The Arabian Sea is to the right and Central City to the left, with the light dome the electricity makes covering it like a terrarium. The joyful sound of children laughing carries in the air, but I can’t see a soul. Then it comes, a UAV buzzing, hovering like a massive metal insect. We call them machchar because they make the annoying, high-pitched whizzing sound of a metal mosquito. One child appears suddenly from behind a dumpster. She’s smiling, happy, just a girl waiting for the UAV to inspect her.
“Unfit,” it says and buzzes around her, flashing a blue light.
Then another child appears, then another, and before long the UAV has at least ten faces to take in and survey. They’re all trying not to laugh, but someone lets out a nervous giggle. Then I see. Standing atop the dumpster, a boy holds a slingshot and aims it at the UAV as it is busy with their faces. The projectile tethers around the UAV just below the Solace Corp logo without disrupting it, a rock attached to a thin rope that’s carrying a long sign. As it finishes with their faces, declaring them all “unfit” but “registered & cleared” and moves on, I see the sign reads, “kick me.”
We all die laughing. Defacing a UAV is two transgressions, but not if they don’t get caught. Kids even in dire straits need to be kids or else we lose. If we live only in fear, we lose. If we can’t be human anymore, we lose. Small acts of rebellion are as important as large-scale ones. As soon as the sign’s in place they all scatter like dust. I whistle to the gatekeeper and he signals to the girl on guard duty. We all take shifts, which is easy considering there are so many of us.
“Open the gate,” he yells.
The massive metal wall shifts on wheels to the right and I walk through, waving to the crew as I pass. While I want to sit and watch the sunrise caught in the smoke-thick air, speed’s important.
“Hey, behanji. Thought you finally slipped up,” my little street brother, Zamir, stands from his seat on a metal barrel and walks alongside me. He’s called me sister since the first day he saw me in the orphanage, the day we were selected by Red Hand.
“Still got it, hero. What’d I tell you?” I ask.
“‘They can’t catch the righteous.’” Zami looks tired. He must’ve waited for me for hours. “Sure, even with your replacement arm you’re only human. And still only a runner, not a Red Hand Liberation lieutenant yet, if I remember correctly.”
“That’s more than I can say for them. And hey, any day now.” I laugh and watch Zami’s half remade face glimmer chrome in the fluorescent torch light. He doesn’t laugh with me.
“If the Liberation Hand is still alive, you mean,” he says.
“Oh, they’re alive. General Shankar is still leading.”
“How do you know? We haven’t heard from him in years.” When Zami grimaces, his replacement jaw and cheek glimmer in the light unevenly.
“I know. I just know.” He has to be. If he’s not alive, we have zero chance of reuniting the Red Hand cells in order to make a coordinated assault on the SA and Central one last time. If he’s not alive . . . I can’t even imagine that future. “What’s really bothering you, bhai? No water at the chug-chug today? Your face looks worried.”
“Shiv, Taru went missing.”
I stop. “What happened?”
“We don’t know. They gave level one Red Hand recruits their assignments today. And all we know is that after she got hers, she left the Narrows to go into the Liminal Area. Probably to take a walk. But . . .”
“Dhat, the goonda crew has been searching for a kid with her talents. She’s been talking about them like they’re better than us. I’ve gotta go.”
“Sister, relax. You’ve done everything you can, and she knows how fragile she is. You’ve told her not to fall. She knows to be careful. But you’ve built a fence around her. People don’t like being in cages.”
“So, it’s my fault?” It is my fault. Anything that happens to Taru is my fault. I should have done more to keep her safe. Her fake diagnosis of juvenile osteoporosis doesn’t seem to keep her very still anymore. It used to when she was younger. But she’s getting braver. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t falsified her records. Sure, her bones aren’t great. She had several fractures from a training skirmish when she was little. But I had to do something more. Right when she had her casts off after the accident, she wanted to leave, to go into the Liminal Area. She wouldn’t sit still. It was dangerous being so young, stupid, and so mobile. So, I exaggerated her medical records and talked Masiji into supporting my lie. For Taru’s sake. For her. It was supposed to be temporary, just until she learned the ways of this world. It wasn’t supposed to go on this long. But the lies piled around me like landmines.
No one knows the weight of my lies and the regret that fills me like liquid hot metal.
“No, I didn’t mean that. She’s weak, I know. She can break at any time. But the more you push, the further she will go. Just let her return when she’s ready.”
I swallow hard. “I know she went to find Ravni’s crew.” I put my arm out to stop Zami’s pace. “Stupid kids.” The goonda crew runs the Liminal Area outside the Narrows. They are anarchists, outlaws, daaku. All they care about is agitating all sides. Damn the chaos makers.
“Maybe. She did mention she wanted to make fireworks to sell for AllianceCon as a side hustle. But—” Zami pauses.
“But what?”
“What if the daaku used her to build an explosive for another plan to take down the Ring?”
Zami averts my gaze. “That’ll blow all the good groundwork the Red Hand has been doing.”
“It would hurt my chances of going up for lieutenant in Liberation Hand; any noise will derail the whole thing. More UAVs. They don’t like messes. I’m going to kill Ravni.” Everything goes white. Ravni, the leader of the goonda crew is a killer. She coaxes you in close with charming conversation, like a lovely little spider. Then, suddenly you realize she’s built a web around you and you’re done. Her crew of thieves strip you of everything. My heart thumps in my ears like a laser cannon and I want to throttle her. “I need to go. You take the package to Masiji.”
“No. You can’t just solve everything with fists. You’ll never find Ravni anyway. They’re laying low in the tunnels.” Zami holds my shoulders. Even though he’s younger than me, he’s taller. “Shiv, you are a warrior. Fearless. But so, so stupid. The dumbest smart person I’ve ever known.”
I throw my hands in the air. And they’d love to get ahold of my little sister’s gift of alchemy and chemistry to make a thing of destruction.
He shakes his head. Zami lifts my chin so we are eye to eye. “Taru needs you. When she turns up, remember that she has probably already learned her lesson.”
“Right, okay.” I nod and gently pat the bag at my side. “Fine. Need to get this to Masiji, then I’ll find Taru.”
Zami nods and presses his forehead to mine.
We duck through a low doorway and enter a sea of tunnels. At the end of the maze is an entrance with a sign for a seamstress. The secret compound, our home, is the orphanage called The Children of Without. Rooms border the central courtyard, that house the children and caregivers. The latticed roofs connect all the makeshift structures to avoid the UAVs above, but they also cut us off from seeing the sky. I miss the sky, even with its yellow-orange haze and shocks of electrified clouds filled with acid raid.
“Hello, Ashiva. Zamir.”
We both stop.
Mrs. Zinaat is the Red Hand’s Internal Recruitment Commander. There was a rumor that she was a professor once, that she had a large family with three small children who all died in the Last Vidroh, collateral damage as people fled Central into the Narrows. She makes me nervous every time I see her. It’s like she can see I’m full of lies and trouble. Next to her tall, peaceful, thin-nosed, and pious form, we all look shoddy. She’s delicate and strong, like iron lace. Always wearing a dupatta to cover her long hair, but never sweating like the rest of us.
“Salaam, Mrs. Zinaat-ji. Have you seen Masiji? I have a packag
e,” I say and look down at the broken concrete to avoid her piercing gaze. She caught me stealing a ration pod at langar when I was six. Instead of turning me in, she made me put it back, and taught me the five lessons about respect and the way of the Red Hand. That if we steal we are taking from the most vulnerable and are as bad as the Uplanders. That every day our job is to undo the PAC’s work, and free our people and those around the world who are also suffering at the hands of their governments. I never stole again. Not from the Narrows, at least.
She presses her well-worn hands together and smiles the best someone her age can. I think she is probably only forty, but breathing our polluted air for that long causes lung-rot and damages the joints. Most only live to fifty, middle age is thirty. My future is like a slowly closing door and those around me are illustrations of various endings. It probably wouldn’t be so bad if this is all we knew. But humans were living well beyond one hundred and twenty only a quarter of a century ago. Central steals time from us, the most sinister punishment. She looks me and Zami up and down carefully, then points to the temple door. “She’s been waiting for you. But she’s in the middle of Open Speak.”
“Shukran,” I say, thanking her.
We walk back to the main area, enter another tunnel, then stop at the doors made of thick scrap metal, the strongest stuff.
Zami whispers to me, “Let’s go inside.”
I pull off my combat boots and rinse my feet with the filtered water in a small bowl before entering the temple room. Inside, time stands still. Images of gods and goddesses, gurus and teachers hang on the walls, an unbiased, multi-belief room of hope. Poverty is nondenominational.
Open Speak in the temple is the weekly civilian grievance session. When we enter, I inhale the rich smoke of incense, and hopes, dreams, and frustrations of the Narrows. Mostly, people voice their concerns about food and supplies, or the odd gripe with a neighbor or domestic problem. But it usually devolves to a complaint about food or the heat. The two ways we die.
Masiji’s shadow is wide and dark in the center of the room. She’s surrounded by a hundred people or more. People are sitting on the floor, standing, and those who need a chair have them. Zami and I keep to the shadows and listen. Civilians and Red Hand alike share the room. Though most civilians don’t know and don’t want to know who are part of Red Hand. We protect them, feed them, train those who want to be fighters, and they forget our names and faces when they are questioned by guardians. Safer for all, plausible deniability is key. Masiji is known as the Mayor of the Narrows here by most. But to me . . .
She is strength incarnate.
Our leader. Our Mechanic. Our Savior. Our Commander.
The metal on her body jostles as she paces. “There will be a time when we will face an impossible choice. We worry about our survival, the chug-chug bots that are constantly breaking down. We argue about how many ration pods they send us. We can fight all we want for more food and water, to eliminate the UAVs. But that’s missing the point. We have to imagine a future outside the Narrows. This is an encampment. It was never supposed to last more than a year. But here we are, twenty-five years later.”
People are agitated. These aren’t the same complaints about the water machines going awry again, or fussy bots that find it harder and harder to de-sal and decontaminate and de-radiate our food and water. No, this is not the same problem of broken sewage systems and food supply that is late, again—forever. There’s a desperate urgency in the air.
“We need to take Central for ourselves,” chimes in a boy I know is a runner for the Red Hand. Chand, the big, old teddy bear of a smuggler. He knows better than to speak up now. Masiji sends him a dagger look and shuts him up fast.
A petite girl stands. “We need to see if we can gather our forces. We need to reach abroad to the world. We need unity now across all people suffering in the world. It’s the only way.” She makes me so proud. I know her from somewhere, but can’t place it. From the orphanage, or maybe she’s a new recruit.
I turn to Zami and whisper, “That one. Is she inside?”
“I’ll look into it. She’d be good for us. She’s got first-rate recruit vibes,” he whispers back. The girl sits down again, respectfully cross-legged on the floor with everyone else.
Masiji’s replacement leg is naked chrome uncovered by the silicone that many choose to hide their cyborg parts. The joints hiss and puff as she paces. Her tunic is dark brown and black with shocks of orange woven with metal, like a warrior. Her gaze is fierce.
Masiji continues amongst the moans and affirmations. “That’s right, beti. Those of us who are old enough to remember have witnessed a paradigm shift of the human mind and body.” She taps her forehead referencing the plexus we have that runs our replacements and the uplanders’ neural-synchs.
A woman stands and says, “Mechanic, what about the rumors of the Fever? Is it true?”
“Is it a pandemic? We’d see the GHO at our doorsteps if it were. So far, there have been unconfirmed cases in the Upland, but not here. It’s not to worry about,” Masiji says.
“They don’t care about the Unsanctioned Territory, or the districts in the East and West. The neocity is their focus. The North hasn’t been in contact with us—not since the nuclear bombs triggered the avalanches. They herd us like cattle. Treat us like we’re animals even though we don’t have the diseases they’re looking for,” the woman continues.
“Once the GHO makes a recommendation, we’ll know more.”
Some nod, others shake their heads.
Masiji takes a step back and says, “We have bigger things to worry about than the Fever. Planetary President Liu will stand by Planet Watch’s statement that our rights should be protected by the higher courts—even under the New Treaty.”
“How do you know they will? Why would they care?” A woman’s voice is tired, strained.
A young man chants, “The New Treaty should burn with the PAC!” Others join his call.
Masiji is unfazed. “The Treaty only states that resources should be redistributed within the population as seen fit by that particular Province’s leadership. It only states that we can’t use weapons of mass destruction or kill a population outright. So, our anger should be directed at our Province government, along with their solution: Solace. Once the world sees the fallout of Solace and Central, they’ll be forced to change the treaty. We are not alone. Once we reconnect with our allies, we will undo their laws.”
“Why don’t we all just move to Greenland?” someone blurts out and the crowd laughs. “Or the African Province—their new forests are rooting well.” Wishful thinking. We all know we aren’t allowed to leave our home Provinces. No migration under the New Treaty.
“We can’t trust the PAC again. Not since the Void.” The girl trembles this time when she stands. The one who spoke up earlier about joining forces, the one we marked for recruitment.
A heavy silence falls on the room like a thick shadow. And all eyes turn to Masiji.
She faces the girl with a click of her heels. “The Void was just a story cooked up by Central to scare us into submission. There’s no PAC-sanctioned prison.” Masiji says with a finality that shuts the crowd up.
The Void. Whispers of a planetary prison set on the boundary between territories. Larger than just a regular containment prison, it was said that once someone was taken there, they would cease to exist. No funeral. No letters. No visitations. Erasure. Most say it’s a lie, that no one group has this power. But sometimes I wonder if it’s real. People have searched and failed to find it. A rumor buzzed about it being in orbit in space. But that would cost too much. If it is real, it has to keep moving somehow.
The girl stands with a bowed head. “Masiji, forgive me, but my father . . .”
Then I remember her. The girl. The family. The whole story. Her father went missing after working in Central as an assistant to a city official who was under investigation for corruption. Disappeared. Never seen again. She’s been speaking up to anyone who
will listen ever since. But we all have so many problems that our ears are full.
I hit Zami in the arm. “See? Real.”
“I still think it’s just a bad fairy tale,” Zami says.
“Someone will find it. Hold them accountable,” I whisper.
The rising voices hush when an elderly man tries to stand from his chair. Daadaji, Red Hand’s Internal Colonel, but the civilians only know him as Old Grandfather. He was a soldier in the Last Vidroh with the Liberation Hand, but retired when he was unable to run field missions. He came to the Narrows to assist in the duties of managing the resistance messaging in the Narrows and grow our movement. Daadaji wears drawstring pants that are too big on his body, save for the frayed rope that holds them up on his slender hips. But his T-shirts he gets from the donation pile. Today he’s wearing a ratty gray T-shirt that reads “Have a Nice Day” in pink cursive. He’s a cheeky old bastard with eyes that are younger than the face they’re set in. It takes him forever to rise, but we wait for him and for his comments out of respect.
The old man clears his throat. “We have been angry for a long time. I fought at Central’s gates. We have died for this cause. Central’s weapons are bigger. Their numbers are greater. Their resources and people are optimized. They spend all their time and money building the Space Colony, for what? We have nothing. Belief is not enough to change this. You can believe all you want, but that won’t help us trade places with the Uplanders. When will we fight?”
Masiji walks toward him. “Daadaji, I have made our children stronger than theirs. They just don’t know it yet. Sometimes those who can’t hear us or see us need to remember. Solace has silenced the Narrows. They wait for the seas to rise so they can blame our erasure on natural disaster.”
A woman says, “So, Mechanic, what are you saying?”
“We should make them remember us. We worry about food, shelter, thermal death when what we need is for the world to see us. We need to take the battle to their door with our allies.”
The crowd pulses with energy.
Rise of the Red Hand Page 3
