Sizzle, a little smoke, nothing too extraordinary. Not a revolution.
Taz buzzes around and his alert flashes all sorts of lights and sirens. The flames catch, just enough, then Taz uses his extinguisher wand to spray out the fire in one burst.
“What a mess, Taz.”
“Yes, I must mend this before it stains.”
“Yes, clean this up, all day, okay?” For the rest of your life would be perfect. I don’t care if he reports this to my parents. Why does a bot have such pull on me? I go to my computer set up, pull a few key parts I’d need, shove them in my work satchel and take off.
“Yes, sir.”
I am free. Or at least somewhat.
My apartment door slides shut behind me. I calculated the contaminant effects of the small fire and knew it wouldn’t trigger the building-wide alarms. At least I am glad my calculations are accurate even though I am not fully optimized with my neural-synch. Mother always wants me to be perfect, like her. Guess I’ll just have to do better to show her what I am really good at.
I let my long hair out from the braid and pull on a black tunic, leaving the white one on the floor of the hallway. The lift takes me down and down and down from Strata 95 to the sky rail in Strata 25. It is so quiet without Taz buzzing behind me. The smile pressing into my cheeks feels foreign because I haven’t felt it in forever. The strange laugh that escapes my throat feels silly, powerful, and everything I’ll ever need, all at the same time.
As I cross the street, I grin up at the Solace UAV and see it register my face, then watch as it quickly moves onto another passerby.
5 //
Taru
She likes to say she found me, but I think I found her first. My memories are like clouds blowing across the hazy sky: Some settle into shapes, others don’t figure into much and dissolve to nothing again. I don’t trust them. But beyond the sounds of the rising sea, the echoes of transports screeching, the hands and bodies and memories that blend into black, I can see her face. Through my saltwater-crusted eyelashes, her face glows like the brightest, most beautiful star. And in my memory, I follow her.
Ashiva.
She picks me up in her arms from the docks and carries me to the orphanage in the Narrows. Poonam Auntie bathes me, dresses me like a doll. She returns my necklace to me afterward, and tells me it is important to keep it, to never let it go. The type of gem, purple surrounded by silver, is from the south. A place that’s under the sea now. They mend my broken feet with casts, and after my feet heal, only a few thin, dark scars remain on my skin above the replacement joints and metal bones they gave me. When I run the first time, I am free again.
Gifts of The Mechanic, my savior.
When I got older, Masiji said my parents were probably displaced after the Great Migration to the SA’s new capital: Central. But that they clearly loved me and wanted me to live. That’s why my parents risked their lives to put me on the orphan transport that dumped children into the city. Most children died. Central wanted little to do with us, unless we cleared the Solace test. But some continued anyway, and that gave people hope. The survivors are taken in or they joined a street gang in the Liminal Area.
But the luckiest ones are adopted by the Red Hand.
I owe them my life. I owe them everything.
At first, in my memory, I am just a silly baby Ashiva plays with, that the helpers in the nursery tend to. But after a couple years, Masiji takes interest in me. I finish puzzles quickly, faster than any other child in the orphanage. So, she tutors me privately, teaches me to read. It’s right around that time, when there are at least fifty of us of different ages and sizes, different capabilities and temperaments, that the training begins.
And with it come the nightmares.
Rao is my partner in sparring because we are the same size even though he is a year older. His hair is always messy because of the cowlick. He doesn’t want to fight. He’s such a soft boy with a tender heart. He wants to be a cook, but our world doesn’t allow for hobbies and dreams. And the lieutenants of the Red Hand come at us with bamboo sticks and threaten to lash us, lash our friends, so we fight. We can’t leave. Where would we go? Why would we want to go? The New Treaty laws make sure no one can officially emigrate and only the wealthy can travel because it is so expensive. Of course, we could go to the Eastern or Western Districts, but they have their own poverty problems and the SA is stalling on the development of their neocities. I dream of the Northern Fort, but they tell us stories about how after WWIII’s nuclear winter, the radiation still pulses in the North, and how they live in snow caves, how millions turned to ash as they ran, suffocated in avalanches, or died from starvation. They tell us of the deformed beasts that lurk in the Himalayas around the impassable roads, waiting for people to eat. None of us have ever seen snow and, though we die of the heat, the opposite death also terrifies us.
“The Uplanders will kill you if they get a chance. Don’t you want to live? Show me!” Masiji yells so loud our bodies tremble until they don’t anymore. And behind her, Mrs. Zinaat watches us, always watching for weaknesses and strengths.
And we believe them.
After a few months, we are used to hitting each other with closed fists, wrestling, even winning. The rewards are worth it. Fruits we’ve never tasted. First pick from the scrappers’ load. One time, it’s a small piece of hard candy on a stick from one of the smugglers’ cargo. I’ve never tasted anything so sweet. The other children are jealous. But that candy is stained in blood. I never forget that I broke a girl’s wrist for it. She is fine. She isn’t mad at me. I didn’t set out to break it. It’s just what the lieutenants tell me to do, to fight her and not lose. To not cry because tears are weak. I don’t know. It’s all confusing. My memories. They change and move like clouds. Some bleed like impossible scars, others dissolve and reform. It’s hard to remember what is true and real aside from the scars.
This is how we became strong.
I am not so lucky in the next challenge: three against one. They come at me with sticks in the darkness, an ambush. At the end, I can’t hear anymore, and am near unconscious and my friends are crying too. They are my friends. I am barely breathing. Ashiva comes to my side.
Ten broken bones and I may have died if Ashiva hadn’t gotten there before the teacher. We are taught to fight, but it is hard to sense when to stop. They turn us into animals.
Much later, I am in the infirmary when they tell me I have a brittle bone disease, juvenile osteoporosis. That I can’t fight anymore, not like that, not again. Ashiva was there when Masiji told me the diagnosis. I thought I was just in a bad fight. The body cast they put me in is expensive. Ashiva makes sure that I never have combat training again. Warns everyone I can’t be touched—or else. And they leave me alone. Anyway, I am afraid I’ll break again, so I am thankful for her protection.
I am in bed for nearly three months and Mrs. Zinaat comes to me with daily assignments. I can’t move my arms, my legs, but my hands and head are free. And my mind is sharp. I love learning, and she treats me like her special student, gives me tests, exams, lectures, books. She knows that thinking will heal my body and mind. This begins my fascination with science. When all you do is study day and night, you learn quickly. That’s when my dreams of working toward being assigned to the External Hand began. I dreamt of being planted as a spy inside the PAC, another government, or company. I’m smart and can compete on their level. All I want is to be far from here, researching how to make the world better. I think somehow, Mrs. Zinaat thought I might die soon, and that I should feel special in my last days. We are all surprised I fully recover.
When I am discharged, I move into the orphanage with the other children. The others are scared of me, not because I am fierce, but because I lived.
“Taru, you’re the glass girl!” Rao calls to me. Our cots are beside each other’s, almost touching, on the thick rajaiyan on the floor. I was jealous of Rao. He collects all sorts of treasures in the folds of his comforter. Shiny thi
ngs like beads, bits of thread. Things. I don’t have anything aside from the clothes I’m wearing. I decide to start a collection that day.
“Glass is sharp when it breaks,” I say, and we become friends again.
When we are older, we are organized and given jobs. The fast ones become runners, others become basic hands, assistants, organizers, grunts for the lieutenants. The best job is with the External Hand working as a spy because you get to leave this place. It’s a competitive position, but I’m good enough. I study day and night to pass their tests, to prove my worth. I love Ashiva, but I am not like her. She is a chameleon; she loves smuggling, fighting, running. I only want to learn. We all study basic coding and hacking. It’s necessary because our replacements need daily calibration and updates, and because of the surveillance in the Narrows, Central always watching us. But I want more. To never fight again. I don’t care if it makes me look weak. Anyway, Ashiva says that if I fight, I might shatter.
But now, today, here on sorting day in the Narrows’ central office, for the first time ever, I feel that all my hard work has been for nothing.
“There has to be a mistake.” It is all I can say after the trainer ignores my request to rerun my results. “I’m the top student. I’m supposed to move into External Hand.”
The grunt who works for Mrs. Zinaat doesn’t even bother to take off his glasses or even look at me. He just says, “No mistake, behan. This one was triple-checked by even The Mechanic. You’re on Internal duty for now. You’ll continue to work in the nursery as seva and assist Poonam Auntie as your assignment. It’s an official order from the top. That’s a great position.”
From the top echoes in my ears an impossible phrase. “But I don’t want to work with Poonam Auntie. I’m . . .” I let the words dissolve in my mind because the grunt is already talking to another kid. The room is stifling.
There are three options for children after they move through training: Internal, External, or, the most difficult, Liberation. Nothing is guaranteed, and only the best end up in External and Liberation. The rest are usually kept here in the Narrows, running errands, working on projects to keep the Narrows going, recruiting new members. It’s just treading water. External means we could get out and run missions in other governments to take the system down from the inside. The training room’s walls get smaller, the floor and ceiling tip, and I’m trapped. I look at the blood stains on the wall that have been there forever, faded to a dirty brown and no one would ever know it was blood. But I know. Go. Go now. Or you’ll lose your chance to ever leave this place. I think about the hours I’ve put into my studies. The life I’ve imagined beyond the walls of the orphanage. And they want to keep me. Working with a pagal lady who talks to herself and tells stories about explosives she used to make. It’s so below my ability that the insult is sharp.
I push past Rao, who stops me.
“Hey, where’re ya going?”
“I just need some air.”
“It’s pretty amazing you’re with Internal. Look, I’m just an assistant. Not even ready for an assignment yet. Probably won’t ever be.” He laughs, but I’m tired. I’m not useless.
“I’ll be back, Rao.” I make my way through to the outer alleys of the Narrows. Ashiva, she said I could be anything, do anything. I wish she was with me to receive my assignment like she said she would be. She’d fix this. She could. I’m not good at fixing things. Science problems, yes. Not people things.
The heat takes a toll on my body before long, and I head to the edge of the Narrows. Before me is the line into the Liminal Area and then Central. Behind me is my family and a world I belong to. People who saved me. Those I can’t defy.
One step forward. Then another. I’ve been through the boundary before, but not often. It’s easy for children to get picked up by guardians in Central for no good reason and then disappear. We don’t come here. Especially not me with my health condition. If I fall and have no one to help me, I could shatter. That’s what Ashiva told me. I’m not allowed to leave the Narrows without direct approval from Internal Red Hand leadership. Move with the fray, people moving into and back from Central or the Liminal Area for their daily jobs. I’m just another person. Just nobody. Nothing.
The burping chug-chug machines sit at the edge of the encampment, making our lives possible. Our water is acidic; I’ve tasted it unfiltered. It was sour and gave me a stomachache. Probably from the filth though, since acid rain alone can’t kill you. So, we built several chug-chug machines in the Narrows, each the size of a small transport. Bots gather rainwater in storm barrels and wheel them to the chug-chug machine, named for the belching sounds it makes. The machine injects sodium carbonate into the water and runs it through a calcium filter. Then the magic of what I like to call the demudding process begins. It takes the longest to remove the diseases and bacteria. I’ve helped work on the machines. We each take turns maintaining them and yet people continue to die from dysentery or algae. We keep trying.
The UAVs hover around us like buzzing insects. They pause, listen, look, and invade our bodies and space without ever touching us. Then as quickly as they arrive, they move onto the next person or group. My hands feel wet, but I don’t show my fear. We all have the right to pass through the gates. We check in and out. They track us. I see people begging on the streets, like anyone has anything to give them. They’re all dying, of heat, of starvation, of hopelessness.
My feet stop short of a small form on the damp, broken concrete. I kneel and pick up the dead bird and shake off the ants that are swarming it. When I hold it in my hand, I’m not convinced it’s real. It’s small, probably a sparrow of some kind. It weighs close to nothing, an impossibility. Its body feels hollowed out, lacking breath, deficient of blood. It’s not dried—probably died recently, but there’s something different about this one. It’s like it was in flight just moments ago, wings spread, its beak open and ready for food. It appears as though it was surprised by death, and that takes me aback. What a pure feeling. I’ve never felt that. I want to wrap its broken wing with a bandage. Instead, I tuck its little body aside where it won’t be trampled, and a rat can benefit from its demise.
Mammals and fish have suffered the most. But the insects thrive. Ants the size of beetles march at my feet, carrying bits and pieces of materials. Crickets, locusts, and other invertebrates flourish. They weren’t affected by the bombs twenty-five years ago. While forests, fish and animals died within a thousand miles of the bombs, the insects just shrugged and kept going. Sure, some died, sensitive creatures, like the butterflies. But most insects bounced back faster. It’s funny to think how we could learn so much from the simplest beings.
When I’m through the gates, the stress and anger that consumes me feels a world away. I try to hide my limp. I need an adjustment on my feet, but haven’t had time to check in with Masiji. Or, actually, I want to avoid her as much as possible. Sometimes, running is the only way to gain perspective. I don’t have anywhere to be, so I keep moving. Through the Liminal Area. Finally, to the abandoned Trans-Ocean Bridge Project. Even though it’s a skeleton, there’s hope in the broken structures. As I take them in, I imagine fixing what’s broken: In my mind I see cranes and air-transports to lift that girder, to support that pylon, to seal the walls. I can see what it’d be like finished: a beautiful feat of engineering.
“What’re you smiling about, girl?” The voice behind me is soft, gentle.
“The building could be beautiful and useful if they just tried harder,” I say.
“That sums up just about everything.”
I turn and see a girl about my age and height, with very short hair, which makes her round face and enormous eyes even more extraordinary. “They’ll never do the right thing, finish their good ideas, find a solution.”
I ask, “Why? Why do you think?”
Her laugh echoes against the surroundings. I don’t think she’s laughing at me, but I take a step back, not able to fully smile with her.
“You really don�
��t know, do you.” Her face goes cold somewhere between shock, and complete and utter hopelessness. She has to be older than me by a few years. I see it now. She closes the distance between our bodies with two steps and I lean closer, wanting the secret she knows so well. “It’s not that they can’t fix this problem. This world. God, all the scientists probably figured it out long ago. It’s that they’d be out of a job. They’d lose their power. And that’s all that people in power want: more power.”
This hits me like a block of concrete on the chest. Words escape me.
“Come on, you look thirsty,” she pulls my arm.
“Don’t touch me. Please.” I shrug her off, wary of my brittle bones that could break under the pressure of her grip.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I’m fine. I’m just different.” My legs follow her anyway. She’s like a magnet and I’m drawn to her.
The small structure she leads me into is cramped. There are kids everywhere, smoking ether, eating, playing, laughing. I don’t see a single adult, but there are a few older teenagers lingering, mostly reading on their hacked comms readers or playing games on the underweb.
They are all having fun.
“Here,” she says, handing me a bottle of water. “I’m Ravni. What’s your name?”
My tongue makes a “t” sound, but I quickly change my mind, “T— Lomri.”
“Fox, cool. You Red Hand or civilian? No, let me guess.” She sizes me up like food she’s buying in the undermarket. “I’d peg you for Red Hand, but you seem too pure.”
“What do you mean?” I know about the Liminal daaku. They’re a gang of thieves, robbers, scammers. They defy the Upland and the Downland, and instead run anarchy in the badlands between Central’s gates and the Narrows. Even the mafia, like the Lords of Shadow, have rules. The Red Hand is a revolutionary group, a vast organization with different arms of structure. But these daaku are just criminals who live off of the scraps of both sides. Nihilists. I try to be as clueless as possible to learn as much as I can. Though I know they’re killers. I’m not afraid. I’ve done some things.
Rise of the Red Hand Page 6
