin.

  “Nonsense,” the other man said. Penny’s breath stilled. She finally recognized the voice.

  The Prime Chancellor beamed at her. “It’s like a photo, isn’t it? Practically perfect.”

  Penny’s fist clenched so hard around the stirring stick that her skin broke. She did not pry her fingers apart even as she felt warm blood leak over her palm, slide down the metal stirrer, and plop into the varnish.

  Penny couldn’t take her eyes off the man. She had studied his face for the past several weeks. She knew each crease at the corners of his eyes, each strand of hair that was more silver than brown. She knew the colored patterns of his irises.

  The lips weren’t the same, though, and that surprised her. In every image of the man she’d studied, his lips were tense. Here, however, his smile was easy.

  Genuine.

  Somehow, after learning the Prime Chancellor’s face so well that she could recreate it with paint, she’d forgotten that he could smile.

  The tension grew as she stood there, awkwardly staring at the Prime Chancellor. What should she do? Bow? Continue to work? Her eyes darted to the director, who nodded subtly. Slowly, slowly, Penny forced her hand to move, stirring the varnish. A drip of red blood swirled into the clear, viscous liquid, but no one noticed.

  “I must say, Reichs, I was worried,” the Prime Chancellor said. It was eerie to see the real man staring into the eyes of the painted one. “But this is quite good. An accurate presentation of life. The way art should be.”

  Emboldened by the praise, Penny spoke up. “If you like it now, wait until you see the varnish,” she said. She stepped forward. There was actually rather a lot of her blood in the varnish now, the sharp metal stick slick with red. The men didn’t notice though, even as she lifted the stick, wiping her hand on a dirty paint rag to hide her wound. Penny couldn’t blame them. There was magic in varnish.

  Carefully holding the bucket, Penny slowly poured the varnish over the painted Prime Chancellor’s face. As soon as the crystal liquid touched the canvas, the glossy varnish made the painting vividly real. The colors were more brilliant; the features on the painted face came alive. The Prime Chancellor actually gasped in delight.

  Penny hid her smile.

  Once the varnish was evenly distributed, she tapped her wrist unit, activating the nanobots in the liquid to seal the painting.

  It was done.

  PENNY WAS NOT consulted on the frame nor allowed to oversee the painting’s hanging in the museum. Instead, her regular clothes were returned to her, and she was summarily discharged. She couldn’t help but feel like a prisoner who’d been granted her freedom and then told to move along.

  In addition to her clothes, Penny was also given a payment chip. A year’s worth of pay for a little under a month’s work. Not bad.

  Penny had not been given a ticket to the opening of the museum and the unveiling of her portrait. She had suspected that would happen when Director Reichs had not even allowed her to sign her name to the portrait.

  “Art does not belong to the artist,” he had said nobly. “It belongs to the people.”

  Rather than return to Billie and her apartment, Penny went first to the credit office, where she opened a new, secure account and deposited her payment chip. Then she walked to the mag-lift station. She bought three tickets, each going in different directions. Penny stopped in the shop and bought three hats and three scarfs.

  Then she went to the slop house behind the mag-lift station. During her freshman year, her class had done a mural there to “lift the spirits of the poor and destitute.” Most of the paint was gone, chipped away or vandalized. Not with works of art like Sybl’s graffiti, but with pedantic, careless slops of synth paint declaring “Declan was here!” or displaying a scanner code and directions to use it “for a good time.”

  Within moments, Penny had pulled aside three girls, all roughly of her same build. She gave each one a ticket, a hat, a scarf, and instructions.

  Once the girls were gone, Penny ducked out of a back exit, down an alley, and toward a basement office.

  A gruff male voice greeted her when she stepped inside the dimly lit room. “What d’you need?” He looked up from his desk, saw Penny silhouetted in the light as she closed the door, and cursed. He knocked over a microscope in his eagerness to cross the room. Penny squeaked as he picked her up, wrapping his arms around her and lifting her from the floor in a massive hug.

  “Toni,” Penny breathed, allowing herself one moment to rest her head against his warm, hard chest.

  “Pen, what’re you doing here?” Toni’s initial excitement was replaced with concern. “You know what I’ve been doing—”

  “I do.” Penny took a step away from him; she couldn’t think when she was this close to Toni, when she could smell his cologne and re
member the past fights so vividly.

  “I thought you didn’t care about politics.” There was accusation in his voice. This was their old fight, the source of their break up. Toni had wanted to protest. Penny had thought it was pointless.

  “I care about art,” Penny said after a long moment, not quite meeting his eyes.

  But Toni knew her too well. “What did you do?” he asked, a mixture of hope and fear in his voice.

  She explained quickly, as much as she was able. Toni’s face lit up. “So I take it you’re going to need—”

  “Yeah,” Penny said. “You can do that?” It wasn’t a real question. She knew what Toni could do, what he had been doing since he dropped out of university and went underground after they broke up. He had always resented the way she hadn’t followed him then. When she asked now if he would help her, it wasn’t a matter of his skill. It was a matter of his forgiveness.

  “Of course,” Toni said.

  Penny slid into the chair under the big light. The room’s setup was almost like a dental office, but Toni was no dentist. He was a nanobot engineer.

  He got to work immediately. After applying a topical anesthesia to Penny’s face, he injected a saline solution with nanobots just under her skin, at her cheek bones, chin, forehead, and the tip of her nose. Penny tried not to flinch; the needle was small, but it was still weird to see the sharp tip puncturing her face.

  “These are the good ones,” Toni said, putting away the needle and cleaning the injection sites. “No scanner droids will ID you, not even the top models.”

  “Thanks,” Penny said. She rubbed her face; it didn’t feel different, aside from a slight puffiness. It didn’t look different, either—except to the cameras around the city. The nanobots now in her face would scramble the computers, making her appear on their digital screens as someone else, unable to be traced back to her own facial identity.