Scream in Silence

My left arm throbbed, but it was nothing compared to the thudding hammer of my heart. I glanced at the bandage the technician had slapped over the place where the chip had gone in under a layer of scar tissue. The tech had eyed the scar for so long, the story had slipped from my lips before I could stop myself.

"I grew up in Canada," I said with a shrug. "I fell in the garden when I was four and cut my arm on a garden stake."

"You poor thing," the tech said. "Here, they would have fixed it so your arm didn't scar at all. I know they say Canada is nice, but how barbaric to leave a little girl with such a scar when it wasn't necessary."

I nodded absently, listening to the whispers of the past. "If your arm scars when they remove the chip, you must tell them you fell in our garden." Mommy's voice, so dear and so distant, reminded me. The familiar lie, and the comfort in it, so dear to my heart, I could almost remember a fall I'd never taken. It was better that way, of course. The truth meant my death. The lie had to be the truth.

"I heard Canada was a pretty place," the tech continued. "I just don't think I could live that way. No separation and all. I bet you're happy to be coming to the U.S."

I nodded but said nothing. "Don't offer information that isn't requested," echoed in my head. My mother's voice again, soft but stern, reminding me at every turn that silence was my salvation.

The scar that had fascinated the tech would always remind me of the pain it had come from. Mommy had left clear instructions and I had followed them, never knowing how much of her plan depended on my ability to remain silent.

"Go to Dr. Smith the minute the soldiers leave," the instructions had said. Dr. Smith, or the Death Dealer as he was known, was known to handle black-market chips and identities. I knocked softly on the door, my heart thundering against my ribs. Why would Mommy want me to go to the Death Dealer? So many of his created identities were so poorly constructed that most of those with enough money to purchase one died.

Dr. Smith had looked through his files, nodding here and there, while I waited in the chair beside the tall table of sharp medical instruments.

"Your mother was very smart," he said idly. "Erasure is much easier than creation."

He'd sat on a rolling stool and pulled himself close to my left arm. He strapped it to an extension on the chair, ensuring I could not move, and carefully selected the instrument of my torture.

"I can't give you anything to numb the area or the chip's alarm will signal in the barracks," Dr. Smith said. "This will hurt, Gabriella."

"This probably going to hurt, Miss Matthews," the tech said. She held my arm out and tucked her elbow tight against my wrist, leaving the underside of my arm upright and my arm held tightly against her body. "Most people have this done at birth, so there's nothing to impede the placement, but with that scar tissue, I'm going to have to move the inserter around until we're sure you'll get a good, clean read at every scanner. You don't want to have to explain why your chip doesn't scan every time you want to go to the next city."

No, I didn't want to have to explain anything about my chip ever again. I wanted it in, working, and forgotten. Just as my first chip had been. The chip that had held so tenaciously to my flesh that the doctor who removed it hadn't been able to do so without leaving the scar which necessitated the lie about a fall in a garden that existed only in my mother's imagination.

"I'll be okay," I said to tech.

Icy cold metal lay against my flesh, sending chills across my skin. It wasn't until the metal slipped into my flesh that the flame erupted, fire burning through my body, chasing out the chill the way we would chase the stray dogs from under our porch. I clutched my chair with my right hand, determined not to cry out or jerk my arm away from the woman who was only doing exactly as I needed her to do. And then it was gone. No flame, no ice. Just a lump under the center of my scar.