Rise of the Red Hand
Adcard
Dedication
Epigraph
Ashiva
Ashiva
Ashiva
Riz-Ali
Taru
Riz-Ali
Ashiva
Ashiva
Ashiva
Riz-Ali
Ashiva
Taru
Riz-Ali
Ashiva
Riz-Ali
Ashiva
Riz-Ali
Ashiva
Taru
Ashiva
Riz-Ali
Ashiva
Riz-Ali
Ashiva
Taru
Riz-Ali
Ashiva
Riz-Ali
Ashiva
Riz-Ali
Ashiva
Kid-Synch
Ashiva
Taru
Ashiva
Kid Synch
Ashiva
Kid Synch
Ashiva
Taru
Kid Synch
Ashiva
Taru
Kid Synch
Ashiva
Taru
Kid Synch
Ashiva
Ashiva
Ashiva
Glossary
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
Pages
1
2
3
5
7
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
Guide
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
Books by Olivia Chadha
The Mechanists
Rise of the Red Hand
For David Miller—Of all the planets in all the galaxies, I’m so glad to have found you on this rock.
You will hear thunder and remember me,
And think: she wanted storms. The rim
Of the sky will be the color of hard crimson,
And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.
—Anna Akhmatova
1 //
Ashiva
South Asian Province
Central District
155 N.E.
2300 HR
I know three things: (1) I am a prisoner of Solace Corporation; (2) I’ll be sent to containment without trial; (3) According to my Info-Run, the rate of survival in containment is 0.0001%.
0.0001%
The green number flashes in the corner of my vision. My wrists are bound with metal cuffs. Ignoring the ache, I lift my hands in forced prayer to my forehead, and hit the I-Scan to turn off my monitor. Some data even I don’t want to know.
The Maglev transport rickshaw barrels up, up and up through Central City. I’ve dreamt of coming here to the high Stratas of the neocity, Central, my entire life, but not like this. A girl from the Narrows in the Unsanctioned Territory has no business in Central, unless she set off an explosive device in the city and, say, that girl already has infractions for smuggling . . .
My new pals, the other criminals picked up by the gray-collar guardians, look about as happy as me. Grays are terrorist hunters; they can do what they please with us. The white-collar guardians are ticket-writers that police the SA, but the grays mean blood. The tall boy must be from the Northern cities because of how perfectly he wraps his turban. The tearstained Uplander woman to my right is pregnant; the pitch of her sari curves around her belly like a sand dune. She
2 //
Ashiva
Five Days Earlier
Look casual. Like you really belong here. Waiting. Alone. At night. No big deal.
The center of Strata One of Central is always dark as smoke. The light has trouble getting in through the towering buildings that sit inside the Ring. But I’m only awake at night anyway, when the heat breaks and it isn’t dangerous to be outside without protective gear. The air smells sweeter in the Stratas, under the protection of the Ring’s clime-controls and filtration system, than the air back home in the Narrows, in the Unsanctioned Territory, but still: Permanent midnight is all I know.
This place is wet and wired. Two things, saltwater and electricity, usually make a mighty conductor, but for the most part the old wires don’t work. Otherwise we’d all be fried.
I stand outside the mediport. Its aluminum wall is cold, damp and slick, but I lean on it anyway. A hospital for the poor, the mediport is a pathetic excuse for medical assistance: always filthy, lacking resources, doctors. It’s a place to die, or hide, or both.
As the thick clouds and smog part high above me, I see the Alliance Space Colony floating in the moon’s orbit around the Earth. Only on a full moon can you truly appreciate its size, the extraordinary ring that spins around the banded cylinder. They say it’s built for two million people to explore the universe for Goldilocks planets and mine the rare earths that our governments fight about on Earth. There are many living up there already, building, fixing. Who will be chosen to live up there and how is anyone’s guess.
They think we are stupid. It’s for the rich. We know it. Though the Space Colony was designed before WWIII, the construction went into hyper drive shortly after the New Treaty was established. We don’t believe in coincidences.
I try to stretch my new right arm, but it only shrugs. Ugh, my lazy plexus isn’t connecting with my replacement arm again. It will be the end of me. Masiji says I need a new one. You can’t have a replacement if it doesn’t properly connect to your brain through the plexus implant. Yeah, let me get right on buying that very expensive biomimetic part.
My shoulder and thoracic back ache every day. The thanks I give to The Mechanic for making my broken body whole is so loud sometimes that my pain becomes only a ghost, only a whisper in my mind. The nerve roots where the replacement begins in my shoulder joint are redirected into the replacement, but their phantom memories remain. The agony takes its turn on days when it’s quiet, when I’m still. Silence and stagnancy are just for decay; they invite death. It’s only when I’m still that I look at the arm she gave me, the metal bones and joints, the cables and ports, wires and circuits . . . and feel its weight pull on my body, unequal to the rest of me. It’s heavy. It’s me, but not me. But when I’m running, there’s no time to think or feel. In motion, doubt becomes a whisper again. Then, I am unbroken, with purpose.
I hate waiting. And people who make me wait I hate even more.
Across the alley is a small bhelwalla stand, Mr. Belochi’s. The last human stand, all others have been sold and converted to bot machines. I can smell the warm spices and my dry mouth salivates. Well, might as well eat if my meet’s going to be late, again. Gotta keep moving.
I press my hands together and nod at the old man. “How’s business, Uncle? You still have a snack for your favorite customer?”
He is short, as though time and work has forced gravity to pull harder against his body. “Achcha, Ashiva. If it weren’t for the AllianceCon spectators pouring into town.”
I take in the area for UAVs and instead see the new holo-screen projecting above his stand on the building wall behind him: the PAC’s emblem of fists hammering down and crushing the broken body of a massive war mecha. This is how they see themselves. The heroes who ended WWIII. The ones who united the world and stopped a complete nuclear holocaust. When the American Province unleashed their war mecha in the Middle East to claim their rare earth’s mine, the world shook. Then Asia launched its war mecha to counter the American mecha. Soon American nuclear missiles fell in Central Asia and the Middle East. Asian mecha retaliated with their bombs on the American Province. Damage was extensive. While the planet survived for the most part, it was changed. Millions burned to ash. Their ghosts rightfully haunt us. The Provinces almost ended it all.
“But isn’t AllianceCon good for business?”
His glare is sharp, like the tip of a sword. “They’ve lost the taste for our kind of food. The kind made by hand.” He shakes his head.
I take in the posters on the surrounding walls celebrating the 25th Alliance Day—the birth of the PAC, end of WWIII, and what the PAC calls the reunification of the world after nuclear catastrophe. The New Treaty that ended WWIII makes sure the Provinces of the world play nice: no genocide, no weapon
s of mass destruction. PAC holds the marks. The posters are covered in graffiti calling for reparations for those lost in the Great Migration. Someone crossed out “celebration” and spray painted “murderers.” We all celebrate the end of the war because we are still alive. But we also remember why we were fighting over resources, and how the sky turned orange from pollution then, and the seas swallowed thousands of miles of coastal cities. End of a war, beginning of the New Era.
But being alive is not always living.
“Never mind, beti, I have something special for you today.” He claps his calloused hands and searches behind the stand, humming a strange song as he moves. When he rises again, he’s giddy. “Here, I traded for this on the undermarket. Thought you’d enjoy it.”
The fist-sized yellow fruit tumbles into my human hand. I breathe in its sugary sweet smell. “No, it can’t be. A mango?” I turn it round and round, marveling at its ugly, wrinkled skin. It’s soft and rough and a bit squishy and smells like burnt candy.
“You said you’d never tasted it. I want you to try my favorite fruit. Came from the Eastern District.” Mr. Belochi hums as he turns the hot potatoes around on his small flat top, and sprinkles spices and chopped onions into the mix.
“It’s unsightly. I adore it. Thank you.”
He laughs. “Yes, and it tastes like it’s from the gods.”
“I’ll share it with my family.”
When he is done cooking, he pours the snack into a metal cone and hands it to me. And I lift my veil and swallow it in a few slow bites.
I slide him a few marks. More than I can spare, but I need to believe that a human can compete against the bots all over Central.
“Thank you, Uncle.”
He smiles and continues to hum.
I can smell them before I see them: A giggling group of uppy girls with rose-scented hair and perfumes, and long flowing saris they let drag on the wet, dirty streets because they have more. One guard in front and one guard in the back, both Northerners with turbans, who look like they have very rough senses of humor. Probably on their way to a virtu-club. Girls like them come down to Strata One to party, take designer drugs, eat exotic food, and rebel against their strict upbringing without damaging their honor in their homes in the upper Stratas of Central.
Their shiny neural-synchs glitter with chrome and jewels, proof they passed the Solace test, live in Central, and now are permanently optimized through the Solace Corporation, a connection I don’t envy. The tall girl has a gold butterfly at her temple, the other’s is a crescent moon. Each piece goes for a quarter-million marks. Enough to feed the entire Narrows for a year. I know they don’t remember the floods, the Great Migration, the Crimson Riots. They don’t remember that twenty-five years ago their people locked the gates to Central and let climate migrants drown and die in the heat at the end of WWIII. They don’t remember, but I do. I wasn’t there, but it’s in my DNA. My people never forget the choices the SA made when they responded to the guidelines of the New Treaty.
I lean against the wall with an AllianceCon poster. The one with President Ravindra standing tall and smiling in her blood-red suit. Always red. Always smiling. I hate that woman. I press a di-cut metal sticker onto her face with a red stenciled hand and the words “Red Hand Asleep Not Dead.” General Shankar’s profile is in the background of the sticker with a wild grimace as he wields a cannon over his shoulder during the Last Vidroh against Central. That could cost me one transgression, a ticket, and a slap on the wrist.
Rise of the Red Hand Page 1
