Brave New Worlds

toward the gates, just a few tantalizing meters away. "I'm out—"
    "You people are really something, you know that? You could have been killed . Let me tell you a few things about how the world works: when you are approached by the Securitat, you stand still with your hands stretched straight out to either side. You do not raise unidentified devices and point them at the officers. Not unless you're trying to commit suicide by cop. Is that what you're trying to do?"
    "No," Lawrence said. "No, of course not. I was just taking a picture for—"
    "And you do not photograph or log our security procedures. There's a war on, you know. " the man's forehead bunched together. "Oh, for shit's sake. We should take you in now, you know it? Tie up a dozen people's day, just to process you through the system. You could end up in a cell for, oh, I don't know, a month. You want that?"
    "Of course not," Lawrence said. "I didn't realize—"
    "You didn't, but you should have . If you're going to come walking around here where the real people are, you have to learn how to behave like a real person in the real world. "
    The other man, who had been impassively holding Lawrence's wrists in a crushing grip, eased up. "Let him go?" he said.
    The first officer shook his head. "If I were you, I would turn right around, walk through those gates, and never come out again. Do I make myself clear?"
    Lawrence wasn't clear at all. Was the cop ordering him to go back? Or just giving him advice? Would he be arrested if he didn't go back in? It had been a long time since Lawrence had dealt with authority and the feeling wasn't a good one. His chest heaved, and sweat ran down the his back, pooling around his ass, then moving in rivulets down the backs of his legs.
    "I understand," he said. Thinking: I understand that asking questions now would not be a good idea .

    The subway was more or less as he remembered it, though the long line of people waiting to get through the turnstiles turned out to be a line to go through a security checkpoint, complete with bag-search and X-ray. But the New Yorkers were the same—no one made eye contact with anyone else, but if they did, everyone shared a kind of bitter shrug, as if to say, Ain't it the fuckin' truth?
    But the smell was the same—oil and damp and bleach and the indefinable, human smell of a place where millions had passed for decades, where millions would pass for decades to come. He found himself standing before a subway map, looking at it, comparing it to the one in his memory to find the changes, the new stations that must have sprung up during his hiatus from reality.
    But there weren't new stations. In fact, it seemed to him that there were a lot fewer stations—hadn't there been one at Bleecker Street, and another at Cathedral Parkway? Yes, there had been—but look now, they were gone, and. . . and there were stickers, white stickers over the places where the stations had been. He reached up and touched the one over Bleecker Street.
    "I still can't get used to it, either," said a voice at his side. "I used to change for the F Train there every day when I was a kid. " It was a woman, about the same age as Gerta, but more beaten down by the years, deeper creases in her face, a stoop in her stance. But her face was kind, her eyes soft.
    "What happened to it?"
    She took a half-step back from him. "Bleecker Street," she said. "You know, Bleecker Street? Like 9/11? Bleecker Street?" Like the name of the station was an incantation.
    It rang a bell. It wasn't like he didn't ever read the news, but it had a way of sliding off of you when you were on campus, as though it was some historical event in a book, not something happening right there, on the other side of the wall.
    "I'm sorry," he said. "I've been away. Bleecker Street, yes, of course. "
    She gave him a squinty stare. "You must have been very far away. "
    He tried out a sheepish grin. "I'm a monk," he said. "From the Order of Reflective Analytics. I've been out of the world for sixteen years. Until today, in fact. My name is Lawrence. " He stuck his hand out and she shook it like it was made of china.
    "A monk," she said. "that's very interesting. Well, you enjoy your little vacation. " She turned on her heel and walked quickly down the platform. He watched her for a moment, then turned back to the map, counting the missing stations.

    When the train ground to a halt in the tunnel between 42nd and 50th street, the entire car let out a collective