“Impossible! I saw the footage of your death. It was so brutal.”
“Good. I’m glad even your generation remembers. Ghaazi Sahib made sure of it. How did you disseminate it to the network comms? It was genius.”
The old man looks pleased. “I linked it to a comms release from Solace, so every neural-synch saw the footage. It was only a matter of time before all other networks picked it up. We super-imposed video from the Great Migration, recorded new video in a studio and edited the perspective. It’s amazing what you can do.”
I push away from both of them.
“Sit down, please,” she says.
“I don’t need to sit down.” My temple pulses. “You’re telling me that the Rani wasn’t real? It was all a performance? I need answers. I’m looking for the Lal Hath. I need their help—we need to continue the mission.” I repeat this over and over and over until the sound in my ears is gone, like the pressure in my head won’t let any sound pass. I close my eyes, and see the mechas smash and light the Narrows on fire.
Ghaazi brings me water in a tall metal container. Filtered. Cold.
“Where did you get this?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Suddenly, though, the crisp water is all that matters to me. It’s how I imagine nectar might be. The kind they write about in the old stories. Until then, I hadn’t realized how empty my system was. My hunger and thirst awake. I steady my thoughts and listen.
“Daughter, the whole thing was cooked up as a story to get our message to the world. If no one knows, no one will care. It gave us time to fight another day.”
“Huh. But it backfired?” I ask.
“Not really. We gained the eyes of others and spread the mission of the Red Hand across the world before WWIII and the New Treaty forced us to separate and go underground. It didn’t cause Central to tighten their grip and close the gates to their precious neocity, even as climate exiles were desperately running from the rising seas on the coasts. That was part of their plan all along. But it’s easier to blame a revolutionary group for the evil decisions. Easier to say we had to keep safe from “those dangerous poor people.” With their select small populations, they ramped up Solace, installed the neural-synchs in the young and old who passed the test, and then they locked the gates. There was nothing we could do.”
Hearing that an entire part of our revolutionary history is made up, an act, a performance, unhinges me. What’s real? I put the water bottle down and wipe my mouth, aware now of the greedy mess I am making of myself.
“I need to contact the elders of the Red Hand. Masiji said they could help me.” My eyes search the room for evidence of the great collection of revolutionaries.
The woman’s voice is clear and soothing. “We are them. What’s left of us at least, here in the SA.”
It is like all the electricity in Central enters my body at once. “You can’t be serious. You’re it?”
“I’m afraid so,” Ghaazi says and salutes me like a soldier. “Pilot, First Class, Third World War, Air Team.”
My replacement fist clenches and the need to hurt something pulses through me, to break something, anything. “Why am I wasting my time?” I stand. “You can’t help me find my family. You’re only two . . .”
“Wait, Ashiva,” Suri says.
“There’s no time to wait. By now, Masiji, Taru and Zami could be . . .” My mouth won’t let those words out, not yet. “We need new leadership, a new plan.”
“But Ashiva . . .”
“I can’t believe only two members are left. She spoke about you like you were many. What a scam. I need to find the surviving Red Hand members.” I say and keep going. I’ll start by hacking containment records from the Liminal Area. Surely they haven’t figured out how we uplink from there. The Red Hand beyond the borders of the SA are many across the world. They have marks, but here in the Narrows we are small. And the SA stole the children, scattered us like ants.
Suri says, “I think we owe it to her, to you, to help if we can.”
“How can you possibly help?” Just two people on the outer edge of life. What could they possibly do to help us?
Ghaazi lifts a tarp and dust flies into the air like ash. Underneath is a console and a monitor, ancient gear. “Let’s listen to the chitchat on the underweb. Then you can go do whatever you like. Okay?”
“What network is this?”
“None Solace would recognize. The first one,” he says.
“Okay, sure. But let me lead.” I slide into the chair beside him and get going. The machines are even older than ours, but I figure out the basic ideas quickly. “There’s something I should check on. We could use all the allies we can get.” I type code to enter the massive open market cloud where the Uplander techie may have dropped the data packet. I search tags for the hacking challenge.
“What are you looking for?” Suri is looking over my shoulder like Masiji would have been if she was here.
“A hacking challenge. There it is. Kid Synch didn’t disappoint.”
“What is it, Ashiva? The open market is dangerous. Anyone could be watching,” Ghaazi says.
I read the name of the file, “Himalaya. Let’s see what you’re made of.”
“Wait! Don’t!” Suri goes to stop my hand from clicking on the file, but it’s too late. The code slips across the old screen like water overfilling a bowl.
“What the—?”
“Close the system, Ghaazi, now!” Suri says. Ghaazi scrambles and pushes me out of the way, hard resetting the system.
“It might be too late. I don’t know,” he says.
“What’s on that file? Masiji would talk about it sometimes,” I say.
Their faces are pale and stern at the same time. “You don’t know then?” Ghaazi asks.
“Know what?”
“Masiji was an architect of Solace. She ran the engineering team that built Solace’s code for the algorithm. This is her backup. She always named things after the mountains of her childhood,” he says.
“Masiji? Solace?” My world shatters around me like so much glass. “But she hates Solace. That can’t be.”
Suri says, “Listen, we were the two other engineers on her team. We had philosophical differences, which led to a falling out. We weren’t willing to go to the extremes that she was. She helped design the neural-synch to optimize the reduced population, so as few people as possible passed the Solace test. We couldn’t stand by the neural-synch, not knowing how much control it could possibly give Central over their population. The neural-synch improved the mental capacity of the few who were allowed to thrive inside Central. Masiji thought she could decide who should live in this world. We own up to our contribution to Solace. But it was when Central wouldn’t approve her next level of tests that she decided to fake her death, run away, and continue her experiments in the Narrows.”
“Wait. What are you saying?”
Suri presses her hand to her mouth as though the act could erase her words. Then she lets go. “I’m sorry, Ashiva. The Children of Without is her project. She couldn’t stop. Yes, on one hand she is helping the children. She teaches them, heals them. But what if she’s still conducting tests? We couldn’t stand by her. But we weren’t strong enough to stop her. And when the Red Hand separated, no one was there to watch her closely enough.”
“But that sounds like Solace, like Central. She hates Uplanders,” I say.
“Exactly. She’s jealous of their access to technology. She hates Solace because she knows it better than anybody. This must have been hidden in storage. How did you find the data packet anyway?”
“I didn’t. A hacker who works for Solace Corp did. It was a test I set up to see if we could recruit an insider.” I can’t wrap my head around Masiji ever working on the program that basically ended our lives.
“I wonder, why now,” Ghaazi says. “Central is always looking for a reason, an opportunity.”
“For what?” I ask. “To clear the Narrows?”
Suri exhales sharply
. “They’ve been dying to cleanse the area of their failures. The Narrows is a glaring reminder that their solution doesn’t work for an entire population. The New Treaty states Provinces can’t eliminate their own people outright, so they came up with reasons they can justify to the PAC. The Z Fever is one reason. Even if it wasn’t really there, contagions might travel faster amongst a closer population.”
“The Narrows was always hanging in the balance,” Ghaazi says. “The Red Hand is always planning something. Still, there’s no such thing as coincidence.”
I walk to the farthest part of the round room and sink to the floor. “It has to be AllianceCon. At the last Red Hand Council meeting, Masiji talked about joining forces again. It was an in-person meeting. Even General Shankar showed his face. They were in negotiations. They were planning for an assault during the conference. What if Central found out? She said they’d been pinged and they patched the problems. But that could mean that . . .”
Suri stands, “There’s a spy inside the Red Hand Council.”
Dhat. Was Masiji right in suspecting General Shankar? Was Masiji the spy? “It doesn’t matter right now.” All I can see are the mechas rounding up the children like animals. Masiji was a mechanic; she needed to fix and build. But she wouldn’t send her children, the ones she cared so much about, to slaughter.
Suri says, “The different cells of the Red Hand are designed to sustain massive casualties. We’ve done it before. This is not the first time we’ve had to begin again. We continue. More will follow. We are thousands around the world. Don’t let Central know the truth about the losses. They’ll have no way of confirming it. The council members who survived will follow the fallout protocols.”
“So, pretend that we’re stronger than we are?”
“Exactly.”
“But who will lead until we find them?”
Suri and Ghaazi exchange looks. Together, they could easily command. They have a wealth of knowledge. Maybe they’re not as in touch as they were when they were younger, but that’s no matter. They could inspire people, conjure some underground propaganda campaign. They’ve done it before, they can do it again.
Ghaazi moves toward me. “Ashiva, you’ve trained your entire life under Masiji. You’ve protected the Children of Without. They know you. You’ve even stood guard at Red Hand Council meetings and probably heard more than you should.”
“Yes, I have. So?”
Suri looks puzzled by me. “You should step up, Tiger. It’s only natural.”
“What? Me? No. I’m not ready. I’m not even a lieutenant yet. No. You both are suited for this. It’s obvious.”
“We need to be on the outside to find the remaining members, to guide them,” Ghaazi says. “We have the External Hand connections across the globe, which are vital to reconnecting the Hand. We need to focus on that. We need you inside, to offer internal support. To run the missions. The young people will listen to you, the recruits will come to your side. We’ve been out so long that your network won’t recognize us. We will lead the External Hand now. And you will lead the rest until we recover from these losses. People see you and will follow you. You are a lieutenant now, Tiger. Don’t worry, we’ll assist with everything we can.”
“But I don’t even know what’s true. Masiji worked on Solace . . .” I say to no one in particular. How can I do anything if I don’t even know what’s real? My world breaks. The arm she gave me feels fake, heavy, unwilling. I wipe my dry eyes and swallow the guilt like bile.
“Your heart is true,” Ghaazi says. “Your love for your sister is true. Your need to save the Narrows and the people is true. And honestly, there’s nothing better in a leader than that basic truth. It gets so muddled when politics are involved.”
I’ve never felt like more of an imposter in my life. I can’t lead. I follow orders.
19 //
Taru
We are unloaded on a dock and sorted again. Masiji is forced to leave me and line up behind the elderly people. She doesn’t say a word—something is changed in her. But I see it in her limp. She’s badly injured and needs a mediport right away. I wonder what happened to her. My guesses, I pray, are worse than the truth.
They keep us in the dark at first. The warm skin of people sitting beside me makes me sweat. I don’t want them to touch me, so I inch away as far as I can to be sure they won’t. I jump with each jostle and loud noise outside. Like the sound is enough to crash down upon us and smash our bodies to bits. There’s only enough light to see the outlines of faces. Some are crying. Others are moaning.
I think about Ashiva, and how she’d bust down a wall and break this place until most of the people are free or dead, or at least have a chance. But I’m not Ashiva. I see a nightmare with my open eyes. I don’t know what’s real. I have no idea who I am, so I hold onto the simple truths. “My name is Taru,” I say. “It’s going to be okay.”
A raspy male voice rips through me, “Quiet, girl. They’ll just kill us faster.”
“Don’t be so harsh, bhai,” a girl’s voice says.
“Chup,” he says, “I know how this goes. I heard they burned villages in the Eastern District when they suspected disease. Not just the structures: the village, people, everything. The disease moves fast. My uncle told me about it. He watched the whole thing in the Americas. It’s disgusting. People suffocate as they become paralyzed.”
Children cry out.
“We have to stay calm, please,” the girl says. “My name is Jasmine, Taru,” she whispers.
“Thank you,” I say. “Jasmine.” What a beautiful name. A beautiful girl.
“Are you injured?” she asks.
“No, I just have a limp. My bones, they’re brittle.”
She nods. She shows me her forearm replacement. “We are all the same, sister.”
I don’t know how much time passes, but finally the doors open and guardians lead us into the containment shelter. Jasmine is taller than me, maybe older. We stay close, but they won’t let us look at each other as we march in the dark on a long pathway made of dirt. Water is splashing nearby.
When we enter a structure, at first, I see figures that look like animals in massive room-like cages with transparent, plastic walls. But as we get closer, it’s clear: The rooms are filled with neighbors, friends, children, all in different positions and states of health. Most look starved, thin, almost like the life has been sucked out of them. Some look as though they’ve been here for a long time, while others I know just arrived. Others are much worse, covered in bandages, sitting on the hard, metal ground, with wires embedded in their arms and heads, connecting them to a monitoring system.
They only took those of us with replacements. I recognize many faces.
“Where are we?” Jasmine asks.
We are in a dreaded place, and we aren’t alone. Hundreds or maybe more are kept here. Though I can’t tell yet, there has to be a reason for the arrangement of the cubes.
“I don’t know,” I say. I’ve heard of these places from Masiji’s stories. I feel badly for lying, but it’s best that no one knows what I know: they can do anything they please with us. This isn’t the ordinary containment in Central—the flight would have been shorter. This is something else entirely, a dark off-site. The medi-staff wanders this way and that. Their tablets, monitors and computer are in front. They look to be studying us. But for what, I don’t know. Not yet. I wonder if the world knows what’s happening or if it’s been hidden under lies from Central.
It smells like sweat. Though they run the climate system, it isn’t enough to actually cool us. And with so many bodies, it’s only a matter of time before people collapse from the heat.
“Inside,” is all a guardian says, and they push us in a unit already filled with a few children.
“This is it,” says the boy with the raspy voice. “I wonder how long we have until—”
“Oh, cool off, bhai,” Jasmine says.
There are several medi-staff roaming the facility, taking data, gi
ving rations. Doctors, their assistants and younger people, who are probably runners. A group comes to our unit and the assistant speaks very little to us. Instead, the assistant plays a message on his device of President Ravindra that projects in a 3D holo-screen. Her fuchsia sari is beautifully clean.
“You are here because you’ve been infected by the Z Fever. You will become very ill and most likely will die. But there’s one thing you can do to help: Allow us to test the inoculation. By being a part of this project, you can save the lives of millions and, possibly, yourselves. It’s the only way. We thank you for your service and bravery for the SA Province.”
“Line up,” the assistant in gray says. He doesn’t look us in the eye, but the young boy wearing a black runner tunic at his side does. I recognize him from my childhood. My dear friend. Comrade.
“Rao,” I whisper. My old friend. Thank god.
He looks at me and shakes his head so subtly that I have to be the only one who notices. His mouth curves and shapes silent words, “Wait.”
They must’ve cleared the undermarket first.
They line us up by size and gender. Then they clip a subcutaneous port, like an IV, on the backs of our necks, which provides easy access to our nervous systems. It feels like a scorpion sting, but soon the pain recedes. They place a line in each of us and connect us to a computer that runs our stats: weight, height, temperature, etc.
“I don’t feel sick,” Jasmine says as they put the sensors around her head.
“The symptoms take weeks to appear,” the assistant wearing a gray tunic says. “There are many types: acute, chronic, and some are asymptomatic. This outbreak has become a pandemic. That’s why it’s so dangerous.” The assistant’s neural-synch glimmers gold in the fluorescent light.
I hold the girl’s hand as they run the tests and lie to her about being sick. When we are all marked and charted, Jasmine’s face is damp from weeping, and the face of the boy with the raspy voice hardens to stone.
Finally, the doctor arrives at our unit. Instantly, I know him.
Rise of the Red Hand Page 15
